The Bosch Deception

by Alex Connor

  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.

  Thirty

  Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

  Leaning on a stick, Father Michael watched Nicholas as he moved around the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s the chain?’ the priest suddenly asked.

  Nicholas turned, surprised. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’m not telling you,’ Nicholas said simply. ‘But it’s not here, it’s safe. I don’t have it with me.’ He made tea and passed a cup to the old priest.

  Father Michael pushed it away. ‘The man who was killed here just before you turned up was an art dealer called Thomas Littlejohn. Did you know him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘His death’s connected to the chain, isn’t it?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘“Might be,”’ the priest repeated, hostile. ‘Of course it is! You said the chain held something – what was it?’

  ‘You didn’t want to know then so why d’you want to know now?’

  ‘Because you’re here, in my church—’

  ‘Your church?’ Nicholas countered. ‘How pompous of you, Father. You work and live here – it’s not yours. Surely your faith taught you that much—’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about faith! You hate the Church—’

  ‘With good reason,’ Nicholas snapped, leaning towards the old priest. ‘You knew what was going on and you wouldn’t help me. You knew those boys were being bullied—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’

  ‘You never did!’ Nicholas hurled back. ‘He hanged himself, Father. A trainee priest, bullied relentlessly. Beaten, starved, locked up at St Barnabas’s. Patrick Gerin was his name, remember? I bet you don’t. I bet no one remembers his name. And after he killed himself, the two priests who drove him to it carried on as though nothing had happened.’

  ‘He wasn’t sexually assaulted!’

  ‘Is that some kind of excuse?’ Nicholas roared. ‘Patrick Gerin was tormented, like the other boy he told me about. Tortured and starved. He was made to sleep naked in a cupboard in the church outhouse. He was covered in rat bites – I saw them. Patrick Gerin weighed less than six stone when he killed himself … And you knew the church well. You knew the priests at St Barnabas. You knew Father Dominic and Father Luke, but you said nothing when I told you about it. And those bastards were never punished. You knew about it—’

  ‘It should have been dealt with within the Church. You went to the press!’

  ‘And I’d do again. Even though it cost me my livelihood and my reputation. You can all call me a liar and cut me out of your religion, but what I did was right. And I know that, and I live with that every day. My only regret is that I didn’t act sooner. That’s what haunts me: not being the whistle-blower, being too late. The Catholic Church is corrupt. It always has been and always will be as long as its members turn a blind eye to what’s going on.’ Nicholas shook his head as he looked at the old priest. ‘Jesus, how do you live with yourself?’

  ‘I pray for forgiveness,’ Father Michael replied, then looked at Nicholas. ‘You said that this chain held papers, a secret about Bosch which was hidden to protect the Catholic Church … What was the secret?’

  ‘Why would I tell you, Father?’

  ‘Because I’m already involved. When you came here you involved me. I’ve already been threatened, and a man was killed outside my church. I know this place is watched. I know why you’re living here – but you can only protect me so far. And who protects you?’

  ‘Not the Church,’ Nicholas said coldly.

  ‘If you set out to expose another scandal no one will believe what you say. They won’t take you seriously. You’re a maverick, Nicholas. Let me help. I was silent once but I won’t be this time,’ the old priest pleaded. ‘You have to tell me what the secret is.’

  ‘And risk your life?’

  ‘You’re risking your own.’ Father Michael paused. ‘Listen. Hear that?’ A noise sounded outside, footsteps on the gravel. ‘They walk up and down a few times, then leave. It happens every night. And someone rings the rectory phone at two or three in the morning. When I pick up no one answers, but I can hear breathing down the line … I see shadows too. But then again, those could be old ghosts – Patrick Gerin for one.’

  ‘Your mind’s playing tricks on you.’

  ‘About Patrick Gerin, yes. But I’m no fool, Nicholas – that Dutchman was no figment of my imagination.’ He struggled with the next words. ‘I gave you up when he threatened me. I told him you had the chain.’

  Nicholas shrugged. ‘So what? Everyone knows I have it.’

  ‘They’ll kill you for it!’ Father Michael said desperately. ‘Give it to them, whoever wants it – give it to them. You said the secret had been hidden for centuries so why expose it now? If it’s so dangerous, why risk yourself? If there’s a fortune involved, people will do anything to get hold of it. As for scandal, men have died for less.’ He sighed and leant back in his seat. ‘They won’t let you get away with it.’

  ‘Who won’t? The art world or the Church?’

  ‘Both.’

  A moment spiralled between them. Father Michael was the first to speak. ‘You’re living on borrowed time, Nicholas. You want to expose what you know, I understand that, but no one will listen. You lost your credibility ten years ago. You lost when the Church threw you out and called you a madman. You can’t do this alone because no one will believe you.’ He paused, left hand gripping the head of his walking stick. ‘But they will believe me.’

  Book Three

  In the first known account of Bosch’s painting, the Spaniard Felipe de Guevara described him as ‘the inventor of monsters and chimeras’.

  Thirty-One

  Brompton Oratory, Kensington, London

  Screaming, the man slumped forward against the church door. He was doubled over in pain, gasping for air, his coat shredded and wet with blood, his shoes missing. As he moved the hammer came down again and struck the back of his head, blood filling his mouth as he bit down on his tongue. Helpless, he threw up his arms, trying to fend off the blows, but instead he heard the crack of the hammer as it shattered his left arm at the elbow.

  Pain seared into him, his legs giving way and his eyes blinded with blood, as he felt hands ripping aside his clothes, pulling his shirt open. Dazed, he began to slide into unconsciousness, then screamed as he felt the knife plunge into his upper chest and rip down his sternum. He grabbed for the weapon, the fingers of his right hand closing over the blade, his thumb severed as his attacker pulled the knife out of his grasp.

  The victim was pleading but the words were blurred, incoherent through the blood that filled his mouth. Urine leaked out of him, his bowels loosening as the blows increased. Only yards away taxis moved down the road towards Harrods, where window decorations looking sullenly out of their glass cases, and the townhouses next to the Oratory remained glacially impervious.

  He had stopped screaming now and was gurgling instead, trying to draw his knees up but lacking the strength to do anything but shake. Slowly the knife moved down to his stomach, then it was jerked upwards in an arc.

  The last thing the man felt was the blade ripping across his throat and severing his windpipe, his heart pumping blood uselessly out of the gaping wound. And in those seconds the attacker carved two initials into his victim’s stomach – H and B.

  Then he straightened up, took off his coat and stuffed it into a plastic bag, along with his gloves and the knife. Walking briskly he moved towards
South Kensington and finally hailed a cab on Sloane Street. When he left the taxi he tipped the driver generously.

  It was only when he finished work that night that the driver discovered the plastic bag on the back seat – and called the police.

  Thirty-Two

  As he walked around the back of St Stephen’s, Nicholas heard his name called. Startled, and expecting an attack, he spun round to find two police officers approaching.

  ‘Are you Nicholas Laverne?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘For the moment,’ Nicholas replied. ‘What’s all this about?’

  The older officer took over. ‘You knew a man called Father Luke, who used to be attached to St Barnabas’s church—’

  ‘Used to be?’

  ‘He was found murdered in the early hours of this morning outside the Brompton Oratory,’ the officer continued. ‘When we talked to his fellow priests they told us about your run-in with Father Luke. Apparently you accused him of torture. You went to the press with it, caused quite a stink. Got yourself excommunicated for your trouble.’

  ‘What I said is on the record, I don’t deny it.’ Nicholas’s heart was speeding up. ‘But I haven’t seen or spoken to Father Luke for many years—’

  ‘They said you phoned him the other night.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of the priests said that you rang him last Sunday and said you had unfinished business. Perhaps you’d like to come to the station and talk.’

  Spooked, Nicholas looked around him, but there was no sign of Father Michael, no one to whom he could signal for help. He guessed at once what had happened: he was being set up, taken out of the running by a trumped-up accusation. And worse, he was being framed for murder. The old priest was right – they were making sure everything Nicholas Laverne said would be automatically discredited.