The Bosch Deception (24 page)

Eloise Devereux sat in her hotel room and stared at the papers in front of her. Her conversation with Honor had stirred her curiosity and her growing suspicions about Nicholas Laverne. In truth she had told Honor everything she knew, but as she had recounted Nicholas's history, Eloise had developed a sudden and queasy unease. Events that had not worried her before seemed strange, his reluctance to involve her less like caution and more like evasion. Her hands reached out for the report which had been brought to her that morning: the chequered past of Nicholas Laverne assembled by a private investigator, the facts and counter facts alarming.

Who had this man actually been? Eloise thought. This treasured friend of her dead husband. Claude had never told her anything about the alleged assaults, the faking or the thefts. Had he not known – or had he not believed it? Eloise leaned back on the sofa, curling her legs under her, staring at the incriminating evidence. If she were honest she had always found Nicholas evasive, but had put that
down to his being the third wheel, caught between his old friend and his wife. But now she wasn't so sure.

A memory of Sabine came in that instant.
Her mother
. Not that people knew that … Sabine was young when she became pregnant and her parents hadn't wanted the scandal to become public, so she had given birth to Eloise in Switzerland and the baby had been adopted. It had been discreetly arranged, childless friends of Sabine's parents taking over the baby and raising her. The families never referred to it, and Sabine had married Monsieur Monette soon after.

It would have remained a secret forever, had Sabine stayed silent. But when Eloise was sixteen, she contacted her daughter and told her the truth. Relieved that she was not related to her dull adoptive parents, Eloise had soon become close to her mother. She was thrilled by their similarities and by the interests they shared. From the first, Eloise had understood why she had been adopted: the pressures of a bourgeois French family would have been impossible for a young girl to withstand. She had no grudge against her mother; Sabine's presence in her life had been merely postponed.

Few people knew the truth. Except Claude, in whom Eloise naturally confided … Her glance went back to the papers on the coffee table in front of her. Nicholas Laverne, suspected of involvement in fakery and theft. Surely it was no coincidence that Sabine had been robbed while he was working for her? But did it go further than that?

She remembered Claude's father, Raoul Devereux, talking about Nicholas in guarded tones. And now she knew why – Nicholas Laverne had stolen a painting from him and only the intervention of Henry had prevented his being charged. She could imagine that Claude would have supported Nicholas too, defending him, pleading with his father not to destroy his relationship with one son because of the actions of the other. Raoul had been Henry Laverne's mentor for years, had admired him and encouraged his progress. Yet all the while the shadow of Nicholas hovered in the background.

Were they always wondering when he would cause a scandal? Always wondering when the reputations of Raoul and Henry would be undermined by Nicholas's erratic behaviour? Their relief when he entered the Church must have been immense. When Nicholas Laverne was transformed into Father Daniel, ensconced far away in London: a priest bound by the strict rules of the Catholic Church.

But it hadn't lasted.

Eloise stared at the notes, her mouth tight, doubts troubling her. Claude was dead, presumably killed because of his involvement with the Bosch deception. A conspiracy that Nicholas had uncovered. History repeating itself … Hurriedly she snatched up the papers and sifted through them, then found what she was looking for. Nicholas and his alleged faking.
Faking art works and jewellery …
Eloise took in a breath.

What if the whole conspiracy was a lie? A fabrication created for revenge? Nicholas had never professed much interest in the art world, but his parents and his uncle had been minor collectors. He would have known the power of that environment: the money, the risks, the ruthlessness of dealers after the ultimate prize. Perhaps Nicholas Laverne had picked his own pack of wolves, and thrown them a sheep's carcass in the shape of the Bosch chain.

Eloise could feel her heartbeat speed up. Was she right? Certainly Nicholas must have been desperate for revenge, his accusations of clerical abuse ostracising him. Not so much a hero as a leper. Eloise didn't doubt that the allegations were true. Nicholas was always looking for some apple cart to overturn, but this time he had excelled himself.

If
he had made up the deception he knew exactly what he was doing. Brutalised boys would never grip the world's attention, unlike the Bosch chain and the rumoured conspiracy.

Claude would never have gone along with the deception. He had been an honest man – even affection wouldn't have coerced him into a crime. But Sabine had been skittish at times, even daring. Had her mother known the truth? Eloise took in her breath, held it, felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. Had Nicholas and Sabine planned it together? And if they had, why was Sabine dead? Eloise got to her feet, pressing her hand against her mouth to stop herself crying out. Nicholas Laverne
couldn't
have been her mother's killer. He had been in London when Sabine was murdered.

But he could have arranged it.

Coldness overwhelmed her. Claude had been killed in France. In their house, close by Sabine's country home. The place Nicholas knew well. The police had said Claude had put up no struggle. He had no defence wounds, had not even raised his hands to protect himself. It was as though he had been shocked into inertia. It had puzzled the police, but it didn't puzzle Eloise any more.

Claude wouldn't have reacted. Because he wouldn't have expected his killer to be his closest friend.

Disturbed by what Mark Spencer had told her, Honor called in sick and stayed at home. Her calls to St Stephen's had been answered by Father Michael, her messages taken but not returned. How could she find out what was going on if Nicholas wouldn't talk to her? Her first instinct had been to reject everything Mark had said, but on further investigation she realised that he had been telling the truth. The photographs seemed to prove what he said, as did the various and irritating pieces of information he kept texting her.

Along with the inevitable.

She wanted to text him back ‘Fuck off' but couldn't, because she wasn't sure what to believe and needed time to think. Nicholas was her brother, but did she really know him? His refusal to talk to her only compounded her anger
and made her wonder if it was a sign of guilt. Or maybe Nicholas was about to assume another identity.

Unsettled, Honor snatched up her coat and left the house. The freezing temperature punched the air out of her lungs and her hair was crisp with frost as she turned the corner and passed by the school. Preoccupied, she was caught off guard when a man grabbed her and dragged her into the empty playing field. Her anger overtook her fear as she fought to release his grip. Struggling, she kicked out, but the man had a firm hold of her, his left hand covering her mouth. Terrified, she tried to scream but failed, biting down into the flesh of his palm instead. As she had hoped, the man let go of her. But before she could get away, he knocked her over and she fell forward, her face pressed to the ground.

His left knee pushing into the small of her back, he spoke.

‘Miss Laverne,' he said, panting, ‘I want you to t-t-talk to your brother—'

She struggled to throw him off, but only managed to antagonise him further.

‘Stop it!' Elliott snapped, ‘I c-c-could break your back.'

Reluctantly, she stopped fighting. His weight crushed her, pushed her into the ground as he bent down, his mouth only inches from her ear.

‘Tell him I w-w-want to see him t-t-tonight. Ten o'clock, S-S-Saint Martin in the Field's church, Trafalgar Square.' Elliott got to his feet and looked down at her. ‘You h-h-hear me?'

It took Honor a moment to gather enough breath to answer.

‘Yes,' she finally gasped. ‘I h-h-hear you.'

Enraged that she was mocking him, Elliott kicked out. He put his weight behind the action as his foot slammed the remaining air out of her. Then he left Honor crying and rolling over, her legs pulled up against her stomach as his footsteps faded away.

‘You're all ready, aren't you?' Philip asked his mistress over the phone. ‘We leave after the auction tomorrow. Catch the late flight – it's all arranged.' He glanced at the glazed door, at the two impressive – and comforting – outlines of the security guards. ‘Don't be late. I'll meet you at the airport, like we agreed.'

Kim was ready for their escape. Had been ready for eighteen months. Once she got Philip away from London and his wife, it was all plain sailing. God, she thought, it had been hard work, but finally it was about to pay off. Good old Philip – he thought he was cunning but he wasn't that smart. Not clever enough to realise he had been played.

‘I've sorted it out about Gayle …'

Kim wondered if he knew how little she cared about his soon-to-be-ex wife. ‘Oh good.'

‘… I've got a nurse to start tomorrow. She'll be there when I've left and I've written a letter to explain everything. I've told the doctor Gayle might need some sedation too.'
Philip paused. He was being very kind, he thought, very sensitive. ‘She'll be fine, honestly.'

Kim shrugged her shoulders, changing the subject. ‘Are a lot of people coming to the auction?'

‘God knows,' Philip replied truthfully. ‘I don't care how many come, or how many stay away. I just need one bidder. One big sale.'

He thought of the money that was nearly his and then remembered Gerrit der Keyser. Of course der Keyser would say nothing about the second chain, as long as Philip was bribing him to stay quiet about the faked deception. Philip smiled to himself. Only in the art world could someone fake a fake. And if Gerrit should suddenly have an attack of conscience, so what? Philip would be in Italy. Out of reach.

All he had to do was to get through the next day and a half – thirty-six hours and counting.

As Nicholas walked into his sister's flat, Honor jumped up then winced, touching her ribs. In the chair beside the sofa sat the soft-fleshed Mark Spencer, embarrassed to be in the presence of the man he had been spying on.

‘God, are you all right?' Nicholas asked, ignoring Mark. ‘I know who did this and I'll get him for it. I knew it was Sidney Elliott as soon as you said he stammered.'

Mark was trying to make his presence felt. ‘I think we should call a doctor.'

Nicholas ignored him as Honor stared at her brother earnestly.

‘He wants to have a meeting with you,' she said. ‘Ten o'clock tonight. St Martin in the Field's, of all places. Mad bastard.'

‘This was why I didn't want you to get involved,' Nicholas said anxiously. ‘You should get checked out. Let me take you to the hospital.'

Mark tried to interject. ‘I will—'

Again, Nicholas ignored him. ‘I don't want anything to happen to you—'

‘Then you shouldn't have got her involved in the first place, should you?'

Slowly Nicholas turned to look at Mark Spencer. ‘Who are you?'

Colouring, Mark rose to his full height of five foot eight, six inches shorter than Nicholas, his tone pompous. ‘Your sister has been attacked—'

‘I said, “Who are you?”'

‘Mark Spencer, a colleague.' He glanced at Honor, who was rolling her eyes at him.

‘Nicholas, it's OK,' she said. ‘Mark's a friend.'

Friend, Mark thought bitterly. She should have said, ‘Mark's been digging up all your greasy secrets, Nicholas. Because of Mark I'm finding out what you're really like.' But she didn't, because despite what he had told her, she was looking at her brother and Mark could tell – without her even saying it – that she was on Nicholas's side.

‘You should call the police—'

Nicholas stared at him. ‘And say what?'

‘That your sister has been attacked!' Mark blustered. ‘Let the police go to St Martin's tonight. Why risk yourself? Why risk her any more?'

‘Nicholas has to go—'

Mark spun round to look at her. ‘
What?
'

‘The police would only spook Elliott and he'd run. Then
what? How would they catch him after that?' She looked back at Nicholas. ‘D'you know what he wants?'

‘It'll be about the Bosch chain—'

‘The chain!' Mark almost shrieked. ‘Are you both mad? This man is violent—'

Slowly Honor rose to her feet, guiding Mark to the front door. His arm felt resistant under her touch, his hostility obvious as she spoke to him.

‘Look, I'm OK. I'm just bruised. If I'd broken any bones I'd be in agony, and I'm not; I'm just shaken.' She smiled. ‘I have to talk to Nicholas alone—'

‘And you think you'll get a straight story out of him?' Mark asked. ‘Remember what I found out—'

‘I need him to explain,' she said, interrupting. ‘I can't just take your word on this. I have to know what he did, and why. And
if
he did it.'

‘You saw the proof—'

‘I saw papers, clippings, old photographs,' she replied. ‘I want to hear it from his own mouth. Good or bad, I want Nicholas to tell me.'

Exasperated, Mark opened the door to leave, then turned.

‘You're a fool. You should back off from this now, before you really get hurt. Your brother stayed out of your life for years – why don't you return the compliment and stay out of his?'

‘Because I'm his sister, and he's all I've got,' Honor replied crisply. ‘I trust him. Nicholas will look after me.'

‘Want to bet?' Mark replied, slamming the door behind him.

When Honor returned to the sitting room, Nicholas had made coffee for both of them, pushing a cup towards her as she sat down. He could see a bruise beginning on her cheek and her left eye was swollen.

‘I could kill Elliott for hurting you … Maybe we
should
go to the police.'

Her tone was sarcastic when she answered. ‘That's a good idea, Nicholas. The police have already questioned you about one murder – they can't fail to be interested in what happened to me today. Especially as you know my attacker personally.' Her tone hardened. ‘Don't be stupid. The police can't get involved … What does this Elliott man want?'

‘The chain—'

‘It's all about that bloody chain!' she snapped, touching her ribs gingerly.

‘But you don't believe in the chain or the conspiracy, do you? You think I faked it all,' Nicholas said, his tone cold. ‘Apparently other people believe that too—'

‘I didn't mean—'

‘What you meant was clear enough. You even suggested that I was losing my mind. Paranoid—'

‘You were talking about people being murdered! About the Church and them coming after you—'

‘And now you've been attacked,' he said simply. ‘Or was that was all part of my master plan? Maybe I wanted to
throw suspicion off myself and hired someone to go after you—'

‘I didn't say you were lying!'

‘You didn't have to say it, you
thought
it,' Nicholas retorted hotly. ‘My sister, the one person that I thought believed in me. Your suspicion hurt me more than you can imagine—'

‘And what about you?' Honor countered, glaring at him. ‘You come in and out of my life and I'm not supposed to ask any questions. Yes, you're my brother, but there are big gaps in your life that I don't know about—'

‘I don't know everything about your life either!'

‘But I don't have anything to hide.'

‘
And I do?
' he queried, turning to leave.

Angrily she slammed the door closed, forcing him to stay.

‘No! You are not walking out of here now. Not this time, Nicholas. I'm not risking my good name or my safety for half a story. I want to know what's going on.'

‘I've told you the truth!' he shouted. ‘You know about the chain and the deception. I'm not telling you the whole story about Bosch for a reason. What you don't know you can't give away. And what you don't know can't hurt you.'

‘Are you talking about Bosch? Or yourself?'

Anger drained the colour from his face. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘What were you doing in Europe when you were in your teens and early twenties? All those times you went away and never explained …' Her tone softened. ‘Tell me, Nicholas. Before you entered the Church, what were you doing?'

He said nothing, his face blank.

And it frightened her.

‘I just want to help you. That's all I've ever wanted. I'm not prying into your past—'

‘I suppose the little prick you had here earlier is doing that for you,' Nicholas replied, his voice hard. ‘I imagine you set him a task, digging around, scraping up all the dirt he could find. Of course, you two being lawyers, you'd want to know everything.'

She was astounded by his anger. ‘Nicholas, I'm not judging you—'

‘You've never stopped judging me since we were children! You and Henry. You think I didn't hear you two talking? “
Poor Nicholas, he feels so guilty about our parents' death, but it wasn't really his fault—”
'

‘It wasn't your fault!'

‘No, but it certainly felt like it!'

She shook her head. ‘You're changing the subject. I was asking about what you'd been doing in Europe—'

‘And I'm not telling you!' he roared. ‘What d'you really want to hear, Honor? That I fucked a lot of women? You know that. That I was irresponsible, bummed my way round? You know that too. I was a kid, dammit. Kids do stupid things.'

His rage unnerved her. Was he angry because she was prying into his life, or because she had uncovered what he had done? Honor knew that she should back off, but couldn't. Instead, like the lawyer she was, she went in for the kill.

‘Who's Nico Lassimo?'

The name punched into the air between them. It left the room winded as Honor watched her brother and waited for him to speak. Explain, she willed him. Tell me that Nico Lassimo wasn't you. Deny that you were in Munich and Milan. Protest your innocence. Tell me that you were never involved in faking. Tell me it wasn't you that attacked that woman, or stole from Raoul Devereux. Tell me it was another man.

But Nicholas didn't explain. Instead he looked at his sister with sadness and a kind of resignation. ‘My God,' he said finally, ‘when did you stop knowing who I was?'

This is the last time I will come here, Nicholas thinks, deep in sleep, walking between the dream yew trees. This is the last time that I will see this. As ever, he hears the crunching of glass, his priest's shoes treading the broken beer bottles into a mosaic underfoot.

The old nest is still here, he thinks, as always, as ever the same. The cupboard too, and across the narrow wedge of worn grass the priests whisper, two men under the arch of the entrance, next to the message board that displays the church Bring and Buy sale …

But this time the man walking up the gravel path is not a congregant. Not a worshipper … Nicholas turns over in bed, restless, sweating in his winding sheet … This stranger comes armed with a lens more vicious than a sword and points it at the church, grabbing at images of the pitted stone and the yielding spire. And the name Patrick Gerin scowls over the desolate garden like a fall of dead leaves …

Tear it down, Nicholas thinks. Tear it down.

He knows they will. That someone – not a congregant, not a worshipper – will come in the night and light a match. They will
fire up the outhouse with its cupboard, burning the old nest and the roof rafters where once a boy sat and crooned to a bird.

As ever, as always, Nicholas turns in his memory … And now he is walking towards the flames that someone – not a worshipper, not a congregant – lit to destroy what he saw. And what he was too late to prevent. He walks in without pausing, feels the heat. So hot, as ever, as always, the fire purifying both his dying limbs and his living mind.

And beyond this, above the memory, the dead boy, and the spiralling flames, a man cries in his sleep and wakes no one.