The Bosch Deception (19 page)

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

Watching from the back of his car, Conrad Voygel studied the church. As the windows of the car were tinted, no one could see him but he could see everything outside clearly – the church, the entrance porch where the unfortunate Thomas Littlejohn had been torched, the gravel path which led round to the back entrance, and the dark-haired man sitting talking to an old priest.

His gaze moved back to the porch, scorch marks still discernable on the stonework and the two steps up to the church door. What a way to die, Conrad thought sympathetically. What a terrible way to die.

His attention shifted towards the two men again, his focus on Nicholas Laverne. The ex-priest, the man who had gone after demons and been demonised for his pains.

Conrad tapped on the glass partition and watched as the chauffeur slid it open.

‘Yes, sir?'

‘I want you to deliver a message for me.' He scribbled a quick note and passed it to the chauffeur. ‘You see the men sitting over there? Give this to the younger man. Don't wait for an answer, just come back to the car.'

Leaning back in his seat, Conrad watched the scenario play out. Saw the wary expression on Nicholas's face as he glanced at the note, and smiled as the old priest anxiously grabbed his arm. A moment later, the chauffeur returned to the car and Conrad signalled for him to drive on.

Nicholas was still bruised from his sister's lack of faith. Despite all the messages she had left on his phone, he had not called Honor back, so she had decided to visit St Stephen's that evening. She was just packing up when Mark Spencer entered her office with a barely disguised grin on his face. He was grinning – trying not to – but grinning none the less.

‘I'm about to leave, Mark—'

‘Meeting your brother?'

She turned slowly, her expression cold. ‘What about my brother?'

‘You kept quiet about him. Apart from the photograph, that is.' He pointed to the print on her desk. ‘I thought it was your boyfriend … Mind you, I suppose your brother's the kind of black sheep families
do
keep quiet about.'

‘I can't chat,' she said curtly. ‘I have to leave—'

‘Not yet. We need to talk first,' Mark replied, closing the door and sitting down. ‘Don't look at me like that, I'm trying to help.'

‘I bet you are,' Honor said, sitting behind her desk and flicking the phone on to voicemail. ‘So, what d'you want?'

‘I told you – to help. That's all I've ever wanted to do, help you. That query about Carel Honthorst – I mean, a bit obvious, wasn't it? You weren't asking about him for some fraud case, were you? So it got me thinking – you know how curious I am, my mother used to say it was freaky how I could find things out – and I dug around a little and discovered that Honthorst is working in the art world now. Then I found out about your brother—'

‘Who doesn't work in the art world.'

‘True, but he's been touting a chain around London, a chain which is soon to be auctioned by Philip Preston. And before you ask, Preston is a client of mine, and we had a meeting yesterday and he told me about the chain – and who had found it.' He paused and Honor said nothing. ‘I asked him about this Nicholas Laverne and he didn't know much, but Google did.'

She swallowed nervously. ‘And of course we all know that everything on Google is gospel.'

‘Funny you should use that word, seeing as how your brother was excommunicated. Something of a whistle-blower, it said.'

‘He exposed a scandal in the Catholic Church—'

‘Naming two priests in particular, one of whom has just been bumped off.' Mark pulled a face. ‘It's OK, I found out that the police didn't charge your brother, so he's not committed murder. Well, not this time.'

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

He dropped his voice conspiratorially. ‘How well d'you know Nicholas Laverne?'

‘He's my brother. Of course I know him.'

‘So you know he was arrested in Germany for assault?' Mark asked, moving on rapidly. ‘And in France for theft? I can see from your expression that you didn't know. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. It wouldn't do your promotion prospects much good if the partners found out. I just want—'

‘Get on with it!' Honor snapped, folding her arms.

Refusing to be offended, Mark continued. ‘Nicholas Laverne was in a fight with another man over a woman in Munich. The man pressed charges but then backed off, saying it was a case of mistaken identity.'

‘Maybe it was.'

‘You don't believe that, do you? As lawyers we both know that people who go back on their stories have usually been pressurised—'

‘Or thought better of what they said. Or reneged on a lie.'

Mark reached into his briefcase, opened it, and then tossed a photograph across the desk. ‘Günter Reinhardt. Facial abrasions and a ruptured spleen. It was no lie, he
was
assaulted. Your brother was eighteen at the time.'

Picking up the photograph, Honor stared at the image and swallowed again as Mark slid another photograph across the desk to her. This one was of a painting, a small pastoral scene by Corot.

‘This picture was stolen in France, from the Devereux Gallery. The late owner, Raoul Devereux, dropped the charges when he discovered who the thief was. Apparently your families knew each other.'

Honor said nothing, just stared at Mark Spencer and the photographs on her desk.

‘Your brother was lucky. Twice he got away with it.'

‘Nicholas is no thief.'

‘He confessed to taking the painting.'

‘
I don't believe it!
' she snapped, her face colouring. ‘How old was he when this was supposed to have happened?'

‘Nineteen.'

She thought back. They were still living with David Laverne in the country; Henry had moved to France, she was taking exams, and Nicholas was in that grim patch where he came and went without explanation. She had hoped that the crimes had been committed after he had been excommunicated. Then she would have some excuse for her brother's actions. That he was under stress. Unbalanced, even.

But this had happened
before
he had entered the Church. Before he left Nicholas Laverne behind and became Father Daniel.

‘He was young—'

‘He was a menace,' Mark said firmly. ‘Apparently there were all kinds of other rumours about your brother. He was living with a woman old enough to be his mother for a while, then he dabbled in drugs—'

‘No!' she said shortly.

‘Yes,' Mark replied. ‘It's hard to hear, I know. But you have to hear it. It's important you know what kind of a man he is before you get involved with him any further. I guessed that he'd been out of your life for a while – I remembered how you reacted to that homeless man being murdered. I'm not stupid, Honor – I kept following the clues.'

‘Congratulations. What's the prize?' she asked, her tone acid.

‘There's no prize for you if you stick with him. Your career will be damaged by association.' He leaned towards her. ‘Look, I understand, he's your brother, but think about it carefully. What do you really know about him?' He pointed to the photographs. ‘What if there's more? Worse?'

‘I'm sure you'd have dug it up, Mark.'

He ignored the comment.

‘I'm not telling anyone else what I've found out. I'm just trying to help you, like I say. You're clever, Honor – you could go a long way. But you need to stay in your own class, with your own type. Marry someone respectable, maybe set up your own practice one day.' He paused to let the inference sink in. ‘With a clever partner – in business and in life – you could get to the top.'

She wasn't listening any more, she was thinking. Assault, drugs, theft –
was
that her brother? She could hardly deny it; what looked to be proof was lying on the desk in front of her. Where were you all those times you went missing, Nicholas? Where did you go when you came home filthy,
hungry? You never said, and no one ever asked. Our uncle wasn't interested and you always joked with me. The younger sister, the baby. I was no real confidante of yours.

Pushing aside the photographs, Honor walked to the window. If she supported her brother, who was she really protecting? He wasn't a little boy, he was a man now. Should she risk her own career for someone she didn't really know? She had longed for a family, for her estranged brother to come back to her, but maybe her longing had been misplaced. Maybe what she was really chasing was security – and looking for it in the least secure of people.

However much she hated Mark Spencer for shattering her illusions, Honor had begun to have doubts. She might have tried to suppress them, but she had wondered if Nicholas were becoming paranoid. If the one-time hero were merely an obsessive fantasist. His talk of murder and the Catholic Church was extreme, and his mention of the crucifix had troubled her.

Reluctantly, she thought of what Mark had said. If Nicholas
were
a thief and a liar, was he crafty enough to have plotted the whole deception? Could he have
created
a reason to get back at the Church? He hadn't found the chain, but he had always been inventive. Could his troubled mind have devised a plan, secreting the paper slips into the chain only to discover them later, thereby giving himself another conspiracy to expose?

How much had he wanted to be a hero again?

You are my brother, Honor thought. You are Nicholas. But which Nicholas?

‘Clumsy,' she said at last, turning back to Mark.

He blinked. ‘Pardon?'

‘Your attempt at blackmail – it's clumsy.'

‘I wasn't blackmailing you, I was trying to warn you!' Mark replied, certain that she would appreciate his interference at a later date. ‘Your brother kept out of your life for a long time and maybe that was a blessing. When he exposed the abuse ten years ago he was a hero—'

‘He
was
brave.'

‘Then,' Mark agreed. ‘But now he's washed up, sinking fast. Don't let him drag you down with him.'

The rain had given way to mist, a low white ghosting which lingered over the buildings and the street as Nicholas checked his watch against the chiming of the church bell. Nine thirty. It seemed that the wind had exhausted the air itself; it hung heavy and moist, rain droplets clinging to the bare branches and the decaying iron spire. It was a night to be at home. A night to lock doors and light fires, play music and relax behind dark curtains and under the fluffing of a duvet. As Nicholas walked along he could see the misted bonnets of the cars, and knew that by dawn the moisture would be frosted. Winter had shown her hand.

So had Conrad Voygel, he thought, remembering the note he had been given. It read:

Nicholas's first instinct had been to ignore the note, but an hour later another was delivered asking for him to wait outside the Victoria and Albert Museum at 9 p.m. that evening. He would, the note continued, be perfectly safe.

‘You can't go!' Father Michael had said, shocked. ‘You could be walking into a trap. Father Luke was killed outside the Brompton Oratory. That's very close to the V and A. Suspiciously so.'

‘This isn't a threat,' Nicholas replied. ‘If it were dangerous, there would have been no invitation, they would have just attacked me. Conrad Voygel wants to find out what I know about the deception—'

‘And when you tell him? Then what?'

Nicholas didn't answer and the old priest reached for his coat. ‘I'm going with you.'

‘No, you're not.'

‘You need a back-up.'

‘I don't need you,' Nicholas replied, remembering what Honor had said to him, his conscience pricked. ‘Stay here. I'll be back soon.' He moved to the door. ‘And lock this when I've gone. Don't worry, I can look after myself.'

But now Nicholas was wondering about that as he moved into the underpass, walking towards the exit closest to the Victoria and Albert Museum. There was no one else in the subway, only footsteps and traffic grumbling overhead as he climbed up the exit steps on to Brompton Road. He looked around but could see no one waiting, no car parked at the
kerb. Rubbing his hands together, he leaned against some railings and waited.

Ten minutes passed, Nicholas checking his watch and then feeling an unwelcome nausea come over him. God, he thought, he should never have bought a burger from a street trader. This was the second time he'd felt close to throwing up. A moment later a car drew up at the kerb and a man got out as Nicholas straightened up.

The figure walked towards him, dressed in a long coat, the collar turned up. A big man, Nicholas thought, wondering if it was Honthorst. Then he saw the stoop – Sidney Elliott.

‘I thought I was meeting Conrad Voygel,' Nicholas said, turning to walk off.

Elliott ran after him. ‘I'm M-M-Mr Voygel's representative.'

‘His mouthpiece?'

‘He wants to know about the d-d-deception. He'll pay you well.'

‘Forget it,' Nicholas snapped. ‘I don't want paying.'

‘So why come to the m-m-meeting?'

‘Conrad Voygel said he wanted to talk. I'm willing to talk to him, but no one else.'

‘You should talk to m-m-me,' Elliott replied. ‘Look, I can p-p-put in a good word for you with Voygel. He's a wealthy m-m-man with lots of contacts. You need to stay on his good s-s-side.'

‘What is this
break
you want?' Nicholas asked him. ‘You want an adventure, go bungee jumping. Your life hasn't worked out the way you want, so what? No one gets the life they expect. You've done all right,' he continued. ‘Why lower yourself to be the runner for someone like Conrad Voygel?'

Angered, Elliott reached for Nicholas's sleeve and gripped it. ‘Give yourself a ch-ch-chance. And me. I need a chance—'

Nicholas shook him off.

‘Why w-w-won't you help me?' Elliott snarled. ‘I know there are t-t-twenty-eight pieces of writing, I know it's about a d-d-deception regarding Hieronymus Bosch. Just tell me what the deception is. I can get a g-g-good deal for you—'

‘I told you, I don't want the money!' Nicholas replied, suddenly feeling nauseous again and slumping on to a low wall, his focus blurring. ‘Just leave me alone.'

Elliott stood over him, his gloved hands deep in his pockets, his expression curious.

‘What's the m-m-matter with you?'

‘Something upset my stomach,' Nicholas replied, ‘probably the company I'm keeping.' He looked up at Elliott. ‘The secret isn't for public consumption. Tell Voygel that. Tell him he can buy the chain, but the secret's off limits. Unless he wants to talk to me privately.'

‘Mr Voygel d-d-doesn't like being disappointed, neither d-d-do I.'

‘That's a shame. I hear it's good for the soul.'

‘Of course,' Elliott replied, ‘you're n-n-not a journalist,
are you? You're an ex-p-p-priest. You know all about the s-s-soul.' He tapped Nicholas on the shoulder. ‘I heard you were living b-b-back at Saint Stephen's church—'

‘So it's you, is it?' Nicholas replied, wincing as a pain ripped through his stomach. ‘I knew someone was watching the place. And I heard someone walking around.' He grimaced as the pain increased. ‘Was it you that broke in and planted that crucifix?'

Elliott looked baffled. ‘Not m-m-me, Mr Laverne. Perhaps you sh-sh-should look a little closer to home?'

Scowling, Sidney Elliott fastened up his coat and turned away. He didn't even pause as he heard Nicholas fall off the wall and slump, unconscious, on to the winter pavement.