Sidney Elliott sat on the steps outside St Martin in the Field’s church, smoking. The bluish white of the floodlights aged him cruelly, although his size was still impressive, even seated. The bitter wind blew his grey hair across his face. He was wearing a heavy quilted jacket, his eyes fixed on Nicholas as he began to climb the steps towards him. Elliott didn’t move, didn’t even seem fazed by the look on Nicholas’s face; he just continued to smoke.

There were enough people around to stop any attack. Laverne could hardly start a fight in the presence of at least ten witnesses, and Elliott knew it.

‘How dare you hurt my sister—’

‘I h-h-had to get your interest somehow,’ Elliott replied, stubbing out his cigarette and jerking his head towards the National Gallery. ‘Bosch’s Crowning with Thorns is in th-th-there. I bet you think of yourself as a b-b-bit of a martyr. I bet the National wouldn’t thank you for exposing any s-s-scandal about one of their m-m-most famous painters.’

‘What d’you want?’

‘I want to know what h-h-h-happened to Bosch. I want to know what you’re investigating.’ He stood up, towering over Nicholas who was standing on a lower step. ‘Mr Voygel n-n-needs to know.’

‘What’s he promised you?’

Elliott hesitated. He had been fired by Conrad Voygel, unceremoniously dumped. But if he could bring him the information he wanted, he was sure he could wheedle himself back into the tycoon’s good books.

‘Th-th-throw in your lot with me and we can make a fortune. Oppose m-m-me and you’ll regret it.’

‘You dare go near my sister again—’

‘And you’ll do what?’ Elliott said. ‘There’s nothing you can say or d-d-do to make me back off. I will find out wh-wh-what I want to know, one way or another.’

‘My sister doesn’t know anything. Leave her out of this.’

Elliott’s eyes flickered.

‘You know the h-h-history of this place?’ He gestured to the church behind him. ‘In 2006 they found a grave, d-d-dated around 410. A Roman burial, they th-th-thought. And in the Middle Ages the b-b-building was used by the monks of Westminster Abbey.’ He moved closer – so close Nicholas could catch the smell of nicotine on his breath. ‘Henry the Eighth rebuilt it later, so th-th-that the victims of the plague wouldn’t have to p-p-pass through Whitehall Palace—’

Impatient, Nicholas shrugged. ‘What’s this got to do with anything?’

‘I am an academic! A l-l-learned man. Possessed of a brilliant original mind. I w-w-was the best in my year at Cambridge. I was p-p-published before I was twenty-one. Lecturing around the world at thirty. I was supposed to m-m-make a reputation, a fortune, to be one of the greats.’ He paused. ‘And yet here I am, fifty-n-n-nine years old, a nobody.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Oh, you should care!’ Elliott snapped, ‘You sh-sh-should care, Mr Laverne, because I will make you care. I g-g-give you one last chance. You have one day left before the auction and in that time you m-m- must tell me the whole secret.’

‘Or?’

‘His n-n-name was Patrick Gerin, wasn’t it?’ Elliott asked nonchalantly, and saw seeing Nicholas flinch. ‘Yes, Patrick Gerin. He hanged h-h-himself. Or was he hanged? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, w-w-will we, Mr Laverne? Or should I say Father Daniel?’ he smirked, circling Nicholas. ‘I kn-kn-know why you don’t go to the police. You c-c-can’t risk them prying into your life too closely. You w-w-want your revenge on the Church, I understand that. But I want my revenge too – for p-p-poverty and a wasted life.’ He passed Nicholas, knocking into his shoulder as he did so. ‘One day. That’s all you’ve got left.’

‘You’re giving me a day to decide whether or not I’m going to tell you the secret?’

‘No, Mr Laverne,’ Elliott replied coldly. ‘I’m g-g-giving you a day to live.’

Seventy-Two

Spooning up against her husband’s back, Judith Kaminski stared at the clock by the bed: 3.45 a.m. Later that day, at 2 p.m. in Chelsea, London, Philip Preston was going to auction the Bosch chain … Even though he knew his wife wasn’t asleep, Hiram said nothing. Instead he thought of the securely locked doors, front and back, and the burglar alarm he had set for the night. Such a long night.

Every sound outside had quickened his pulse, every noise a reminder of the previous assault. But no one came. Even the urban foxes stayed away. No overturned bins, no stalking of wild cats, nothing but a thick, unyielding and portentous silence.

*

Impatient, Gerrit knocked the papers he had been reading on to the floor of his study and poured himself a whisky. Then doubled it. Bugger his fucking heart, he was close to collapse anyway … All his searching had revealed nothing. No information about the old man Guillaine who had brought him the Bosch picture and the bloody chain.

His instincts were heightened because it was well into the night and he couldn’t sleep. Of course the whole thing could be a set-up, Sabine plotting her revenge on him. Some old codger Guillaine relative of hers bringing the painting to Gerrit to sell – the painting that had originally been stolen from Raoul Devereux’s French gallery. She could have planned it with the help of that ex-priest, Gerrit thought. Then she could have bought it from him, along with the fake chain, knowing she was going to be filmed taking it. What a perfect way to throw suspicion off herself.

Mind you, being murdered was an even better way … Gerrit thought of his conversation earlier with Carel Honthorst. He had come into the gallery with a plaster cast on his arm, his face grey under the concealer, his demeanour unnerving.

‘I’m not working for you any more.’

‘You’re supposed to be guarding me!’

Honthorst looked at him, a slow smile hovering on his lips. ‘You and I both know you don’t need guarding.’

‘Then bugger off! You’re not much good with that fucking thing on your arm anyway,’ Gerrit retorted, then frowned. ‘Are you working for another dealer?’

‘No. The art world isn’t my only employer.’

‘I know you work for the Catholic Church,’ he retorted. ‘I do my fucking research, Mr Honthorst. Anyone I employ is thoroughly checked out.’

‘Half of the people you employ are crooks.’

‘True, but they’re all good ones,’ Gerrit had replied, taking a wad of money from his desk and handing it to Honthorst. ‘Our business dealings are to remain a secret between the two of us.’

The Dutchman had taken the money and nodded. ‘I won’t say anything.’

‘Are you going back to Holland?’

‘Not yet.’

Gerrit had frowned. ‘You’re taking your time with Nicholas Laverne, aren’t you? I can imagine that your other employer might have wanted him sorted out by now.’ He had caught the anger in Honthorst’s eyes, but had carried on. ‘Seems he bested you.’ Gerrit pointed to the plaster cast. ‘Hired muscle up against a fucking ex-priest – who’d have put money on the cleric?’

Honthorst had made a move towards Gerrit and the dealer put up his hands. ‘Easy, boy, I’m just having a little joke with you. But be honest, you don’t intend to let Laverne get away with it, do you? Unless you’ve been told to back off.’

Gerrit paused, remembering the conversation in every detail. Had Honthorst been forced to stay his hand? After all, the Catholic Church – for all its covert mumblings – hadn’t made a move to silence Laverne. Their troublesome priest was unharmed, and tomorrow was the auction. If Laverne was going to speak up, that would be the perfect opportunity. Press coverage guaranteed … Gerrit finished his whisky and clicked off the light, then walked up to his bedroom. Miriam was asleep, snoring slightly with her mouth open. It was a pity they had never had children. Some buffer against old age, some offspring to keep an ego thriving in the world. Gerrit would have liked a kid …