The Bosch Deception (28 page)

Honor was staring at her computer screen, reading the website Nicholas had put up, together with his blog. The responses had been quick and often vitriolic, some calling Nicholas a fantasist, others accusing him of sensationalism. It didn't take much imagination to guess that most of the comments had been made by members of the art world. And BBC TV was trailing portions of Hiram Kaminski's interview, followed by a mention that the police ‘would like to talk to Mr Nicholas Laverne with regard to accusations made against him'. In trying to support Nicholas, Hiram had inadvertently thrown suspicion on him. And now he was on the run.

If he had hoped for recognition, he had got it. Nicholas's face was in the news and the papers, his image all over the internet. Not so much a whistle-blower, more a common fraudster. And worse, a suspect in the murders of four people.

Hiram Kaminski's gallery, London

It was Judith Kaminski who picked up the phone, without recognising the number. Nicholas was using the new mobile he had bought. With an outward appearance of calm, she glanced at the police officer sitting next to Hiram and smiled.

‘What's the matter, darling?' she asked the caller.

Nicholas picked up on his cue immediately. ‘I need to talk to Hiram.'

‘He's busy – just a minute.' She looked at her husband. ‘It's Helen, my dear. She's a bit upset.' Covering the phone mouthpiece, she gave the policeman a whispered explanation. ‘She's our daughter. Lovely girl, but having trouble with a man. She wants to talk to her daddy.'

She passed the phone over to a puzzled Hiram. ‘Hello, darling?'

‘It's me,' Nicholas said, hurrying on. ‘I know there's someone there, but just answer yes or no, will you?'

‘Yes,' Hiram replied, smiling at his wife.

‘You said that many dealers used Sidney Elliott?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did he ever work for Philip Preston?'

Hiram could feel the eyes of his wife and the police officer boring into him but kept his tone steady. ‘Yes, he did. You don't want to trust him, sweetheart – he treated you badly four years ago, with that business in Holland.'

Nicholas understood immediately what he meant. ‘Holland?'

‘You ask his wife – he has a mistress,' Hiram said, feeding Nicholas information while pretending to talk to his daughter. ‘He's no good, no good at all.' Shaking his head, Hiram put down the phone, shrugging. ‘Women. What can you do?'

Moments later Nicholas received a text from Hiram. It was a phone number and Nicholas rang it immediately. A woman picked up, her voice agitated.

‘Philip! Is that you?'

‘No, I was wanting to talk to your husband.'

Gayle Preston was almost hysterical. ‘He's gone! He's left me for some bitch.' She was crying, hopelessly desperate. ‘The bastard, the bastard …'

‘Do you know where he is?'

‘He thinks I don't have any idea,' Gayle said, her tone sly, unbalanced. ‘He thinks I don't know about his little hiding place. He thinks I'm a fool. Running off with that woman—'

‘Where has he gone?'

Gayle didn't stop to ask who she was speaking to or why he wanted to know about her husband. Distracted, she blundered on. ‘Our lawyer let it slip. Milan, he said.
PHILIP PROMISED WE'D GO THERE!
' she screamed. Nicholas could hear a voice in the background. A woman's voice, with the soothing intonation of a nurse. ‘You tell that bastard I hate him!' Gayle hissed. ‘Tell him not to come back here.
I DON'T WANT HIM!
' And with that, she slammed down the phone.

Nicholas knew he had to move fast. The police were looking for him and his face was in the papers and on the internet as a murder suspect. A man who merited the warning
‘Dangerous to the public. Do not approach.'

Leaving the safety of Kensington Gardens, he moved out on to Kensington High Street. It was still raining as he hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to Heathrow airport. He had been outsmarted and outmanoeuvred. Der Keyser wasn't the villain, neither was Conrad Voygel. Sidney Elliott had been the killer, but his paymaster was Philip Preston. Nicholas had been tricked by the auctioneer, trussed up like a Christmas goose. If he didn't stop him, Philip Preston was going to escape punishment and leave the country.

While he was going to jail.

Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5

Running across the concourse, Nicholas checked the flights to Milan. The plane was due for boarding in thirty minutes, the passengers milling around the departure hall or in the the large VIP lounge. He glanced inside, spotted Philip Preston's white head of hair in the distance and approached the door. He was stopped immediately.

‘Your boarding pass, sir.'

‘I'm not flying, I'm meeting a friend here,' Nicholas said, knowing that he wasn't going to get into the lounge and unwilling to attract any more attention. Instead he backed off and headed for the Customer Service desk.

‘I have a message for one of your passengers, a Mr Philip Preston. He's flying to Milan on the ten p.m. departure.' Nicholas was talking quickly, nervously. Knowing he was giving himself away, he took in a breath and slowed himself down. ‘I have to talk to him. His wife – my sister – has gone
into labour early. I can't get into the VIP lounge because I don't have a valid ticket.'

Behind the desk, the woman listened, her eyes widening. ‘Don't worry,' she said, smiling. ‘You wait here and I'll get a message to him. Mr Philip Preston, you said?'

‘Yes, that's right. Don't tell him what's happened – he might panic. He's a lot older than his wife. If you could just get him out of the lounge, I can explain.'

Nicholas waited by the desk. He could see the member of ground staff talk to someone and then heard a tannoy announcement for a Mr Philip Preston. A minute passed, then a couple more. Jesus, he thought. Had Preston panicked? Thought the police were on to him? Or had he simply left the airport? But only seconds later a harried Preston walked out of the lounge. He was talking so earnestly to the member of airport staff that he didn't look up until Nicholas touched him on the arm.

‘It's about your wife,' Nicholas said, gripping him tightly and smiling at the staff member. ‘Thank you.'

‘What the hell—' Philip began, Nicholas clinging on to his arm as he steered him away. ‘What the hell are you up to, Laverne?' he snapped. ‘I've got no business with you.'

‘The police are after me. They think I killed four people. But we both know I didn't. You arranged their deaths.' Nicholas tightened his grip. ‘You aren't denying it.'

‘You're crazy. Everyone knows that.'

‘So why aren't you calling for help? An innocent man in the grip of a lunatic would be screaming blue murder.'
Nicholas guided Preston towards a corridor that led to the men's toilets, set back from the departure hall. ‘You want to get on that plane, don't you?'

‘I
am
getting on that plane.'

‘You hired Sidney Elliott. I thought it was Conrad Voygel, but I was wrong. It was you that planned all of it. When did you think it up, eh? When I came to you that day with the chain?'

Preston shook off Nicholas's grip and smoothed his hair, apparently unconcerned. ‘I'd heard a rumour about the Bosch conspiracy and then you came along and dropped it in my lap. When you got spooked by Carel Honthorst, I thought you weren't coming back, so I took matters into my own hands.'

‘You killed Sabine.'

‘No, I didn't kill her. Sidney Elliott did.' He looked around him, checking that no one was listening. ‘He was working for Voygel at the time and that was useful: it meant I could feed him gossip about the chain. I knew Voygel would want it, and I wanted the big sale. I needed that sale badly.'

‘And you were prepared to do anything to get it?'

‘I don't suffer from feelings of guilt, Nicholas. That's your speciality,' Preston replied. ‘Sidney Elliott was a strange man, twitchy, always on a knife edge. In the past people put it down to his brilliance, but as his career faded he became unstable. When I heard about the death of Thomas Littlejohn I knew he'd done it – the rest was easy.'

‘Easy?'

‘I blackmailed him. Guessed that he had killed Sabine Monette to get the chain and the papers and told him I'd expose him. Have him put away. He did everything I wanted after that. Mind you, he was a treacherous bastard – tried to do a deal with Voygel even after he'd fired him. He was demented, had some idea that Voygel's money could buy back his life, but he was too far gone. Sidney Elliott killed once and then he couldn't stop.'

‘You were never working with the Catholic Church?'

‘To stop you going public?' Philip shook his head. ‘No. Killing Father Luke was all my idea. I didn't want any suspicion to fall on Sidney Elliott and, by extension, me – so I shifted the focus on to you. You were the most likely suspect. You'd exposed Father Luke ten years ago, so why not come back and finish the job? After all, what would a Catholic priest have to do with the art world?' He paused, listening to a tannoy announcement before continuing, ‘You were the perfect scapegoat.'

‘You weren't working with Conrad Voygel?'

‘Never,' Preston said, smiling. ‘I relieved him of a large amount of money, nothing more. He paid a fortune for the Bosch chain.'

Nicholas struggled to understand. ‘And by blackmailing Elliott you got him to kill four people?'

‘He didn't want to go to jail.' He shrugged. ‘Besides, he liked killing. He liked all of it. Following you, threatening people – it gave him power. Something he'd lost a long time ago.'

‘You know he's dead?'

‘I wondered why I hadn't heard from him,' Preston said coldly. ‘I'm glad. He was a very chilling man.'

‘The police suspect me—'

‘Not for long. Elliott's DNA will be everywhere. In London, Paris – everywhere he went he will have left traces. That'll clear you.'

‘
That's it?
' Nicholas asked, his voice hoarse. ‘You tell me all this and expect to just leave? Fly off?'

‘You can't stop me. You can't prove anything. By all means, Mr Laverne, call security now. But then again, they'd only arrest you.
You
are the suspect, after all.'

An announcement came over the tannoy again and Philip listened. ‘Time for me to board my flight—'

‘What about the other chain?'

‘There was no other chain,' he said, laughing. ‘I set up the two-chains scenario to throw suspicion off myself. Someone as wily as Gerrit der Keyser had to think I was a fool, running scared. I had the original copied in every detail. To someone like der Keyser, who has little knowledge of gold work, it looked convincing. And of course he brought it to
me
to validate. He even thought both of them might be fakes. He'd be so disappointed to know he'd been tricked.' Preston smiled with genuine amusement and turned to go.

Nicholas grabbed hold of his arm again. ‘You're responsible for four deaths and you're just going to walk away? Leave me to take the blame—'

‘It will only be temporary. Like I say, investigations will prove you innocent.'

‘While you escape punishment?'

‘There you go, talking like a priest again. There
is
no punishment, no Heaven, no Hell. There is no moral code. The strong chew up the weak, they prey on the consciences of others. You fly your banners and follow your principles. Fight for the likes of Patrick Gerin and some old painter – and where's it got you? You're washed up, Nicholas – a deluded ex-priest with nowhere left to go.'

‘You'll get what you deserve.'

‘Is that a threat or a prophecy? You have two choices, Nicholas.' He stared at him coldly. ‘Either you defend yourself or you go on the run. I know which one I'd choose.'

Milan

It was colder than expected when Philip Preston arrived in Milan. Carrying his suitcase, he took the lift to the third floor and entered his apartment, calling for Kim.

There was no reply.

They had made arrangements to meet in the city and spend one night together, then travel into the countryside to the farmhouse Philip had purchased, using the services of a London solicitor his wife had never met. Tired, he yawned and kicked off his shoes, then padded into the bedroom. The shower was running. Philip smiled to himself. So Kim had already arrived and was getting ready for him. Taking off his clothes, he moved into the steamy bathroom, fumbling to turn on the fan, but before he climbed into the tub he felt a sudden and violent punch to his back. Surprised, he gasped, flailing around, blood pumping from him as the knife came down again.

She stabbed Philip Preston seventeen times. Fourteen times in the back and three times in his chest. When Eloise Devereux finished, she cut initials into his skin – C D for Claude Devereux and S M for her mother, Sabine Monette. Then she showered the blood off her naked body and dressed herself. Before she left, she wiped the knife and every other surface in the flat, including the door handle.

Gerrit der Keyser had been right – his daughter
was
terrifying.

Six months later

His head thrown back, Nicholas felt the winter sun on his face and smiled for the first time in weeks. Choosing the second option, he hadn't run but had left Heathrow and gone straight to the nearest police station. There he told them everything. The fallout was spectacular, and when Philip Preston's body was discovered Nicholas was finally believed. He explained everything and gave the police names and details, and for a while he had police protection. Terrified of what Nicholas might know, Gerrit der Keyser threw his support behind him and Hiram Kaminski also gave evidence to the police. But there was no trial, no sentencing. Sidney Elliott was dead, as was Philip Preston, and the case was complete. For the police anyway.

But not for Nicholas. Stirring himself, he rose from the bench and looked around. Then he walked back up Palace Gardens and rang the intercom of Conrad Voygel's house. This time he was admitted immediately.

Conrad was sitting in his study, wary, staring at his brother. ‘What d'you want?'

‘Does Honor know who you are?'

‘No.'

‘Good. Keep it that way.'

Unnerved, Conrad repeated the question. ‘What d'you want?'

‘Nothing.'

He frowned. ‘
Nothing?
'

‘Nothing. Now.' Nicholas paused, watching the altered face of the brother he had once known, the brother who had terrorised him as a child. The man for whom he had lost his good name and his peace of mind. ‘I just want you to know that at any time I could change my mind. I could expose you, ruin your life. I want you to live with that. You might find sleeping difficult, Henry. I certainly did. You might find yourself sweating at times, unnerved for no reason. I did that too. And if you think of some way to stop me, don't. I've written down everything – your real name, what you did, everything. And if anything ever happens to me, the police will hear about it. And they'll come for you.' He paused, watching his brother. ‘It's illegal to fake your own death. You'd never recover from the scandal if that came out. You'd lose your wife, your daughter, your money.'

‘You wouldn't dare!' Henry blustered. ‘I know you. You're not that kind of person.'

‘I
wasn't
that kind of person,' Nicholas corrected him. ‘But I've changed. Remember, Henry, we're brothers, and treachery runs in the family.'

Back out in the sunshine, Henry walked across Kensington Gardens and paused by the urchin statue of Peter Pan before moving on to the Serpentine, where he stopped and stared into the running water. Nicholas Laverne was no longer an outcast. Indeed, he was now a wealthy man. When Sabine Monette's will was read it was a private affair, and to his surprise the French country house was left to Nicholas. Also a confidential letter – in which Sabine explained that she was the mother of Eloise Devereux. It was the last piece of the mosaic and it told Nicholas who had murdered Philip Preston. A piece of information he had no inclination to share.

As for Eloise, Nicholas had seen her a few months later. ‘I'm glad my mother left you the country house—'

‘I don't need it.'

Her eyes had been calm. ‘Yes, you do. In fact, you need it more than anyone. I've inherited Sabine's apartment in Paris and more money than I could possibly ever need. What will I do with my time?' She had taken Nicholas's hands and weighed them in her own. ‘Make a life for yourself now. Secrets are only for unhappy people.'

She had been wrong about that.

Winter was starting to shift, the cold letting in a little warmth. Before too long it would be spring. Reaching into his pocket, Nicholas pulled out an envelope and opened it. Inside were two tiny scraps of paper, written in an antique language, in an antique hand.

The two last papers written and secreted in the Bosch chain. The ones Nicholas had kept back and shown to no one. The papers he had had laboriously translated, word for word, by four different people in four different countries. The papers that revealed the conclusion to the Bosch deception.

The incredible secret papers.

Paper Twenty-Nine

The boy lies in his winding sheet
But feels no earth upon him.
The sacking holds no man
.

And then the last:

Paper Thirty

Let no man living know of this. Let chimeras and
his devils keep him company, let angels keep him safe.
I who watched his torment
set him to be a free man.
Soli Deo Gloria
.

Hieronymus Bosch had not perished in 1473. This time, his father and the Church had been duped. While believing him dead, he had, in fact, been freed. Nicholas liked to believe it was Goossen, his brother, who had helped him,
but he would never know the truth. Just as he would never know where Hieronymus went, what he did, or how he lived. His life was a secret, like so many others'; but unlike others, he had cheated the grave.

Nicholas folded the papers, replaced them in the envelope, and pushed them deep into his pocket. As instructed in writings centuries old, he would keep the secret, as he had kept so many others.

Soli Deo Gloria
, he thought, walking on. Yes, Glory be to God alone.