David raised his eyebrows. ‘The painting that held the fourth detail?’

‘Yes,’ the dealer replied, glancing back to David. ‘The detail I’d struggled with for so long . . . it was owned by the man who had cheated Basinski.’

‘And?’

‘You know the rest.’

‘Tell me.’

‘It was to be the second part of the puzzle. Once completed, my debt was wiped.’

David chose his next words carefully. ‘What did Basinksi ask you to do?’

Again, the dealer rose to his feet. His pacing was slow, laboured, the room cramped. ‘Of course it wasn’t just about the money. I’d already worked that out. I had thought it was about revenge. And I’d been right.’

‘But there was more to it?’

The dealer paused, rubbed the back of his neck as though his muscles were stiff. ‘Oh yes, it was a double whammy, you see. A way for Basinksi to get his money back and get revenge at the same time. I was on a string, he could jerk me around and get me to do anything. And Basinski had plotted this move for years. The dealer who had cheated him, Leon Joyce, had probably forgotten what he’d done. Put it down to business . . . but Basinski never forgot. He had been humiliated, lost money and lost face. His revenge was to be perfectly pitched . . . ’

David watched the man talk, studied the pacing, the regular slow marching.

‘I doubt I was part of it to begin with. It just turned out that way. Basinski needed someone and I walked right into his plan. As I said before, I adored the private club in Hampstead and had soon become a regular. I was flattered to be allowed into this elevated, moneyed, circle. As the owner, Basinksi knew that, and possibly he let me win for a while just to keep me coming back. It’s psychological, you see. You win so much you think you can’t lose. So when you do lose, you think that if you just keep on playing you’ll start winning again.’ He shrugged. ‘Only you never do.’

‘You think Basinski rigged it?’

‘Probably. He counted on a gambler’s stupidity, and I didn’t disappoint him. I lost a fortune. And even better, I was an art dealer, with access to the world – and the dealer – who had humiliated him. I had access to a business that revels in its secrecy and inclusiveness. With me, Basinski had a way in.’

‘And you never saw it coming?’

The dealer smiled bitterly. ‘Does it look like I saw it coming?’

There was a long pause. The light on the recorder clicked off, fell into a rickety sleep. In silence, David watched the dealer and then finally spoke again.

‘Did you know Leon Joyce?’

‘Very well. He and I were friends, so were our wives. I spent time at his gallery, as Leon spent time at mine. We enjoyed each other’s company and collected similar paintings.’ He paused, then added: ‘Leon had no reason not to trust me.’

‘Which was why Basinski set you up.’

The dealer nodded.

‘And you never suspected.’

‘Never. I couldn’t believe it.’ He slumped in his seat. ‘Remember, I thought it was over, I thought I’d cleared the bloody debt. But Basinski had only just started. When I got over the shock, I finally asked what else he wanted.’

‘And?’

‘It was simple, he said “Just steal the St Jerome and we’ll call it quits”.’

FIVE

Before the dealer could continue, the door of the room opened and a prison guard walked in, addressing David. ‘Your time’s up.’

‘I was given an hour.’

‘And you’ve had an hour,’ the officer replied, gesturing for the dealer to rise. Smiling ruefully, but still elegant in his prison garb, he got up, then turned back to David. ‘I was a good art dealer, but a lousy thief. As everyone knows, I was caught during the robbery. Didn’t even make it past the alarms—’

‘But Bosch’s St Jerome is missing.’

‘Really?’ he replied. ‘I don’t know anything about that. I just know that I didn’t get it. Ask Basinski where it is. That bastard’s ruined me.’

*

David watched him as he was lead out. He could hear the dealer’s footsteps and those of the prison guard. He tucked the recorder into his coat pocket, ready to leave. Of course, he could never prove it, but what if the dealer had managed to steal the St Jerome? Even in the moments before he was caught he could have hidden it, or passed it out of a window to an accomplice.

If he’d been quick he could have done it and then allowed himself to be caught to give his helper time to escape. In prison, the dealer was tucked away and could do his three year sentence in safety – his family having been conveniently spirited away, out of the country. To an unknown destination; beyond the reach of the thwarted Iwo Basinski.

Secretly, David suspected that the dealer had organised everything. Had allowed himself to be played, whilst all along planning a double-cross. All he had to do now was wait. When he was released from prison he would go to his family – and the fortune the sale of St Jerome would eventually realise. He was a dealer, after all. The sale would be done discreetly, to a buyer who wished to keep it a secret – just like the dealer.

Getting to his feet, David picked up the photographs of the images and looked at their backs. But there was nothing. No clue, no tidy solution to his suspicions. Instead, on that rainy morning, David Gerrald left the prison wondering just who had been the victim, after all.

Read on for an exclusive preview of Alex Connor’s new novel

ONE

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London, the present day

‘Father?’

The priest turned, staring at a face he didn’t recognise. At first. ‘Nicholas?’

He nodded, moving towards the older man. Nicholas Laverne, forty-one years old, a man who had left London ten years earlier and had – to all intents and purposes – disappeared. Nicholas Laverne, the ex-priest who had railed publicly against the Catholic Church and been excommunicated for his pains. The same Nicholas Laverne whose very name was inflammatory.

‘Is it really you, Nicholas?’

He nodded in reply.

Hurriedly the old priest looked around, but there was no one on the street and, without thinking, he beckoned for Nicholas to follow him into the church. They entered by the back door, skirting the anteroom where the priests prepared for Mass, and moved into a gloomy kitchen. Turning on the light and pulling down the blind at the window, Father Michael gestured for Nicholas to sit down.

He hesitated, then took a seat. ‘I’m sorry I came here. I hope no one saw me—’

‘It’s a church. Sanctuary for everyone.’

‘Which is why you took me round the back,’ Nicholas replied bitterly.

‘You don’t change.’

He knew he should have been ashamed of the remark, but Nicholas was unrepentant. He stood over six feet tall, his hair black and dusty looking and his eyes blue. Well-fed and well-dressed, he could have been handsome. As it was, he had the appearance of someone recovering from a long illness.

‘Where have you been?’ Father Michael asked, making a drink for both of them and passing Nicholas of cup of tea. ‘D’you want something to eat?’

‘Why?’

Father Michael paused. ‘Why what?’

‘Why did you do it?’

The older priest shrugged. ‘What did I do?’

‘Nothing changes, does it?’ Nicholas replied. ‘Denial all the way.’

‘I don’t know what you want me to confess.’

Nicholas stared at the ageing priest, taking in the foxing of grey hair, the narrow face, the pale, appealing eyes. Perfect for confession, forgiveness oozing from every compassionate pore.

‘You turned on me.’

The priest shook his head. ‘You turned on yourself. And on the Church.’ He leaned towards Nicholas. ‘You acted like a madman. What did you expect? For the Church to sanction what you said? You had no proof—’