Текст книги "The Bosch Deception"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Seventy-Three

‘You’re awake,’ Father Michael said, looking up as Nicholas entered the kitchen. ‘Did you sleep?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I was dreaming again. Always dreaming. I don’t feel like I had any rest … Did you sleep?’

‘Not much.’

‘Did you hear anything last night?’

‘Nothing, it was quiet,’ Father Michael replied, putting the kettle on to boil. ‘It surprised me, to be honest. Maybe they’ve given up. They might think that because you haven’t spoken out so far, you have decided against going public.’ He paused, staring at Nicholas curiously. ‘Have you?’

He shook his head.

‘No. Nothing would make me change my mind now.’

‘I’m glad,’ the old priest replied, laying out two place settings for breakfast. Two mats, two plates, two sets of cutlery, two cups and saucers. Old-fashioned, oddly comforting to Nicholas.

‘I’m just going to have a quick shower. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

‘I’ll have breakfast ready when you get back,’ the old priest said kindly. ‘We’ve got a big day ahead of us.’

Nicholas was halfway up the stairs when he remembered something and made his way back to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. Obviously he hadn’t heard him, because Father Michael was by the window with his profile to Nicholas, and he was putting something into a cup of tea. Nicholas could see the steam rising and then glanced at the table. There were the two placing settings, but one cup and saucer was missing. His.

Nicholas remembered the conversation:

‘You don’t think it was deliberate, do you?’ Father Michael had asked.

‘What?’

‘You being ill. I mean, you don’t think—’

‘Someone poisoned me? No, this is one thing we can’t blame on the Church …’

His heart pumping, Nicholas backed away. It made sense in an instant: the dreams, the sickness, the stomach pain, the restless, frenzied anxiety … But Father Michael? Of all the people after him he had never suspected the priest. Silently he climbed the stairs, making sure that the old man didn’t hear him. Throwing on his clothes, he then slid open the back window and looked out. There was a flat roof about eight feet below and he jumped on to it, pausing for a moment to check that he hadn’t been heard.

He could easily overpower the old priest, but not if he had accomplices … A moment later Nicholas had lowered himself on to the gravel and was running as fast as his legs would carry him towards the main road.

Seventy-Four

Philip Preston’s Auction House, Chelsea, London

There was half an hour to go before the auction. The turnout was even better than Philip had expected and his palms were sweating with tension as he looked around the hall. He knew most of the faces, but others were new to him – one of them probably being a bidder on behalf of Conrad Voygel. Which one, Philip didn’t know, but he was certain the IT giant wouldn’t let the Bosch chain go to anyone else.

A tap on his shoulder made him jump, as Gerrit smiled up at him. ‘Lovely display,’ he said, jerking his head towards the raised dais, where there was a massive photograph of the chain on an easel. ‘Which one is it?’

Grabbing his arm, Philip hustled him into the office and closed the door behind them. ‘Keep your voice down. Someone could have heard!’ He forced himself to calm down, smoothing out his waistcoat.

Gerrit began to laugh. ‘You look fucking scared.’

‘Really?’ Philip asked, surprised. ‘I thought I was covering it up well.’

‘Honthorst thought he covered up his pockmarks well. Both of you were wrong.’

Philip smoothed his waistcoat again, nervous, edgy. ‘I don’t know if I’m up to all this. I keep waiting for something to happen – like the gunfight at the OK Corral.’ He glanced at Gerrit. ‘Nothing from Laverne?’

‘Silent as the grave,’ Gerrit said wryly. ‘In which he might well be before long.’

‘You wouldn’t—’

‘Kill Laverne? Don’t be bleeding soft, Philip. Why should I care if the secret comes out or not? It’s the bloody Church that has to worry.’ Gerrit moved over to the safe and tapped it with his forefinger. ‘Go on, I won’t tell anyone. Which one did you pick to auction?’

‘They were exactly the same. What difference does it make?’ Philip replied, checking his reflection in the cloakroom mirror and then walking back over to Gerrit. ‘I’ve been thinking: why don’t we get the other one melted down?’

‘You are a fucking amateur! When you’ve buggered off abroad, I’ll wait for a while and then go to one of my best clients and tell them that the one you auctioned was a fake – and then I’ll sell them the real one.’

‘That makes me look good,’ Philip said sarcastically.

‘Oh, I’ll say it was a mistake. The buyer won’t give a shit – if they think they got the genuine article.’

‘I want half of whatever you get.’

Gerrit nodded, then changed tack. ‘Nicholas Laverne was clever, faking a fake. Nice touch. He would have done well in business – pity he became a fanatic.’

‘He gets what he wants in the end. To crucify the Church—’

‘He hasn’t done it yet,’ Gerrit said wryly. ‘No one’s the winner until they cross the finishing line.’

Seventy-Five

No one could be trusted, Nicholas thought as he ran along the road and then jumped on a bus. He could hardly believe what he had seen. His old mentor had been working against him all the time. Either from choice or pressure, Father Michael had tried to stop Nicholas – and he had nearly succeeded. Far from being idle, the Church had been working hard to silence him. They might have succeeded too if he hadn’t been lucky the night he collapsed, a tourist finding him unconscious on Brompton Road.

Nicholas sat beside the bus window and rested his left temple against the steamy glass. He had mistrusted Elliott from the first and he had been right to be cautious. The academic was obviously working for the Church. Carel Honthorst wasn’t the only one in their employ; it had been a two-pronged attack. If one of them didn’t get him, the other would.

He glanced at his fellow passengers, all involved in their own thoughts, silent in the fuggy bus, no one meeting his eye. And then Nicholas remembered something that had happened the previous evening.

‘You sleep so badly,’ Father Michael had said. ‘I’ve made you a hot drink – that should help.’

Nicholas had smiled his thanks, but when he tasted the over-sweetened drink he had winced and thrown it out of the window to avoid hurting the old man’s feelings. He could imagine how surprised the priest would have been to see the empty glass the following morning and Nicholas up and about when, by rights, he should have been felled.

The treachery winded him. Father Michael had promised support, had pledged to make amends for his past negligence, while all the time attempting to wheedle confidences out of Nicholas. Where were the papers? he had asked. Are you still going to expose the conspiracy? And while he had been feigning concern, he had been reporting back to the Church. Expressing sympathy as he had drugged Nicholas’s food, distorting his dreams, increasing his paranoia along with his intermittent confusion.

Then another thought occurred to Nicholas. Was it the priest who had planted the crucifix in his bed? He had heard him snoring, but he might have managed it. Unless there had been someone else in the house, someone quick. Someone who knew the layout of the rectory. Someone who had expressed doubts about Nicholas’s suspicions. His sister, Honor.

He couldn’t believe it. Not Honor. She was too straight. She had told him what she thought directly – she wasn’t the type to sneak around. But she had been prying into his history, digging up the past, his litany of sins regurgitated. She knew what he had done and how suspicious it looked …

‘Sorry, mate,’ a man said, knocking into Nicholas as he sat down next to him. ‘Rain again, hey? What can you do?’

Ignoring him, Nicholas kept staring out of the window. At the next stop he left the bus and watched it as it passed. But the man didn’t move, just stayed in his seat as the bus moved on.

Seventy-Six

Philip Preston’s Auction House, Chelsea, London, 2.00 p.m.

All great auctions were an event, Gerrit thought, looking around him, but this was a fucking eye-opener … Amused, he watched collectors, dealers and private buyers sitting on their dainty gold chairs, a few lardy arses hanging over the sides. They were trying to appear nonchalant, but the temperature in the hall was increasing with tension and that peculiar, florid heat of greed.

Philip Preston mounted the dais and checked his microphone, which hissed and clicked into the hall like a woken rattlesnake, Philip unusually awkward as he began the auction. He was leaving the Bosch chain until last, the final and tremendous lot, cleverly building up the tension. And there was plenty of that. Leaning forward, Gerrit looked along his row, surprised to see Hiram Kaminski, a dealer who had professed to want nothing to do with the chain. And yet here he was and, just behind him, the beautiful and glacial Eloise Devereux. Her manner revealed nothing but her glance settled on her father for a long instant and her expression warned him that she would never stop, never give up until she had discovered who had killed her husband and her mother and punished them. And if it turned out to be Gerrit der Keyser, so be it.

Over a hundred people had gathered into the hall, security at the doors and at the front and rear of the dais. All eyes were focused on Philip Preston. No one noticed the stooping figure of Sidney Elliott in the crowd, or the ominous Carel Honthorst. No one spotted Father Dominic from St Barnabas’s, or the ever-curious Mark Spencer. They were all fixated on the Bosch chain. The chain that provoked fear and desire in equal amounts. The infamous chain which had supposedly carried a secret so potent it had resulted in murder.

If there were ghosts in the hall then Sabine Monette was there alongside Claude Devereux and Thomas Littlejohn. If there were ghosts, the guilty spirit of Father Luke was also watching. But one person was missing; the instigator of the sale and the man who had begun the rumour of the Bosch deception.

The troubled – and troubling – Nicholas Laverne.

Seventy-Seven

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

Running in from the battering rain, Honor knocked on the side door of the vestry. There was no answer. Again she knocked, this time loudly, thumping the iron knocker up and down. Finally Father Michael answered her.

‘Where’s Nicholas?’ she asked him.

But he didn’t reply and he seemed ill at ease. Surprised, Honor moved past him into the hall, glancing towards the kitchen. Inside sat a man she knew. A thickset man with bad skin. A man she recognised from the photographs Mark Spencer had shown her. Carel Honthorst.

Spooked, Honor stepped back, almost losing her footing as she ran out into the street and made for her parked car. She had just clambered inside when Honthorst caught up with her and tried to wrench open the door with his uninjured hand. Horrified, Honor turned on the ignition and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The car jerked forward, its wheels spinning, and as it knocked Honthorst off balance Honor swerved out into the traffic, a passing taxi blaring its horn.

One hand on the wheel, Honor reached into her bag for her mobile. At the traffic lights she stopped, glanced into the rear-view mirror, and then phoned Nicholas’s number.

It rang out.

‘Pick up!’ she said frantically. ‘Pick up!’

But there was no answer and the lights changed, forcing Honor to drive on. She knew that there was only one reason for Carel Honthorst to be at St Stephen’s – he was in league with Father Michael. In collusion with the Catholic Church. There was no other explanation. She thought of what Nicholas had told her. About his dreams, the night terrors, the food poisoning, the crucifix he had found in his bed, the one she had only recently remembered giving him as a new priest. All the things she had put down to imagination and paranoia. But she had been wrong. Nicholas wasn’t unstable, he was in danger.

And then his words came back, haunting and damning: ‘When did you stop knowing who I was?’

Seventy-Eight

Head lowered, Nicholas kept on walking. The rain was coming down hard and he bought an umbrella from a street trader, holding it close to his head and turning up the collar of his coat in an attempt to disguise himself. He felt more alone than he had ever been, but he wasn’t going to back down. Unless someone stopped him, he was going to expose the truth. Nothing else mattered to him. If it cost him his life, it was worth it. He had no family to speak of, no reputation left. No home, no friends. He was an outcast.

But he was still fighting. And all he needed was access to the internet. He cursed the fact that he had left his phone behind when he fled St Stephen’s, but he would have to improvise. Crossing Beak Street, he entered Soho, the nub of the capital, a place overrun with bars, shops and internet cafes. Entering a narrow alleyway, Nicholas walked into a cafe and paid for online access.

Sitting down in front of the computer, he typed in a website name and watched, relieved, as the site came up. He had prepared it weeks earlier, entering copies of the Bosch papers and a photograph of the chain in which the papers had been found, together with explanations of the text and relevant translations. The information had been updated, ready to go live. He accused the Church of deception in concealing the death of Hieronymus Bosch and named The Brotherhood of Mary. He explained that many of Bosch’s works had been faked by his family in the interests of making money, with the collusion of the Catholic Church. The whole sordid and bitter tale of Bosch’s incarceration was laid out in the words of a contemporary, someone who had witnessed it.

Next he checked his blog, also ready to go live. Finally, he checked the emails he was about to send to newspapers, websites, radio and television stations around the globe – and to various eminent members of the Church. It was all complete, ready. When he pressed Enter, the world of art and of religion would find itself under blistering scrutiny, called to account for a deception perpetrated centuries earlier.

The cafe was dense with noise and the humming of computers. Relieved that he was not being watched, Nicholas glanced around him as a waitress approached. She was very young, with heavy eye make-up and a sleeve of tattoos, but she was friendly.

‘You want something to drink?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

She was persistent. ‘But we’ve got everything,’ she went on.

Distracted for a moment Nicholas looked up at her. ‘Honestly, I’m fine—’

He never saw him, just felt the punch land on the side of his ribs, as Sidney Elliott grabbed him and the waitress watched, horrified, as Nicholas was knocked to the floor. Desperate, he tried to reach up to the computer, but Elliott took hold of his arm and twisted it.

‘Press Enter!’ Nicholas shouted to the waitress.

She stared, transfixed.

‘Press the button!’ he shouted. ‘Jesus, please …’

She was moving in suspended time. Her gaze went from Nicholas to the computer and back to him again. The heavily made-up eyes blinked, her mind processing what was going on and the instruction she had been given. Then, like a leaf unfurling, the tattooed arm reached out, one finger extended.

And pressed Enter.

Seventy-Nine

Someone had called the police and now an officer was heading towards the struggling men. As Elliott saw the policeman he panicked, pushing over tables in his hurry to get out, computers crashing to the floor as people watched him run into the street. He was moving so fast he couldn’t stop in time, and a delivery van slammed into him and threw him several yards along the road. Panicked, the driver jumped out of his cab and ran over to the dying man.

‘I didn’t see him! He came out of nowhere!’ the driver babbled to the onlookers. ‘I didn’t see him!’

It was only seconds before the police officer reached the scene, but it was obvious that Sidney Elliott was dead. His eyes were open but blank. His limbs were contorted, his neck bent at an angle. Blood pumped from his smashed chest and oiled the street, speckles of vermilion flecking the white face.

‘Why did he run like that?’ the waitress asked Nicholas, bemused.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’

She glanced at the policeman who was bending over the body, then looked back to Nicholas. ‘You in trouble?’

He didn’t lie. ‘Yes.’

Nodding, she beckoned for him to follow her, taking the alleyway and then a sharp turn to the left. He didn’t question why he was following her, he was just glad of the help as the girl pushed open a back door and ushered him in. The place smelt of curry and joss-sticks, stirring an old memory of incense.

‘Come on,’ she said, showing him into a shabby sitting room. ‘It’s not much, but you’re welcome to doss here a bit. Wait ’til things quieten down.’

‘Why are you helping me?’

‘Why not? I was on my uppers once and someone helped me. Always said I’d return the favour one day,’ she replied, putting out her hand. ‘I’m Tyra, and the man snoring next door is my brother. If he wakes up, say you’re a friend of mine and he’ll be fine with it.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Who was the man who attacked you?’

‘Somebody who never got over becoming a nobody,’ Nicholas replied wryly.

Tyra pulled a face. ‘Well, anyway, the telly’s over there and there’s some food in the kitchen. I’ll be back later.’

‘Don’t tell anyone—’

‘You’re here?’ she grinned. ‘Don’t worry. No one tells anyone anything round here.’

Eighty

From the safety of Tyra’s flat, Nicholas dialled 141, to withhold the number he was ringing from, and then called Hiram Kaminski.

‘Sidney Elliott is dead,’ he said without preamble. ‘I think he was the man who tried to break into your gallery. He tried hard to stop me going public, but he didn’t manage it. The Bosch deception is out there now.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He was spooked by the police. It’s funny: when he saw them he completely overreacted, ran off and got hit by a van before anyone could talk to him.’

‘He didn’t want to get caught—’

‘That’s what puzzles me,’ Nicholas replied. ‘To outsiders, it was just two men fighting. He could have explained it away, bluffed his way out of it. No, there was more to it than that. When he saw that copper, he lost it. Bolted.’

‘But why would he do that?’

Nicholas thought for a moment. ‘Maybe he couldn’t risk being caught. Maybe he had more to hide than just attacking me.’ He paused, thinking back over everything that had happened, piecing it together. ‘Sidney Elliott was a desperate man. He was banking on finding out about Bosch. He was acting as though everything depended on it and got more and more unreasonable. Every time I spoke to him he raised the stakes: he went after my sister, he threatened me. He was a mess. Frenzied, dangerous. Oh God …’

Hiram pressed him. ‘What is it?’

‘I think it was Sidney Elliott who murdered Thomas Littlejohn, Sabine and Claude. Then he went after Father Luke to frame me.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Hiram was taken aback. ‘He was an academic—’

‘—who was one of the first to know about the conspiracy. I went to him, remember? I only gave him one piece of the Bosch papers, but it was enough to whet his appetite. Elliott was a bitter man, his life a failure. I think he saw the conspiracy as his last chance. He wanted to expose it. He wanted the glory of the discovery – so he had to silence everyone else who knew about it.’

‘But he didn’t kill you.’

‘He needed me,’ Nicholas explained. ‘Elliott never knew the whole deception – I was the only person who could tell him that. He couldn’t kill me, he could only threaten me.’ He thought back, slotting the pieces into place. ‘Didn’t you tell me that Thomas Littlejohn dealt in paintings and antique books?’

Hiram nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘So Elliott might have worked with him before on a manuscript.’

‘It’s possible. Sidney Elliott was an expert. We all used him,’ Hiram admitted. ‘But it doesn’t make sense. Why would a man like him suddenly become a killer?’

‘It wasn’t sudden,’ Nicholas explained, his voice rising. ‘Bit by bit, Elliott’s life had soured. I remember him almost begging me for “an adventure”. My rejection was another blow to his ego.’ He paused, thinking back. ‘He wanted one more shot at glory, and he failed. I think that was the turning point.’

‘And Thomas Littlejohn knew someone was after him,’ Hiram said hurriedly. ‘That’s why he wrote me the letter—’

‘Which Elliott didn’t know about. That’s why he didn’t kill you – he wasn’t sure how much you knew. So he scared you into silence instead.’ Nicholas thought of the dead man. ‘He wasn’t going for honour any longer. He’d killed, crossed the line. He was going for the money instead. Sidney Elliott was working for the person who would pay him the most for the secret—’

‘Conrad Voygel.’

Nicholas took in a breath. Then he asked, ‘Who bought the chain at the auction?’

‘The buyer was anonymous, but we all know it’s Voygel. The place was buzzing. And everyone’s looking for you. Your sister came to the auction trying to find you—’

‘Has the chain left the auction house?’

‘No. When I spoke to Philip Preston he said that it was being collected later tonight. There was some rumour about it being taken out of the country, but that could just be hearsay. One thing’s for sure: Preston’s got guards all round the place, security up to the hilt. He’s scared. Maybe he thinks someone will try to steal it before it gets to its new owner.’

Nicholas thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Maybe he’s right.’