Текст книги "The Bosch Deception"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Sixty

Rain again. Rain and more rain, leaving the capital waterlogged, the monuments spotted. Along St James’s Street, people walked with their heads down, umbrellas held against the wind like a phalanx of Spartan shields. And it kept on raining as Carel Honthorst crossed over and continued to follow Nicholas. The Dutchman hated rain. He was always afraid that it would dislodge his concealer, send it sliding down into his collar like a beige tsunami. Rain made him mean.

He had despised Nicholas Laverne for a long time, ever since Laverne had gone public and exposed the abuse at St Barnabas’s church. He might not be an active priest any longer, but the Dutchman held his religion in awe. To Honthorst – whose only security was the Church – any criticism was treachery. He would have stayed a priest, because he had found the religious life easy, but he hadn’t found the other priests easy. He didn’t find the politics comfortable either. Seeking succour and simplicity, Honthorst had run away from a tough childhood into the arms of Mother Church. But her arms had been less loving than he had imagined and her caresses less forthcoming than he had hoped.

Never popular, Honthorst found himself pulling away from the Church, his natural viciousness re-emerging as he felt himself cheated of salvation. It was not the Church’s fault, it was his. His violent nature was too engrained to forgo, his pleasure in inflicting pain too seductive to relinquish. Confession absolved him, but only for so long. The incense and the candles worked on his senses like a sedative, the red light of the incense burner the eye of a demon staring down at him in his pew. The eye seemed to say he was fooling no one, blinking in the church and puffing out little breaths of smoke like a dying cat. Honthorst would grip the altar rail and take the Sacrament, but as time passed the wafer stuck like a blister to the roof of his mouth and the wine poisoned him.

It was all his fault – he knew that. So he left his life as a priest and took up debt collecting, relishing a legal excuse for brutality. His life split like a rotten apple: on one side religion, on the other violence. And he developed a hatred of anyone who spoke out against the Church. Honthorst might not fit in, but he would brook no criticism. So when Mother Church opened up her arms to him, needing his help, Honthorst went back in.

Walking quickly, the Dutchman saw Nicholas cross over the street and began to follow him, always keeping a little distance behind. Finally he saw Nicholas enter an old building set in an alleyway off the main street. The place was haphazardly built on three floors and seemed virtually empty. Honthorst checked his watch: six thirty, well past closing time for businesses. Curious, he looked through the window and watched as Nicholas spoke to a stout middle-aged man on the ground floor. The man listened, then together they entered a cramped, old-fashioned lift.

Hurrying round to the back of the building, Honthorst took a moment to get his bearings, then clambered up the fire escape. The two men were directly in his line of sight and he drew back to avoid being seen. He could hear murmured conversation, and then watched as the middle-aged man nodded and descended in the lift again. A few moments passed, but when the man didn’t return and no one else came in, Honthorst tried the window. It was unlocked. Climbing in, he moved quietly across the landing and glanced through a half-opened door.

He could see that it was some kind of sitting room, but there was a computer in there and a drawing board with sketches lying on it. A moment later Nicholas came into view, reading the paper. Honthorst sniffed the air like a gun dog. He was tired of holding back. Frighten him, they had said, ratchet up the tension, but Honthorst wanted more. And now he was in the perfect position to get it.

Slowly he pushed the door open. But Nicholas had left the room by an adjoining door and was back on the landing. Retracing his steps, Honthorst heard the sound of the lift rising upwards and then the metal grille being drawn back. In that instant he lunged forward, catching Nicholas off guard. But he recovered fast, getting into the lift and pulling the Dutchman’s arm through the grille as he slammed it shut.

‘What d’you want from me?’ Nicholas asked as Honthorst struggled to free himself. But his sleeve had caught on the grille and that, together with Nicholas’s grip, held him fast.

‘Let me go!’

‘You’ve been following me. What for?’

‘I work here—’

‘No, you don’t. I know everyone who works here and you don’t. Remember, I saw you at Philip Preston’s—’

‘You’re breaking my arm!’

‘So relax,’ Nicholas said, his tone lethal. ‘Who sent you?’

‘No one.’

‘What do they want you to do? Kill me?’

‘I’m not after you. No one sent me!’ Honthorst gasped, watching as Nicholas put his finger on the lift button.

‘Tell me who sent you or I press this. The lift will pull your bloody arm off—’

‘No one sent me!’ Honthorst screamed, scrabbling to free himself.

‘One last chance – who was it?’

‘Go to Hell!’ Honthorst shouted, trying to grab Nicholas and missing. ‘I’ll get you. I swear I’ll kill you, you bastard—’

The lift started to descend the moment Nicholas pressed the button. The noise was deafening, but even over the machinery, he could hear the sound of the arm breaking, Honthorst screaming as his limb was torn out of its socket.

‘The Temptation of St Anthony’ [detail]

After Hieronymus Bosch

’s-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, 1473

Dawn was holding back, coming slow and heavy with mist as Hieronymus turned over in his bed and slowly got to his feet. After he had been brought back to ’s-Hertogenbosch he had been watched constantly, the studio door only unlocked when food was brought in. As the church clock struck nine the timid Goossen entered, carrying a tray of food.

As ever, he mumbled apologies and tried not to look at his brother.

‘Ignore him, Goossen,’ Antonius had said, perpetuating the lie he had preached for years. ‘Don’t say a word to your brother. He’s possessed. We have to look after him. We have to keep him safe.’

But Goossen had never believed what his father had said. Too scared to stand up to the formidable Antonius, he had defied him in small ways. He had smuggled in treats for Hieronymus, slipping heavy Dutch fruit loaves into the basket of paint pigments. Sometimes he had even managed to secrete a little beer, but after his father had found out, the baskets were always searched.

In silence, Goossen watched his brother paint the head of a fish with a man’s body.

‘What is it?’

‘What I dream,’ Hieronymus replied, pausing.

For a moment he was tempted to ask for help, to appeal to his brother to aid him with another attempt at escape. But he remained silent. He was sick in the lungs, coughing, spitting up blood red as the cadmium paint on his palette. Blood like the red of the devils in his paintings, blood like the colour of the flames of Hell. He was tired. Too tired to plot or to escape. Too tired to live. He would have liked to talk more, but Goossen merely touched his shoulder and left. A moment later, Hieronymus heard the lock turn in the door.

Downstairs, Antonius was in his study talking to two members of the Brotherhood of Mary. A great fire had been lit in the hearth as the damp, foggy morning banked the windows. One cleric was squeezy with fat, the other narrow-shouldered, a black tadpole of a man. They were discussing a matter which was of great importance to them: the imminent death of Hieronymus. The Brotherhood had sent doctors to bleed him and try to effect some recovery, but he had been stubbornly resistant.

‘We can’t bleed him again,’ Antonius said, tugging irritably at the trimming of his cape. His heavy legs were stretched out before him, taking in the fire’s warmth. The room was panelled, hung with tapestries to flaunt Antonius’s wealth and the fame of his son, and by the window stood three ceramic vases, hand thrown in Amsterdam. Luxury pleased Antonius even more than his mistress, and he was loath to relinquish it.

‘When Hieronymus dies—’

The first cleric put up his doughy hands.

‘No, we must not think it. He may yet recover,’ he said, but the words were insincere, his eyes fixed greedily on Antonius. The plan had been mooted before, and now he could sense it was about to be fulfilled. Not one of the trio thought of the young man upstairs, dying in a studio without a fire.

‘My son’s work is priceless. To the Church and to the country.’ Both clerics nodded as Antonius continued. ‘Hieronymus has taught everyone about God and the Devil. His paintings have kept the population controlled …’

Again the clerics nodded in unison.

‘.. His work must continue,’ Antonius said, moving on, his voice a whisper. ‘We all know I commission the paintings for the Brotherhood. What hangs in the church is organised by me. Everything is handled by me. When Hieronymus dies, no one must ever know he has gone.’

The thin cleric nodded solemnly, his priest’s robe dusty. ‘It is for the glory of God—’

‘For the glory of God,’ the other cleric echoed. ‘And for His worshippers.’

‘We are doing nothing wrong,’ Antonius continued, relieved that his source of income would continue after the death of his irksome child. ‘My son has made many drawings, which I have collected together. Ideas for paintings. Images that could only corrupt in the wrong hands. Images that must be preserved and reproduced to the glory of God.’ He paused, let the inference take root. ‘After my poor son’s demise, his work can continue within the family. We are all painters, after all; we can recreate his vision. There are many drawings, many sketches. Much to produce.’ He poured the clerics some wine, smiling like a wolf. ‘We do this only in the service of God …’

They nodded, already damned.

‘… The Church will prosper and so will we,’ Antonius continued. ‘Naturally I will reward your silence in this matter, gentlemen, even though we are doing no wrong. With your help, we can make any necessary entries into the books of the Brotherhood. It should appear that Hieronymus is living a normal life. Perhaps a marriage for him in a few years’ time?’ The firelight caught in his eyes, flickering like the flames of Hell. ‘In this way, Hieronymus will never die. He will remain the pre-eminent painter in the Netherlands, his work desired and valuable. Our city’s most famous son.’

The thin cleric was suddenly dubious. ‘Is this not pride?’

‘Hieronymus will live on only to honour God,’ Antonius persisted. ‘We do this for God.’

‘We do this for God,’ the cleric agreed, sighing and shifting his position as though his body could not stand the weight of his deceit.

‘But in pleasing God, there is no reason to punish ourselves,’ Antonius continued. ‘We will keep the studio busy here. My other sons, my father and I will use it after Hieronymus has gone—’

‘But what of his burial?’

Antonius had already plotted a pauper’s interment in a village in the north. Without a headstone. Hieronymus lying penniless amongst strangers while he made money from his corpse.

‘I will organise a Christian burial for my son,’ he replied, glancing at the clerics and faking sadness. ‘He will be missed. But his work must appear to continue – for all our sakes.’ He leaned his bulky frame towards the two clergymen. ‘No one must know of his death.’

‘No one will learn of it from us.’

Antonius nodded. ‘It won’t be long now. He’s weakening every day, but still working. He works like a man possessed. Maybe he paints what he will soon see …’

‘It’s sinful to pretend a man alive when he’s in his grave,’ the thin cleric announced suddenly, chilled by what they had planned.

‘The Church serves the country, and Hieronymus’s work serves the people,’ Antonius chided the man. ‘How would they find their way to Heaven without being guided there? People are weak, fools, some barely more than animals. They revel in sin, in licentiousness. But when they look at my son’s visions of Hell and Damnation, they are fearful and turn back to God. There’s no dishonour in what we do. God will understand.’ A smile came, then went. ‘Order is everything, gentlemen. A little deception is nothing.’

Sixty-One

Hiram Kaminski’s Gallery, Old Bond Street

The incident had unnerved Hiram. Whoever had tried to break into the gallery had failed due to Judith’s intervention, but not without causing him some serious anxiety. He no longer cared about the Bosch chain, the Bosch portrait or the Bosch deception. He was scared. So when Gerrit der Keyser sauntered into the gallery, Hiram was on edge.

Wearing a raincoat that was too big for him, Gerrit nodded at the receptionist, passed three customers looking at the paintings on view, and made for Hiram’s office. From where he had already been spotted.

‘Hiram,’ he said by way of greeting.

‘Gerrit,’ Hiram replied.

‘Well, at least we know who the fuck we are,’ Gerrit said, laughing and taking off his coat. ‘It’s cold out there. Must be due to hit zero tonight. I hate the cold. Didn’t used to mind it when I had some weight on me, but now – starved to bleeding death – I feel it.’

‘You still on a diet?’

Gerrit nodded. ‘I’m about to be signed up by Vogue magazine.’

‘What d’you want?’ Hiram replied. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m a bit on edge at the moment—’

‘Wait till you hear what I have to say.’ Gerrit sat down, checked the office door was closed, and put up two fingers. ‘There are two of them.’

‘What?’

‘Two chains,’ Gerrit replied, ‘Two fucking chains. Preston has one and someone dropped one off at my gallery. When I took it over to Preston I thought one was fake, either his or mine. But he’s just rung me and told me that it’s official – there were two chains made from one antique chain.’

‘Both with initials engraved on them?’ Hiram asked, incredulous.

‘Exact in every bleeding detail. Same clasp, same links, same everything—’

‘Wait a moment,’ Hiram said. ‘You said that Preston had had them authenticated—’

‘I’m ahead of you there. I checked it out with the expert who examined them, just in case Slippery Phil was trying to pull a fast one. And it turns out that both are genuine. But both could genuinely have been made last week.’

Hiram studied Gerrit der Keyser. He was surprised that the dealer had come to him and been so forthcoming. It was unlike der Keyser – unless he had another reason to throw in his lot with Hiram.

‘Why are you telling me this? If they are fakes, Preston could have hidden one and auctioned off the other and no one would have been any the wiser – apart from you.’

‘Don’t panic, I’m not losing my touch,’ Gerrit replied, fingering a maidenhair fern on Hiram’s desk. ‘You want to give this some plant food—’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I want your opinion. Something I should have asked for when all this started.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m a fucking idiot, but there you go. You know about this chain and the deception, blah, blah, blah?’

‘No, I don’t—’

‘Don’t lie. Preston told me all about it. Said you knew.’ Gerrit pulled a face as he caught Hiram’s stunned expression. ‘Judith told him everything. Said she wanted to keep you out of trouble and thought she could shift the pressure on to Philip Preston. She was worried after someone tried to break in here.’

‘Does everyone know about that!’

‘Oh, calm down,’ Gerrit told him. ‘No one has secrets for long in this business, you know that. It’s the auction of that fucking chain in two days and every nut’s coming out of the woodwork. But only me and Preston know that there are two chains. Both of which could be fakes—’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Hiram said emphatically. ‘Thomas Littlejohn tried to tell me about the Bosch chain years ago. And he sent me a letter about it. Which I only received after he was killed.’ Hiram could see Gerrit’s eyes widen behind his bifocals. ‘Littlejohn was the best – he was an expert. If he put his name to anything, it was genuine. He wrote and told me the whole story, including the Bosch portrait—’

‘What fucking portrait?’ Gerrit snapped.

‘So Philip Preston didn’t tell you everything that Judith told him, did he?’ Hiram replied, almost gleeful. ‘The Tree Man in the triptych is a portrait of Hieronymus Bosch. He didn’t paint it, but it was his likeness.’

‘Shit.’ He glanced back at Hiram. ‘You going public with this?’

‘No. I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s bad luck, all of it. And I’d be wary of what Philip Preston’s telling you. He might be right about some of it – two chains could have been made out of one long chain …’ Hiram stared at his visitor. ‘… perhaps he had them made—’

‘No way! What would be in it for him? If it comes out that there are two chains, he’s going to look like a fucking laughing stock. Nah, this is one tricky bit of business Preston isn’t involved in.’

Irritated, Hiram shook his head. ‘If there are two chains now, they could have been made to look identical in every way. But the chain Thomas Littlejohn saw was genuine. He never said anything about two chains. And he wouldn’t have lied – I’d stake my life on that. Thomas needed a witness because he was in danger, terrified that something would happen to him.’

‘Which it did,’ Gerrit said thoughtfully. ‘So which chain did Littlejohn see?’

‘Obviously the one with the papers in it.’

Gerrit laughed. ‘I heard the rumour, but wasn’t sure. And I never knew the proof was hidden in the bleeding chain. How did they do it?’

Hiram paused. Any other time he would have resisted confiding, but now he didn’t care. He didn’t want the chain, he wanted rid of it. And if Gerrit der Keyser wanted to go after it, that was fine by him.

‘There were pieces of paper hidden in every link. Put together, they told the whole story, and the part the Church played in the deception. Nicholas Laverne found them.’

‘That basket case! He broke the arm of one of my employees the other day. The man’s a fucking nutter.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why would he break someone’s arm?’

Gerrit’s expression was guileless. ‘There was a misunderstanding. Honthorst was just trying to put his bloody point across, and that ex-priest attacked him.’

The lie didn’t ring true and Hiram stared at his visitor warily. Meanwhile Gerrit tried to make sense of what he had been told – and – failed miserably.

‘Who brought the second chain to you?’

‘Some woman.’ Gerrit said sourly. ‘And no, I don’t have a bloody name. My secretary was busy – she just took the parcel and hardly glanced at the person who delivered it. Stupid cow.’

He lapsed into a disgruntled silence. His visit had not proved to be as useful as he had hoped. Certainly Hiram believed that there was a genuine conspiracy, but it was obvious that he wasn’t curious to discover more, or likely to join forces. Gerrit was going to have to work it out for himself, he realised, remembering the old man who had given him the painting to sell. The man called Guillaine. Which just happened to have been Sabine’s maiden name. But Sabine couldn’t have been the woman who brought the chain to his gallery. Ghosts don’t do deliveries.

Then a clammy feeling crept over Gerrit. Sabine was dead, that was true. But her daughter wasn’t.

Sixty-Two

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

It was past three in the morning and Nicholas was awake and listening. There were noises outside. He tried to sit up but was unable to move, paralysed, his throat dry. Panicking, he struggled to breathe, his eyes wide open, the room filled by an ominous black shadow. The shape moved towards his bed, its shadow crossing the window, its right arm raised as though about to strike.

Unable to cry out, Nicholas stared blindly, his body useless. He could feel sweat on his skin, his mouth working soundlessly. The shadow moved towards him and bent down. Closer, closer it came, until its face was only inches from his, a feeling of pressure crushing his body as the shape spread over him.

Sixty-Three

Conrad Voygel left Chicago and came back to London late. Angela was at the airport to meet his private plane, and with her, Sidney Elliott. He was sitting in the back seat of the chauffeured limousine as Angela got out to greet her husband.

‘This man’s been pestering me,’ she whispered. ‘Some man called Elliott, Sidney Elliott. He came to the tennis club and was watching me, then he called by the house.’ She looked into her husband’s face earnestly. ‘I don’t like him, Conrad. There’s something wrong with him.’

‘Why didn’t you call security?’

‘He said he was desperate to talk to you,’ she replied, pulling up her coat collar against the cold night. ‘I thought if I brought him with me tonight you could deal with him and then it would be over and done with. Besides, I wasn’t on my own with him in the car, was I?’

Thoughtful, Conrad kissed his wife on the cheek. Then he bent down and beckoned for Elliott to leave the car and follow him. Without another word, Conrad moved towards the airport building but didn’t enter. Instead he stood just outside and waited for Elliott to catch up with him.

Out of breath and jumpy, Elliott frowned against the wind which was blowing hard. ‘I had to s-s-see you. You w-w-wouldn’t answer my calls—’

‘You had no right to involve my wife.’ Conrad replied as an aeroplane started up nearby, its engines howling into the headwind. ‘I want no more to do with you—’

‘I can help you!’ Elliott all but screamed. ‘L-l-listen to me.’ His eyes were wide, dilated. ‘I’ve g-g-got one day left—’

‘Not any more. You’re fired.’

Enraged, Elliott caught hold of his arm, Conrad shaking him off and putting up his hand to his bodyguard who was about to intervene. Then he turned back to Elliott. ‘Listen to me. I don’t want you working for me any longer. Approach me again and I’ll call the police—’

‘I’ll tell th-th-them about you.’

His face was expressionless. ‘Tell them what?’

‘You must have something to h-h-hide. All this secrecy …’

‘I’m a private man, nothing more. I don’t like people interfering. You would do well to remember that.’

But Elliott wasn’t listening. ‘You’re a c-c-crook …! You used me …’

‘You came to me with information. You offered me a service which you could not supply.’

‘I told you about the Bosch p-p-papers—’

‘But you didn’t get them for me, did you?’ Conrad replied. ‘You failed. End of story.’

‘You said I h-h-had one more day!’ Elliott yelled over the sound of the plane engines. ‘You p-p-promised me—’

‘I promised you nothing,’ Conrad replied warningly. ‘Contact me again and you’ll regret it.’