The Bosch Deception

by Alex Connor

‘I h-h-had to get your interest somehow,’ Elliott replied, stubbing out his cigarette and jerking his head towards the National Gallery. ‘Bosch’s Crowning with Thorns is in th-th-there. I bet you think of yourself as a b-b-bit of a martyr. I bet the National wouldn’t thank you for exposing any s-s-scandal about one of their m-m-most famous painters.’

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘I want to know what h-h-h-happened to Bosch. I want to know what you’re investigating.’ He stood up, towering over Nicholas who was standing on a lower step. ‘Mr Voygel n-n-needs to know.’

  ‘What’s he promised you?’

  Elliott hesitated. He had been fired by Conrad Voygel, unceremoniously dumped. But if he could bring him the information he wanted, he was sure he could wheedle himself back into the tycoon’s good books.

  ‘Th-th-throw in your lot with me and we can make a fortune. Oppose m-m-me and you’ll regret it.’

  ‘You dare go near my sister again—’

  ‘And you’ll do what?’ Elliott said. ‘There’s nothing you can say or d-d-do to make me back off. I will find out wh-wh-what I want to know, one way or another.’

  ‘My sister doesn’t know anything. Leave her out of this.’

  Elliott’s eyes flickered.

  ‘You know the h-h-history of this place?’ He gestured to the church behind him. ‘In 2006 they found a grave, d-d-dated around 410. A Roman burial, they th-th-thought. And in the Middle Ages the b-b-building was used by the monks of Westminster Abbey.’ He moved closer – so close Nicholas could catch the smell of nicotine on his breath. ‘Henry the Eighth rebuilt it later, so th-th-that the victims of the plague wouldn’t have to p-p-pass through Whitehall Palace—’

  Impatient, Nicholas shrugged. ‘What’s this got to do with anything?’

  ‘I am an academic! A l-l-learned man. Possessed of a brilliant original mind. I w-w-was the best in my year at Cambridge. I was p-p-published before I was twenty-one. Lecturing around the world at thirty. I was supposed to m-m-make a reputation, a fortune, to be one of the greats.’ He paused. ‘And yet here I am, fifty-n-n-nine years old, a nobody.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Oh, you should care!’ Elliott snapped, ‘You sh-sh-should care, Mr Laverne, because I will make you care. I g-g-give you one last chance. You have one day left before the auction and in that time you m-m- must tell me the whole secret.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘His n-n-name was Patrick Gerin, wasn’t it?’ Elliott asked nonchalantly, and saw seeing Nicholas flinch. ‘Yes, Patrick Gerin. He hanged h-h-himself. Or was he hanged? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, w-w-will we, Mr Laverne? Or should I say Father Daniel?’ he smirked, circling Nicholas. ‘I kn-kn-know why you don’t go to the police. You c-c-can’t risk them prying into your life too closely. You w-w-want your revenge on the Church, I understand that. But I want my revenge too – for p-p-poverty and a wasted life.’ He passed Nicholas, knocking into his shoulder as he did so. ‘One day. That’s all you’ve got left.’

  ‘You’re giving me a day to decide whether or not I’m going to tell you the secret?’

  ‘No, Mr Laverne,’ Elliott replied coldly. ‘I’m g-g-giving you a day to live.’

  Seventy-Two

  Spooning up against her husband’s back, Judith Kaminski stared at the clock by the bed: 3.45 a.m. Later that day, at 2 p.m. in Chelsea, London, Philip Preston was going to auction the Bosch chain … Even though he knew his wife wasn’t asleep, Hiram said nothing. Instead he thought of the securely locked doors, front and back, and the burglar alarm he had set for the night. Such a long night.

  Every sound outside had quickened his pulse, every noise a reminder of the previous assault. But no one came. Even the urban foxes stayed away. No overturned bins, no stalking of wild cats, nothing but a thick, unyielding and portentous silence.

  *

  Impatient, Gerrit knocked the papers he had been reading on to the floor of his study and poured himself a whisky. Then doubled it. Bugger his fucking heart, he was close to collapse anyway … All his searching had revealed nothing. No information about the old man Guillaine who had brought him the Bosch picture and the bloody chain.

  His instincts were heightened because it was well into the night and he couldn’t sleep. Of course the whole thing could be a set-up, Sabine plotting her revenge on him. Some old codger Guillaine relative of hers bringing the painting to Gerrit to sell – the painting that had originally been stolen from Raoul Devereux’s French gallery. She could have planned it with the help of that ex-priest, Gerrit thought. Then she could have bought it from him, along with the fake chain, knowing she was going to be filmed taking it. What a perfect way to throw suspicion off herself.

  Mind you, being murdered was an even better way … Gerrit thought of his conversation earlier with Carel Honthorst. He had come into the gallery with a plaster cast on his arm, his face grey under the concealer, his demeanour unnerving.

  ‘I’m not working for you any more.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be guarding me!’

  Honthorst looked at him, a slow smile hovering on his lips. ‘You and I both know you don’t need guarding.’

  ‘Then bugger off! You’re not much good with that fucking thing on your arm anyway,’ Gerrit retorted, then frowned. ‘Are you working for another dealer?’

  ‘No. The art world isn’t my only employer.’

  ‘I know you work for the Catholic Church,’ he retorted. ‘I do my fucking research, Mr Honthorst. Anyone I employ is thoroughly checked out.’

  ‘Half of the people you employ are crooks.’

  ‘True, but they’re all good ones,’ Gerrit had replied, taking a wad of money from his desk and handing it to Honthorst. ‘Our business dealings are to remain a secret between the two of us.’

  The Dutchman had taken the money and nodded. ‘I won’t say anything.’

  ‘Are you going back to Holland?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Gerrit had frowned. ‘You’re taking your time with Nicholas Laverne, aren’t you? I can imagine that your other employer might have wanted him sorted out by now.’ He had caught the anger in Honthorst’s eyes, but had carried on. ‘Seems he bested you.’ Gerrit pointed to the plaster cast. ‘Hired muscle up against a fucking ex-priest – who’d have put money on the cleric?’

  Honthorst had made a move towards Gerrit and the dealer put up his hands. ‘Easy, boy, I’m just having a little joke with you. But be honest, you don’t intend to let Laverne get away with it, do you? Unless you’ve been told to back off.’

  Gerrit paused, remembering the conversation in every detail. Had Honthorst been forced to stay his hand? After all, the Catholic Church – for all its covert mumblings – hadn’t made a move to silence Laverne. Their troublesome priest was unharmed, and tomorrow was the auction. If Laverne was going to speak up, that would be the perfect opportunity. Press coverage guaranteed … Gerrit finished his whisky and clicked off the light, then walked up to his bedroom. Miriam was asleep, snoring slightly with her mouth open. It was a pity they had never had children. Some buffer against old age, some offspring to keep an ego thriving in the world. Gerrit would have liked a kid …

  And then he remembered Eloise and winced.

  *

  For the third time in an hour, Philip Preston looked out of his window to check that his security guards were still there. He had chosen to sleep in the office at the auction house, within feet of the safe in which the two chains were locked up. Philip rubbed his chin, feeling the scratch of stubble, thinking of Gayle. He would never see her again. After the auction he would leave with Kim Fields, a rich – and free – man.

  But that was later. He still had the rest of the night to get through and dawn was slow in coming. He wondered if Nicholas Laverne were sleeping, or if he were awake too, knowing that within the space of twelve hours nothing would ever be the same again.

  *

  Another man was awake too. Conrad Voygel was rereading the auction house cat
alogue, staring at the glossy photograph of the Bosch chain and knowing that soon he would own it – if not the secret that had been hidden inside. Sidney Elliott had failed him there, but nothing would have persuaded Conrad to work with the academic any longer. He was unbalanced, aggression always just below the surface.

  Not like Nicholas Laverne: his aggression was curtailed and the reason was obvious. He was playing safe, waiting for his moment. When the chain was auctioned the ex-priest would speak up and hurl himself back into notoriety again. Conrad knew the type: the righteous hero.

  It would have been so much better if Laverne had stayed in France. Out of London, away from the auction. Stayed an anonymous priest, removed from a world too clever for him. Perhaps he hadn’t realised how much danger he was in. The art world was watching Laverne, the Church was watching him, even the police had him under observation – and God only knows how many others. But Laverne was determined. He was vengeful, reckless and, worst of all, a zealot. The deaths of Claude Devereux, Sabine Monette, Thomas Littlejohn and the priest had not deterred him. He was ripe for martyrdom, out for justice as well as revenge, hoping to bring Hell down on the Church and, indirectly, the art world.

  Within hours Nicholas Laverne would be world news, his family interrogated, his past picked over, his intentions questioned. Fêted by some, despised by others, targeted by a dangerous few, his accusations would draw interest and attention globally. Nicholas Laverne – the infamous whistle-blower who became an outcast.

  And should have remained one.

  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.’
<
br />   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.