‘It was a good plan—’

‘Which should have worked.’

It was Conrad’s turn to look surprised. ‘It did work.’

‘No, the story of the Bosch deception is out. It’s gone global.’

Sighing, Conrad rose to his feet. ‘No one believes you, Nicholas. And when they dig deeper into your past they’ll discover your crimes and misdemeanours. You mixed with crooks and fakers; how suspect does that make your theory? And then they’ll wonder about the death of Father Luke and how you’re involved with three other people who died. It doesn’t look good for you, Nicholas. Not good at all.’

‘I’ll expose you!’ Nicholas snapped.

‘Another exposure? Do you really think anyone will listen to you claiming to be the brother of Conrad Voygel?’ He straightened up. ‘By morning you’ll be fully discredited. Probably in jail.’

‘I never killed anyone!’

‘Ah, but you have to prove that, don’t you?’ Conrad responded. ‘You hated Father Luke. You were close to Claude Devereux, you had access to Sabine Monette—’

‘She was killed in Paris while I was in London!’

‘You could have had an accomplice. Someone like Sidney Elliott …’

Nicholas was too shocked to speak.

‘… By the time you’ve been arrested, people will be baying for your blood. The art world wants to discredit what you’re saying about Bosch. And the Church – well, the Church isn’t going to come to your aid, is it? As for Hiram Kaminski, he’s already being pressurised. I dare say he’ll withdraw his support before tomorrow’s out.’

‘But I have the papers!’ Nicholas blustered. ‘The evidence of what happened to Bosch. I have proof!’

‘Which Gerrit der Keyser will authenticate. After all, you’re not a specialist or an art dealer and Mr der Keyser is. He will publicly state that an associate of yours stole the chain from his gallery. That it was all part of your plan.’ He shrugged. ‘Bring out your bits of paper, Nicholas. Wave them in the face of the world. Der Keyser will swear you took them from him. Once a thief, always a thief. Admit it, you’ve lost.’

‘Why are you doing this to me?’

‘I wouldn’t have hurt you, Nicholas, if you’d stayed in the Church. Out of the world, out of the public eye. Unknown, without any embarrassing connection to me. I had to do it.’

‘So what now? You’re going to let me walk out of here?’

‘Why not?’ Conrad replied. ‘You’re not going far.’

Eighty-Four

Honor was staring at her computer screen, reading the website Nicholas had put up, together with his blog. The responses had been quick and often vitriolic, some calling Nicholas a fantasist, others accusing him of sensationalism. It didn’t take much imagination to guess that most of the comments had been made by members of the art world. And BBC TV was trailing portions of Hiram Kaminski’s interview, followed by a mention that the police ‘would like to talk to Mr Nicholas Laverne with regard to accusations made against him’. In trying to support Nicholas, Hiram had inadvertently thrown suspicion on him. And now he was on the run.

If he had hoped for recognition, he had got it. Nicholas’s face was in the news and the papers, his image all over the internet. Not so much a whistle-blower, more a common fraudster. And worse, a suspect in the murders of four people.

Eighty-Five

Hiram Kaminski’s gallery, London

It was Judith Kaminski who picked up the phone, without recognising the number. Nicholas was using the new mobile he had bought. With an outward appearance of calm, she glanced at the police officer sitting next to Hiram and smiled.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ she asked the caller.

Nicholas picked up on his cue immediately. ‘I need to talk to Hiram.’

‘He’s busy – just a minute.’ She looked at her husband. ‘It’s Helen, my dear. She’s a bit upset.’ Covering the phone mouthpiece, she gave the policeman a whispered explanation. ‘She’s our daughter. Lovely girl, but having trouble with a man. She wants to talk to her daddy.’

She passed the phone over to a puzzled Hiram. ‘Hello, darling?’

‘It’s me,’ Nicholas said, hurrying on. ‘I know there’s someone there, but just answer yes or no, will you?’

‘Yes,’ Hiram replied, smiling at his wife.

‘You said that many dealers used Sidney Elliott?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he ever work for Philip Preston?’

Hiram could feel the eyes of his wife and the police officer boring into him but kept his tone steady. ‘Yes, he did. You don’t want to trust him, sweetheart – he treated you badly four years ago, with that business in Holland.’

Nicholas understood immediately what he meant. ‘Holland?’

‘You ask his wife – he has a mistress,’ Hiram said, feeding Nicholas information while pretending to talk to his daughter. ‘He’s no good, no good at all.’ Shaking his head, Hiram put down the phone, shrugging. ‘Women. What can you do?’

Moments later Nicholas received a text from Hiram. It was a phone number and Nicholas rang it immediately. A woman picked up, her voice agitated.

‘Philip! Is that you?’

‘No, I was wanting to talk to your husband.’

Gayle Preston was almost hysterical. ‘He’s gone! He’s left me for some bitch.’ She was crying, hopelessly desperate. ‘The bastard, the bastard …’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He thinks I don’t have any idea,’ Gayle said, her tone sly, unbalanced. ‘He thinks I don’t know about his little hiding place. He thinks I’m a fool. Running off with that woman—’

‘Where has he gone?’

Gayle didn’t stop to ask who she was speaking to or why he wanted to know about her husband. Distracted, she blundered on. ‘Our lawyer let it slip. Milan, he said. PHILIP PROMISED WE’D GO THERE!’ she screamed. Nicholas could hear a voice in the background. A woman’s voice, with the soothing intonation of a nurse. ‘You tell that bastard I hate him!’ Gayle hissed. ‘Tell him not to come back here. I DON’T WANT HIM!’ And with that, she slammed down the phone.

Nicholas knew he had to move fast. The police were looking for him and his face was in the papers and on the internet as a murder suspect. A man who merited the warning ‘Dangerous to the public. Do not approach.’

Leaving the safety of Kensington Gardens, he moved out on to Kensington High Street. It was still raining as he hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to Heathrow airport. He had been outsmarted and outmanoeuvred. Der Keyser wasn’t the villain, neither was Conrad Voygel. Sidney Elliott had been the killer, but his paymaster was Philip Preston. Nicholas had been tricked by the auctioneer, trussed up like a Christmas goose. If he didn’t stop him, Philip Preston was going to escape punishment and leave the country.

While he was going to jail.

Eighty-Six

Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5

Running across the concourse, Nicholas checked the flights to Milan. The plane was due for boarding in thirty minutes, the passengers milling around the departure hall or in the the large VIP lounge. He glanced inside, spotted Philip Preston’s white head of hair in the distance and approached the door. He was stopped immediately.

‘Your boarding pass, sir.’

‘I’m not flying, I’m meeting a friend here,’ Nicholas said, knowing that he wasn’t going to get into the lounge and unwilling to attract any more attention. Instead he backed off and headed for the Customer Service desk.

‘I have a message for one of your passengers, a Mr Philip Preston. He’s flying to Milan on the ten p.m. departure.’ Nicholas was talking quickly, nervously. Knowing he was giving himself away, he took in a breath and slowed himself down. ‘I have to talk to him. His wife – my sister – has gone into labour early. I can’t get into the VIP lounge because I don’t have a valid ticket.’