by Connor, Alex
Gil kept staring at the dealer.
‘Nothing was taken from your sister’s gallery seven years ago. Apparently nothing was stolen from The Weir Gallery this morning. And now this.’ He looked around at the mess. ‘Again nothing taken. So if it wasn’t robbery, what was the motive?’
Jacob shrugged.
‘When you arrived for your meeting with the Weirs, did you notice anything unusual? Was there anyone hanging around the gallery? Any cars parked nearby?’
‘I don’t think so. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, but then I wasn’t looking for anything out of the ordinary,’ Jacob replied testily. ‘I’m not good in the mornings.’
‘Not when you drink, you’re not.’
He took the comment full on, flushing. ‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately—’
‘Were you hungover?’
‘No. Yes, a bit,’ Jacob admitted. ‘I phoned them to cry off the meeting, but they didn’t answer and I had to go.’
‘When did you call them?’ Gil asked.
‘About seven.’
‘Did you leave a message?’
‘I couldn’t. There was no voicemail.’
‘Really?’ Gil said. ‘That’s unusual for a business. Or did you call them on their private line?’
‘I don’t have their private line number. I called the gallery phone.’
Gil nodded. ‘So when you couldn’t get hold of them you had to keep the appointment. What time did you arrive?’
‘I’ve told you, just before eight.’
‘Was the door locked?’
Jacob was getting flustered. ‘Open, or I couldn’t have got in, could I?’
‘You went in by the front door?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was the lock forced?’
Jacob thought for a moment. ‘No. It was just unlocked, like it is in the daytime. The buzzer sounded when I walked in and I called out to them, but no one answered. It was so hot in there—’
‘What was the meeting about?’
‘Some Guercino drawings. Sebastian had bought a couple in Japan and wanted to know what I thought of them.’
‘At eight o clock in the morning?’
‘They were early risers, liked to have meetings before they opened the gallery for the day.’
‘What about the flat over the gallery? How long had they lived there?’
‘Twenty years,’ Jacob replied. ‘They were a unit. They lived and worked in the same building, entertained their clients there, had had the same staff for years.’
‘The police have already checked out the staff – they all had alibis.’
‘Of course they did!’ Jacob snapped. ‘Whoever did this was a lunatic. The same lunatic that killed my sister.’
‘Did Alma know the Weir brothers?’
Jacob paused. His hands were agitated, his mouth dry, aching for a drink.
‘She dealt with them on and off. But mostly we knew different people. Alma lived in Berlin all her life. I married an English girl and hardly ever went back to Germany. Only to visit. I don’t know how much Alma dealt with the Weir twins.’
‘But if the same man killed them then they must have had some connection,’ Gil persisted. ‘Both the Weirs and your sister dealt in Italian art?’
Jacob nodded. ‘Yes, but Alma preferred the Baroque period to the Renaissance. She always wanted to handle the big names. She once bid for a Gentileschi painting, but she didn’t get it.’
‘What was she dealing in when she died?’
‘We went through this seven years ago.’
‘And we have to go through it again,’ Gil replied firmly. ‘What was Alma handling when she died?’
‘Nothing important. Still life, mostly. Her husband had had a heart attack and they were taking it easy. I don’t know if she had any new exhibitions planned. I don’t remember—’
‘Concentrate.’
‘It was seven years ago!’
Gil’s irritation was obvious.
‘You asked for my help and I’m helping. But you have to help me. You don’t want to go back seven years? Well, neither do I. You lost your sister back then. I lost my wife. I’ve spent seven years building my life back up and you’re asking me to risk it all again?’ He leaned towards him. ‘Well, I will, Jacob, because I owe you.’
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
‘We both know that’s not true,’ Gil replied dismissively. ‘I do owe you and we are friends. But you have to work with me, you hear? Because this isn’t just your past we’re talking about. And it sure as hell isn’t just your future.’
Seven
New York
7.00 a.m.
Shaking, Catrina sat down at her desk. Not that she would have admitted it to anyone, but she was rattled. The bastard who had broken into her basement had escaped, but not before he had touched her on the shoulder. Mocking her. Showing her that he was smarter, quicker. That he could have stabbed her as easily as he had touched her.
Suddenly her mobile rang. ‘We should talk.’
She could tell at once that the voice was distorted. The caller was using a device to disguise himself.
‘Was it you in my fucking basement?’
‘I was having a look around. I was surprised you came down on your own, but then you’re pretty tough, aren’t you? You look tough.’
Her voice was contemptuous. ‘I had a gun. I could have blown your fucking head off.’
‘You couldn’t even see me!’
They both knew that was true.
‘I’ve called the police.’
‘Ms Hoyt, you’re lying,’ the voice said gently. ‘You could hardly risk calling the police in. I mean, not before you had a chance to clear out the drugs. You’re still a user, I see. Cocaine. And all those anabolic steroids. How is the bodybuilding going?’
Now she was really listening.
‘OK, you’ve made your point,’ she said. ‘This morning you disarmed the alarm system, broke into my gallery, but took nothing. What d’you want?’
There was a pause, almost a slip of confidence.
‘To do business.’
‘So why the pantomime? Why not just come into the gallery to talk?’
He ignored the comment.
‘I’ve got something interesting for you. A missing Caravaggio painting.’
Exasperated, Catrina hung up.
She was wondering how the caller had got her number when he rang again.
‘Ms Hoyt.’
‘How did you get my private number?’
‘Why did you ring off?’
‘Because I’m not interested in a fucking hoax—’
‘But what if I told you it wasn’t a hoax?’
Her voice was dismissive. ‘I get crank calls weekly, and they’re all hoaxes. So I reckon yours would be the same.’
‘I went to a lot of trouble to show you how serious I was,’ the caller went on. ‘I could have hurt you this morning. I know what you are and what you do. I could expose you.’
‘Like hell!’
‘But that’s not what I want. I need you as a dealer, Ms Hoyt. I need your seal of approval.’
‘On some fake?’
‘This is no fake. I’ve got proof. I know where two missing Caravaggio paintings are.’
She still wasn’t taking him seriously. ‘And you know this how?’
‘I have insider knowledge.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I’ve got information no one has.’
‘Yeah? Well, I’ve got work to do.’
‘Don’t hang up!’
But she did.
Eight
London
Coughing up a gob of phlegm, Bernard Lowe wiped his mouth and then relaxed into his seat in the back in the car. Next to his feet stood a portable oxygen cylinder, a standby for when his emphysema worsened with a build-up in his lungs. For a moment he was tempted to use it, then he opened his mouth wide instead, dragging in a thin breath as
he lowered the window six inches.
From the front seat, his driver watched him. Wondered how someone so sick could still be such a bastard. Only that morning Lowe had denied him time off. Gary Rimmer snatched another look in the rear-view mirror. Lowe was banging his chest like an ape, trying to loosen more catarrh, to unwedge the shit inside his lungs. Any minute now, Rimmer thought, he’ll cough up again.
Today was a bad day. For both of them. Rimmer hadn’t got his time off, and Bernard Lowe was gasping like a sick goat. And wearing the shit toupee he always wore, Rimmer thought, glancing at his employer in the mirror again. Salt-and-pepper hair: supposed to look real, but made the old man look like he’d had his head thatched. Moron, Rimmer thought. How could he think it convinced anyone?
The car phone rang in the back and Lowe picked up, his northern accent pronounced, the vowels hard.
‘Hello? Who’s this? Harvey Crammer! Haven’t heard from you in weeks …’ Suddenly Lowe’s gaze met his driver’s, and without waiting to be told Rimmer slid the partition closed.
What Lowe didn’t know was that his driver had left a gap just wide enough for someone with sharp hearing to catch the gist of the conversation.
‘Catrina Hoyt, that big-jawed slut. You’re mixing with a rough one there.’ Lowe coughed again, spat, then leaned back. The traffic lights had turned red and Rimmer could hear the conversation clearly now that the engine was merely ticking over. ‘I don’t believe anything that transvestite says. What? I know she’s a woman! She just looks like a man in drag.’ Lowe sat up in his seat, his nicotined fingers gripping the phone as he listened. ‘She told you this? Caravaggio! Two missing paintings!’ He laughed, rocking backwards and forwards like a shifty clown. ‘Christ! If you believe that, you’ll believe anything!’
But Bernard Lowe was listening carefully, Rimmer could see that. Something had caught the old bastard’s attention. And the name Harvey Crammer rang a bell. Rimmer stared at the red traffic light, then remembered the Canadian, well over six feet tall, forehead broad as a playing field, a drooping nose topping a frog’s mouth. A relentless traveller, with a reputation for sniffing out sleepers.
That Harvey Crammer.
The lights back to green, Rimmer slid the car forward, disappointed as Lowe finished his call. In the years he had worked for Bernard Lowe, Rimmer had managed two things: one, a growing hatred of his employer; and two, an accumulation of facts about the art world. Facts he was sure he could either barter or sell. As he drove Lowe around the art centres of Europe, Rimmer had assuaged his boredom by eavesdropping. And gradually random names and facts had created a medley of character studies, insights and rumours.
It hadn’t taken Rimmer long to piece together the facts with the relevant person, or the rumour with the rumourmonger. He knew about Catrina Hoyt, with her size eleven feet and butcher’s hands. Knew about Jacob Levens, the dapper ex-alcoholic. And he knew about Harvey Crammer, charming as a silver bullet to a werewolf. It was all fascinating, but what Rimmer had just heard was electrifying.
Bernard Lowe had mentioned Caravaggio.
Rimmer knew about the Italian painter. Well, he knew how much his pictures were worth and how they never came up for sale. He glanced in the rear-view mirror again. If Harvey Crammer was talking about it to the bastard Lowe, there must be something in it. Puzzled, Rimmer frowned. They were rivals, two avaricious collectors butting heads at all the big sales. So why would the Canadian deliberately tip his competitor off? What advantage could there possibly be for Crammer?
Thoughtful, Rimmer studied his employer as they stopped at another set of traffic lights on Baker Street. Bernard Lowe had finished his call and was reading a magazine about oriental ceramics. But Rimmer knew better. Lowe might feign indifference to what he had just heard, but it wasn’t working.
Instead he had the twitchy look of a man in a betting shop picking out a winner for the third race.
Nine
Standing in the doorway of the nursery, Bette looked at the new cot and the magnolia walls. They needed painting, a job Gil had promised to do, but now it would be delayed. He was working for Jacob instead. Sighing, Bette reassured herself that the case might not take long. After all, wasn’t that what Gil had said?
Moving away from the nursery, she gazed around the flat. In one of Battersea’s town houses, it had high ceilings and wood floors, a Victorian fireplace and a window seat. A bargain, the estate agent had said when they bought it. Cramming in the clashing styles of Gil’s ultra modern furniture with Bette’s rustic chic had resulted in a mishmash, but the house was inviting, the kitchen looking out onto a long narrow garden and a shed where Gil kept his motorbike.
He seldom used the bike, but Bette had heard him leaving on it earlier. Easy in the traffic, he had said. I can get around quickly … Back to the old bike. The old life. The old wife … Bette had never met the mercurial Holly, only inherited her echo; that constant presence second wives feel around the breathing marriage to the widower.
In all fairness, Gil had not made an idol of Holly. In fact, his reticence on the subject managed to excite more interest. If he had referred to her often – Holly liked this. Holly used to say that. Holly loved to visit that place, read that book, watch that film – it would have been easier. But he didn’t.
So Bette created her own personality for Holly. She took the bare, wire hanger of what she knew and hung a full character on it. A photograph on Holly’s old website provided her with the image of a brunette with a long, narrow face and deep-set eyes, unusual, but attractive. Her intelligence was obvious; this much Bette could read from the photograph. The rest she guessed: that Holly was sexually confident, proud rather than self-conscious about her gangly legs and arms. That her work in computer science was indecipherable to most, but merely challenging to her.
That she was a force of nature.
Dead, but still deadly powerful.
And Bette hated her.
Hated that she had shared the reckless portion of Gil’s life. That it had been Holly who had known him, made love to him, lived those dangerous, exhilarating years with him. She would have relished the thefts and murders Gil had investigated. She would have discussed his cases with him. She would never have told him to be careful. Because she wasn’t careful herself.
Bette paused, ashamed of her hatred of a dead woman. She had no reason to feel threatened. She was carrying Gil’s child. Holly had never done that. She had made him a new life. She had won. With her, Gil Eckhart was a researcher, working from a home office, living in libraries, over the phone, or on the internet. She looked after him, made him laugh. He was a lifetime away from the art world and its machinations. He was safe. He was hers. And yet …
Before she married Gil, Bette had asked Jacob about Holly Eckhart. He had known her, and yet he had always been elusive about her.
‘She was unusual,’ Jacob had said, when pressed. ‘People were attracted to her. She had a force about her.’
‘A force? What d’you mean?’
Jacob had hesitated. ‘She was always travelling, always busy. Always on the hunt.’
‘What for?’
‘For everything. For experiences, work, people. Holly didn’t rest much.’
‘Where did Gil meet her?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jacob had replied. ‘He never said, and I never asked. He met her, he married her, he lost her. But now he has you. And that’s all you should think about. Holly’s gone.’
Or at least she had been. Until Jacob Levens had made the phone call that had changed everything. The phone call that threatened to take Gil back to the past – and back to Holly.
Ten
St Thomas’s Hospital, London
4.15 p.m.
Having been given access to Dr Dunning, Gil stood by the mortuary table with his arms folded, watching the pathologist. It was the same man who had been at The Weir Gallery, now looking even younger in his greens and his white cap.
‘Detective Simmons is delayed,’ the
pathologist offered, ‘but he said I could talk to you. I know you two have spoken already and that you’ve seen my reports—’
Gil interrupted him.
‘Actually, the police were late sending them over to me. I haven’t finished them yet.’
‘So what d’you want to know?’ Dunning asked. He was defensive, intimidated by the burly man on his turf. ‘The Weir brothers died from strangulation. They were tied together with picture wire that extended around both of their necks. It was used as a garrotte – someone tightened it by winding it around a piece of wood at the side of Sebastian Weir’s neck.’
‘What about the torture?’
Dunning paused. ‘It wouldn’t have killed them.’
‘How long would it have lasted?’
‘About an hour, maybe a bit longer.’
‘So the killer must have been in the gallery around six, if not earlier.’
‘How d’you work that out?’
‘He would have had to get in, overpower the brothers and tie them up. Then torture them. That would have taken time. Jacob Levens didn’t get there until just after eight and they were dead then.’
Or were they? Gil wondered. He only had Jacob’s word for that. Perhaps they were still alive when the dealer had got there. He might not have murdered them, but perhaps he had refused to save them. After all, it was a hell of a coincidence that Jacob Levens had found the bodies, considering his connection to the original crime in Berlin. It was true that there had been no obvious blood on Jacob’s clothes, but how much blood would have got onto a man who had not taken part, just watched the Weir brothers die? In the past Jacob had been a nasty drunk, prone to blackouts. Hospitalised more than once. And now he was drinking again.
Gil baulked at how quickly he had returned to his old life. At how easily he suspected everyone. Even a friend. It was one of the reasons he had left detective work. Not just because of the murders in Berlin or the death of Holly, but because he feared the change in him – the return of a man he had grown to despise.
‘How difficult is it to scalp someone?’ he asked, turning back to the pathologist.