The Bosch Deception (14 page)

Inside the police station the old priest waited, sitting on a hard seat, his hands folded over the handle of his cane. Worry had thinned him, flesh falling off his bones overnight. Before he had been a welcoming presence, but now Father Michael looked cadaverous, hungry. Circumstances had worked on his gut, his body a living testament to his guilt.

Seeing Nicholas, he rose unsteadily to his feet, nodded, then followed him out of the door. Once outside, Nicholas turned to him.

‘What did you say to them?'

‘That you were at the rectory all night. I said I couldn't sleep and that we played chess into the early hours.' He moved on, tapping the way before him with his cane like a blind man.

‘And they believed you?'

‘I told you, I'm very plausible.'

‘You lied, Father. That's a sin,' Nicholas said, hunching down into his coat as the wind blew up. ‘Why did you do it?'

‘Because I said I would help you and I will. Besides, you didn't kill Father Luke. You had no reason to.' The old priest paused at the end of the street and a car drew up beside them.

Surprised, Nicholas looked inside to find Honor leaning over and opening the door. ‘Get in.'

Seeing Nicholas hesitate, Father Michael pushed him in the small of the back. ‘She's your sister – talk to her.'

Sliding into the passenger seat, Nicholas watched as Father Michael moved off. Without speaking, Honor started up the engine and drove towards Clapham. Once there, she parked by the Common and turned to her brother.

‘You look terrible.'

‘I don't sleep well and it's getting worse,' Nicholas admitted. ‘But you look prosperous.'

His smile jolted her, taking her back to the boy he had once been and the childhood they had spent together. For an instant she wanted to freeze-frame the image, to deny history, wipe out the memory of the events that had estranged them.

But when Nicholas spoke again the image shattered. ‘What d'you want?'

‘
What do I want?
Why should I want anything from you? You're the one who didn't keep in touch. You're the one who rejected me.' Her temper made her skin pale, white-hot against the black hair. ‘I thought you might have changed.'

‘No.'

His indifference astounded her. ‘I've been looking for you for years.'

‘Well, now you've found me, so what?'

Angry, she drove her hands deep into her coat pockets, her fists clenched. ‘You're in trouble. Father Michael didn't have to tell me that – Eloise did.'

‘Eloise Devereux has spoken to you? That's interesting. Did she tell you what this so-called trouble was?'

‘She told me about the murders. Sabine Monette and her husband. And the first victim. Did you know Thomas Littlejohn?'

Nicholas said nothing, just reached for the door handle.

‘Stop it!' Honor shouted. ‘I can't do this any more. I can't. I don't want anything from you. Why won't you let me help you?'

‘I don't need help.'

‘Eloise Devereux's trying to help you and so is Father Michael. Why can't you take help from your own sister?' She gripped his arm, but he shook her off.

‘I don't want you involved. It's not safe—'

‘It's too late now,' Honor said emphatically. ‘I am involved. I know what's going on, Nicholas. I know about the Bosch chain and the scandal.'

‘You can't—'

‘But I do,' Honor replied in a soft voice. ‘You're in it up to your neck, aren't you?' He said nothing so she continued. ‘Well, take my advice and be very careful of Eloise Devereux. She's out for blood, and God help anyone who gets in her way. Luckily she's on our side – for the moment.'

Nicholas looked at her, surprised. ‘You don't trust her?'

‘No. Eloise Devereux thinks she's played me, and I'm letting her believe that, but I've got the measure of her.' Honor stared out of the car window. ‘We need to work together, Nicholas, or we're both in trouble. I don't want to see you dead, and I sure as hell don't want to die either …'

He winced at the thought.

‘So let's work out a plan of action, shall we?' She glanced at her watch. ‘I've got an hour for lunch – that should be more than enough for you to tell me everything.'

Weighing the chain on his jeweller's scales, Philip Preston glanced up at Nicholas. ‘And the papers?'

‘Are staying with me. They're locked away – no one can get at them. Remember our agreement, Philip? You go after the art world, I go after the Church.'

‘I heard about the death of the priest yesterday. I also heard that the police interviewed you.'

‘First strike to the Church,' Nicholas said bluntly. ‘I was waiting for it to start.'

‘Have they asked you about the Bosch papers?'

‘No one's contacted me directly – that's not how they work,' Nicholas replied. ‘It's all done at arm's length. The death of Father Luke was supposed to discredit me and it might well have done if my old mentor hadn't given me an alibi. Father Michael is beyond doubt, although he might have risked himself by standing up for me.'

Nicholas stopped talking. Suddenly he could feel his head spinning. He could see Philip in front of him, but the auctioneer was talking and he couldn't hear a word. A
terrifying second passed, then another. Finally regaining control, he sat down.

‘Are you all right?' Philip asked, bemused.

Nicholas nodded. ‘I was just dizzy, that's all.'

‘You don't look well.' Philip moved over to a cabinet and poured a brandy, passing it to Nicholas.

To Philip's surprise, he downed it in one. Thoughtful, he regarded Nicholas. The slim frame was beginning to fill out again, the jaw almost pugnacious, a blaze back in the eyes. A fanatic? Who knew?

‘You think the Church would murder Father Luke to frame you?'

The dizziness had passed and Nicholas was fully in control again. ‘Maybe it wasn't the Church; maybe it came from your patch. Someone in the art world, making it
look
like the Church was involved.' He paused for an instant. God, he was tired, his mind sluggish. ‘You're taking a big risk – publicly announcing that you've got the chain and putting it up for sale is inviting trouble. There's a whole week until the auction – couldn't you make it sooner?'

‘I need some time to whip up the buyers. A week will bring out all the big hitters—'

‘It might bring out something else,' Nicholas replied. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?'

Philip thought of his wife. ‘Yes, I'm sure.'

‘Have you said anything about the secret?'

‘Not a word,' Philip replied. ‘You?'

‘No, I haven't told anyone. But that doesn't mean we're the only people who know.'

‘Sabine Monette and Claude Devereux are dead—'

‘So is Thomas Littlejohn.'

Shaken, Philip stared at him. ‘
Thomas Littlejohn is dead?
'

‘Murdered. It turns out that he was the first victim. The man burned outside St Stephen's church.'

‘I knew him well; we were friends a while back. I always wondered what happened to Thomas.' Philip was flustered, caught off-guard. ‘This isn't good for me. This isn't good for me at all.'

‘It wasn't too good for him either,' Nicholas replied, wondering just how far he could trust the auctioneer. ‘You know about the murder outside the Brompton Oratory, but did you know that Father Luke had the initials H B carved into his stomach? Just like Sabine.'

Philip's expression was unreadable. ‘I heard.'

‘Word travels fast,' Nicholas replied. ‘Unless you already knew about the murder of Father Luke. Unless you were involved.' He probed his way carefully. ‘I've been thinking – you've been in from the start. You found Sabine and you're one of the few who knows about the secret. One of the few who's not dead.'

‘Oh, grow up!' Philip said dismissively. ‘I've lived and prospered by being sly; I've no appetite for violence. Especially when it's inflicted on me.' He paused, genuinely irritated. ‘
You
brought
me
into this. Without you I wouldn't be looking over my shoulder all the time and wondering if I might be the next victim.'

‘So why don't you take the chain out of the sale? Say you're donating it to a museum?'

‘You think I'd give it up?' He laughed, almost a bark. ‘No, I'm not backing out now.' Philip gestured towards the door. ‘I've hired security. Men who look like they could spit holes in walls. That should stop Carel Honthorst sniffing around.'

‘You think it's just Honthorst you have to stop?' Nicholas asked, thinking of the unexpected phone call he had received from Sidney Elliott, the academic nervy and bullish by turns. He had told Nicholas he had a buyer who would pay over the odds for the chain. Unimpressed, Nicholas had put the phone down on him, but he had called back five times. And each time Nicholas's answer had been no.

‘Whatever happens, it's all out in the open now,' Philip said. He had moved into his en suite washroom and was combing his white hair as he admired himself in the mirror. A moment later Nicholas could hear him peeing. ‘Whoever wants the chain can bid for it at the auction—'

‘
If
it gets to auction. It's sitting here like a stick of dynamite ready to go off.' He paused, studying the auctioneer as he re-entered the room.

‘D'you believe in God?' Philip asked.

Surprised, Nicholas shook his head. ‘Not any more. How about you?'

‘No. There's no divine power we can appeal to. No moral Court of Justice.' Philip shrugged fatalistically. ‘I'm scared, I admit it, but I'm not backing down. There's only two ways this can go – I'll either come out with a fortune or in a box.'

Two days passed. In London the art world was buzzing with the news of Philip Preston's auction of the Bosch chain. Meanwhile the police continued their investigations into the two murders outside London churches. The initials carved on Father Luke confused them. Admittedly both of the victims had been killed on sacred ground, but otherwise the deaths were dissimilar. Thomas Littlejohn had been burnt alive, Father Luke stabbed. And only Father Luke had the initials on his body. They knew nothing of the deaths of Claude Devereux and Sabine Monette in France – they had no reason to connect the four killings.

Initially the police had hoped they might have a suspect in Nicholas Laverne, and although his alibi had cleared him his background incited interest. This was the priest who had been the infamous whistle-blower. The priest who had been excommunicated. The priest who might well have a score to settle. So the police kept their eye on Nicholas Laverne, and waited.

The art world waited too. Gerrit der Keyser sent for Carel Honthorst, and in his Chicago office Conrad Voygel made a call to Sidney Elliott in Cambridge. The academic was brooding, angered by Nicholas's resistance, eager to prove his worth to Voygel.

‘He w-w-won't budge. The chain's g-g-going to auction.'

‘I know, and that isn't what I wanted,' Voygel replied pleasantly. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Elliott, but I'm going to bring someone else in—'

‘No!' Elliott interrupted. He was talking to one of the richest men on the planet, a man who could change his life. He wasn't prepared to lose his chance. ‘I'll work on Laverne. G-g-give me a bit more time.'

‘The auction's in five days,' Voygel reminded him. ‘I'll give you two.

*

Like a cat finding its way into a dovecote, news of the up-coming auction ruffled feathers across the globe and Hiram Kaminski was summoned back urgently from Amsterdam.

He had hardly made it through the door of the gallery when his wife caught his arm and steered him into the back office.

‘This came for you,' Judith said, slapping a large envelope on to his desk.

‘You've opened it!' Hiram replied, picking it up and looking disapprovingly at his wife. ‘It was addressed to me—'

‘Read it, and then you'll wish it wasn't.'

Sitting on the sofa in his office, Judith watched as her husband slid out some papers and sat down at his desk. It took him a couple of moments to find his reading glasses, then he glanced at the first page. And the signature. Thomas Littlejohn. It was dated a month earlier.

‘When did this arrive?'

‘Last night,' Judith replied. ‘The builders who have been working next door for the last three months finally finished and were packing up. They found the letter and realised that it had been delivered to number one-hundred and eighty-nine instead of number one-hundred and eighty-eight.' She folded her arms, her face set. ‘Go on, read it!'

‘But why would Thomas Littlejohn write me a letter?' Hiram wondered out loud, turning back to the pages.

Unnerved, Hiram glanced up at his wife. Judith remained stony-faced.

Hiram paused, his head thumping. He didn't want to read any more, but he had no choice. Judith had been right to try and protect them, but it was too late. A letter from a dead man had put them both right back in the centre of the volcano.

Without saying a word, Hiram took off his glasses and stared at his wife.

‘You know what he's done, don't you?' she asked, her face ashen. ‘That bastard's just signed our death warrants.'