Next he checked his blog, also ready to go live. Finally, he checked the emails he was about to send to newspapers, websites, radio and television stations around the globe – and to various eminent members of the Church. It was all complete, ready. When he pressed Enter, the world of art and of religion would find itself under blistering scrutiny, called to account for a deception perpetrated centuries earlier.

The cafe was dense with noise and the humming of computers. Relieved that he was not being watched, Nicholas glanced around him as a waitress approached. She was very young, with heavy eye make-up and a sleeve of tattoos, but she was friendly.

‘You want something to drink?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

She was persistent. ‘But we’ve got everything,’ she went on.

Distracted for a moment Nicholas looked up at her. ‘Honestly, I’m fine—’

He never saw him, just felt the punch land on the side of his ribs, as Sidney Elliott grabbed him and the waitress watched, horrified, as Nicholas was knocked to the floor. Desperate, he tried to reach up to the computer, but Elliott took hold of his arm and twisted it.

‘Press Enter!’ Nicholas shouted to the waitress.

She stared, transfixed.

‘Press the button!’ he shouted. ‘Jesus, please …’

She was moving in suspended time. Her gaze went from Nicholas to the computer and back to him again. The heavily made-up eyes blinked, her mind processing what was going on and the instruction she had been given. Then, like a leaf unfurling, the tattooed arm reached out, one finger extended.

And pressed Enter.

Seventy-Nine

Someone had called the police and now an officer was heading towards the struggling men. As Elliott saw the policeman he panicked, pushing over tables in his hurry to get out, computers crashing to the floor as people watched him run into the street. He was moving so fast he couldn’t stop in time, and a delivery van slammed into him and threw him several yards along the road. Panicked, the driver jumped out of his cab and ran over to the dying man.

‘I didn’t see him! He came out of nowhere!’ the driver babbled to the onlookers. ‘I didn’t see him!’

It was only seconds before the police officer reached the scene, but it was obvious that Sidney Elliott was dead. His eyes were open but blank. His limbs were contorted, his neck bent at an angle. Blood pumped from his smashed chest and oiled the street, speckles of vermilion flecking the white face.

‘Why did he run like that?’ the waitress asked Nicholas, bemused.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’

She glanced at the policeman who was bending over the body, then looked back to Nicholas. ‘You in trouble?’

He didn’t lie. ‘Yes.’

Nodding, she beckoned for him to follow her, taking the alleyway and then a sharp turn to the left. He didn’t question why he was following her, he was just glad of the help as the girl pushed open a back door and ushered him in. The place smelt of curry and joss-sticks, stirring an old memory of incense.

‘Come on,’ she said, showing him into a shabby sitting room. ‘It’s not much, but you’re welcome to doss here a bit. Wait ’til things quieten down.’

‘Why are you helping me?’

‘Why not? I was on my uppers once and someone helped me. Always said I’d return the favour one day,’ she replied, putting out her hand. ‘I’m Tyra, and the man snoring next door is my brother. If he wakes up, say you’re a friend of mine and he’ll be fine with it.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Who was the man who attacked you?’

‘Somebody who never got over becoming a nobody,’ Nicholas replied wryly.

Tyra pulled a face. ‘Well, anyway, the telly’s over there and there’s some food in the kitchen. I’ll be back later.’

‘Don’t tell anyone—’

‘You’re here?’ she grinned. ‘Don’t worry. No one tells anyone anything round here.’

Eighty

From the safety of Tyra’s flat, Nicholas dialled 141, to withhold the number he was ringing from, and then called Hiram Kaminski.

‘Sidney Elliott is dead,’ he said without preamble. ‘I think he was the man who tried to break into your gallery. He tried hard to stop me going public, but he didn’t manage it. The Bosch deception is out there now.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He was spooked by the police. It’s funny: when he saw them he completely overreacted, ran off and got hit by a van before anyone could talk to him.’

‘He didn’t want to get caught—’

‘That’s what puzzles me,’ Nicholas replied. ‘To outsiders, it was just two men fighting. He could have explained it away, bluffed his way out of it. No, there was more to it than that. When he saw that copper, he lost it. Bolted.’

‘But why would he do that?’

Nicholas thought for a moment. ‘Maybe he couldn’t risk being caught. Maybe he had more to hide than just attacking me.’ He paused, thinking back over everything that had happened, piecing it together. ‘Sidney Elliott was a desperate man. He was banking on finding out about Bosch. He was acting as though everything depended on it and got more and more unreasonable. Every time I spoke to him he raised the stakes: he went after my sister, he threatened me. He was a mess. Frenzied, dangerous. Oh God …’

Hiram pressed him. ‘What is it?’

‘I think it was Sidney Elliott who murdered Thomas Littlejohn, Sabine and Claude. Then he went after Father Luke to frame me.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Hiram was taken aback. ‘He was an academic—’

‘—who was one of the first to know about the conspiracy. I went to him, remember? I only gave him one piece of the Bosch papers, but it was enough to whet his appetite. Elliott was a bitter man, his life a failure. I think he saw the conspiracy as his last chance. He wanted to expose it. He wanted the glory of the discovery – so he had to silence everyone else who knew about it.’

‘But he didn’t kill you.’

‘He needed me,’ Nicholas explained. ‘Elliott never knew the whole deception – I was the only person who could tell him that. He couldn’t kill me, he could only threaten me.’ He thought back, slotting the pieces into place. ‘Didn’t you tell me that Thomas Littlejohn dealt in paintings and antique books?’

Hiram nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘So Elliott might have worked with him before on a manuscript.’

‘It’s possible. Sidney Elliott was an expert. We all used him,’ Hiram admitted. ‘But it doesn’t make sense. Why would a man like him suddenly become a killer?’

‘It wasn’t sudden,’ Nicholas explained, his voice rising. ‘Bit by bit, Elliott’s life had soured. I remember him almost begging me for “an adventure”. My rejection was another blow to his ego.’ He paused, thinking back. ‘He wanted one more shot at glory, and he failed. I think that was the turning point.’

‘And Thomas Littlejohn knew someone was after him,’ Hiram said hurriedly. ‘That’s why he wrote me the letter—’

‘Which Elliott didn’t know about. That’s why he didn’t kill you – he wasn’t sure how much you knew. So he scared you into silence instead.’ Nicholas thought of the dead man. ‘He wasn’t going for honour any longer. He’d killed, crossed the line. He was going for the money instead. Sidney Elliott was working for the person who would pay him the most for the secret—’

‘Conrad Voygel.’

Nicholas took in a breath. Then he asked, ‘Who bought the chain at the auction?’

‘The buyer was anonymous, but we all know it’s Voygel. The place was buzzing. And everyone’s looking for you. Your sister came to the auction trying to find you—’

‘Has the chain left the auction house?’

‘No. When I spoke to Philip Preston he said that it was being collected later tonight. There was some rumour about it being taken out of the country, but that could just be hearsay. One thing’s for sure: Preston’s got guards all round the place, security up to the hilt. He’s scared. Maybe he thinks someone will try to steal it before it gets to its new owner.’