The Flanders Panel

“I can’t understand how they got into your apartment. The police told me that there’s a security lock and an electronic alarm.”

“It could have been Menchu who opened the door. The chief suspect is Max, her boyfriend. There are witnesses who saw him leaving by the street door.”

“We’ve met the boyfriend,” said Lola. “He came here with her one day. A tall, good-looking young man. Too good-looking, I thought… I hope they catch him quickly and give him what he deserves. For us” – she looked at the empty space on the wall – “the loss is irreparable.”

“At least you can claim the insurance money,” said her husband, smiling at Julia. “Thanks to the forethought of this lovely young woman…” He seemed suddenly to remember, and his face grew appropriately grave. “Although, of course, that won’t bring your friend back.”

Lola Belmonte gave Julia a spiteful look.

“That would have been the last straw if, on top of everything else, they hadn’t insured it.” She stuck out a scornful lower lip. “But Senor Montegrifo says that, compared with the price it would have got at auction, the insurance money is a pittance.”

“Have you spoken to Paco Montegrifo already?” asked Julia.

“Yes. He phoned early this morning. He almost got us out of bed with the news. That’s why we were fully informed when the police got here. He’s such a gentleman.” The niece looked at her husband with ill-concealed rancour. “I always said this business got off to a bad start.”

Alfonso made a gesture of washing his hands of the matter.

“Poor Menchu’s offer was a good one,” he said. “It’s not my fault if subsequently things got complicated. Besides, Uncle has always had the final say.” He looked at Belmonte with exaggerated respect. “Isn’t that so?”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said the niece.

Belmonte looked at Julia over the top of the cup he’d just raised to his lips, and she caught in his eyes the self-contained gleam she knew well by now.

“The painting is still in my name, Lolita,” he said, after carefully drying his lips on a crumpled handkerchief. “For good or ill, stolen or not, it’s my concern.” When his eyes met Julia’s again, there was genuine sympathy in them. “As for this young lady” – he smiled encouragingly, as if it were she who was in need of cheering up – “I’m sure her part in all this has been irreproachable.” He turned to Munoz, who had not as yet opened his mouth. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Munoz was slumped in an armchair, his legs stretched out and his fingers interlaced beneath his chin. When he heard the question, he blinked a little and put his head on one side, as if they’d interrupted him in the middle of a complicated meditation.

“Undoubtedly,” he said.

“Do you still believe that any mystery is decipherable using mathematical laws?”

“I certainly do.”

That short exchange reminded Julia of something.

“There’s no Bach today,” she said.

“After what happened to your friend and the disappearance of the painting, it’s not a day for music.” Belmonte seemed lost in thought and then he smiled enigmatically. “Anyway, silence is just as important as organised sound. Wouldn’t you agree, Senor Munoz?”

For once, Munoz was in agreement.

“Absolutely,” he remarked with renewed interest. “I think it’s rather like photographic negatives. The background, which has apparently not been exposed, contains information too. Is that what happens with Bach?”

“Of course. Bach uses negative spaces, silences that are as eloquent as notes, tempi and syncopations. Do you cultivate the study of empty spaces within your logical systems?”

“Naturally. It’s like changing your point of view. Sometimes it’s like looking at a garden which, when viewed from one place, has no apparent order, but which, viewed from another perspective, is laid out with geometric regularity.”

“I’m afraid,” said Alfonso, giving them a mocking look, “it’s too early in the day for me to cope with such scientific talk.” He got up and walked over to the bar. “A drink, anyone?”

No one replied. With a shrug, he prepared himself a whisky, went across to the sideboard and stood leaning on it as he raised his glass to Julia.

“A garden, eh? I like it,” he said and took a sip of his drink.

Munoz, who appeared not to have heard the remark, was looking at Lola Belmonte now. Rather like a hunter lying in wait, only his eyes seemed alive, with that thoughtful, penetrating expression Julia had come to know well, the only sign that behind the facade of apparent indifference there was an alert spirit watching events in the outside world. He’s about to pounce, Julia thought with considerable satisfaction, drinking a little of her cold coffee in order to disguise the knowing smile on her lips.

“I imagine,” said Munoz slowly, addressing Lola, “that it’s been a hard blow for you too.”

“Of course it has.” Lola gave her uncle an even more reproachful look. “That picture is worth a fortune.”

“I didn’t mean just the economic aspect of the matter. I believe you used to play the game shown in the picture. Are you a keen player?”

“Fairly.”