Текст книги "The Bosch Deception"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Sixty-Eight

Disturbed by what Mark Spencer had told her, Honor called in sick and stayed at home. Her calls to St Stephen’s had been answered by Father Michael, her messages taken but not returned. How could she find out what was going on if Nicholas wouldn’t talk to her? Her first instinct had been to reject everything Mark had said, but on further investigation she realised that he had been telling the truth. The photographs seemed to prove what he said, as did the various and irritating pieces of information he kept texting her.

Along with the inevitable.

I just want to help. Don’t worry, no one knows you’re not sick. Speak later.

She wanted to text him back ‘Fuck off’ but couldn’t, because she wasn’t sure what to believe and needed time to think. Nicholas was her brother, but did she really know him? His refusal to talk to her only compounded her anger and made her wonder if it was a sign of guilt. Or maybe Nicholas was about to assume another identity.

Unsettled, Honor snatched up her coat and left the house. The freezing temperature punched the air out of her lungs and her hair was crisp with frost as she turned the corner and passed by the school. Preoccupied, she was caught off guard when a man grabbed her and dragged her into the empty playing field. Her anger overtook her fear as she fought to release his grip. Struggling, she kicked out, but the man had a firm hold of her, his left hand covering her mouth. Terrified, she tried to scream but failed, biting down into the flesh of his palm instead. As she had hoped, the man let go of her. But before she could get away, he knocked her over and she fell forward, her face pressed to the ground.

His left knee pushing into the small of her back, he spoke.

‘Miss Laverne,’ he said, panting, ‘I want you to t-t-talk to your brother—’

She struggled to throw him off, but only managed to antagonise him further.

‘Stop it!’ Elliott snapped, ‘I c-c-could break your back.’

Reluctantly, she stopped fighting. His weight crushed her, pushed her into the ground as he bent down, his mouth only inches from her ear.

‘Tell him I w-w-want to see him t-t-tonight. Ten o’clock, S-S-Saint Martin in the Field’s church, Trafalgar Square.’ Elliott got to his feet and looked down at her. ‘You h-h-hear me?’

It took Honor a moment to gather enough breath to answer.

‘Yes,’ she finally gasped. ‘I h-h-hear you.’

Enraged that she was mocking him, Elliott kicked out. He put his weight behind the action as his foot slammed the remaining air out of her. Then he left Honor crying and rolling over, her legs pulled up against her stomach as his footsteps faded away.

Sixty-Nine

‘You’re all ready, aren’t you?’ Philip asked his mistress over the phone. ‘We leave after the auction tomorrow. Catch the late flight – it’s all arranged.’ He glanced at the glazed door, at the two impressive – and comforting – outlines of the security guards. ‘Don’t be late. I’ll meet you at the airport, like we agreed.’

Kim was ready for their escape. Had been ready for eighteen months. Once she got Philip away from London and his wife, it was all plain sailing. God, she thought, it had been hard work, but finally it was about to pay off. Good old Philip – he thought he was cunning but he wasn’t that smart. Not clever enough to realise he had been played.

‘I’ve sorted it out about Gayle …’

Kim wondered if he knew how little she cared about his soon-to-be-ex wife. ‘Oh good.’

‘… I’ve got a nurse to start tomorrow. She’ll be there when I’ve left and I’ve written a letter to explain everything. I’ve told the doctor Gayle might need some sedation too.’ Philip paused. He was being very kind, he thought, very sensitive. ‘She’ll be fine, honestly.’

Kim shrugged her shoulders, changing the subject. ‘Are a lot of people coming to the auction?’

‘God knows,’ Philip replied truthfully. ‘I don’t care how many come, or how many stay away. I just need one bidder. One big sale.’

He thought of the money that was nearly his and then remembered Gerrit der Keyser. Of course der Keyser would say nothing about the second chain, as long as Philip was bribing him to stay quiet about the faked deception. Philip smiled to himself. Only in the art world could someone fake a fake. And if Gerrit should suddenly have an attack of conscience, so what? Philip would be in Italy. Out of reach.

All he had to do was to get through the next day and a half – thirty-six hours and counting.

Seventy

As Nicholas walked into his sister’s flat, Honor jumped up then winced, touching her ribs. In the chair beside the sofa sat the soft-fleshed Mark Spencer, embarrassed to be in the presence of the man he had been spying on.

‘God, are you all right?’ Nicholas asked, ignoring Mark. ‘I know who did this and I’ll get him for it. I knew it was Sidney Elliott as soon as you said he stammered.’

Mark was trying to make his presence felt. ‘I think we should call a doctor.’

Nicholas ignored him as Honor stared at her brother earnestly.

‘He wants to have a meeting with you,’ she said. ‘Ten o’clock tonight. St Martin in the Field’s, of all places. Mad bastard.’

‘This was why I didn’t want you to get involved,’ Nicholas said anxiously. ‘You should get checked out. Let me take you to the hospital.’

Mark tried to interject. ‘I will—’

Again, Nicholas ignored him. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to you—’

‘Then you shouldn’t have got her involved in the first place, should you?’

Slowly Nicholas turned to look at Mark Spencer. ‘Who are you?’

Colouring, Mark rose to his full height of five foot eight, six inches shorter than Nicholas, his tone pompous. ‘Your sister has been attacked—’

‘I said, “Who are you?”’

‘Mark Spencer, a colleague.’ He glanced at Honor, who was rolling her eyes at him.

‘Nicholas, it’s OK,’ she said. ‘Mark’s a friend.’

Friend, Mark thought bitterly. She should have said, ‘Mark’s been digging up all your greasy secrets, Nicholas. Because of Mark I’m finding out what you’re really like.’ But she didn’t, because despite what he had told her, she was looking at her brother and Mark could tell – without her even saying it – that she was on Nicholas’s side.

‘You should call the police—’

Nicholas stared at him. ‘And say what?’

‘That your sister has been attacked!’ Mark blustered. ‘Let the police go to St Martin’s tonight. Why risk yourself? Why risk her any more?’

‘Nicholas has to go—’

Mark spun round to look at her. ‘What?’

‘The police would only spook Elliott and he’d run. Then what? How would they catch him after that?’ She looked back at Nicholas. ‘D’you know what he wants?’

‘It’ll be about the Bosch chain—’

‘The chain!’ Mark almost shrieked. ‘Are you both mad? This man is violent—’

Slowly Honor rose to her feet, guiding Mark to the front door. His arm felt resistant under her touch, his hostility obvious as she spoke to him.

‘Look, I’m OK. I’m just bruised. If I’d broken any bones I’d be in agony, and I’m not; I’m just shaken.’ She smiled. ‘I have to talk to Nicholas alone—’

‘And you think you’ll get a straight story out of him?’ Mark asked. ‘Remember what I found out—’

‘I need him to explain,’ she said, interrupting. ‘I can’t just take your word on this. I have to know what he did, and why. And if he did it.’

‘You saw the proof—’

‘I saw papers, clippings, old photographs,’ she replied. ‘I want to hear it from his own mouth. Good or bad, I want Nicholas to tell me.’

Exasperated, Mark opened the door to leave, then turned.

‘You’re a fool. You should back off from this now, before you really get hurt. Your brother stayed out of your life for years – why don’t you return the compliment and stay out of his?’

‘Because I’m his sister, and he’s all I’ve got,’ Honor replied crisply. ‘I trust him. Nicholas will look after me.’

‘Want to bet?’ Mark replied, slamming the door behind him.

When Honor returned to the sitting room, Nicholas had made coffee for both of them, pushing a cup towards her as she sat down. He could see a bruise beginning on her cheek and her left eye was swollen.

‘I could kill Elliott for hurting you … Maybe we should go to the police.’

Her tone was sarcastic when she answered. ‘That’s a good idea, Nicholas. The police have already questioned you about one murder – they can’t fail to be interested in what happened to me today. Especially as you know my attacker personally.’ Her tone hardened. ‘Don’t be stupid. The police can’t get involved … What does this Elliott man want?’

‘The chain—’

‘It’s all about that bloody chain!’ she snapped, touching her ribs gingerly.

‘But you don’t believe in the chain or the conspiracy, do you? You think I faked it all,’ Nicholas said, his tone cold. ‘Apparently other people believe that too—’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘What you meant was clear enough. You even suggested that I was losing my mind. Paranoid—’

‘You were talking about people being murdered! About the Church and them coming after you—’

‘And now you’ve been attacked,’ he said simply. ‘Or was that was all part of my master plan? Maybe I wanted to throw suspicion off myself and hired someone to go after you—’

‘I didn’t say you were lying!’

‘You didn’t have to say it, you thought it,’ Nicholas retorted hotly. ‘My sister, the one person that I thought believed in me. Your suspicion hurt me more than you can imagine—’

‘And what about you?’ Honor countered, glaring at him. ‘You come in and out of my life and I’m not supposed to ask any questions. Yes, you’re my brother, but there are big gaps in your life that I don’t know about—’

‘I don’t know everything about your life either!’

‘But I don’t have anything to hide.’

‘And I do?’ he queried, turning to leave.

Angrily she slammed the door closed, forcing him to stay.

‘No! You are not walking out of here now. Not this time, Nicholas. I’m not risking my good name or my safety for half a story. I want to know what’s going on.’

‘I’ve told you the truth!’ he shouted. ‘You know about the chain and the deception. I’m not telling you the whole story about Bosch for a reason. What you don’t know you can’t give away. And what you don’t know can’t hurt you.’

‘Are you talking about Bosch? Or yourself?’

Anger drained the colour from his face. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘What were you doing in Europe when you were in your teens and early twenties? All those times you went away and never explained …’ Her tone softened. ‘Tell me, Nicholas. Before you entered the Church, what were you doing?’

He said nothing, his face blank.

And it frightened her.

‘I just want to help you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’m not prying into your past—’

‘I suppose the little prick you had here earlier is doing that for you,’ Nicholas replied, his voice hard. ‘I imagine you set him a task, digging around, scraping up all the dirt he could find. Of course, you two being lawyers, you’d want to know everything.’

She was astounded by his anger. ‘Nicholas, I’m not judging you—’

‘You’ve never stopped judging me since we were children! You and Henry. You think I didn’t hear you two talking? “Poor Nicholas, he feels so guilty about our parents’ death, but it wasn’t really his fault—”’

‘It wasn’t your fault!’

‘No, but it certainly felt like it!’

She shook her head. ‘You’re changing the subject. I was asking about what you’d been doing in Europe—’

‘And I’m not telling you!’ he roared. ‘What d’you really want to hear, Honor? That I fucked a lot of women? You know that. That I was irresponsible, bummed my way round? You know that too. I was a kid, dammit. Kids do stupid things.’

His rage unnerved her. Was he angry because she was prying into his life, or because she had uncovered what he had done? Honor knew that she should back off, but couldn’t. Instead, like the lawyer she was, she went in for the kill.

‘Who’s Nico Lassimo?’

The name punched into the air between them. It left the room winded as Honor watched her brother and waited for him to speak. Explain, she willed him. Tell me that Nico Lassimo wasn’t you. Deny that you were in Munich and Milan. Protest your innocence. Tell me that you were never involved in faking. Tell me it wasn’t you that attacked that woman, or stole from Raoul Devereux. Tell me it was another man.

But Nicholas didn’t explain. Instead he looked at his sister with sadness and a kind of resignation. ‘My God,’ he said finally, ‘when did you stop knowing who I was?’

This is the last time I will come here, Nicholas thinks, deep in sleep, walking between the dream yew trees. This is the last time that I will see this. As ever, he hears the crunching of glass, his priest’s shoes treading the broken beer bottles into a mosaic underfoot.

The old nest is still here, he thinks, as always, as ever the same. The cupboard too, and across the narrow wedge of worn grass the priests whisper, two men under the arch of the entrance, next to the message board that displays the church Bring and Buy sale …

But this time the man walking up the gravel path is not a congregant. Not a worshipper … Nicholas turns over in bed, restless, sweating in his winding sheet … This stranger comes armed with a lens more vicious than a sword and points it at the church, grabbing at images of the pitted stone and the yielding spire. And the name Patrick Gerin scowls over the desolate garden like a fall of dead leaves …

Tear it down, Nicholas thinks. Tear it down.

He knows they will. That someone – not a congregant, not a worshipper – will come in the night and light a match. They will fire up the outhouse with its cupboard, burning the old nest and the roof rafters where once a boy sat and crooned to a bird.

As ever, as always, Nicholas turns in his memory … And now he is walking towards the flames that someone – not a worshipper, not a congregant – lit to destroy what he saw. And what he was too late to prevent. He walks in without pausing, feels the heat. So hot, as ever, as always, the fire purifying both his dying limbs and his living mind.

And beyond this, above the memory, the dead boy, and the spiralling flames, a man cries in his sleep and wakes no one.

Seventy-One

Trafalgar Square, London

In the evening the lights illuminate the smug white patch of the square, with its morose lions and the novelty displays – the enormous ship in a bottle or the giant mutant hen, its feathers the colour of cheap toffee wrappers. Perched like ludicrous sentries on their plinths, their presence is only ever temporary, their impact negated under the daunting, old soldier gaze of the National Gallery.

Sidney Elliott sat on the steps outside St Martin in the Field’s church, smoking. The bluish white of the floodlights aged him cruelly, although his size was still impressive, even seated. The bitter wind blew his grey hair across his face. He was wearing a heavy quilted jacket, his eyes fixed on Nicholas as he began to climb the steps towards him. Elliott didn’t move, didn’t even seem fazed by the look on Nicholas’s face; he just continued to smoke.

There were enough people around to stop any attack. Laverne could hardly start a fight in the presence of at least ten witnesses, and Elliott knew it.

‘How dare you hurt my sister—’

‘I h-h-had to get your interest somehow,’ Elliott replied, stubbing out his cigarette and jerking his head towards the National Gallery. ‘Bosch’s Crowning with Thorns is in th-th-there. I bet you think of yourself as a b-b-bit of a martyr. I bet the National wouldn’t thank you for exposing any s-s-scandal about one of their m-m-most famous painters.’

‘What d’you want?’

‘I want to know what h-h-h-happened to Bosch. I want to know what you’re investigating.’ He stood up, towering over Nicholas who was standing on a lower step. ‘Mr Voygel n-n-needs to know.’

‘What’s he promised you?’

Elliott hesitated. He had been fired by Conrad Voygel, unceremoniously dumped. But if he could bring him the information he wanted, he was sure he could wheedle himself back into the tycoon’s good books.

‘Th-th-throw in your lot with me and we can make a fortune. Oppose m-m-me and you’ll regret it.’

‘You dare go near my sister again—’

‘And you’ll do what?’ Elliott said. ‘There’s nothing you can say or d-d-do to make me back off. I will find out wh-wh-what I want to know, one way or another.’

‘My sister doesn’t know anything. Leave her out of this.’

Elliott’s eyes flickered.

‘You know the h-h-history of this place?’ He gestured to the church behind him. ‘In 2006 they found a grave, d-d-dated around 410. A Roman burial, they th-th-thought. And in the Middle Ages the b-b-building was used by the monks of Westminster Abbey.’ He moved closer – so close Nicholas could catch the smell of nicotine on his breath. ‘Henry the Eighth rebuilt it later, so th-th-that the victims of the plague wouldn’t have to p-p-pass through Whitehall Palace—’

Impatient, Nicholas shrugged. ‘What’s this got to do with anything?’

‘I am an academic! A l-l-learned man. Possessed of a brilliant original mind. I w-w-was the best in my year at Cambridge. I was p-p-published before I was twenty-one. Lecturing around the world at thirty. I was supposed to m-m-make a reputation, a fortune, to be one of the greats.’ He paused. ‘And yet here I am, fifty-n-n-nine years old, a nobody.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Oh, you should care!’ Elliott snapped, ‘You sh-sh-should care, Mr Laverne, because I will make you care. I g-g-give you one last chance. You have one day left before the auction and in that time you m-m– must tell me the whole secret.’

‘Or?’

‘His n-n-name was Patrick Gerin, wasn’t it?’ Elliott asked nonchalantly, and saw seeing Nicholas flinch. ‘Yes, Patrick Gerin. He hanged h-h-himself. Or was he hanged? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, w-w-will we, Mr Laverne? Or should I say Father Daniel?’ he smirked, circling Nicholas. ‘I kn-kn-know why you don’t go to the police. You c-c-can’t risk them prying into your life too closely. You w-w-want your revenge on the Church, I understand that. But I want my revenge too – for p-p-poverty and a wasted life.’ He passed Nicholas, knocking into his shoulder as he did so. ‘One day. That’s all you’ve got left.’

‘You’re giving me a day to decide whether or not I’m going to tell you the secret?’

‘No, Mr Laverne,’ Elliott replied coldly. ‘I’m g-g-giving you a day to live.’

Seventy-Two

Spooning up against her husband’s back, Judith Kaminski stared at the clock by the bed: 3.45 a.m. Later that day, at 2 p.m. in Chelsea, London, Philip Preston was going to auction the Bosch chain … Even though he knew his wife wasn’t asleep, Hiram said nothing. Instead he thought of the securely locked doors, front and back, and the burglar alarm he had set for the night. Such a long night.

Every sound outside had quickened his pulse, every noise a reminder of the previous assault. But no one came. Even the urban foxes stayed away. No overturned bins, no stalking of wild cats, nothing but a thick, unyielding and portentous silence.

*

Impatient, Gerrit knocked the papers he had been reading on to the floor of his study and poured himself a whisky. Then doubled it. Bugger his fucking heart, he was close to collapse anyway … All his searching had revealed nothing. No information about the old man Guillaine who had brought him the Bosch picture and the bloody chain.

His instincts were heightened because it was well into the night and he couldn’t sleep. Of course the whole thing could be a set-up, Sabine plotting her revenge on him. Some old codger Guillaine relative of hers bringing the painting to Gerrit to sell – the painting that had originally been stolen from Raoul Devereux’s French gallery. She could have planned it with the help of that ex-priest, Gerrit thought. Then she could have bought it from him, along with the fake chain, knowing she was going to be filmed taking it. What a perfect way to throw suspicion off herself.

Mind you, being murdered was an even better way … Gerrit thought of his conversation earlier with Carel Honthorst. He had come into the gallery with a plaster cast on his arm, his face grey under the concealer, his demeanour unnerving.

‘I’m not working for you any more.’

‘You’re supposed to be guarding me!’

Honthorst looked at him, a slow smile hovering on his lips. ‘You and I both know you don’t need guarding.’

‘Then bugger off! You’re not much good with that fucking thing on your arm anyway,’ Gerrit retorted, then frowned. ‘Are you working for another dealer?’

‘No. The art world isn’t my only employer.’

‘I know you work for the Catholic Church,’ he retorted. ‘I do my fucking research, Mr Honthorst. Anyone I employ is thoroughly checked out.’

‘Half of the people you employ are crooks.’

‘True, but they’re all good ones,’ Gerrit had replied, taking a wad of money from his desk and handing it to Honthorst. ‘Our business dealings are to remain a secret between the two of us.’

The Dutchman had taken the money and nodded. ‘I won’t say anything.’

‘Are you going back to Holland?’

‘Not yet.’

Gerrit had frowned. ‘You’re taking your time with Nicholas Laverne, aren’t you? I can imagine that your other employer might have wanted him sorted out by now.’ He had caught the anger in Honthorst’s eyes, but had carried on. ‘Seems he bested you.’ Gerrit pointed to the plaster cast. ‘Hired muscle up against a fucking ex-priest – who’d have put money on the cleric?’

Honthorst had made a move towards Gerrit and the dealer put up his hands. ‘Easy, boy, I’m just having a little joke with you. But be honest, you don’t intend to let Laverne get away with it, do you? Unless you’ve been told to back off.’

Gerrit paused, remembering the conversation in every detail. Had Honthorst been forced to stay his hand? After all, the Catholic Church – for all its covert mumblings – hadn’t made a move to silence Laverne. Their troublesome priest was unharmed, and tomorrow was the auction. If Laverne was going to speak up, that would be the perfect opportunity. Press coverage guaranteed … Gerrit finished his whisky and clicked off the light, then walked up to his bedroom. Miriam was asleep, snoring slightly with her mouth open. It was a pity they had never had children. Some buffer against old age, some offspring to keep an ego thriving in the world. Gerrit would have liked a kid …

And then he remembered Eloise and winced.

*

For the third time in an hour, Philip Preston looked out of his window to check that his security guards were still there. He had chosen to sleep in the office at the auction house, within feet of the safe in which the two chains were locked up. Philip rubbed his chin, feeling the scratch of stubble, thinking of Gayle. He would never see her again. After the auction he would leave with Kim Fields, a rich – and free – man.

But that was later. He still had the rest of the night to get through and dawn was slow in coming. He wondered if Nicholas Laverne were sleeping, or if he were awake too, knowing that within the space of twelve hours nothing would ever be the same again.

*

Another man was awake too. Conrad Voygel was rereading the auction house catalogue, staring at the glossy photograph of the Bosch chain and knowing that soon he would own it – if not the secret that had been hidden inside. Sidney Elliott had failed him there, but nothing would have persuaded Conrad to work with the academic any longer. He was unbalanced, aggression always just below the surface.

Not like Nicholas Laverne: his aggression was curtailed and the reason was obvious. He was playing safe, waiting for his moment. When the chain was auctioned the ex-priest would speak up and hurl himself back into notoriety again. Conrad knew the type: the righteous hero.

It would have been so much better if Laverne had stayed in France. Out of London, away from the auction. Stayed an anonymous priest, removed from a world too clever for him. Perhaps he hadn’t realised how much danger he was in. The art world was watching Laverne, the Church was watching him, even the police had him under observation – and God only knows how many others. But Laverne was determined. He was vengeful, reckless and, worst of all, a zealot. The deaths of Claude Devereux, Sabine Monette, Thomas Littlejohn and the priest had not deterred him. He was ripe for martyrdom, out for justice as well as revenge, hoping to bring Hell down on the Church and, indirectly, the art world.

Within hours Nicholas Laverne would be world news, his family interrogated, his past picked over, his intentions questioned. Fêted by some, despised by others, targeted by a dangerous few, his accusations would draw interest and attention globally. Nicholas Laverne – the infamous whistle-blower who became an outcast.

And should have remained one.