Текст книги "The Bosch Deception"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Fifteen

Mark Spencer was watching Honor carefully. She was taking notes, her dark hair smooth, her eyes looking down. He could see the gap in her blouse, giving just a hint of cleavage, and imagined touching her. He wondered if she was seeing anyone. Certainly no one had come to the offices, but then again, Honor was a private person. Not for the first time he toyed with the idea of ringing her home phone number. It couldn’t be difficult to find – all he had to do was to look in the Personnel files. He wouldn’t say anything, just see if anyone other than Honor picked up. See if there was a man living there. Or another woman. After all, if Ms Laverne were gay he should find out now – no point wasting time.

Honor cleared her throat suddenly, catching him looking at her. To his chagrin, Mark coloured up. Who was he kidding? he thought. Honor was pleasant, but she didn’t really like him. But then again, she didn’t know him. Didn’t appreciate that looks faded and what really mattered was ambition. And he had ambition – and a sickening, penetrating curiosity which had served him well in his criminal cases. His skill might be average, but he had a gift for unearthing secrets.

The meeting drew to its close and Honor left hurriedly. But she didn’t go straight back to her office, instead she made for the lavatory, locked the door and sat down on the toilet seat, trying to fathom what she had heard only an hour before. Eloise Devereux, for once abrupt, shock making her curt. And then tears following.

‘I’m so sorry about Claude’s death,’ Honor said over the phone line. ‘I never got to know him well, but I know Nicholas was very fond of him.’

‘So was I,’ Eloise had replied, her tone fading. Honor imagined that she would live in this way for the foreseeable future. Strong one moment, weak the next. Lifted by forgetfulness, buckled by memory. ‘It was such a terrible way to die.’

And then Eloise had told her. Claude Devereux’s manner of death had been suspicious, and the police were involved.

‘Suspicious?’ Honor had queried. ‘In what way?’

‘Claude was stabbed, but the killer had set fire to his body to try to cover his tracks … the pathologist took a while to determine the cause of death … Claude was burnt alive. He was still alive.’

The words had reverberated in Honor’s brain. Another murder. Another victim of fire.

‘Why would anyone want to kill him? Did he have any enemies?’

‘He was a landscape gardener,’ Eloise had replied, almost laughing at the absurdity. ‘No one kills gardeners. Everyone liked him, got on with him. Claude was kind, considerate … But that didn’t stop someone killing him, did it?’ She had grabbed at a breath as though simply living was an effort. ‘It’s only been two days. Two days, and it feels like he’s been gone for a lifetime.’

Honor had made a mental note to ring the French police and find out what she could about the case – or whatever they would tell her. The rest she would search for herself. The internet would have the death listed, and it would have been reported in the French newspapers. Moments later she had ended the phone conversation with Eloise Devereux, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the death of her husband.

Getting to her feet, Honor left the cloakroom, bumping into Mark Spencer as she did so. She had the unpleasant feeling that he had been waiting for her.

‘What d’you want, Mark?’

‘You all right?’

She frowned. ‘What?’

‘You looked pale in the meeting,’ he smarmed. ‘I was just wondering if you were OK.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Well, if there’s anything worrying you, you can always talk to me. You know, if you’re unsure about anything.’ He was flustered. ‘Like I say, if there’s anything I can do—’

‘Actually there is,’ Honor replied. ‘At the next meeting, stop trying to look down the front of my blouse.’

Sixteen

Lloyds Bank, Chelsea, London

Hurrying out of the rain, Nicholas walked into the bank and requested his safe deposit box. A few moments later, the manager showed him into a side room and then left him alone. After he had locked the door, Nicholas sat down at the table and drew the steel box towards him. Inserting the key he carried on a chain round his neck, he unlocked it and took out twenty-eight small envelopes, each barely two inches square.

They were numbered 1 to 28.

He stared at them for a long time, remembering the moment he had discovered the first one. How he had drawn the tiny piece of paper out of the crack in the gold connector and smoothed it down, intrigued by the faint writing in a Gothic script. In a language he couldn’t decipher at first. All he had recognised had been the name Hieronymus Bosch, and the date 1470. With intricate care he had levered open the joins of all the other connectors, finding – as he had expected and hoped – twenty-seven further tiny pieces of paper with writing on them. In the same hand and apparently in the same language.

So Sabine Monette had – on a whim – stolen a chain that turned out to be holding a secret. It hadn’t taken a genius to work out that anything concealed so carefully must be important. The question had been simple – what did the writing say? Without telling Sabine anything about his discovery, Nicholas had set about getting the words translated.

His instinct prompted him to secrecy. He knew from the reactions of Gerrit der Keyser and Philip Preston that the chain was valuable, so how much more valuable would the writing turn out to be?

Using a different name, he had gone online and sought help from three different university scholars, one in Cambridge, one in Holland and a third in Boston. His cover story had been simple: he was a journalist trying to translate some old copy from a late Middle Ages ledger for an article he was writing. And so, gradually, Nicholas had begun to translate the papers, alternating the three scholars so that no one would ever possess the full meaning.

And then the name Hieronymus Bosch had come up and the questions began. As with the others, Nicholas had asked the British expert Sidney Elliott for secrecy, but his trip to Cambridge had been an uneasy one. Elliott was well into his fifties, a hunched intellectual with a stammer, wearing bad clothes and working in a makeshift laboratory. Although an expert in his field, his early promise had nosedived because of family problems and his ambition had all but petered out – until Nicholas Laverne had shown him one of the Bosch pieces.

Bending down to look at it, Elliott had made a low sound in his throat, then glanced up at Nicholas.

‘Wh-wh-where did you get this?’

‘I’m afraid that’s confidential information. As I say, I’m a journalist and I need to speak to you in complete confidence.’

Elliott had sat down, rubbed his left eye and finished off the cold cup of coffee on his laboratory table. He didn’t offer Nicholas a coffee, hot or cold. His hands were blue-veined, his wrists big-boned, his shoulders broad. In his youth he would have been impressive, intimidating even.

Uncomfortable in the chilly temperature of the laboratory, Nicholas had pushed him. ‘I need the writing translated—’

‘Wh … wh … what language is it in?’

‘I don’t know – that’s your speciality.’

Elliott had nodded, sliding off his stool and reaching for a magnifying glass. He moved surprisingly quickly, regaining his seat and bending over the paper again. He had said nothing, giving Nicholas time to look around. Having seen better days, the laboratory was ramshackle, a broken window boarded up, the overhead strip lights glowing with a greenish hue and humming with age. Off the laboratory, Nicholas had noticed a small office with a glass door and a print of a painting by Dürer on the wall.

Elliott had made another sound in his throat, but had said nothing as he scrutinised the writing.

‘I need to have it authenticated and dated,’ Nicholas had told him. ‘And we should keep this quiet.’

They had both been looking at the piece of paper on the table between them. Paper 2 out of the 28 Nicholas had found.

Finally, Elliott had straightened up and put down the magnifying glass.

‘It’s D-D-Dutch – old Dutch, educated Dutch. In the Middle Ages, the main language spoken in B-B-Brabant was medieval Dutch, called Dietsch or Thiois. In the southern part of the Duchy, Latin d-d-dialects were spoken.’

‘What does it mean?’

He had touched it with his forefinger, prodding it in a tentative manner. ‘It means “The B-B-Brotherhood of Our Lady. Bought and b-b-bribed.”’ The historian had then glanced back at Nicholas, his curiosity piqued. ‘What a curious thing to write. I wonder what it m-m-means. I wonder who wrote it. Someone educated, naturally. That long ago m-m-most people couldn’t read or write. So we’re looking at a cultured m-m-man.’ He flipped the paper over with his finger. ‘I’d guess it’s from the Middle Ages b-b-because of the style of writing and the type of paper. But I’m just going on a hunch and decades of experience.’ He had smiled, the sarcasm withering. ‘I’d have to have it p-p-properly authenticated to prove I’m right.’

‘Without anyone else being involved?’

‘Is there anyone else involved, M-M-Mr Laverne?’

‘I’ve spoken to two other experts,’ Nicholas admitted, ‘but I heard you were the best.’

‘No, you just want three opinions to see if they all tally,’ Elliott said bluntly. ‘How m-m-many pieces of paper are there?’

‘Not many,’ Nicholas had lied.

‘I imagine you’ve let everyone s-s-see the same piece?’

‘No, the others have seen copies of this piece. You’re the only one who’s seen and handled the original.’

Elliott had nodded, looking back at the specimen as Nicholas thought of the other papers – and their meaning. The meaning that had curdled inside him. Mouldered like bad food, gumming the vessels of his heart and leaching oxygen from his brain. That he – of all people – should be the one to find the testament. That an excommunicated priest should uncover a conspiracy that would tarnish the Church and stun the art world. Not that he cared about the latter. Nicholas Laverne wasn’t interested in Hieronymus Bosch as an artist, he was interested in Bosch as a victim. As the casualty of a conspiracy shocking in its cruelty.

‘Won’t you confide?’ Elliott had asked, turning on his stool to look at Nicholas. ‘I can sense there’s m-m-more to this than you’re letting on.’

‘I can’t tell you any more yet.’

Elliott had made the same low sound in his throat. ‘Why all the secrecy?’

‘It’s for an article—’

‘About wh-wh-what?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Must be important, or you’d t-t-tell me.’

‘Nothing important.’

‘Bullshit.’

Taken aback, Nicholas had reached for the paper. But Elliott had grabbed his wrist. ‘I haven’t had m-m-many adventures in my life, Mr Laverne. Far fewer than most men. If there’s an adventure in the offing, I w-w-want in on it.’

Angered, Nicholas had shaken off his grip. ‘It’s just words.’

‘Oh, Mr L-L-Laverne, words are the most dangerous commodity on earth.’

When Nicholas had left Cambridge that night, he had been uneasy. Sidney Elliott had unsettled him. He had the feeling that the academic had seen something that had triggered his interest and stirred his curiosity. The very thing Nicholas had wanted to avoid. So when the tests results came back and proved that the paper and the ink dated from the fifteenth century, Nicholas had been satisfied but abrupt.

‘Thank you, Mr Elliott. I’ll settle your fee—’

‘Tell me wh-wh-what the paper is and that’ll be fee enough.’ The academic had paused on the phone for an instant, his tone wheedling. ‘I can be useful to you. I know m-m-many people who deal in artefacts like antique writings.’ His tone shifted, becoming almost belligerent. ‘You n-n-need an expert. A novice like yourself will only come unstuck.’

‘Unstuck? How?’

‘Take my offer of help, Mr Laverne, or f-f-find out the hard way.’

Reluctant to involve Sidney Elliott any further, Nicholas had pieced together the twenty-eight pieces of writing himself, together with their translations. The other two experts had also authenticated and dated the papers. They were all genuine. Luckily Nicholas had only let Elliott see one piece of writing. He had then put them in the order in which they had been numbered and had taken them to the bank for safe keeping. Where they had stayed, hidden, until now.

Rousing himself, Nicholas took out his mobile and photographed every paper. Then he returned the originals to the security box and handed it back to the bank manager. When he left the building there was a downpour, the sky water-marked, a ridiculous rainbow touting its promise of luck.

Seventeen

Huddled in his armchair, Father Michael waved away the daily woman who came in to clean and make his meals. He was old, tired and uneasy, and hearing the sound of the radio coming from the kitchen he wondered how something that used to be so comforting could now be so intrusive.

The memory of the previous night made him shudder. The man had seemed to come into the church from nowhere, sliding into the pew next to him and crossing himself. Surprised, Father Michael had glanced at him as he knelt, his profile fixed, his eyes closed. And suddenly he had felt a terrible unease. Without wanting to make it too apparent that he was moving away, the old priest had waited for a couple of seconds and then begun to slide along the pew. But he had only moved a little when the stranger’s hand reached out and gripped his wrist.

‘A moment,’ the man had said, still staring ahead at the altar. ‘I haven’t finished praying.’

Father Michael had remained where he was, the stranger still holding on to his arm as he prayed, lips moving silently. Finally he had released his grip and slid back into the pew. Without looking at the old priest, he began talking again.

‘You know Nicholas Laverne.’

There was a moment’s hesitation, Father Michael being uncertain how to respond.

‘You do know Nicholas Laverne,’ the big man had repeated, still staring ahead. And that had been the most chilling aspect of him – his refusal to make eye contact. ‘I’ve seen him come here, so you must know him. He was a priest here once, under your guidance.’

‘Yes,’ Father Michael had agreed reluctantly. ‘I know Nicholas Laverne.’

‘He was thrown out of the Church.’

‘He was excommunicated, yes.’

‘And yet he came back to visit you after so long. Why was that?’

‘He can come back to see me at any time he wants. Nicholas has not been banished from here.’ Afraid, the old priest had stared at the stranger’s profile. ‘Who are you?’

Carel Honthorst ignored him. ‘Why did Nicholas Laverne come here, Father?’

‘I don’t have to talk to you. You have no right to question me.’

‘And yet I am,’ Honthorst had replied, turning his head slowly. In the dim light his eyes had fixed on an area just above the priest’s head. ‘These are simple questions, Father. Nothing to worry you.’ He had paused, then changed the subject. ‘You know Holland?’

‘A little.’

‘Hieronymus Bosch was a great painter.’ His head had turned away again and he was staring up at the stained-glass window. ‘People copied him all the time. They say he was good at Hell.’ Honthorst had paused, then tapped the old priest’s knee, a gesture that was at once both familiar and threatening. ‘Tell me what Nicholas Laverne told you.’

‘We talked about the old days—’

‘I don’t think so,’ the Dutchman had retorted, glancing at his watch. ‘I don’t have much time, so we must hurry our conversation. What did Nicholas Laverne tell you?’ His large hands were resting on the back of the pew in front and a sigh escaped him. ‘Tell me, or I will hurt you.’

Shaken, Father Michael had glanced around him. There had been no obvious escape route, and he was an old man who would have been easily out run. But despite his feelings of antagonism towards Nicholas Laverne, he hadn’t wanted to betray him.

‘Nicholas and I talked about old times. Nothing more.’

Honthorst’s fist slammed into the priest’s stomach with all the force of a lump hammer. Buckling over, Father Michael had then felt the Dutchman tenderly straighten him up against the back of the pew, smoothing down his vestments. Then he had picked up the priest’s rosary and held it in front of Father Michael’s face.

‘Tell me, or I’ll make you eat every one of these beads …’ His fingers had closed over the attached crucifix. ‘And then I’ll ram this down your throat.’

Terrified, Father Michael blurted out: ‘He was asking about The Brotherhood of Mary.’

‘And?’

‘He had a chain.’

‘He had a chain,’ Honthorst had repeated. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What did he tell you about the chain?’

‘He said he found it.’

In one quick movement Honthorst had grabbed the priest’s face, forcing open his mouth. ‘You have one last chance, Father. Tell me what Nicholas Laverne told you. Tell me everything.’

And now the old priest was sitting huddled in his armchair wondering what he had set in motion.

Eighteen

George V Hotel, Paris

As ever, it was horses for courses. And Nicholas Laverne was a carthorse up against a steeplechaser. Philip Preston had hoped that Nicholas would return – with the chain and the story that went with it. But another day had passed, people were beginning to talk, and Philip had decided to act. His conversation with Gerrit der Keyser had been illuminating. If der Keyser had called in a heavy, it meant that he was desperate.

It would have been much easier if Nicholas Laverne had left a phone number or an address where he could be contacted, but there was no way Philip could get in touch. So there was only one alternative – skip Laverne and go straight for Sabine Monette.

Which was why Philip Preston was on his way up to the suite in the George V Hotel where Sabine Monette was staying. He had rehearsed his speech to an oily perfection. He would convince Sabine – whom he had known for many years – that he was the person to handle an artefact that had once belonged to Hieronymus Bosch. Philip didn’t know the exact nature of the Frenchwoman’s connection to Nicholas Laverne, only that she had stolen the chain and had perhaps hired Laverne as her agent. Why Laverne, he wasn’t sure. Why a rich Frenchwoman would hire an ex-priest for the task was beyond the limits of his imagination. But whatever the reason Philip was more than ready to usurp the onetime cleric.

He paused outside the door of the suite. Having arranged an appointment to see Sabine Monette, Philip had arrived early, only to be told by Reception that Madame had dismissed her maid in order to rest. She was not to be disturbed until 1 p.m. … Philip looked at his watch, then smiled at a passing chambermaid, walked to the end of the corridor and looked out into the dank streets. More rain, he thought, just like London. The minutes crawled past and he counted them down impatiently. Finally he glanced at his watch – 1 p.m. Walking back to the door of the suite, he knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again. Perhaps Madame Monette had grown deaf, or was still taking her rest. Philip waited for another couple of minutes, then knocked a third time.

Again, no reply.

He rapped a little louder on the door.

No reply.

He tried the handle.

To his amazement, the door was unlocked. Unwilling to catch his client unawares, Philip called out, ‘Madame Monette? It’s Philip – Philip Preston.’

He moved into the suite. The French windows were open, the white drapes spotted by rain, an overturned side table almost tripping him up. Bending down to pick it up, Philip’s glance moved through the open door into the bedroom beyond. And then he saw her.

She was oddly positioned, obviously arranged, propped up on pillows like a courtesan awaiting her lover. But her head was caved in, the right side pulped, the features gone. Her false teeth lay beside her left hand, knocked out of her mouth in the struggle – Sabine Monette finally showing her age. In a cruel touch, her dress had been pulled up and two initials carved crudely into the flesh of her stomach – H and B. And on the coverlet beside Sabine Monette, pressed into the pooling of blood, was the blurred outline of a Christian cross.

Backing away, Philip tried not to vomit. He had never seen a dead body before and was shaking, the smell of blood making him retch. His impulse was to run, but instead he looked around him. Afterwards he would wonder what he had been looking for. The chain? There was no chain in the suite. So why had he hesitated? Philip Preston hadn’t known, but before he left, something had caught his eye. Something half hidden under a cabinet. Something he took without thinking.

Sabine Monette’s mobile phone.