It was being shown at the Kunsthalle. An enormous poster of one of the figures (he learnt soon after that it was Marigold Desiderata) filled the entire facade of the museum. The title of the exhibition was written in German in huge red letters: 'Blumen' by Bruno van Tysch. A simple enough title, thought Bosch. 'Rowers'. Before gaining access to the exhibition, every visitor had to pass through a metal detector, an X-ray machine, and an image analysis cabin. Of course, his police revolver set off the alarm at the first stage of the screening process, but Braun had already explained who he was. He pushed open double doors, and found himself in the inhuman darkness of art. At first he thought the exhibits were painted statues placed on pedestals. When he came closer to the first work, he could hardly believe it was a real flesh and blood person, a living human being. Waists bent like hinges, legs raised vertically, backs arched like bridges over rivers… None of them moved, or blinked, or took breaths. Their arms imitated petals, from a distance their ankles looked like stalks. He had to approach the security rope and peer very closely before he could distinguish muscles, breasts crowned with the red bud of nipples, genitals that had lost all their hair and their obscenity, genitals as free of sexual associations as the corollas of flowers. Then Braun's nose took over, telling him that each of them was giving off a distinctive, penetrating perfume that could be perceived even above the different smells (not all of them pleasant) produced by the general public crowding into the room, just as one hears a solo instrument above the orchestral accompaniment.
'Blumen – Flowers.' Bruno van Tysch's collection of twenty flowers. Marigold Desiderata, Iris Versicolor, Rosa Fabrica, Hedera Helix, Orchis Fabulata. The titles were almost as fantastic as the works themselves. He remembered having seen photos of some of these flowers in a magazine, a newspaper or on television. They had already become cultural icons of the twenty-first century. But never until now had he contemplated them an naturel, all together, on show in that vast room of the Kunsthalle. And of course, he had never smelt them. For half an hour Braun wandered from one podium to the next, slack-jawed with shock. It was an overwhelming experience.
It was the one painted in scarlet that attracted him most. The colour was so intense it produced a kind of optical illusion: an aura, a stain on the retina, the shimmering effect an extremely hot object produces. Braun drew closer to the podium as if in a trance. He believed he could detect something familiar in the perfume, as penetrating and fantastic as a marketstall of Arab essences. The work was crouching down on tiptoe. Both her hands were covering her sex, and her head was tilted down to her right (Braun's left). She was completely shaven and depilated. At first he thought the work had no features at all, but beneath the intense vermilion mask he could discern the prickle of eyebrows, the swelling of the nose and the bas-relief of a pair of lips. Two tiny breasts indicated it was a young woman. Braun walked right round the podium without spotting any kind of support that would allow the woman to stay on tiptoe for so long. The work was a naked, shaven girl balancing on the tips of her toes.
It was then he thought he recognised the fragrance. The figure in front of him reminded him of the perfume his wife used.
When he got out into the street, still bemused, he tried in vain to remember the title of the flower that smelt like his wife. Purple Tulip? Magic Marigold?
Even now, he was still trying to identify it.
'Buncher created a collection called "Claustrophilia",' Bosch was explaining. 'Oscar spent a long period of time at the house where Claustrophilia 5, the model Sandy Ryan, was being exhibited. She was the seventh substitute. He was polite with the works: occasionally he talked too much, but he was always respectful. In 2003 he bought an apartment in New York and made that his base, but since January this year he has been in Europe, looking after the paintings in the "Flowers" exhibition. Here in Vienna he was staying in the same Kirchberggasse hotel as the rest of the team. The hotel is very close to the cultural centre. We've questioned his colleagues and immediate superiors: none of them noticed anything strange about him in the past few days. And that's all we know.'
Braun had begun taking notes in a small notebook.
‘I know where Kirchberggasse is,' he said. His tone seemed to emphasise that he was the only person from Vienna in the room. 'We'll have to search his room.'
'Of course,' agreed Bosch.
They had already searched the place, and his apartment in New York, but he was not going to tell the policeman that.
'There's also the possibility that Diaz is not to blame for this,' Bosch added, as though wanting to play the devil's advocate against his own theory. 'And if that's the case, we have to ask ourselves why he's disappeared.'
Braun waved his hand dismissively as if that kind of question was not Bosch's concern.
'That's as may be,' he said, 'but as long as we have no proof to the contrary, we'll have to consider Diaz as our prime suspect.'
'What does the press know?' Miss Wood asked. 'As you requested, we have not given out the identity of the young girl.' 'What about Diaz?'
'We have not made his identity public, but we've set up controls at Schwechat airport, the train stations and at our frontiers. We have to take into account though that today is Friday, and we only received the information yesterday. The guy had more than a day to slip abroad.'
Miss Wood and Bosch nodded their agreement. They had been thinking along the same lines. In fact, they had swung into action much quicker than the Austrian police: Bosch was aware that ten different security teams were already scouring Europe for Diaz. Still, they needed the national police's help: this was no time to spare any effort.
'As far as the victim's family goes…' Braun said, casting a nervous glance at Bosch.
'She only had a mother, but she's away on a trip. We've asked permission to inform her personally. By the way, we can keep the photos and the tape, can't we?' 'Of course. They're copies for you.' 'Thanks. More coffee?'
Braun paused before replying. He had been gazing at the maid who had just crept silently into the room. It was the dark-haired girl with the long red dress and the silver coffee pot who had served him earlier. While there was nothing particularly unusual or beautiful about her features, there was something about her that Braun could not define. The way she moved, what seemed like a rhythm she had learned, the subtle gestures of a secret dancer. Braun knew about human utensils and ornaments. He also knew they were banned, but this girl stayed within the limits of the strictly legal. There was nothing criminal about her appearance or movements, and everything Braun imagined while looking at her could well have been simply in his own mind. He said yes to more coffee, and watched as the girl poured the dense, steaming jet of Viennese mokka into his cup. As before, he was convinced she was barefoot, but the length of her dress and the darkness of the room meant he could not be sure. She too gave off waves of perfume.
Neither Bosch nor Miss Wood wanted more coffee. The maid turned to leave, her long skirt making a swooshing sound as she did so. The door opened and closed. Braun sat for a moment staring after her. Then he blinked and came back to reality.
'We are very pleased to be able to count on the cooperation of the Austrian police, Detective Braun,' Bosch was saying. He had gathered together all the photos on the table (a red lacquer swirl in the shape of a painter's palette) and was taking the tape out of the recorder.