Read Art of Murder for Free Online Page A

when we hear the violin.
    To Bosch's eyes, accustomed to seeing her posing in the open air or inside rooms and museums, naked or semi-naked and painted in many different colours, she had never been a 'little girl' as the policeman had called her. Except once, two years earlier. A Colombian collector called Cardenas with a somewhat obscure past had bought her in The Garland by Jacob Stein. Bosch had been concerned what might happen to her in that hacienda on the outskirts of Bogota while she was posing eight hours a day for her owner wearing only the tiniest of velvet ribbons round her waist. He had decided to give her extra protection, and summoned her to his offices in the New Studio in Amsterdam to tell her this. He still had a clear memory of it: the work of art came into his office dressed in T -shirt and jeans, her skin primed and eyebrows shaved off. She was wearing the customary three yellow labels, but apart from that had not been painted at all. She held out her hand: 'Mr Bosch,' she said.
    It was the same voice as the girl in the recording. The same Dutch accent, the same smooth quality.
    Mr Bosch.
    With a simple gesture and these few words, the canvas had been transformed into a twelve-year-old girl right before his eyes. It happened in a flash. Bosch's mind was flooded with images of his own niece, Danielle, who was four years younger than Annek. All of a sudden he realised he was allowing a 'little girl' to go and work more or less naked in the house of an adult male with a criminal record. But the giddiness soon subsided, and he became neutral and level-headed once more. She's not a girl, she's a canvas, of course, he told himself. As it turned out, nothing had happened to the work of art in the Bogota hacienda. Now though, someone had cut her to pieces in a Viennese wood.
    Listening to the recording, Bosch had been recalling the gentle pressure of her right hand, and the words 'Mr Bosch' pronounced with such unconscious delicacy. Two different sources for his impressions, but they gave the same reply: softness, warmth, innocence, softness . . .
    The policeman was leaning forward, as if expecting him to say something.
    'Why would he leave a recording?' Bosch asked.
    'This kind of madman wants the whole world to hear how he sees things,' the policeman said.
    'Has the van been found yet?' Miss Wood wanted to know.
    'No, but it soon will be, if he hasn't got rid of it somehow. We know the make and the licence number, so . . .'
    'He was very clever,' Bosch said.
    'Why do you say that?'
    'All our vans have a tracking device. A GPS satellite system which transmits the position of the vehicle at all times. We installed it a year ago to guard against the theft of valuable works of art. On Wednesday night we lost the signal from this van soon after it left the museum. He must have found the device and deactivated it.'
    'Why did you take so long to get in touch with us? You only contacted us on Thursday morning.'
    'We didn't realise we had lost the signal. The tracking device sets off an alarm if the van leaves the pre-established route, if there's an accident, or if it's stationary for a long while before reaching the hotel. But in this case, the alarm did not go off, and we did not realise we could not pick up the signal.'
    'Which mean s the guy knew about the device’ the policeman observed.
    That's why we thought Oscar Diaz must have been in on it, or have murdered her himself.'
    'Let's see if I've got this straight. Oscar Diaz was the person responsible for taking her to the hotel. He was some kind of security guard employed by you, is that right?'
    'Yes, one of our security agents,' Bosch agreed.
    'But why would one of your own security agents do something like that?'
    Bosch looked first at the policeman, then at Miss Wood, who still sat without saying a word.
    'We have no idea. Diaz has an impeccable record. If he was crazy, he managed to hide it very well for years ’
    'What do you know about him? Does he have