His shyness is his most endearing trait. Some years ago Conrad suffered from cancer and half his face was surgically removed to halt the spread of the disease. It was rebuilt, and when the scars healed he looked like any other man, apart from a certain stiffness in his left cheek. But he is still conscious of his appearance and finds being in company difficult.

His wife pursues her own interests without needing to involve Conrad. They are not a social couple and have no close mutual friends, although Angela plays tennis and golf with her cronies. An ex-athlete, at forty-one her build is boyish and fit, hair streaked at Michael Clark’s, her clothes from Armani. Even during her pregnancy with Cleo she was active, an outdoors girl, beautiful in a vitamin-pumped way. She trusts her husband, and Conrad, in his turn, is devoted to her.

They met when she was thirty and he was thirty-seven. She knows nothing of his previous life except what he tells her and that, she presumes, is the truth. If she pressed him for details he would avoid giving answers, other than the ones he has already confided. Conrad has no family, no siblings – Angela and their daughter are all he has. He protects them fiercely, loves them absolutely, and controls them as he controls every aspect of his life.

*

‘I’ll call you later,’ Conrad said as Angela leant down towards the car window. ‘Take care.’ His gaze moved towards the house, his thoughts with his daughter. ‘We should sort out which school she’s going to when I get back. It’s long overdue. We have to choose one or the other—’

‘We will,’ Angela said patiently, ‘when you get back.’

His hand reached for hers. ‘Do you want it?’

‘Want what?’

‘The Bosch chain,’ Conrad said, looking intently at his wife. ‘If you want it, I’ll get if for you. An early birthday present.’

He had told her about the chain, about the rumour he had heard and was investigating. If it were true and there was some kind of conspiracy concerning the artist, Conrad wanted in on it. His many connections had already paid off: Sidney Elliott had informed him at Nicholas Laverne’s visit. In fact, it had been Conrad who had tried to pressurise Nicholas, via Elliott; Conrad who had offered a substantial reward if the historian could obtain all of the pieces of Bosch’s testament.

But despite Elliott’s best efforts, Nicholas had been resistant. Not that Elliott hadn’t promised Conrad that he would pursue the matter. A bitter middle-aged man cheated out of great career, Elliott was desperate. He was a man Conrad Voygel both disliked and suspected.

‘G-g-give me time. I can find out m-more,’ Elliott had promised him.

‘D’you know the names of the other experts Laverne spoke to?’

‘No, but I c-c-can find out.’ Elliott replied. ‘It’s a small field of expertise; everyone kn-kn-knows of everyone else.’

‘So find out who he spoke to, and what they know.’

Conrad Voygel’s passion for collecting was twofold: he saw it as an investment as well as a means of owning objects envied and desired by others. His paintings and objets d’art served to prick the egos of lesser men; his collection was divided between his homes and galleries in California and Chicago. In the previous ten years Conrad had managed to infiltrate the art world via his hired scouts. Anything rare, or of value, came under his scrutiny. Bidding through agents, he could obtain pieces worldwide. Without putting his name to the bid, Conrad could avoid the inevitable bumping up of the prices that would have followed knowledge of his involvement. It was only later that the auction house or gallery discovered that he was the buyer.

Conrad smiled at his wife. The Bosch chain would be a birthday present for her – that much was true – but the driving force behind its acquisition would be the besting of his rivals. Conrad thought of the venal Gerrit der Keyser, the genial Hiram Kaminski and the slippery Philip Preston. And then he thought of Nicholas Laverne, the man in possession of the chain.

The ex-priest was out of his depth. Floundering like a seal in shallow water, unable to risk the beach, and yet fearful of drowning … Conrad had heard about the deaths of Sabine Monette and Claude Devereux – in fact, he had done business a few times with Raoul Devereux in the past – and the murders had piqued his interest. Where another man might be scared off, Conrad was intrigued. Naturally he had presumed that the killings were connected and was interested to learn of Philip Preston’s sudden closeness to Nicholas Laverne. So they were working together, were they? Poor Laverne, he thought. What chance did a sparrow have flying among hawks? Perhaps the ex-priest had no real understanding of the odds he was up against. The art world was no place for the vulnerable.

Especially when he was the biggest predator of all.

Twenty-Nine

Hiram Kaminski stared at his wife. ‘Are you joking?’ he said at last. ‘Thomas Littlejohn?’ Hands on hips, Miriam watched the response from her shocked husband.

She continued. ‘It was in the paper this morning, just a paragraph on the fourth page. I could have overlooked it, but it caught my eye – “Victim of Church Murder identified as Art Dealer”. They managed to put a name to him because of a metal pin in his spine. They’re all numbered, apparently. Thomas Littlejohn—’

‘Had a bad back,’ Hiram said, nodding. ‘I remember. He suffered terribly after a fall on holiday. He was in hospital for a long time – used to joke that the doctors had pinned him back together.’ He frowned. ‘But why would a man like that end up murdered outside a church? They said the victim was a vagrant but Thomas was a successful man. It makes no sense.’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘Everyone wondered where he’d got to. No one had heard from him for a couple of years, ever since he sold up the gallery—’

‘And left his wife and children,’ Judith said disapprovingly. ‘He just upped and left. Disappeared. Cruel to do that and leave your family wondering what happened to you.’

‘But that’s the point! Thomas wasn’t like that. He was a responsible man, an honest man. He loved his family … And now he’s been murdered, burnt alive. Dear God!’ He paused, his wife watching him curiously.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, nothing—’

‘Tell me!’ she demanded.

‘A long time ago – must be fifteen years now – he came to see me. He wanted my advice about something.’

‘What?’

‘I never saw it. I never even thought about it till now—’

‘What was it?’

‘A chain. Thomas Littlejohn wanted my opinion on a chain.’ Hiram shook his head. ‘I told him I wasn’t interested, but when I thought about it later, I got back in touch with him.’

Judith was holding her breath. ‘And?’

‘He denied ever saying anything about a chain. We were very busy at the time, you remember? It was Helen’s wedding coming up and I just thought I’d made a mistake. God knows, there’s enough jewellery and artefacts constantly doing the rounds and Thomas wasn’t a man to lie.’ Hiram turned to his wife, his voice dropping. ‘But what if it was the Bosch chain? What if Thomas Littlejohn was murdered because he was involved? What if whoever killed him is the same person who killed Sabine Monette and Claude Devereux?’

‘All of whom knew about the Bosch chain.’

‘God!’ Hiram began to shake. ‘We know about it too.’

Judith placed her hand over his mouth. ‘Say nothing. If anyone asks, we know nothing—’

He pushed her hand aside. ‘But I was talking about it to Gerrit der Keyser at Philip Preston’s place.’

‘Did anyone overhear you?’

‘No. People were concentrating on the auction.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone else about it?’

‘No!’

Judith nodded. ‘Then listen to me, my dear, and listen carefully. No one has approached us about the Bosch chain. We know nothing about it. We have heard nothing about it. We don’t want to know, because it’s not relevant to us. We sell paintings here – we don’t want to know about gold work.’