And then he remembered Eloise and winced.

*

For the third time in an hour, Philip Preston looked out of his window to check that his security guards were still there. He had chosen to sleep in the office at the auction house, within feet of the safe in which the two chains were locked up. Philip rubbed his chin, feeling the scratch of stubble, thinking of Gayle. He would never see her again. After the auction he would leave with Kim Fields, a rich – and free – man.

But that was later. He still had the rest of the night to get through and dawn was slow in coming. He wondered if Nicholas Laverne were sleeping, or if he were awake too, knowing that within the space of twelve hours nothing would ever be the same again.

*

Another man was awake too. Conrad Voygel was rereading the auction house catalogue, staring at the glossy photograph of the Bosch chain and knowing that soon he would own it – if not the secret that had been hidden inside. Sidney Elliott had failed him there, but nothing would have persuaded Conrad to work with the academic any longer. He was unbalanced, aggression always just below the surface.

Not like Nicholas Laverne: his aggression was curtailed and the reason was obvious. He was playing safe, waiting for his moment. When the chain was auctioned the ex-priest would speak up and hurl himself back into notoriety again. Conrad knew the type: the righteous hero.

It would have been so much better if Laverne had stayed in France. Out of London, away from the auction. Stayed an anonymous priest, removed from a world too clever for him. Perhaps he hadn’t realised how much danger he was in. The art world was watching Laverne, the Church was watching him, even the police had him under observation – and God only knows how many others. But Laverne was determined. He was vengeful, reckless and, worst of all, a zealot. The deaths of Claude Devereux, Sabine Monette, Thomas Littlejohn and the priest had not deterred him. He was ripe for martyrdom, out for justice as well as revenge, hoping to bring Hell down on the Church and, indirectly, the art world.

Within hours Nicholas Laverne would be world news, his family interrogated, his past picked over, his intentions questioned. Fêted by some, despised by others, targeted by a dangerous few, his accusations would draw interest and attention globally. Nicholas Laverne – the infamous whistle-blower who became an outcast.

And should have remained one.

Seventy-Three

‘You’re awake,’ Father Michael said, looking up as Nicholas entered the kitchen. ‘Did you sleep?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I was dreaming again. Always dreaming. I don’t feel like I had any rest … Did you sleep?’

‘Not much.’

‘Did you hear anything last night?’

‘Nothing, it was quiet,’ Father Michael replied, putting the kettle on to boil. ‘It surprised me, to be honest. Maybe they’ve given up. They might think that because you haven’t spoken out so far, you have decided against going public.’ He paused, staring at Nicholas curiously. ‘Have you?’

He shook his head.

‘No. Nothing would make me change my mind now.’

‘I’m glad,’ the old priest replied, laying out two place settings for breakfast. Two mats, two plates, two sets of cutlery, two cups and saucers. Old-fashioned, oddly comforting to Nicholas.

‘I’m just going to have a quick shower. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

‘I’ll have breakfast ready when you get back,’ the old priest said kindly. ‘We’ve got a big day ahead of us.’

Nicholas was halfway up the stairs when he remembered something and made his way back to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. Obviously he hadn’t heard him, because Father Michael was by the window with his profile to Nicholas, and he was putting something into a cup of tea. Nicholas could see the steam rising and then glanced at the table. There were the two placing settings, but one cup and saucer was missing. His.

Nicholas remembered the conversation:

‘You don’t think it was deliberate, do you?’ Father Michael had asked.

‘What?’

‘You being ill. I mean, you don’t think—’

‘Someone poisoned me? No, this is one thing we can’t blame on the Church …’

His heart pumping, Nicholas backed away. It made sense in an instant: the dreams, the sickness, the stomach pain, the restless, frenzied anxiety … But Father Michael? Of all the people after him he had never suspected the priest. Silently he climbed the stairs, making sure that the old man didn’t hear him. Throwing on his clothes, he then slid open the back window and looked out. There was a flat roof about eight feet below and he jumped on to it, pausing for a moment to check that he hadn’t been heard.

He could easily overpower the old priest, but not if he had accomplices … A moment later Nicholas had lowered himself on to the gravel and was running as fast as his legs would carry him towards the main road.

Seventy-Four

Philip Preston’s Auction House, Chelsea, London

There was half an hour to go before the auction. The turnout was even better than Philip had expected and his palms were sweating with tension as he looked around the hall. He knew most of the faces, but others were new to him – one of them probably being a bidder on behalf of Conrad Voygel. Which one, Philip didn’t know, but he was certain the IT giant wouldn’t let the Bosch chain go to anyone else.

A tap on his shoulder made him jump, as Gerrit smiled up at him. ‘Lovely display,’ he said, jerking his head towards the raised dais, where there was a massive photograph of the chain on an easel. ‘Which one is it?’

Grabbing his arm, Philip hustled him into the office and closed the door behind them. ‘Keep your voice down. Someone could have heard!’ He forced himself to calm down, smoothing out his waistcoat.

Gerrit began to laugh. ‘You look fucking scared.’

‘Really?’ Philip asked, surprised. ‘I thought I was covering it up well.’

‘Honthorst thought he covered up his pockmarks well. Both of you were wrong.’

Philip smoothed his waistcoat again, nervous, edgy. ‘I don’t know if I’m up to all this. I keep waiting for something to happen – like the gunfight at the OK Corral.’ He glanced at Gerrit. ‘Nothing from Laverne?’

‘Silent as the grave,’ Gerrit said wryly. ‘In which he might well be before long.’

‘You wouldn’t—’

‘Kill Laverne? Don’t be bleeding soft, Philip. Why should I care if the secret comes out or not? It’s the bloody Church that has to worry.’ Gerrit moved over to the safe and tapped it with his forefinger. ‘Go on, I won’t tell anyone. Which one did you pick to auction?’

‘They were exactly the same. What difference does it make?’ Philip replied, checking his reflection in the cloakroom mirror and then walking back over to Gerrit. ‘I’ve been thinking: why don’t we get the other one melted down?’

‘You are a fucking amateur! When you’ve buggered off abroad, I’ll wait for a while and then go to one of my best clients and tell them that the one you auctioned was a fake – and then I’ll sell them the real one.’

‘That makes me look good,’ Philip said sarcastically.

‘Oh, I’ll say it was a mistake. The buyer won’t give a shit – if they think they got the genuine article.’

‘I want half of whatever you get.’

Gerrit nodded, then changed tack. ‘Nicholas Laverne was clever, faking a fake. Nice touch. He would have done well in business – pity he became a fanatic.’

‘He gets what he wants in the end. To crucify the Church—’

‘He hasn’t done it yet,’ Gerrit said wryly. ‘No one’s the winner until they cross the finishing line.’

Seventy-Five

No one could be trusted, Nicholas thought as he ran along the road and then jumped on a bus. He could hardly believe what he had seen. His old mentor had been working against him all the time. Either from choice or pressure, Father Michael had tried to stop Nicholas – and he had nearly succeeded. Far from being idle, the Church had been working hard to silence him. They might have succeeded too if he hadn’t been lucky the night he collapsed, a tourist finding him unconscious on Brompton Road.