The Caravaggio Conspiracy

by Connor, Alex

  ‘How d’you get that rash?’

  ‘I won it in a raffle,’ Simmons replied drily. ‘The doctor said it was something I ate. I’ve tried three different creams, but nothing works.’ Still raking at his neck with his nails, he turned back to Gil. ‘Were there other similarities, apart from the scalping?’

  ‘The other victims were naked too. And the man’s genitals had been mutilated.’

  ‘The man’s?’

  ‘Last time it was a man and a woman,’ Gil explained. ‘Husband and wife. The woman’s breasts were mutilated.’

  ‘What about the rabbit shit?’

  ‘Rabbit skin glue. There was some in both of the victim’s mouths.’

  Simmons raised his eyebrows. ‘And the scalps were swapped?’

  ‘Yes. Their bodies were found in different locations. The killer took the husband’s scalp all the way across Berlin.’

  ‘Where he then stuck it on the wife’s head? After he’d scalped her?’

  Gil nodded.

  ‘And then he crossed Berlin again with her scalp to put it on her husband’s head?’ Simmons paused. ‘So he killed the husband first?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did he scalp them?’

  ‘We never found out, because we never found him.’

  ‘And now the Weir brothers have been murdered the same way. Same killer?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Gil shrugged. ‘I don’t know what’s been going on for the last seven years. I’m out of touch. Perhaps there have been other murders like this—’

  ‘Not in London.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should check out what’s been going on in Germany. And everywhere else, if it comes to that.’ Gil sighed. ‘Look, it was a long time ago, when I used to do this for a living.’

  ‘You’re doing it now—’

  ‘No. I only came because Jacob called me. I’m not directly involved.’

  ‘But you know I’ve got to ask you about Berlin, don’t you?’

  Gil nodded. ‘Yes. But if I help you, you have to help me. Give me access to the pathologist, to your witness statements – the usual. I’m discreet, you know that. You can trust me.’

  Simmons put his head on one side. ‘So you are taking the case?’

  ‘I’ll have a quick look at it for Jacob. But I’m not getting caught up again. I’m retired, remember?’

  ‘Oh, I remember,’ Simmons replied, pointing across the gallery to where Jacob Levens was still sitting. ‘Question is, does he?’

  Three

  Berlin, Germany

  9.30 a.m.

  He was using straighteners, because he hated the way his hair crinkled up. Liked it to look groomed. Not like coarse, peasant hair. Still, he thought with pleasure, it was a luscious head of hair for a man over forty. Leaning towards the mirror Luca then studied his teeth, checking there was no plaque, no irritating reminder of a rushed lunch.

  The only part of his face he truly liked were his eyes. Dark brown, but not welcoming. Hard. Compelling. At times inviting, at other times cold. Rough trade eyes… His gaze moved down to the waiter’s uniform he was wearing. An outfit soaked in resentment, sticky with humiliation. Everything that a customer thought was in their eyes: words were irrelevant. Their expression said it all as they looked at him: man nudging middle age, waiting on tables. Trying to be pleasant and obsequious instead. An outsider, with his slicked-down Mediterranean hair and rent boy lips. Overblown, slipping out of his good looks and youth …

  Yes, Luca thought. I know how you see me.

  But not for much longer.

  Breathing in, he relaxed. Everything was in place at last. Within hours he would launch himself on the internet. He would also contact the papers, magazines, radio and television, and begin his blog. Facebook and Twitter were poised like greyhounds in the slips, ready to run.

  He had the name, after all. A name that was famous and, more importantly, infamous. The name of a painter who was also a murderer. Of course Luca knew that people might not believe him. Might never accept that he was a descendant of Caravaggio and the notorious Roman prostitute Fillide Melandroni. But he was prepared for that. Prepared for people to scoff and think him a madman.

  He knew better. He knew his bloodline, and what it meant. How it carried a secret. How he was the only man alive who knew the whereabouts of Fillide Melandroni’s portrait, long thought destroyed. But that wasn’t all. Luca also knew the hiding place of the most famous missing painting in the art world – The Nativity with St Lawrence and St Francis, stolen from Palermo, Sicily, in 1969. Allegedly by the Mafia.

  The portrait of Fillide was believed to have been destroyed in Germany in 1945. The Nativity had been missing since 1969. Although both works were valuable, The Nativity was a legend. Too famous to be sold on, too valuable to be destroyed.

  In hiding.

  As he had been.

  Waiting.

  Of course when he went public Luca Meriss knew that he would be setting himself up as a target, and not just for abuse. Revealing the portrait would be a coup. Its history was extraordinary, likely to catch the interest of the world. Luca wanted that. Fillide Melandroni was his ancestor: a beautiful, violent whore whose image shimmered out of many of Caravaggio’s paintings. Who wouldn’t want to own it? But The Nativity would stagger the art world. A painting valued at more than £60,000,000 would incite interest and greed across the globe. Every collector, gallery, connoisseur – and villain – would want it.

  But only he knew its whereabouts. Only Luca Meriss. Anyone who wanted it had to come to him. And if anything happened to him? It would be lost forever.

  As guarantees went, it was irrefutable.

  Four

  London

  Bette had been watching her husband from the doorway for several minutes. Knew the look. The same look Gil had worn when he told her about the death of his first wife – the clever, enigmatic Holly, of whom she was still jealous. The same look he had before when he was talking about his previous life and work. When he had mentioned the murder case in Berlin.

  Sensing her presence, Gil looked up. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Where were you? I woke up and you were gone.’

  ‘Jacob Levens called me. He had a problem.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  He didn’t want to tell her – not now, when she was only weeks from giving birth.

  ‘What happened, Gil?’

  ‘There’s been a double murder. The Weir twins. Jacob found the bodies.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘He’s in a bad way.’

  Bette sat down at the table, thinking of Jacob Levens. It had been summer a few years earlier and Bette had been working in the fashion business. A business in which she had failed dismally. On an impulsive gesture she had fled Milan and come to London, staying with her divorced mother. Which was something else Bette failed at. Two strong characters, they had clashed and before long Bette had been desperate to get a job and rent her own flat.

  At the same time Jacob Levens had been deserted by his long-time receptionist and, with an exhibition imminent, was frantic to fill the post. So when Bette applied to work at Jacob’s gallery, he took her on. Stylish, intelligent and a quick learner, she was exactly what he needed. The bonus was that she found a father figure, and Jacob a surrogate daughter. She was sparky enough to keep him on his toes, his irritation flagging in the face of her indifference. And when he drank, it was Bette who moved the bottles that Jacob thought he had hidden so furtively.

  She had looked after him because he had no one else. And Jacob had returned the favour by introducing her to Gil Eckhart.

  ‘You have to help him,’ Bette said, putting her hand over her husband’s. ‘He needs you.’

  ‘I’m not doing investigations any more. I swore off it, you know that.’

  Pausing, Gil wondered how much to confide. He had told Bette that the Weir brothers had been murdered, nothing else. And he hadn’t mentioned the similar
ities between their killings and the ones in Berlin seven years earlier. He didn’t want to tell her that. Didn’t want to put it into words, shake it loose again.

  She stared at Gil curiously. ‘The police don’t suspect Jacob, do they?’

  ‘No. But it would have been a hell of a shock for him to find them like that.’ Gil was lying, trying to avoid giving her any more information. ‘Maybe Jacob overreacted. Maybe he doesn’t really need me. The police can handle it.’

  ‘I’m pregnant, not stupid!’ Bette snapped. ‘I hate it when you keep things from me.’

  ‘I’m not keeping anything from you.’

  ‘You are, Gil! Tell me what’s going on.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Gil, what is it?’

  ‘You remember the case in Berlin I told you about? The murders of Alma and Terrill Huber?’

  She was beginning to understand. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘The Weir brothers were killed in the same way.’ He stared at her, held her gaze. ‘Don’t ask me for details.’

  She wasn’t about to. ‘So the police will want to talk to you about the Berlin murders?’

  ‘They already have. The detective in charge – Phil Simmons – was at The Weir Gallery when I got there. We talked and then he called me back. He’d been looking into the Berlin case and wanted to go over some details.’

  ‘Does Simmons think it’s the same killer?’

  Gil didn’t reply.

  ‘The killer no one caught?’

  ‘Let it drop, Bette. I’ll sort it out. It’ll all be over by this afternoon.’

  She wasn’t about to be brushed off. ‘But if it was the same man, where’s he been for seven years?’

  ‘Abroad. In prison. Hospitalised. Who knows?’

  In that instant Bette realised that their life might be threatened, shuddering under some sudden malignant force.

  Immediately Gil picked up on her anxiety. ‘Look, the police will just ask me some more questions and that’ll be it.’

  He smiled at her, but she didn’t respond. Instead she huddled into herself, folding her arms across her pregnant stomach. She could feel the baby moving inside her, restless, unnerved. Like she was. There were only a few weeks left of her pregnancy. Why couldn’t Jacob Levens have called in someone else? Why Gil? She owed the dealer her happiness, Bette knew that, but she was suddenly afraid. She didn’t want the stink of torture and murder coming into her home. Didn’t want her husband back in the life he had hated. She wanted Gil to be painting the nursery with her, counting down the last weeks of her pregnancy with her. Not travelling, not mixing with criminals, not talking to the police, not reliving the past. Not going back to Berlin. To his old life. To the memory of his first wife.

  ‘You’re retired. Jacob knows that.’ She paused, staring at her husband. ‘Anyway, why you? Why does Jacob want you to investigate?’

  He was trying to dodge the questions, to field the truth. ‘I’ve worked for him before, on other cases.’

  ‘That was years ago.’

  ‘Maybe so, but Jacob knows me, trusts me.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, there’s more to it. Like you said, he just found the bodies. So why the need to drag you in?’ She paused, holding her husband’s gaze. ‘Why do these murders matter so much to Jacob Levens?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do! Tell me.’

  He paused, then answered her. ‘Alma Huber was his sister.’

  Five

  New York

  3.30 a.m.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Is there anyone down there?’

  Catrina Hoyt paused, listening. It was still dark, dawn slow to show its face. Always a bad sleeper, she had woken to some sound she couldn’t place. Certainly loud enough to permeate the double-glazed windows. Turning over, she had listened for a moment. But apart from the endless siren and cab horns that embroider every New Yorker’s sleep, there had been nothing unusual.

  Then she heard another sound coming from inside the building, and jumped out of bed. Groping in the drawer of the bedside table, she pulled out a hand gun, gripping it tightly as she moved downstairs. The apartment steps were separate from the main building and ran behind the alarmed gallery area. Catrina made for the basement door.

  Flicking the safety catch off her gun, she opened the door and pushed it back with her foot. But when she turned on the light switch, nothing happened. Then she heard another noise coming from the basement. A noise that seemed as though someone intended to be heard. Spooked, Catrina put out her left hand, took the torch from the back of the cellar door, and shone its light down into the darkness.

  Silence.

  She wasn’t afraid.

  She could handle herself.

  Besides, Catrina was five foot eleven, muscular and naturally aggressive. If someone had broken into her gallery, she was going to take them on. It wasn’t the first break-in she had had. Slowly, purposefully, she descended the first few steps.

  A noise.

  A shuffling.

  She paused halfway down the steps, shining the torchlight around the cellar below. Packing crates were stacked against the walls, some propped up like coffins, others gaping open like the mouths of timber giants. Scanning the area, the torch beam picked out the workbenches on which the paintings were packed for shipment, and, next to them, the other benches where the pictures were unpacked, ready for exhibition.

  In the furthest corner, the solemn red eye of an alarm sensor blinked. Someone had walked past it. Catrina swung the torch, but whoever had tripped the sensor had moved out of its orbit again. Unnerved, she moved the light around, trying to catch sight of whatever was down there.

  The red light flicked on again.

  And off.

  She could hear movement, only yards to her right.

  She swung the torch round.

  Nothing there.

  Then the noise moved to her left.

  Again, she swung the light in its direction.

  Again, nothing.

  Then she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps just behind her.

  Six

  Hampstead, London

  1.00 p.m.

  Jacob Levens was in the sitting room of his flat, staring apologetically at Gil.

  ‘I shouldn’t have called you. Not this morning, and not just now. I don’t know why. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.’

  Jacob shrugged. He was nursing a whisky, making no attempt to hide it. And it obviously wasn’t his first drink either. He was, as ever, immaculate. Portly, yes, but carrying his excess weight as though he had paid good money for it.

  He gestured to the chaos around him. ‘Someone broke in. Wrecked the place.’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have to call them, Jacob—’

  ‘You think this is related to the Weir murders?’

  ‘Maybe. Have you touched anything?’

  ‘No.’

  He looked at Gil, reassured by his calmness. If truth were told, he had missed him. Like everyone else, Jacob could understand Gil Eckhart’s exile and his grief over the terrible and unexpected death of his first wife – but he had still missed him.

  Life had gone on for both of them – phone calls exchanged a few times a year, a note in a card at Christmas, but no meetings. Widowed for many years, Jacob’s whole focus had become centred on the gallery. He enjoyed the company of other dealers, but mistrust abounded in a business that relied on competition and luck. On the finding of a sleeper – an unknown masterpiece – or the successful bidding for an important lot at auction. It was a cultured environment but it had a venomous heart, and Gil Eckhart had known that.

  They had met when Jacob had hired him to investigate a theft at the gallery years earlier. His appearance had come as a surprise to Jacob, who had not expected to find a cultured intelligence inside a bruiser’s body. Physically strong, Gil had honed his fitness in sports, running every day whereve
r he happened to be. It was, he told Jacob once, the best way to get to know a city. But Gil was less forthcoming on how he had become an investigator. He said only that he had been in the police force briefly, and then worked in security in the Far East. Jacob’s best guess was as a bodyguard, but Gil never confirmed it, and surprised his friend again when he let slip mention of a degree in Fine Art.

  Such a conundrum, Jacob thought, relieved that Gil was back in his life again.

  ‘Why would someone do this?’

  Jacob shrugged.

  ‘Anything missing?’

  ‘Not that I can see. I don’t have anything expensive in the flat anyway. The valuable stuff’s in the gallery. There’s nothing worth taking here.’

  ‘Is the gallery OK?’

  ‘It must be. The alarm hasn’t gone off or the police would have contacted me.’ Jacob paused, nervy. ‘I was out for lunch, but I could have been home when this happened.’

  ‘No, I don’t think they were after you. Just giving you a scare,’ Gil remarked, looking at the man he had known for over fifteen years. ‘I had to tell Bette the truth,’ he added, ‘otherwise she wouldn’t understand why I agreed to help you.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her everything?’

  Gil gave him a steady look.

  ‘She’s heavily pregnant. There’s only so much I want her to know. I left some things out, but I told her you were connected to the murders in Berlin seven years ago. Told her that Alma Huber was your sister.’ He paused, watching the words take effect. ‘But not the rest. Not the details of how Alma was murdered.’

  Jacob was fiddling with his shirt cuffs, trying to hold on to himself.

  ‘I was supposed to find the Weir brothers, wasn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jacob. Were you?’

  He nodded. ‘It was set up for me to find them. For me to see them, to know it was the same person who’d killed my sister. I’ll never forget seeing her body in the morgue. Never forget what was done to her.’ He paused, repeating the words emphatically. ‘I was supposed to find the Weir brothers.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’