Nicholas thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Maybe he’s right.’

Eighty-One

The news of the Bosch deception hit the art world just after the auction had finished and Philip Preston was collared in his office by a couple of journalists demanding the whole story. Had he known about it? Had he any idea of the upheaval it would cause among the dealers and the galleries who would now start questioning their Bosch acquisitions. Composed, he met their questions with equanimity, steering the conversation over to his exclusive discovery that the famous Tree Man was, in fact, a portrait of Hieronymus Bosch.

‘But was he abused?’ one journalist asked. ‘And what if it’s true that Bosch’s family and the Church just kept churning out the paintings?’

‘The writings were hidden in the chain you’ve just sold,’ another man said. ‘I saw it online. A Nicholas Laverne posted it and wrote to the press. Who is Nicholas Laverne anyway?’

Philip’s expression was strained. He was surprised that Nicholas had managed the exposé and was now determined to curtail the damage. ‘Mr Laverne is a … man with a vivid imagination.’

‘You saying he’s lying?’

‘I’m saying that he could be mistaken. Look into his background and you’ll see what I mean. Mr Laverne relishes the role of whistle-blower. He also has a great animosity towards the Catholic Church. He was excommunicated ten years ago.’ Philip could see them all listening, scribbling or holding their recorders up to his mouth to catch every word. ‘Mr Laverne was also questioned by the police—’

‘What?’

‘– about the death of Father Luke. Late of St Barnabas’s church, Fulham. Apparently he was one of the priests Laverne accused of abuse.’

‘And the police think he had something to do with the murder?’

‘How would I know? Ask them,’ Philip said loftily. ‘But I think being cut off from the Church unhinged Mr Laverne.’

The seed was sown and took quick root.

*

Philip Preston wasn’t the only person to damn Nicholas. Within an hour of the news being posted online, Gerrit der Keyser gave an interview in which he intimated that no one believed anything Laverne said, and that he could easily have constructed the deception himself. Nicholas Laverne’s exposure was an irritant, he went on, but would not turn out to be the disaster people feared. His credibility was dubious and already one high-ranking member of the Church had labelled him ‘a poor, misguided fantasist’.

Only one person came to Nicholas’s aid. Hiram Kaminski gave an interview to be published in The Times the following day, going public to say that the Bosch deception was real. How did he know? Thomas Littlejohn had told him.

‘If it wasn’t true,’ Hiram said on BBC radio, ‘why would four people involved with it have been murdered?’

His words caught the attention of everyone listening, including the authorities. Within minutes of Hiram’s interview at Langham Place, he was being questioned by the London Metropolitan police. At the same time, Nicholas was leaving a thank-you note on Tyra’s table in Soho, together with some money – enough to pay for the black hoodie he had taken from her brother.

Patiently, he had waited until it was dark. Tyra’s brother was a heavy sleeper and his snores kept Nicholas company until 6 p.m. With the hood pulled up over his head, Nicholas left and made his way across town towards Chelsea. Sidney Elliott was dead, but that didn’t mean someone else wasn’t following him. Conrad Voygel had enough money to hire an army of watchers. Repeatedly changing buses, Nicholas headed for the auction house of Philip Preston.

It was almost 7.15 p.m. when he arrived, climbing over a wall and securing a vantage point from the roof of a garage. Almost concealed behind a series of steps, Nicholas watched the auction house. Hiram had been right: the doors and the fire escape were being patrolled by almost a dozen security men, the back exit monitored by a dog handler. He waited. An hour passed, then finally, around 8.20 p.m., a security van drew up. A moment later the white-haired figure of Philip Preston emerged carrying a small wooden box which he handed to a guard. After signing a document, Philip watched the van pull away, then turned and moved back into the auction house.

Leaving his hiding place, Nicholas jumped down into the alleyway and made his way out into the street, hailing a taxi and clambering in. ‘You see that dark van?’

The driver nodded. ‘Yeah. Want me to follow it?’

‘That’s exactly what I want you to do,’ Nicholas replied.

When the van finally arrived at Palace Gardens, Nicholas tapped on the glass which separated him from the cabbie. ‘Can you pull over?’

He did so, looking at Nicholas through his rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t tell me you live here? I mean, no offence, but this address is a bit rich for your blood.’

Nicholas smiled, watching the van continue along the road, then paid the driver. Keeping to the shadows, he moved down the Gardens, walking next to the high hedges and walls, aware that most of the embassies or private properties had intruder lights which would give away any trespasser. He could see the van draw up to the gates of a large house, then pause. The driver spoke to someone over the intercom and a moment later the vast gates opened to allow the van to enter. As it did so, the powerful outside lights came on, illuminating the drive and the front of the house. Drawing back, Nicholas waited. Ten minutes passed, then finally the van left, the gates closed, and the lights went off again.

Nicholas didn’t need to be told that this was Conrad Voygel’s house. Voygel, the man who now owned the Bosch chain; the man who had hired Sidney Elliott; the man who had approved murder to keep a secret. And all for what? Nicholas thought. He had published the exposé and now the world knew about the Bosch deception. Four people had died for nothing, and he had nearly been one of them.

‘Mr Laverne,’ a voice said suddenly, ‘will you come with me?’

Eighty-Two

Conrad Voygel’s house, Kensington, London

The room that Nicholas was shown into was surprisingly intimate, with soft lighting. A coal-effect fire burned in the grate and a Piranesi architectural drawing, ornately framed, hung over the fireplace. Next to a walnut desk was a statue of a blackamoor and beside it, incongruously, a child’s drawing book. Only moments after Nicholas had been shown into the room, the door opened and a man walked in.

Conrad Voygel was tall, dressed casually, his smile hesitant. The surgeon had done well. Despite the severity of his cancer there were no obvious scars, just a faint, hollowed area on the left side of his face and the overall appearance of tightened flesh. But when he spoke his voice was hoarse, the disease having affected his vocal cords.

‘Did you want to see me?’ he asked, sitting at the desk, the lamplight blurring his features.

Nicholas wasn’t fazed. ‘You bought the Bosch chain. It cost you a lot, not just in money.’

‘It cost me well above the reserve, yes.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Four people are dead because of you.’

‘No,’ Conrad replied. ‘But I should congratulate you – after all, you managed to expose the deception. Although no one’s taking you seriously – people think you’re a bit of a nutter.’

‘At least I don’t kill people.’

‘But you think I do?’ Conrad smiled awkwardly, the flesh pulled tight around his mouth. ‘No, not me. But I believe the police want to talk to you, and to Mr Kaminski—’

Nicholas bristled. ‘Why him? He’s done nothing wrong. He’s just backing me, that’s all.’

‘Backing you doesn’t seem a wise move, Mr Laverne. Backing a loser never is. You see, one thing I’ve learnt in life is that people don’t change. If you’re a whistle-blower, you stay a whistle-blower. If you’re reckless, you stay reckless.’ Conrad paused. ‘Why did you have to attack the Church?’