Chapter 13

“Are you the detective in charge of this case?”

A non-uniformed woman walking into a police station’s central waiting room was usually one of two things. Either she was a journalist, or a mother looking for a lost child.

She could have been delivering food from a local restaurant, but if that were the case, she was the best-dressed courier Kangho had ever seen. And she’d clearly mislaid the order.

He remembered this wasn’t his police station. Apgujeong was the richest neighbourhood in Seoul. The main drag was a parade of boutique fashion houses — Gucci, Prada, Marc Jacobs, Ferragamo, Dolce & Gabbana — each with its own valet parking. Behind the strip sat the most expensive restaurants in the country. One row further back, the priciest room salons and massage parlours. And where the neighbourhood met the river, lavish apartment blocks housed countless women who had once entertained promising modelling careers, only to trade them in for wealthy husbands and demanding mothers-in-law.

She was dressed too well, her makeup too subtle, to work at one of the nearby room salons, and too young to own one. The gallery case was attracting attention; grizzled hacks had been drifting through all day, asking the same questions in slightly different ways. But this woman didn’t look like someone short on integrity, or long on desperation.

Detective Yang considered her again, then made his choice.

Distressed housewife.

“Hello?” the detective said, as sweetly as his face would allow.

“I’m Victoria. Victoria Han. I’m a reporter with Hankyoreh.”

He’d got that wrong.

“Are you in charge of the gallery case?” she asked. “If not, do you know which officer is?”

If I did know the answer to your questions, I shouldn’t be revealing them in a public waiting room.”

She smiled thinly. “Fine. There must be a competent officer around here somewhere.”

“They won’t answer your questions either.”

“So you admit they’re more competent?”

“Victoria?” he said. “Don’t you have a Korean name? You speak Korean like it’s your mother tongue.”

“It is my mother tongue.”

“Then why don’t you use the name your mother gave you?”

“Do you know anything about this case or not?”

“I’m not even from this district,” he said. “Detective Yang, Jongno District.” He offered his hand. 

“Do you know what forensics found?” She shook his hand as lightly as possible. 

“Even at my level of incompetence, I’m going to tell you.”

“How did the perpetrator get in without setting off the alarm?”

“How do you know the alarm didn’t go off?” Yang’s eyebrow lifted, independent of his intentions.

“If it had gone off, there wouldn’t have been time to do what he did before someone responded. I’m guessing — but I don’t see another way.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re a reporter and not a detective.”

“Are we back to competence?” She tilted her head. “Because you don’t actually have any idea what's going on, do you? I went to school with one of the girls on the event team, Detective. I know nothing was taken. I also know there was a repairman fixing a power cable yesterday morning. The same morning the exhibit was meant to open.  He  was repairing it because it had been  cut. I’m no detective but I assume that’s how the alarm was disabled.”

She paused, then added lightly, “I could really use a quote, from a competent officer. Might even help the public believe law enforcement knows what it’s doing.”

“You won’t be quoting me.” Kangho’s embarrassment had already curdled into contempt.

“Shame. A bit of media attention could actually be good for you.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you figure that?”

“Well,” she said, “this looks like someone seeking attention. Public crime. Busy area. Important gallery. Important artist. Nothing stolen, no financial motive. The photos will be reprinted — so no lasting damage. If anything, Atta Kim will now be remembered as the artist whose work was cut down.”

She watched him carefully.

“The only real victims are the gallery staff. Which makes this feel less like theft and more like a statement. Someone wants to make you and your colleagues look… stupid.”

She smiled — a smile he was clearly not the first to receive.

“You’ve certainly done your homework, Miss Han.”

“That makes one of us.” The smile returned.

“If the perpetrator is craving attention,” Yang said, “then feeding his hunger through the press is the last thing I’d do. My job is to not give criminals what they want. If I were in charge of this case, I would deny him publicity; force him to act again. Another crime means more clues. And then…”

“You’d catch him?” Victoria’s laugh was even more patronizing than she had meant it to be. 

“Yes.”

“So you want to encourage crime?”

She wasn’t looking at him now.

“He hasn’t hurt anyone yet.”

“Then why investigate it at all?”

“You’ve had your fun, Miss Han. Go write your speculation.”

Yang turned and placed his hand on one of the swinging doors leading into the officers’ common area.

“So I can say there’s a serial vandal on the loose?”

“You can print whatever you like.”

“But that is what you think, isn’t it?” she said. “You just said that he’s hurt no-one, and that you think there’ll be more. And then you’ll catch him.”

“Like I said,” Yang replied without turning, “print what you want. You won’t be quoting me.”