The Bosch Deception (3 page)

Paris, France

Sabine Monette glanced at the phone once more, her hand hovering over it. Should she ring him? Should she? Why not? But then again, why risk it? She pulled on her coat and walked out into the street, skirting a motorbike propped up against the kerb.

For a woman in her late sixties, Sabine moved quickly, her posture erect. Widowhood suited her, the death of Monsieur Monette providing her with money
without
benefits. How sad, her friends told her, to be alone. Without a man, in a cold bed. Sabine put on a show of sorrow to please them, but relished her release from wifely tedium. Monsieur Monette had been irksome in the main and to live alone was a glorious indulgence. There were no irritating reminders of male vanity, aftershave unsuitable on sagging skin. No haemorrhoid cream in the bathroom. No newspapers thick with finance and thin on gossip. No tiresome denials of affairs. No wheezing, dry coughing in the moments before sleep.

Monette had had few good points, but dying was his masterstroke.

His demise had left Sabine free to pursue her obsession with the arts. With enough money to invest in Dutch painting, she had amassed a limited, but prestigious collection of Bruegel and Bosch, fighting off dealers and established collectors. In her secluded château outside Paris, she hung her trophies, ensuring their safety by the addition of alarms, intruder lights and dogs. In this cosy little blister of plenty, Sabine could have lived out her days in peace. But then something happened that changed everything.

Madame Monette became a thief.

London

Working late at the office, Honor rubbed her temples to keep herself awake then turned back to the file she had been reading. It was a dry case about fraud, a subject she loathed but one which would ensure the long overdue promotion she had been promised. If she won this case, she would become a partner at the law firm. After eleven years. After harassment, bigotry and prejudice. After long days and longer nights in the office she had come to know better than her flat. But it would be worth it to get her name on the bloody door. Yes, it would all turn out to be worth it.

Or then again, maybe it wouldn't.

Standing up and looking out on to the street below, she checked her watch and frowned. Ten thirty at night – no wonder she wasn't in a relationship. What man would put up with hours like this? Her husband certainly hadn't. Perched on the edge of her desk, Honor turned a framed photograph around to face her. She should put it away. After all,
who had a photograph of their brother on their desk? But then again, her brother was all she had.

And she didn't even have him now. Not unless he reappeared. He was troubled, abusive, uncontrollable. Made himself into a nuisance. Yes, Honor thought, you certainly did that. Made yourself into a bloody nuisance asking all those questions. And getting no answers for your trouble …

Her mind went back to their childhood. After the car accident that killed their parents, the three of them – her and her two brothers, Nicholas and Henry – had been taken in by their unmarried uncle. David Laverne was a man who had made a fortune in plastics and retired to the countryside with a selection of old 78 records which he played at full volume. It hadn't mattered when he was alone, but when three children arrived unexpectedly, David found his self-imposed – if noisy – seclusion breached. Henry, aged sixteen, was not too much of a shock for him; he was responsible and old for his years, even professing an interest in the vintage 78s and the overgrown vegetable garden. But Nicholas, at fourteen, was a loose cannon.

It was down to Honor to become her brother's willing apologist, because Henry seldom took Nicholas's side. Shortsighted without the glasses he avoided wearing, Henry soon assumed a paternal role over his younger siblings. Clever and talented, charming by instinct but mean when ignored, Henry made Nicholas appear even more of an outsider and as the years passed Henry grew to despise his younger brother's recklessness and teenage lasciviousness. Everyone
knew Henry was earmarked for success, Nicholas's dark nature and appearance the flip side to his classy charm.

Honor had loved both of them, but Nicholas she found fascinating. So she had covered up for his misdeeds, lied for him, made excuses for him, soothed their exasperated uncle when he came close to having Nicholas put into care. All through their growing up Honor had been a constant: an admirer of Henry and a protector for Nicholas. But I wasn't really the nice kid everyone believed I was, Honor thought. Fraud, she mused, glancing back at the file on her desk. We're all frauds really. All pretending we're something we're not.

‘You
are
here.'

She looked over at the door, where a man stood watching her: Mark Spencer, slightly senior to her, wanting to get personal. And failing. ‘Like to go for a drink?'

‘Can't. I've got to finish this.'

‘But I've just heard something gross, and I have to share it with someone,' Mark went on, moving his stocky little body further into her office. ‘Some down-and-out's been burned alive. Only a couple of streets from here. Outside a church.'

‘Jesus. Who was it?'

‘No one knows, but the security guy told me he'd been hanging around for the last few weeks. On his uppers, sleeping rough apparently.'

He slid further into Honor's office, facing her full on so that she wouldn't notice his bald spot. Thirty-five, due to be a slaphead at forty. Using fibre powder to colour in
his scalp. No one told him it left residue on the back of his collar when he sweated.

‘How old was he?'

Mark shrugged. ‘Not old, not young. Who knows? They look older when they've been sleeping rough. He just dossed down in the church porch and someone made a firework out of the poor bastard. Christian charity, hey?'Mark paused, ready to try his luck again. ‘Sure about that drink?'

She ignored him.

‘But the police will have to find out who the man was. I mean, it's murder. He can't have just turned up out of the blue. He had to belong to someone. There must be someone looking for him.'

Her voice dropped, an unwelcome thought coming into her mind.
Surely it couldn't be her brother?
After so long, it
was
possible that Nicholas had come back to London to look for her. And finding his sister doing well, would he have hung back, too ashamed to contact her? It would have been like him to watch, wait for the right time to approach. Maybe one evening when she left the office late. Or mid-morning when she sneaked out for a coffee at the Costa on the corner.

The last time Honor had seen her brother he had been belligerent, rejecting help, even pushing her away. No, he didn't want any of her fucking money, he had said. But she had slid it into his pocket anyway when he wasn't looking. And despite his temper she had gone to the station with him and waited until past midnight for the last train up to Liverpool. He had got on board without looking back, but as
the train pulled away he had leaned out of the window and called her name.

Was it him?
God Almighty, Honor thought, was it him? She tried to be logical. After all, why should it be her brother? But the thought stuck, gnawed at her. Had Nicholas finally come back only to be murdered streets away from her?

‘Where did they take the body?'

‘How the hell would I know?' Mark replied curtly. ‘He was a down-and-out. Who cares?'

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

Startled by a sound outside, Father Michael got to his feet, lifted the blind, and peered out of the kitchen window. He could see nothing. Nicholas Laverne was still sitting at the kitchen table behind him.

‘You're jumpy.'

‘I want you to leave,' the priest said flatly. He could catch the noise of a car horn sounding in the next street and knew that the church was empty and locked up for the night. His housekeeper had gone home and no one would be calling now. Not so late. Or maybe someone
would
come to see the priest and find him talking to a stranger. Or maybe find him alone. Dead.

His gaze moved to the chain in Nicholas's hands. ‘What did you mean about the chain
holding
something?'

‘See these?' Nicholas asked, pointing out the engraved gold connectors between the links. ‘They're hollow. And when I looked closely, I could see that one of them had a
crack in it. Inside someone had hidden a tiny piece of paper. It was the same with all of them—'

Father Michael shook his head. ‘I don't want to know.'

‘You don't know what I'm going to say.'

‘I know it's going to bring trouble.'

‘You used to be brave.'

‘I used to be young.'

Nicholas nodded, continuing anyway. ‘Inside every connector was a tiny scrap of rolled-up paper. Very small, twenty-eight of them in total. And on each there were a few words. I found the first note by accident, then I found the others and pieced them together.'

‘How did you get the chain?'

‘I was given it for safe keeping.'

‘You? Safe keeping?' The old priest snorted. ‘You couldn't keep anything safe. Who would entrust you with anything valuable?'

Nicholas was stung by the remark. ‘You think I stole it? Is that what you think of me now? That I've become a thief?'

‘I don't know what to think. And I don't want to hear any more. Go now, while you can. I don't care what you've done or what you're going to do – just get out.' The priest moved to the door and opened it. Outside the night was misty, slow with rain.

Nicholas didn't move. ‘Shut the door and sit down. I'm not going, not yet. Sit down!'

The priest reluctantly closed the door and took his seat at the table again. ‘I remember how you used to be. You
were special, Nicholas. One of the best priests I've ever known—'

‘I don't want to talk about the past. All that matters is what's going to happen
now
. Listen to me, Father.' He shook the object in his hands. ‘This chain holds a secret. The words on each little piece of paper, when put together, spell out a truth that has been hidden for centuries. A truth kept secret for the good of – and in the protection of – the Catholic Church.'

‘God forgive you.' The old priest sighed. ‘What is it this time? Another conspiracy? You ruined your life once before, Nicholas, and for what? You were thrown out of the Church, your name destroyed. No one believed you then, and now you come back with another conspiracy. Only this time you're not a young charismatic priest, you're little more than a fugitive.'

‘This chain carries a secret—'

The old priest snatched at the piece but Nicholas held on to it and used it to pull Father Michael towards him. ‘You think I'd be so stupid as to bring this chain
with
the notes? You think I'd trust you, priest?' He let go suddenly, smiling. ‘The evidence is safe. Only I know where it is. Or what it is.'

‘And what is it?'

‘Proof of a con so clever it's fooled people for generations. Proof of a lie perpetuated by the Catholic Church.' Nicholas took in a long breath. ‘There was once a man called Hieronymus Bosch. He painted visions of Hell – a master of the damned, of monsters and chimeras, of all manner of grotesques.
He was revered in his lifetime, famous, fêted, and he made vast amounts of money. Because – you know this already, Father, so forgive me for stating the obvious – no one could paint like Hieronymus Bosch. No one had his imagination. He was sought after. A celebrity of his day. A genius. A one-off. Now what if I were to tell you that—'

Nicholas stopped talking. A loud noise startled them both – the heavy clunk of the church door being pushed open and thrown back against the other side of the wall where they were sitting. Someone had entered the church of St Stephen. Someone was only yards away from them. They could hear footsteps close by, fading away as the stranger moved towards the altar.

Unnerved, Father Michael began to tremble and Nicholas glanced up at him. ‘What is it?'

‘I … I … Why are you here? What d'you want from me?'

‘I just want your help. Your knowledge,' Nicholas replied, then turned in the direction of the sounds. ‘Who is it?'

‘Don't you know?'

‘No. I came alone.'

The old priest was shaking uncontrollably, ‘I locked the church door. I locked it and now someone's in there.'

‘Maybe you forgot—'

‘I locked it! And I have the only key,' the old priest blustered. ‘But someone's in the church. Someone's in there now. And you're
back
.' He rose to his feet. ‘A man was murdered here only a few days ago. He was burned alive. I came home and found him on the path …' His fingers fastened
around his rosary. ‘For years this church has been a safe place, but now a man's been murdered here and someone's broken into a church that I secured, to which I have the only key …'

The priest paused, listening. The footsteps had ceased. There was the slow creak of the door swinging closed as the intruder left, and the church was silent again.

‘Well, whoever it was, they've gone now,' Nicholas said calmly.

‘And yet someone was here. And a man is still dead. And you're still in my kitchen. For ten years there's been no trouble. And now …' Shaken, the priest stood his ground. ‘What did you bring with you, Nicholas Laverne? What in God's name did you bring to my door?'

Paris, France

Carel Honthorst ordered a coffee as he watched Madame Monette take a seat outside. He sat down, facing in the opposite direction but able to see the Frenchwoman's reflection in the cafe window. She lit a cigarette and began talking rapidly on her mobile, then finished the call and threw it into her bag irritably. Honthorst was impressed. Sixty-seven years old and she hardly looked a day over fifty, he thought, taking in the slim legs and firm jawline. Still sexually attractive … Uncomfortable, he shifted his thoughts. What did she weigh? A hundred and twenty, tops. Height? Five foot six, possibly seven. His gaze moved to her neck. Fine, almost unlined, and long. Delicate. Easy to break.

Honthorst sipped his coffee and put his fingertips to his face, checking that the concealer he was using had not run. He had been assured that it would cover his bad skin and stay in place until he washed it off. Waterproof, the woman had assured him, trying not to smirk. A man
using concealer! her expression said. Ponce, obviously … Honthorst could read her mind – women always found it amusing. It wasn't their fault; he could put himself in their place and see what they saw. A hulking man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with skin like orange peel. Cratered, burnt or acne-scarred. Not pretty, not pretty at all.

Which was where the concealer came in. Back in Holland he had a chemist make it up for him, so he could avoid the embarrassment of shopping around. But on this trip Honthorst had lost his potion and had had to endure the barely disguised contempt from the shop assistant. Trying not to laugh, she had tried out various shades on the back of his burly hand, matching the concealer closest to his complexion, and once he had made his choice she had said: ‘Do you want me to wrap it, sir? Or will you be putting it on now?'

Honthorst flinched at the memory of the words, continuing to watch Madame Monette's reflection in the window. He knew that the shop girl would have laughed at him after he had left, shared the story with her colleagues, even – perhaps – her boyfriend. Who would have clear skin, naturally. But Honthorst took some pleasure in the fact that after the amusement of the day the shop girl would spend that night crying over the death of her dog.

Which he had run over outside her flat.

*

Finishing his coffee, Honthorst walked into the cafe, pausing beside Madame Monette's table. She was reading the newspaper and took a moment to look up, surprised.

‘Yes?'

‘I have a message for you.'

Her expression was curious, nothing more. ‘Really? From whom?'

Without being invited, Honthorst slid into the seat opposite her. ‘You were very wrong to do what you did, Madame.'

Even though his French was good, she placed the underlying accent immediately. Dutch. Leaning back in her seat, Sabine Monette said simply, ‘Please leave my table or I'll have you removed.'

‘You stole the chain which once belonged to Hieronymus Bosch.' He pronounced the name perfectly. ‘I have been charged with its return.'

‘Don't be ridiculous!' Sabine said imperiously. ‘What
are
you talking about?'

‘You bought a small Bosch painting from Gerrit der Keyser. It was hung with a chain—'

‘Who are you?' she asked coldly. ‘I don't know you.'

‘I work for Mr der Keyser.'

‘In the gallery?'

‘As a consultant.'

She eyed him sniffily. ‘Consultant of what?'

He ignored the question. ‘The painting you bought was hung with a chain—'

‘Which I purchased together with the painting.'

Honthorst moved his position slightly to avoid the sunlight. ‘I'm not referring to the gold chain
you
put on the
picture. I'm referring to the one which was on there originally.' When she didn't reply, he continued. ‘It was a clever trick, Madame, but the chain wasn't part of the deal.'

She folded her arms defiantly. ‘Are you accusing me of theft?'

‘Not if you return the original chain. Mr der Keyser is more than willing to forget this little incident. Especially as you've been a valued client of his for some while – and an old friend.'

‘
This is ridiculous!
' Sabine snorted. ‘If the chain was so valuable, why leave it on the painting? Why wasn't it removed earlier?'

‘My employer did not realise what the chain was.'

‘And now he does? That's convenient. How?'

‘We have proof from the original owner. He also didn't realise its value until he found the papers with which the painting had been originally stored. His solicitor had kept them for safe-keeping. When he read them, he contacted us and we checked the chain on the picture.'

‘How could you?' Sabine said triumphantly. ‘The Bosch is in my house.'

He was unperturbed. ‘Photographs were taken before it left the gallery, Madame. Photographs of the picture, the frame
and
its backing. Which included the chain. It's done for every item sold, for the gallery's records.' Honthorst paused. ‘So we compared our photographs of the Bosch when it arrived and when it left the gallery. The chains were different.'

Needled, Sabine stood her ground. ‘So you say.'

‘I can show you the photographs if you wish.'

‘Which could have been digitally altered,' she retorted, unnerved but damned if she was going to show it. ‘I think you're bluffing—'

‘We have you on tape.'

‘
What?
'

‘We have you on tape, Madame. On video tape. And we can show that to the police.' Honthorst replied. ‘We can
prove
that you removed one chain and replaced it with another. Your own.'

‘Which is probably worth hundreds more than that filthy chain I took,' Sabine retorted loftily, knowing she had been caught out.

Irritated, she pushed her coffee aside. If she had left it on the painting and waited until the Bosch had been delivered she would have been home free. Yes, Gerrit der Keyser would have been told about the evidence from the previous owner, but by then the painting
and
the chain would have been in her possession legally. But instead she had given in to a moment of greed.

Keeping her hands steady, Sabine Monette sipped her coffee. She had spotted the chain at once, almost in the instant she had first viewed the painting. Gerrit der Keyser had been ill recently, was not on top form and was eager to make a sale. Unusually careless, he hadn't noticed the chain by which the small painting had been hung, and had left Madame Monette for a few minutes to study the picture
alone. While he was gone, she had examined the chain and rubbed a little of the dirt off the middle link, finding the faint initial H, and a possible B.

Her heart rate had accelerated, but Sabine Monette had regained her composure quickly. Years of being cosseted had not made her soft. Her early life had been traumatic and her natural guile came back fourfold. Unfastening the chain from the back of the painting and slipping it into her pocket, she replaced it with the long antique gold chain necklace around her neck and called for Gerrit der Keyser.

And it was all on tape.

‘Even at your age, the police don't look kindly on theft.'

Sabine's eyes narrowed as she faced at the Dutchman. ‘I don't have it any longer.'

‘What?'

‘The chain. C-H-A-I-N.' She spelt it out for him. ‘It's not in my possession any longer.'

And he shook his head.

‘Oh dear, Madame,' Honthorst said quietly. ‘You shouldn't have told me that.'