The Bosch Deception (16 page)

Honor's suspicion had shaken Nicholas. That his own sister could doubt him left him speechless as he put down the phone and cut the connection. He was still smarting when he saw Eloise later.

‘Why did you tell my sister what was going on?' he asked, not even waiting for her to take a seat.

Composed, she slid into the pew beside him. ‘I had to tell her that you were in trouble—'

‘And put her in danger?'

‘She's your sister, she's already in danger,' Eloise replied, changing tack. ‘I have some news that might interest you. About Carel Honthorst—'

‘So why bother with the note?'

She looked at him blankly. ‘What note?'

‘The one you left on Honor's car earlier. The one she gave me an hour ago.'

‘I left no note.'

Suspicious, Nicholas looked at her. ‘All right … so what have you found out about Honthorst?'

‘That he was a priest in Amsterdam. One of four sons, mother dead, father also dead. Apparently he was something of a tyrant when he was alive.' She paused, thinking. ‘If you were told about Honthorst in a note, that means that someone else knows, apart from us. Perhaps someone wanted to warn you.'

He passed her the note. On it was written:

‘Very melodramatic,' Eloise said, passing it back. ‘Strange choice of words too. “
Be wary
” is not a normal expression – not nowadays anyway. Sounds like someone for whom English isn't their first language. Or maybe he's just an old-fashioned, educated man.'

At once Nicholas thought of Sidney Elliott, the ageing academic. Had Elliott tipped him off? Nicholas doubted it – doubted he would have come all the way from Cambridge to leave a note on a car windscreen.

‘Of course,' he said tentatively, ‘it could be a woman.'

Eloise turned to Nicholas, eyes steady. ‘No, a woman wouldn't leave a note on a car. It's too exposed, too easy to be spotted that way. And besides, it's not how a woman writes … Do you know who sent it?'

‘No,' he replied, pushing the thought of Elliott to the back of his mind. ‘I just know that it's meant to scare me.
It means that the Church has sent Honthorst after me. It means that he's not just working for Gerrit der Keyser, he's working for both parties – der Keyser for the chain and the Church for the papers, the secret.'

‘Are you going to tell me today?'

Nicholas didn't need to ask what she meant. ‘No. I'll never tell you what the deception was.'

‘Never is a fool's word,' she replied. ‘Keep your secret if you must – all that matters to me is finding out who killed my husband. That note,' she gestured to the paper in Nicholas's hand, ‘means someone else knows what's going on. I had hoped to keep this matter contained.'

‘No chance. Philip Preston has the chain now. He's auctioning it. If nothing happens in the next few days, that is.'

‘I heard about the sale.'

‘Have you got the money to buy it?'

The corners of her mouth lifted, but it was hardly a smile. ‘I could buy it, yes. But what good would that do? If someone wanted it badly enough they could outbid me, or steal it from me afterwards.' She glanced at him. ‘It's not the chain I want.'

‘Has anyone threatened you?'

Again the near smile.

‘No, Nicholas. No one has threatened me, but I am being watched.' She shrugged as though the matter were of no importance. ‘I have good protection – my chauffeur takes me everywhere and he's outside the church now. At the hotel, he sleeps in an adjoining room. As I said before,
money is very useful. But you …' She paused, staring at Nicholas. ‘Who protects you?'

‘No one.'

‘Aren't you afraid?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid,' he admitted.

‘I'm not. Everything I prized has been taken away from me. If I was killed, what would it matter? I only want to find out who killed my husband. Other than that, there is nothing else.'

‘You're still a young woman – you'll think differently in time.'

‘All the old platitudes! The ex-priest in you is showing, Nicholas. I thought you'd left all that behind. Claude used to tease you about it, didn't he? He was very fond of you, you know. He liked your company and thought you'd been treated badly, hounded out of London. He liked you, even loved you … I don't want comforting. Nothing can ever comfort me for losing Claude and—' She stopped abruptly.

‘What were you going to say?'

‘Nothing.'

‘You were,' Nicholas pressed her. ‘There was something else. Tell me.'

Getting to her feet, Eloise paused by the pew and genuflected, dipping her head towards the altar. Then, without saying another word, she walked out.

Philip Preston was having his own problems and the housekeeper had called him home urgently. Gayle was drinking, babbling incoherently about being out shopping and seeing someone. When she caught sight of Philip, she leapt to her feet and clung to him.

‘I went to the gym, darling,' she said, gesturing to her glass. ‘I've only had one drink, honestly. I think it's those new tablets Dr Marshall gave me. They mess up my head.' She slumped on to the sofa and Philip sat beside her. She looked unexpectedly pretty – made up, her hair blow-dried, her excess weight concealed under a dark dress – and for a moment she moved him.

But only for a moment.

‘The housekeeper said you were shouting and crying—'

‘I was confused,' she whined. ‘I tell you, it's the tablets. Or the gym. It could be the gym – all that noise and banging up and down with the machines. Too loud.' She shook her head, her thick blonde hair flopping over her face. ‘I'm going to change,' she said suddenly, grasping her husband's
hand. ‘I promise. We'll be happy again and you won't want anyone else. I'm on a diet—'

‘What were you so upset about?'

‘It was silly. I was confused. Like the other time, when I thought I was hearing voices and I wasn't, it was just a radio left on. At least I think it was. Anyway, it stopped after the doctor gave me that medicine.' She rubbed her temples. ‘It's hormones – must be.'

He was gritting his teeth. ‘Hormones?'

‘But it just seemed so real. Like the past, old times. And that made me think of you and how much I loved you and didn't want to lose you. I never loved him like I loved you—'

‘Who?'

‘Henry.'

‘Henry!' Philip said, exasperated. ‘Henry's dead.'

‘I know! I know!' Gayle mumbled. ‘That's what confused me when I saw him. This morning, walking down Regent Street with my father.'

It was all getting too much, Philip thought, trying to soothe his wife. ‘Both of them are dead, darling. Your father and Henry Laverne are dead, and have been for a while.'

She nodded. ‘And Hoagy?'

‘And the cat,' Philip said patiently. ‘The cat's dead too.'

Church of St Barnabas, Fulham, London

The passing of time had not diminished his sleekness, rather exaggerated it. Like an oil slick Father Dominic glided into the confessional booth and took his seat, laying his rosary across his lap. Hair that had once been black had faded to a reddish-brown, like an old cat that has sat too long in the sun. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he had missed lunch, as the door of the confessional opened and someone slid into the adjoining booth.

Father Dominic's stomach growled a welcome, his hand resting against his cassock. ‘Bless you, my child. Have you come for me to hear your confession?'

The person nodded, hardly visible through the metal grille, the voice a low whisper.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.'

‘When was your last confession?'

‘Many years ago.'

Father Dominic shifted his position; the bench was hard on a bony posterior. ‘But you are here today and want to repent of your sins?'

Again the low whisper, impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. ‘Yes.'

‘What sins have you committed, my child?'

There was a momentary pause before the person continued. ‘I am guilty of anger and pride. I have been very lonely for a long time, Father. Too much alone …'

‘Go on.'

‘… I have slept with women, even paid for a prostitute. It was wrong, Father, but I was lonely, a long way from home, and I needed comfort.'

The same old story, the priest thought. ‘Are you married?'

‘No. And I have dark thoughts, terrible thoughts, Father.'

‘Like what?'

‘Hatred.'

‘You must rid yourself of these thoughts. They are an insult to God—'

‘But I can't rid myself of them,' the voice replied, ‘and I have such bad dreams. Every night the dreams come. Always the same.'

Father Dominic shifted his position, and his stomach growled again. Embarrassed, he touched his belly, pressing his finger into it in the hope of stopping the noise. He would hurry this along, he thought, then eat.

‘God forgives everything. I will give you a penance—'

‘There's more, Father.'

There would be, the priest thought, irritated. ‘Go on, my child.'

‘This is my confession and as such you cannot break my confidence. What I tell you, you can tell no one else.'

Father Dominic nodded. ‘I cannot break the oath of the confessional, no.'

‘It would be our secret.'

‘Yes. Apart from us, only God would know.'

There was a long pause. For a moment Father Dominic thought the person had left, slipped silently out of the booth, but then the voice continued.

‘I let someone down. I should have helped them and I didn't. I did in the end, but by then it was too late.' The whispering paused, took in a slow breath. ‘I live with that – knowing I could have saved a life and didn't.'

Wrong-footed, the priest found himself taken aback. This was not what he had expected. ‘Did you take a life?'

‘No. I watched someone else take a life.'

‘Have you told the police about this?'

‘Yes, Father, I told the police. But it was a long time ago and everyone's forgotten it now. I was punished, but that wasn't right – the real culprits got away with it …' Again a long pause, a blurred image behind the grille, Father Dominic straining to see who was talking. And failing.

‘Did you give false witness?'

‘No!' the whisperer said sharply. ‘I told the truth.'

‘Then God will punish the evildoers.'

‘But will He, Father?'

Sudden anger in the priest's voice. ‘You doubt God?'

‘Why should I believe in Him when He allows such injustice?'

‘It is not our place to question God!'

The whispered voice continued. ‘Did Father Luke believe that too?'

A sick feeling crept over the priest, a curdling memory stirring at the back of his mind. He felt suddenly claustrophobic in the booth and attempted to loosen his white dog collar, his hand shaking. The confines of the confessional were closing in on him, the musty smell of wood and furniture polish sticking in his throat.

‘Father Luke is dead.'

‘I know. He was murdered outside the Brompton Oratory only the other day,' the voice replied softly. ‘How does it feel to have lost your ally, Father? To know that God
does
catch up with evildoers in the end. And that next time it will be your turn—'

‘Who are you?'

‘You know me, Father Dominic,' the voice said, suddenly no longer a whisper but a voice the priest knew only too well.

‘Laverne!'

‘Yes. And before you decide to leave the confessional in a hurry, think again,' Nicholas said coldly, ‘and listen to what I have to say. I know what you did. What I exposed ten years ago was the truth—'

‘You went to the press! You attacked a priest, you abused the Eucharist. You tried to discredit the Catholic Church, of which you were a serving member.'

‘You and your kind discredited the Church long before I blew the whistle. I thought I could stop what you were doing, but I left it too late. Patrick Gerin died.'

‘He committed suicide!'

‘He was murdered!' Nicholas retorted. ‘You know it and I know it. If you didn't put the rope around his neck, you drove him to it. And no one wanted to know. Instead I was made out to be lunatic, a fantasist. Well, the Church might have gagged me once, but not this time. You're trying to keep me quiet again. Trying to stop me going public with what I know. You lied, priest. You lied to the police—'

‘
What!
'

‘You told them that I'd phoned Father Luke, implied that I wanted to settle an old score with him. You set me up—'

‘I didn't!'

‘Forgive me for not believing you.'

‘A man
did
call him – I overheard the conversation,' Father Dominic blundered on, his hands pressed against the grille which separated them. ‘He said it was you. Father Luke said it was you. He believed it was Nicholas Laverne.'

‘It wasn't. Besides, he would have recognised my voice.'

‘From so long ago? No, Father Luke was getting deaf, he had trouble with voices.' The priest was pleading, clinging to the grille. ‘Believe me, he thought it was you. He was afraid, he was older, he had—'

‘A bad conscience.'

‘We didn't do anything!' Father Dominic replied. ‘It was just discipline. We weren't bad priests, not like those you hear about sexually abusing boys—'

‘Someone else said that. As though it lessened what you two did.' Nicholas was thinking rapidly. He could see that the priest was afraid and was telling the truth. Someone had rung St Barnabas's church, posing as him. And Father Luke would have believed them, thinking Nicholas was coming back to take his revenge. But it hadn't been him.

‘It wasn't my fault!' persisted Father Dominic. ‘I was only trying to help the police when I told them about the phone call. It was the natural assumption to make. You'd been our enemy once, you could be our enemy again.'

‘But why now? After so long?' Nicholas asked, trying to find out what the priest knew and if he would give himself away about the Bosch secret.

‘I don't know why you came back!'

‘I didn't come back.'

‘
Someone
came back. Someone posing as you.' Father Dominic was panicking, shaking. ‘No one expected to hear from you again. We thought it was all in the past. It was old history from ten years ago. We thought it was forgotten …'

Nicholas slumped back on the bench. He had been sure that he had been framed by the Church, the death of Father Luke the means to silence him. After all, another scandal would be devastating to a religious order that had been
tainted by recent claims of abuse. An order that had seen some of its highest members go unpunished.

But if the Church hadn't set him up, who had?

Nicholas looked back at the grille, the priest's hands still pressed against it. ‘Don't lie to me—'

‘I'm not lying!' the priest cried. ‘I swear I'm not lying. Someone killed Father Luke, and if it wasn't you, who was it?'

Nicholas pressed his own palms against the grille, feeling the priest's flesh hot against his skin. ‘Swear it! On your soul, swear that you are telling the truth. If you lie to me now I'll find out, and I'll send you to Hell personally.'