Текст книги "The Bosch Deception"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Twenty-Six

Eloise Devereux stood for a moment outside the gallery in Chelsea, then opened the door and walked in. Her attractive presence soon caught the attention of Miriam der Keyser. A thin woman with a whining voice, she patrolled her husband’s gallery like a jailer, his every conversation with a woman supervised.

‘Can I help you?’ Miriam asked peevishly.

‘Is your husband here? I’d like to speak to Mr der Keyser.’

Miriam’s mouth opened, but before she could speak Gerrit materialised at the back of the gallery. ‘Can I be of assistance?’ he asked, darting his wife a dismissive look.

‘I’d like to talk to you in private,’ Eloise continued. ‘It’s a confidential matter.’

‘My husband’s busy—’ Miriam tried to interrupt but Gerrit brushed past her and led Eloise into his office. Once inside, he made sure the door was closed and Miriam on the outside.

‘How can I help?’

He was all servile charm, using the gallant persona reserved for his customers. And she was quite a customer, he thought, watching as Eloise sat down and crossed her legs.

‘You’re doing well,’ she remarked coolly. ‘I liked the David Teniers in the window. I know how much you admire that artist.’

His collar felt suddenly tight, an unpleasant sensation rising in him. Gerrit didn’t recognise the woman, but she was talking to him as though they were old acquaintances.

‘Do I know you?’

She ignored the question, glancing around the office, Her hair swept up in a chignon, her cream coat cut to perfection, elegance exuded from her. Gerrit fiddled with his over-large cuffs then reached into his desk drawer and took out a bottle of pills. Without a word, he swallowed several with a glass of water, Eloise watching him.

‘You’re ill, but I suspected as much. You’ve lost a lot of weight – you used to be a stocky man.’ She paused, putting her head to one side. ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. Who are you?’

‘We’ll come to that later,’ she replied. ‘I have some business to discuss first: a chain which once belonged to Hieronymus Bosch.’ Gerrit’s eyes flickered. Eloise noted the reaction and smiled. ‘I can imagine how much you must want to get it back. It was unusual for you to be slow and lose it. But then again, illness slows everyone down.’

‘OK, what the fuck’s going on?’ Gerrit asked, all politeness abandoned.

‘I know you’re looking for the chain.’ Her eyes held his gaze. ‘How hard are you looking?’

‘Sabine Monette stole it off a painting—’

‘And now Sabine Monette is dead,’ Eloise replied. ‘Are the two connected?’

‘She died in Paris, in the George the Fifth Hotel. Some fucking lunatic killed her—’

‘Why did he kill her? Her money wasn’t taken.’

‘How come you know so much about it?’ Gerrit asked, his eyes narrowing. ‘This has nothing to do with me—’

‘It has everything to do with you. You wanted that chain, you threatened Sabine Monette—’

‘I did not!’

She waved aside his protestations. ‘All right, you sent some thug to threaten her. Either way, she ended up dead. Murdered.’

Gerrit rose to his feet. ‘I don’t have to talk to you.’

‘You’re right, you don’t. But if you want to get the chain back, maybe you should,’ she replied. ‘Maybe I can get it for you.’

He was all attention now, regaining his seat and running his tongue over his bottom lip. ‘Why would you?’

‘I have my reasons.’

‘Which are?’

‘Nothing to do with you,’ she replied coolly. ‘Do you want the chain back?’

‘How much?’

‘It’s not about money, Mr de Keyser, it’s much more valuable than that. This is about a debt. One you owe someone I cared about … Let me tell you something. My husband, my dead husband, had a friend who was in trouble. That friend went to work for an elderly lady in France, Sabine Monette. I knew about it because I was close to Sabine and she confided in me. I thought the relationship would be good for both of them. And it was.’

‘What the hell—’

‘Hear me out – it’s in your interests,’ she admonished him. ‘You had an affair with Sabine Monette many years ago. It was brief and unhappy, or so she told me.’ Eloise was perfectly poised. ‘I suppose I should mention that I inherited a large fortune when I reached eighteen.’

‘Lucky you. Want to buy some pictures?’

She smiled with chilling coldness. ‘I am here to sell, not buy.’

‘Sell what?’

‘Not so fast, Mr der Keyser. You have to hear the rest of the story first. The rich have the money to be discreet; privilege brings protection. When you left Sabine so ruthlessly, her family married her off within weeks. She put the whole business behind her and, to all intents and purposes, forgot about it.’

‘It was a long time ago. I doubt she pined for me.’

‘She never mentioned you.’

His voice was suspicious. ‘What’s your name?’

‘All in good time, Mr der Keyser … What would you do to own the chain?’ He said nothing. ‘And the secret it holds.’

‘What secret?’ he said, trying to sound casual but but failing.

‘You know well enough.’

‘I don’t know the whole story. Just the rumour of a conspiracy. You’ve heard of it too, obviously,’ he replied, piqued. ‘I thought I was the only one.’

‘No, you didn’t. You hoped you were the only one. But then you found out that others knew, like Sabine and my husband, both of whom are now dead. But you must know that.’

‘I know about Sabine, but not about your husband.’

‘Even though the Bosch painting and chain once belonged to his father, Raoul Devereux?’

He looked rattled, thrown off balance. ‘I didn’t know anything about that … Anyway, so what? It’s just coincidence.’

‘No, it’s murder,’ she corrected him.

‘And you think I’m responsible?’

‘I don’t know, but if you are, I’ll see you punished.’

Gerrit smiled sourly and leaned forward across the desk. ‘You come here and all but accuse me of murder. Why would you do that?’ he sneered. ‘I’ve never killed anyone but if I was violent, what would stop me coming after you?’

‘You still don’t understand, do you?’

He was getting angry and veins stood out on his thin neck. ‘I should have you thrown out of here—’

‘But you won’t because you want the chain. You would do business with the Devil for that chain – for what it held, for what it means.’

‘If I’m so dangerous,’ Gerrit snapped, ‘why help me?’

‘Because I want to see if it is you. If you killed them. And in order to do that I’m prepared to help you, to get close to you, to be with you – until I’m sure of your innocence, or guilt.’

He was unnerved, but continued. ‘If I’m so dangerous, why aren’t you afraid?’

‘You won’t hurt me.’ She smiled coldly. ‘No father would kill their own daughter.’

Nicholas knows he is dreaming, but can’t wake himself. Instead he follows the same familiar route between the yew trees towards the outhouse in the church grounds. But this time it’s daylight and the dead boy is alive, leaning against the wall of the building, talking to a lad of his own age.

They see him and their bodies tense as Nicholas approaches. He knows the boys, both trainee priests from the seminary, sent from Dublin to study for the priesthood in London. Their families read the letters they send, never knowing each line is censored, believing in a false happiness. Nicholas sees the boys and calls out to them.

Patrick turns his head towards Nicholas and his left eye is puffy; there is bruising along his chin and the knuckles of both hands are bloodied. Nicholas asks what has happened. Are you OK? Is everything all right? Are you being treated well at St Barnabas’s? … Same questions, same answers, as always. Fine, all fine. Couldn’t be better … He knows they’re lying, and watches them flinch as a voice calls their names.

Their reaction is always the same in the dream, as it was in life. They turn and move away between the yew trees passing Nicholas.

And in the doorway of the church, waiting for them, stand two priests: Father Dominic and Father Luke. The first is sleek as a wild mink, the latter standing, arms akimbo, in the fading light.

I want a word with you, Nicholas says to them. What about? About the boys … Father Dominic shrugs and moves away. Father Luke, his defiant arms out of proportion with his short legs and narrow trunk, stands looking at Nicholas as though he doesn’t have time to chat. As though he wants him off the premises. Go back to your own church, St Stephen’s, he says. Mind your own business or I’ll take it up with Father Michael.

And Nicholas – as always, as ever – walks away. He’ll come back, he tells himself. Check on the boys. He pushes out of his mind Patrick Gerin’s bruises and puffy eye and goes back to St Stephen’s, passing between the yew trees that never change.

Twenty-Seven

Honthorst was just about to reach the doorway where Nicholas was hiding when his name was called. He hesitated, then turned and walked back on to the street. Nicholas waited for a few moments, praying he wouldn’t return, then moved out into the alleyway.

He was breathing rapidly, unnerved, as he walked into the high street. But there was no sign of the Dutchman, only a couple standing at a bus stop, smoking. Nicholas walked quickly back to St Stephen’s church and hurried up the gravel path towards the side door. He expected at any moment to be attacked, and his hand shook as he unlocked the entrance and went in. Bolting the door behind him, he moved into the vestry. A small saucepan of milk was simmering on the gas cooker and a half-eaten sandwich lay on the table.

The triumph Nicholas had expected to feel was lacking. Yes, the Dutchman had broken into the auction house believing he would find the chain, which proved that Nicholas and Philip Preston were being watched, but that was all. Honthorst had come away empty-handed, with only the realisation that he had been duped. He would have been angry. A violent man who used brutal tactics would resent being played for a fool.

And if he hadn’t been distracted, Honthorst would have caught him.

With growing unease, Nicholas realised the danger of his situation and the ruthlessness of his opponents. And those were just the ones he knew about. Members of the art world had come out into the open, but what of the Church? What would the Catholic Church do when it realised that Father Daniel – aka Nicholas Laverne – was privy to information which could expose them for the liars they were? He had been a sacred thorn in their side ten years earlier, but they had thought him powerless after his excommunication. Maybe this time they would rely on no one taking him seriously, letting his name damn him in advance.

But if not, Nicholas thought, what would they do? He was a man on his own, without protectors, without confidantes, without power. Alone, he was challenging an institution that had obliterated rivals and crushed nations. What chance did he have? he wondered bleakly. What wouldn’t the Church do to silence its most troublesome priest?

Twenty-Eight

There is an area of London in Kensington called Palace Gardens. The houses there are prestigious, many of them embassies or subdivided into sumptuous apartments. Only a few remain as private residences, with their own gated entrances and security guards. In one of these lives Conrad Voygel, with his wife and daughter. This Voygel travels a great deal, always leaving and arriving home at night, the windows of his car tinted so that he can see out but no one can see in.

His activities amuse his wife, Angela, who mocks his secrecy and pathological need for privacy. But he explains that it is to keep his family safe, and she believes him. After all, their little daughter would make a perfect kidnap victim. Since their marriage Conrad has also told his wife that there is another reason for his reserve: his employees do not know what their boss looks like, so he can move around his businesses unknown, eavesdropping on gossip, complaints and intimations of mutiny. But Angela knows otherwise.

His shyness is his most endearing trait. Some years ago Conrad suffered from cancer and half his face was surgically removed to halt the spread of the disease. It was rebuilt, and when the scars healed he looked like any other man, apart from a certain stiffness in his left cheek. But he is still conscious of his appearance and finds being in company difficult.

His wife pursues her own interests without needing to involve Conrad. They are not a social couple and have no close mutual friends, although Angela plays tennis and golf with her cronies. An ex-athlete, at forty-one her build is boyish and fit, hair streaked at Michael Clark’s, her clothes from Armani. Even during her pregnancy with Cleo she was active, an outdoors girl, beautiful in a vitamin-pumped way. She trusts her husband, and Conrad, in his turn, is devoted to her.

They met when she was thirty and he was thirty-seven. She knows nothing of his previous life except what he tells her and that, she presumes, is the truth. If she pressed him for details he would avoid giving answers, other than the ones he has already confided. Conrad has no family, no siblings – Angela and their daughter are all he has. He protects them fiercely, loves them absolutely, and controls them as he controls every aspect of his life.

*

‘I’ll call you later,’ Conrad said as Angela leant down towards the car window. ‘Take care.’ His gaze moved towards the house, his thoughts with his daughter. ‘We should sort out which school she’s going to when I get back. It’s long overdue. We have to choose one or the other—’

‘We will,’ Angela said patiently, ‘when you get back.’

His hand reached for hers. ‘Do you want it?’

‘Want what?’

‘The Bosch chain,’ Conrad said, looking intently at his wife. ‘If you want it, I’ll get if for you. An early birthday present.’

He had told her about the chain, about the rumour he had heard and was investigating. If it were true and there was some kind of conspiracy concerning the artist, Conrad wanted in on it. His many connections had already paid off: Sidney Elliott had informed him at Nicholas Laverne’s visit. In fact, it had been Conrad who had tried to pressurise Nicholas, via Elliott; Conrad who had offered a substantial reward if the historian could obtain all of the pieces of Bosch’s testament.

But despite Elliott’s best efforts, Nicholas had been resistant. Not that Elliott hadn’t promised Conrad that he would pursue the matter. A bitter middle-aged man cheated out of great career, Elliott was desperate. He was a man Conrad Voygel both disliked and suspected.

‘G-g-give me time. I can find out m-more,’ Elliott had promised him.

‘D’you know the names of the other experts Laverne spoke to?’

‘No, but I c-c-can find out.’ Elliott replied. ‘It’s a small field of expertise; everyone kn-kn-knows of everyone else.’

‘So find out who he spoke to, and what they know.’

Conrad Voygel’s passion for collecting was twofold: he saw it as an investment as well as a means of owning objects envied and desired by others. His paintings and objets d’art served to prick the egos of lesser men; his collection was divided between his homes and galleries in California and Chicago. In the previous ten years Conrad had managed to infiltrate the art world via his hired scouts. Anything rare, or of value, came under his scrutiny. Bidding through agents, he could obtain pieces worldwide. Without putting his name to the bid, Conrad could avoid the inevitable bumping up of the prices that would have followed knowledge of his involvement. It was only later that the auction house or gallery discovered that he was the buyer.

Conrad smiled at his wife. The Bosch chain would be a birthday present for her – that much was true – but the driving force behind its acquisition would be the besting of his rivals. Conrad thought of the venal Gerrit der Keyser, the genial Hiram Kaminski and the slippery Philip Preston. And then he thought of Nicholas Laverne, the man in possession of the chain.

The ex-priest was out of his depth. Floundering like a seal in shallow water, unable to risk the beach, and yet fearful of drowning … Conrad had heard about the deaths of Sabine Monette and Claude Devereux – in fact, he had done business a few times with Raoul Devereux in the past – and the murders had piqued his interest. Where another man might be scared off, Conrad was intrigued. Naturally he had presumed that the killings were connected and was interested to learn of Philip Preston’s sudden closeness to Nicholas Laverne. So they were working together, were they? Poor Laverne, he thought. What chance did a sparrow have flying among hawks? Perhaps the ex-priest had no real understanding of the odds he was up against. The art world was no place for the vulnerable.

Especially when he was the biggest predator of all.

Twenty-Nine

Hiram Kaminski stared at his wife. ‘Are you joking?’ he said at last. ‘Thomas Littlejohn?’ Hands on hips, Miriam watched the response from her shocked husband.

She continued. ‘It was in the paper this morning, just a paragraph on the fourth page. I could have overlooked it, but it caught my eye – “Victim of Church Murder identified as Art Dealer”. They managed to put a name to him because of a metal pin in his spine. They’re all numbered, apparently. Thomas Littlejohn—’

‘Had a bad back,’ Hiram said, nodding. ‘I remember. He suffered terribly after a fall on holiday. He was in hospital for a long time – used to joke that the doctors had pinned him back together.’ He frowned. ‘But why would a man like that end up murdered outside a church? They said the victim was a vagrant but Thomas was a successful man. It makes no sense.’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘Everyone wondered where he’d got to. No one had heard from him for a couple of years, ever since he sold up the gallery—’

‘And left his wife and children,’ Judith said disapprovingly. ‘He just upped and left. Disappeared. Cruel to do that and leave your family wondering what happened to you.’

‘But that’s the point! Thomas wasn’t like that. He was a responsible man, an honest man. He loved his family … And now he’s been murdered, burnt alive. Dear God!’ He paused, his wife watching him curiously.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, nothing—’

‘Tell me!’ she demanded.

‘A long time ago – must be fifteen years now – he came to see me. He wanted my advice about something.’

‘What?’

‘I never saw it. I never even thought about it till now—’

‘What was it?’

‘A chain. Thomas Littlejohn wanted my opinion on a chain.’ Hiram shook his head. ‘I told him I wasn’t interested, but when I thought about it later, I got back in touch with him.’

Judith was holding her breath. ‘And?’

‘He denied ever saying anything about a chain. We were very busy at the time, you remember? It was Helen’s wedding coming up and I just thought I’d made a mistake. God knows, there’s enough jewellery and artefacts constantly doing the rounds and Thomas wasn’t a man to lie.’ Hiram turned to his wife, his voice dropping. ‘But what if it was the Bosch chain? What if Thomas Littlejohn was murdered because he was involved? What if whoever killed him is the same person who killed Sabine Monette and Claude Devereux?’

‘All of whom knew about the Bosch chain.’

‘God!’ Hiram began to shake. ‘We know about it too.’

Judith placed her hand over his mouth. ‘Say nothing. If anyone asks, we know nothing—’

He pushed her hand aside. ‘But I was talking about it to Gerrit der Keyser at Philip Preston’s place.’

‘Did anyone overhear you?’

‘No. People were concentrating on the auction.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone else about it?’

‘No!’

Judith nodded. ‘Then listen to me, my dear, and listen carefully. No one has approached us about the Bosch chain. We know nothing about it. We have heard nothing about it. We don’t want to know, because it’s not relevant to us. We sell paintings here – we don’t want to know about gold work.’

‘But everyone knows I’m an authority on the late Middle Ages—’

‘On the paintings, not any chain. You understand, Hiram? Forget what I said before; this whole business is now off limits to us.’ She kept her eyes fixed on his. ‘That chain is deadly – keep away from it. Let the big boys fight it out, not us. If there’s going to be another victim, let it be Philip Preston or Gerrit der Keyser. But not us.’

Then she moved to the gallery door and locked it, pulling down the blind.