Текст книги "The Bosch Deception"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Four

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

Startled by a sound outside, Father Michael got to his feet, lifted the blind, and peered out of the kitchen window. He could see nothing. Nicholas Laverne was still sitting at the kitchen table behind him.

‘You’re jumpy.’

‘I want you to leave,’ the priest said flatly. He could catch the noise of a car horn sounding in the next street and knew that the church was empty and locked up for the night. His housekeeper had gone home and no one would be calling now. Not so late. Or maybe someone would come to see the priest and find him talking to a stranger. Or maybe find him alone. Dead.

His gaze moved to the chain in Nicholas’s hands. ‘What did you mean about the chain holding something?’

‘See these?’ Nicholas asked, pointing out the engraved gold connectors between the links. ‘They’re hollow. And when I looked closely, I could see that one of them had a crack in it. Inside someone had hidden a tiny piece of paper. It was the same with all of them—’

Father Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know.’

‘You don’t know what I’m going to say.’

‘I know it’s going to bring trouble.’

‘You used to be brave.’

‘I used to be young.’

Nicholas nodded, continuing anyway. ‘Inside every connector was a tiny scrap of rolled-up paper. Very small, twenty-eight of them in total. And on each there were a few words. I found the first note by accident, then I found the others and pieced them together.’

‘How did you get the chain?’

‘I was given it for safe keeping.’

‘You? Safe keeping?’ The old priest snorted. ‘You couldn’t keep anything safe. Who would entrust you with anything valuable?’

Nicholas was stung by the remark. ‘You think I stole it? Is that what you think of me now? That I’ve become a thief?’

‘I don’t know what to think. And I don’t want to hear any more. Go now, while you can. I don’t care what you’ve done or what you’re going to do – just get out.’ The priest moved to the door and opened it. Outside the night was misty, slow with rain.

Nicholas didn’t move. ‘Shut the door and sit down. I’m not going, not yet. Sit down!’

The priest reluctantly closed the door and took his seat at the table again. ‘I remember how you used to be. You were special, Nicholas. One of the best priests I’ve ever known—’

‘I don’t want to talk about the past. All that matters is what’s going to happen now. Listen to me, Father.’ He shook the object in his hands. ‘This chain holds a secret. The words on each little piece of paper, when put together, spell out a truth that has been hidden for centuries. A truth kept secret for the good of – and in the protection of – the Catholic Church.’

‘God forgive you.’ The old priest sighed. ‘What is it this time? Another conspiracy? You ruined your life once before, Nicholas, and for what? You were thrown out of the Church, your name destroyed. No one believed you then, and now you come back with another conspiracy. Only this time you’re not a young charismatic priest, you’re little more than a fugitive.’

‘This chain carries a secret—’

The old priest snatched at the piece but Nicholas held on to it and used it to pull Father Michael towards him. ‘You think I’d be so stupid as to bring this chain with the notes? You think I’d trust you, priest?’ He let go suddenly, smiling. ‘The evidence is safe. Only I know where it is. Or what it is.’

‘And what is it?’

‘Proof of a con so clever it’s fooled people for generations. Proof of a lie perpetuated by the Catholic Church.’ Nicholas took in a long breath. ‘There was once a man called Hieronymus Bosch. He painted visions of Hell – a master of the damned, of monsters and chimeras, of all manner of grotesques. He was revered in his lifetime, famous, fêted, and he made vast amounts of money. Because – you know this already, Father, so forgive me for stating the obvious – no one could paint like Hieronymus Bosch. No one had his imagination. He was sought after. A celebrity of his day. A genius. A one-off. Now what if I were to tell you that—’

Nicholas stopped talking. A loud noise startled them both – the heavy clunk of the church door being pushed open and thrown back against the other side of the wall where they were sitting. Someone had entered the church of St Stephen. Someone was only yards away from them. They could hear footsteps close by, fading away as the stranger moved towards the altar.

Unnerved, Father Michael began to tremble and Nicholas glanced up at him. ‘What is it?’

‘I … I … Why are you here? What d’you want from me?’

‘I just want your help. Your knowledge,’ Nicholas replied, then turned in the direction of the sounds. ‘Who is it?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No. I came alone.’

The old priest was shaking uncontrollably, ‘I locked the church door. I locked it and now someone’s in there.’

‘Maybe you forgot—’

‘I locked it! And I have the only key,’ the old priest blustered. ‘But someone’s in the church. Someone’s in there now. And you’re back.’ He rose to his feet. ‘A man was murdered here only a few days ago. He was burned alive. I came home and found him on the path …’ His fingers fastened around his rosary. ‘For years this church has been a safe place, but now a man’s been murdered here and someone’s broken into a church that I secured, to which I have the only key …’

The priest paused, listening. The footsteps had ceased. There was the slow creak of the door swinging closed as the intruder left, and the church was silent again.

‘Well, whoever it was, they’ve gone now,’ Nicholas said calmly.

‘And yet someone was here. And a man is still dead. And you’re still in my kitchen. For ten years there’s been no trouble. And now …’ Shaken, the priest stood his ground. ‘What did you bring with you, Nicholas Laverne? What in God’s name did you bring to my door?’

Five

Paris, France

Carel Honthorst ordered a coffee as he watched Madame Monette take a seat outside. He sat down, facing in the opposite direction but able to see the Frenchwoman’s reflection in the cafe window. She lit a cigarette and began talking rapidly on her mobile, then finished the call and threw it into her bag irritably. Honthorst was impressed. Sixty-seven years old and she hardly looked a day over fifty, he thought, taking in the slim legs and firm jawline. Still sexually attractive … Uncomfortable, he shifted his thoughts. What did she weigh? A hundred and twenty, tops. Height? Five foot six, possibly seven. His gaze moved to her neck. Fine, almost unlined, and long. Delicate. Easy to break.

Honthorst sipped his coffee and put his fingertips to his face, checking that the concealer he was using had not run. He had been assured that it would cover his bad skin and stay in place until he washed it off. Waterproof, the woman had assured him, trying not to smirk. A man using concealer! her expression said. Ponce, obviously … Honthorst could read her mind – women always found it amusing. It wasn’t their fault; he could put himself in their place and see what they saw. A hulking man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with skin like orange peel. Cratered, burnt or acne-scarred. Not pretty, not pretty at all.

Which was where the concealer came in. Back in Holland he had a chemist make it up for him, so he could avoid the embarrassment of shopping around. But on this trip Honthorst had lost his potion and had had to endure the barely disguised contempt from the shop assistant. Trying not to laugh, she had tried out various shades on the back of his burly hand, matching the concealer closest to his complexion, and once he had made his choice she had said: ‘Do you want me to wrap it, sir? Or will you be putting it on now?’

Honthorst flinched at the memory of the words, continuing to watch Madame Monette’s reflection in the window. He knew that the shop girl would have laughed at him after he had left, shared the story with her colleagues, even – perhaps – her boyfriend. Who would have clear skin, naturally. But Honthorst took some pleasure in the fact that after the amusement of the day the shop girl would spend that night crying over the death of her dog.

Which he had run over outside her flat.

*

Finishing his coffee, Honthorst walked into the cafe, pausing beside Madame Monette’s table. She was reading the newspaper and took a moment to look up, surprised.

‘Yes?’

‘I have a message for you.’

Her expression was curious, nothing more. ‘Really? From whom?’

Without being invited, Honthorst slid into the seat opposite her. ‘You were very wrong to do what you did, Madame.’

Even though his French was good, she placed the underlying accent immediately. Dutch. Leaning back in her seat, Sabine Monette said simply, ‘Please leave my table or I’ll have you removed.’

‘You stole the chain which once belonged to Hieronymus Bosch.’ He pronounced the name perfectly. ‘I have been charged with its return.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Sabine said imperiously. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You bought a small Bosch painting from Gerrit der Keyser. It was hung with a chain—’

‘Who are you?’ she asked coldly. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘I work for Mr der Keyser.’

‘In the gallery?’

‘As a consultant.’

She eyed him sniffily. ‘Consultant of what?’

He ignored the question. ‘The painting you bought was hung with a chain—’

‘Which I purchased together with the painting.’

Honthorst moved his position slightly to avoid the sunlight. ‘I’m not referring to the gold chain you put on the picture. I’m referring to the one which was on there originally.’ When she didn’t reply, he continued. ‘It was a clever trick, Madame, but the chain wasn’t part of the deal.’

She folded her arms defiantly. ‘Are you accusing me of theft?’

‘Not if you return the original chain. Mr der Keyser is more than willing to forget this little incident. Especially as you’ve been a valued client of his for some while – and an old friend.’

‘This is ridiculous!’ Sabine snorted. ‘If the chain was so valuable, why leave it on the painting? Why wasn’t it removed earlier?’

‘My employer did not realise what the chain was.’

‘And now he does? That’s convenient. How?’

‘We have proof from the original owner. He also didn’t realise its value until he found the papers with which the painting had been originally stored. His solicitor had kept them for safe-keeping. When he read them, he contacted us and we checked the chain on the picture.’

‘How could you?’ Sabine said triumphantly. ‘The Bosch is in my house.’

He was unperturbed. ‘Photographs were taken before it left the gallery, Madame. Photographs of the picture, the frame and its backing. Which included the chain. It’s done for every item sold, for the gallery’s records.’ Honthorst paused. ‘So we compared our photographs of the Bosch when it arrived and when it left the gallery. The chains were different.’

Needled, Sabine stood her ground. ‘So you say.’

‘I can show you the photographs if you wish.’

‘Which could have been digitally altered,’ she retorted, unnerved but damned if she was going to show it. ‘I think you’re bluffing—’

‘We have you on tape.’

‘What?’

‘We have you on tape, Madame. On video tape. And we can show that to the police.’ Honthorst replied. ‘We can prove that you removed one chain and replaced it with another. Your own.’

‘Which is probably worth hundreds more than that filthy chain I took,’ Sabine retorted loftily, knowing she had been caught out.

Irritated, she pushed her coffee aside. If she had left it on the painting and waited until the Bosch had been delivered she would have been home free. Yes, Gerrit der Keyser would have been told about the evidence from the previous owner, but by then the painting and the chain would have been in her possession legally. But instead she had given in to a moment of greed.

Keeping her hands steady, Sabine Monette sipped her coffee. She had spotted the chain at once, almost in the instant she had first viewed the painting. Gerrit der Keyser had been ill recently, was not on top form and was eager to make a sale. Unusually careless, he hadn’t noticed the chain by which the small painting had been hung, and had left Madame Monette for a few minutes to study the picture alone. While he was gone, she had examined the chain and rubbed a little of the dirt off the middle link, finding the faint initial H, and a possible B.

Her heart rate had accelerated, but Sabine Monette had regained her composure quickly. Years of being cosseted had not made her soft. Her early life had been traumatic and her natural guile came back fourfold. Unfastening the chain from the back of the painting and slipping it into her pocket, she replaced it with the long antique gold chain necklace around her neck and called for Gerrit der Keyser.

And it was all on tape.

‘Even at your age, the police don’t look kindly on theft.’

Sabine’s eyes narrowed as she faced at the Dutchman. ‘I don’t have it any longer.’

‘What?’

‘The chain. C-H-A-I-N.’ She spelt it out for him. ‘It’s not in my possession any longer.’

And he shook his head.

‘Oh dear, Madame,’ Honthorst said quietly. ‘You shouldn’t have told me that.’

Six

Morgue, Hospital of St Francis, London

Illness terrified her, and the thought of death had worked on her senses ever since she was a child. The horrific death of her parents had affected the young Honor deeply, but the early demise of her brother Henry – in a fire – had shattered her. It had made the presence of death a real thing, not something she could ignore. Not for her the luxury of ignorance. She had seen the coffins and buried the ones she loved. Her family had been depleted ruthlessly and the brother she had loved most was estranged from her.

To others her actions would have seemed irrational, but Honor believed there was a distinct possibility that the man murdered outside the church might be Nicholas. And she had to know. Had to prepare herself for burying another member of the ill-fated Laverne family.

Walking up the hospital corridor, Honor caught sight of the pathologist in his white scrubs and green apron, his surgical mask pushed up on to his forehead. He nodded to her as she approached.

‘You came to identify the body?’

Honor nodded. ‘I spoke to the police—’

He grunted. ‘Right, yes. Right. I got a call. They said you thought it might be your missing brother … You sure you want to view it?’

‘I don’t want to. I just have to … see if it’s him …’ She was unusually nervous.

‘Have you ever identified a body before?’

‘God, no!’ Honor replied, then dropped her voice. ‘It’s probably not him. My brother, I mean.’ Pushing her hands into her pockets she fought to keep herself calm. ‘I’m not sure. I just want to know …’

‘The body’s badly burnt,’ the pathologist went on, scratching the side of his nose with a biro. ‘Not easy to identify.’

‘His face …?’

The pathologist shook his head. ‘Not much left there, I’m afraid.’ He glanced at the file in his hand. ‘Did your brother have any identifying marks?’

‘No … no, nothing.’ She swallowed.

‘There was no jewellery found on the body.’

‘He didn’t wear jewellery.’ She looked at the pathologist. ‘What about his teeth? You can identify people from dental records, can’t you?’

‘The victim doesn’t have any teeth.’

There was a moment of shock, followed by relief.

‘Then it can’t be my brother! He had great teeth. People always noticed them.’ Her hopes rose, the unease lifting. ‘It can’t be him. My brother had all his teeth.’

‘So did the victim,’ the pathologist continued, ‘until someone knocked them out and set fire to him.’

Seven

Old Bond Street, London

Hiram Kaminski was setting his watch. Of course if he had any sense he would have bought a new timepiece, something expensive which was stylish and accurate, but he knew he could never part with the watch he had. It was the only thing he had left of his late father. Whom he had hated. Just as he hated the watch.

All through Hiram’s childhood the watch had made its ghastly appearance. If he were late home, his father would tap the glass face to indicate his displeasure. If asked the time, his father would look hard at the watch and then make his son guess. Once in a while Hiram would be allowed the privilege of winding the watch, until one day he over-wound it and his father, furious, had to pay to have it repaired. It came back a few days later, its white face peaky, its thin black hands moving a little stiffly, like someone recuperating from two broken arms.

Hiram’s father said that it never kept good time after his son had over-wound it. It was, he said, ‘just another example of how clumsy the boy is.’

So when his father died, Hiram was surprised to find the watch willed to him. For a while he had held it reverently in his hands, and then he had thrown it through the window of their first-floor apartment in Warsaw. The caretaker had found it and returned it to Hiram later, saying that it just went to prove ‘how expensive things were made to last.’

Thirty years on and the bloody watch was still going.

Walking to the door of his office, Hiram glanced out into the gallery beyond. Only two places on earth looked good with flock wallpaper – Indian restaurants and West End art galleries. He let his glance travel along the walls and then settle on a small picture of a peasant, created by A Follower of Bruegel. A follower! Hiram thought. The art world had more followers than Scientology. What he needed was an original Bruegel, or a Bosch. He smiled to himself as a stout woman came down the stairs from the offices above.

‘Hiram, a word,’ she said, following him back into his office and taking a seat. Her legs were too plump to cross, her feet swollen in patent pumps, and her hands gripped a ledger. His wife, Judith. Still going after thirty years. Just like the bloody watch.

‘We have a problem, my dear.’ After a decade in London, she hadn’t lost her accent. Their daughter spoke like a Sloane, but Judith’s accent was Yiddish. ‘Takings are down. We need a big sale, my love – an influx of money.’

‘There’s a recession on,’ Hiram said, pecking his wife on the cheek. Maybe she wasn’t so slim any more, but she was still clever with money. No one could touch her. ‘People aren’t buying the same at the moment.’

‘People aren’t buying from us, my dear.’ She managed to make ‘my dear’ sound like a criticism. ‘We need something splashy. Something BIG.’ Her plump hands made a circle in the air.

‘You want me to buy a round picture?’

She sighed. ‘I want you to buy something people can’t resist. There must be something out there—’

‘There’s a lot out there, but it’s too expensive.’

Judith dismissed the remark. ‘You have to speculate to accumulate. One fine painting is worth six mediocre ones.’ She nodded her head vigorously. ‘I heard something the other day. In the hairdresser’s. I was sitting next to Miriam der Keyser and she was telling me about Gerrit being so ill, and—’

‘And?’

‘She told me about something I think her husband might have preferred her to keep to herself.’ Judith looked round as though expecting Gerrit der Keyser to come in at any moment. ‘He’s had a heart attack, as you know. And I think it made her worry – and when Miriam worries she has a little drink at lunchtime, and then maybe another.’

Hiram tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. ‘What did she tell you that she shouldn’t have?’

‘Miriam said one of their clients had stolen something from the gallery.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘How should I know! She shouldn’t have told me so much, but she was upset, letting down her guard – you know what happens at the hairdresser’s.’

He didn’t, but let it go. ‘So what was stolen?’

Judith leaned forward in her seat, her jacket buttons gaping at the front. ‘Something about Hieronymus Bosch.’

‘A painting?’

‘Did I say a painting?’ Judith asked, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Did I mention a painting? This is the trouble with you men – you exaggerate. It wasn’t a painting, it was something else.’

Silence fell and Hiram was the first to speak. ‘Is it a secret?’

Judith gave her husband a long, slow look. ‘All I know is that one of the customers stole something valuable to do with Hieronymus Bosch. Miriam didn’t say “painting”, so I thought maybe some personal artefact that once belonged to the painter …’ She let the intimation work on her husband before continuing. ‘Something worth a lot of money.’

‘Anything that could be proved to have belonged to Hieronymus Bosch would be worth a fortune,’ Hiram mused. ‘So little’s known about the man, there’d be a scramble to get hold of anything of his. I know three collectors who’d pay big money, including Conrad Voygel.’ He thought for a moment, agitation rising. ‘I’m the specialist in painting from the late Middle Ages. I should have heard about this. How did it end up in the der Keyser gallery? Gerrit’s more interested in the sixteenth century—’

‘Gerrit’s interested in making money. However it comes.’ Judith tapped the account ledger. ‘We need to get hold of this mystery object.’

‘But we don’t know what it is.’

‘It’s something connected to Bosch,’ she said crisply. ‘What else matters?’

‘But you said it was stolen—’

Judith pulled a face. ‘Maybe, maybe not. You know how this business works, Hiram. People put out rumours all the time to drum up interest. Maybe Gerrit’s heart attack got him thinking. Maybe he’s working up to a killing so he can retire and he wants to get everyone curious. This story about a theft could be a lie – maybe this phantom object’s still hidden away in the der Keyer gallery. Or maybe he wants us to think it’s valuable enough to steal.’

He glanced at his wife. ‘Have the police been brought in?’

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘From what I could gather it was all hush-hush.’

‘Maybe there’s no mystery object.’

‘Oh, there’s something,’ Judith said emphatically. ‘The way Miriam was talking she was nervy, like it was something big. Even bigger than a painting by Bosch. She knew at once that she shouldn’t have said anything and changed the subject.’

‘Then what?’

‘She had her highlights done.’

Hiram stared at his wife, taking in a breath. ‘I mean what else did Miriam say?’

‘Nothing!’ Judith replied. ‘That’s the point. She shut up like a clam. Which made me think that you should have a chat with Gerrit de Keyser.’

‘I don’t like him, the foul-mouthed barrow boy.’

‘Foul-mouthed or not, talk to him. You’ve known each other for years. Take him out for lunch, suss him out.’

‘Gerrit won’t confide in me. You’d be better off taking Miriam out for lunch.’

‘I won’t get anything else out of Miriam der Keyser. No one will,’ Judith said firmly. ‘She looked like someone who’d just won the lottery – but forgotten where she put the ticket.’