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.

Sixty-Eight

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.

I just want to help. Don’t worry, no one knows you’re not sick. Speak later.

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.

Sixty-Nine

‘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.

Seventy

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?’