‘Why are you here?’

‘I want your opinion. Something I should have asked for when all this started.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m a fucking idiot, but there you go. You know about this chain and the deception, blah, blah, blah?’

‘No, I don’t—’

‘Don’t lie. Preston told me all about it. Said you knew.’ Gerrit pulled a face as he caught Hiram’s stunned expression. ‘Judith told him everything. Said she wanted to keep you out of trouble and thought she could shift the pressure on to Philip Preston. She was worried after someone tried to break in here.’

‘Does everyone know about that!’

‘Oh, calm down,’ Gerrit told him. ‘No one has secrets for long in this business, you know that. It’s the auction of that fucking chain in two days and every nut’s coming out of the woodwork. But only me and Preston know that there are two chains. Both of which could be fakes—’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Hiram said emphatically. ‘Thomas Littlejohn tried to tell me about the Bosch chain years ago. And he sent me a letter about it. Which I only received after he was killed.’ Hiram could see Gerrit’s eyes widen behind his bifocals. ‘Littlejohn was the best – he was an expert. If he put his name to anything, it was genuine. He wrote and told me the whole story, including the Bosch portrait—’

‘What fucking portrait?’ Gerrit snapped.

‘So Philip Preston didn’t tell you everything that Judith told him, did he?’ Hiram replied, almost gleeful. ‘The Tree Man in the triptych is a portrait of Hieronymus Bosch. He didn’t paint it, but it was his likeness.’

‘Shit.’ He glanced back at Hiram. ‘You going public with this?’

‘No. I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s bad luck, all of it. And I’d be wary of what Philip Preston’s telling you. He might be right about some of it – two chains could have been made out of one long chain …’ Hiram stared at his visitor. ‘… perhaps he had them made—’

‘No way! What would be in it for him? If it comes out that there are two chains, he’s going to look like a fucking laughing stock. Nah, this is one tricky bit of business Preston isn’t involved in.’

Irritated, Hiram shook his head. ‘If there are two chains now, they could have been made to look identical in every way. But the chain Thomas Littlejohn saw was genuine. He never said anything about two chains. And he wouldn’t have lied – I’d stake my life on that. Thomas needed a witness because he was in danger, terrified that something would happen to him.’

‘Which it did,’ Gerrit said thoughtfully. ‘So which chain did Littlejohn see?’

‘Obviously the one with the papers in it.’

Gerrit laughed. ‘I heard the rumour, but wasn’t sure. And I never knew the proof was hidden in the bleeding chain. How did they do it?’

Hiram paused. Any other time he would have resisted confiding, but now he didn’t care. He didn’t want the chain, he wanted rid of it. And if Gerrit der Keyser wanted to go after it, that was fine by him.

‘There were pieces of paper hidden in every link. Put together, they told the whole story, and the part the Church played in the deception. Nicholas Laverne found them.’

‘That basket case! He broke the arm of one of my employees the other day. The man’s a fucking nutter.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why would he break someone’s arm?’

Gerrit’s expression was guileless. ‘There was a misunderstanding. Honthorst was just trying to put his bloody point across, and that ex-priest attacked him.’

The lie didn’t ring true and Hiram stared at his visitor warily. Meanwhile Gerrit tried to make sense of what he had been told – and – failed miserably.

‘Who brought the second chain to you?’

‘Some woman.’ Gerrit said sourly. ‘And no, I don’t have a bloody name. My secretary was busy – she just took the parcel and hardly glanced at the person who delivered it. Stupid cow.’

He lapsed into a disgruntled silence. His visit had not proved to be as useful as he had hoped. Certainly Hiram believed that there was a genuine conspiracy, but it was obvious that he wasn’t curious to discover more, or likely to join forces. Gerrit was going to have to work it out for himself, he realised, remembering the old man who had given him the painting to sell. The man called Guillaine. Which just happened to have been Sabine’s maiden name. But Sabine couldn’t have been the woman who brought the chain to his gallery. Ghosts don’t do deliveries.

Then a clammy feeling crept over Gerrit. Sabine was dead, that was true. But her daughter wasn’t.

Sixty-Two

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

It was past three in the morning and Nicholas was awake and listening. There were noises outside. He tried to sit up but was unable to move, paralysed, his throat dry. Panicking, he struggled to breathe, his eyes wide open, the room filled by an ominous black shadow. The shape moved towards his bed, its shadow crossing the window, its right arm raised as though about to strike.

Unable to cry out, Nicholas stared blindly, his body useless. He could feel sweat on his skin, his mouth working soundlessly. The shadow moved towards him and bent down. Closer, closer it came, until its face was only inches from his, a feeling of pressure crushing his body as the shape spread over him.

Sixty-Three

Conrad Voygel left Chicago and came back to London late. Angela was at the airport to meet his private plane, and with her, Sidney Elliott. He was sitting in the back seat of the chauffeured limousine as Angela got out to greet her husband.

‘This man’s been pestering me,’ she whispered. ‘Some man called Elliott, Sidney Elliott. He came to the tennis club and was watching me, then he called by the house.’ She looked into her husband’s face earnestly. ‘I don’t like him, Conrad. There’s something wrong with him.’

‘Why didn’t you call security?’

‘He said he was desperate to talk to you,’ she replied, pulling up her coat collar against the cold night. ‘I thought if I brought him with me tonight you could deal with him and then it would be over and done with. Besides, I wasn’t on my own with him in the car, was I?’

Thoughtful, Conrad kissed his wife on the cheek. Then he bent down and beckoned for Elliott to leave the car and follow him. Without another word, Conrad moved towards the airport building but didn’t enter. Instead he stood just outside and waited for Elliott to catch up with him.

Out of breath and jumpy, Elliott frowned against the wind which was blowing hard. ‘I had to s-s-see you. You w-w-wouldn’t answer my calls—’

‘You had no right to involve my wife.’ Conrad replied as an aeroplane started up nearby, its engines howling into the headwind. ‘I want no more to do with you—’

‘I can help you!’ Elliott all but screamed. ‘L-l-listen to me.’ His eyes were wide, dilated. ‘I’ve g-g-got one day left—’

‘Not any more. You’re fired.’

Enraged, Elliott caught hold of his arm, Conrad shaking him off and putting up his hand to his bodyguard who was about to intervene. Then he turned back to Elliott. ‘Listen to me. I don’t want you working for me any longer. Approach me again and I’ll call the police—’

‘I’ll tell th-th-them about you.’

His face was expressionless. ‘Tell them what?’

‘You must have something to h-h-hide. All this secrecy …’

‘I’m a private man, nothing more. I don’t like people interfering. You would do well to remember that.’

But Elliott wasn’t listening. ‘You’re a c-c-crook …! You used me …’

‘You came to me with information. You offered me a service which you could not supply.’

‘I told you about the Bosch p-p-papers—’

‘But you didn’t get them for me, did you?’ Conrad replied. ‘You failed. End of story.’

‘You said I h-h-had one more day!’ Elliott yelled over the sound of the plane engines. ‘You p-p-promised me—’