by Connor, Alex
Gil nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not too well at the moment. He’s had a shock.’
Gil could see the flicker of interest in Crammer’s eyes.
‘What kind of shock?’
‘He found two bodies. The Weir twins were murdered this morning.’
‘I know. I saw the news.’
‘Where?’
‘On my laptop.’
‘I mean, where were you when you found out?’ Gil pushed him.
‘About three thousand feet above the Atlantic, on a flight back to Heathrow.’ Crammer paused, head on one side. ‘Did we meet in New York?’
‘No.’
In fact Gil had come across him seven years earlier, in Berlin. Crammer had been visiting the city to see an exhibition of Barocci’s works at the Huber Gallery. Ostensibly he had wanted to buy some drawings. But he had made no purchases, just disappeared – vaporised into nothingness – straight after the murders of Alma and Terrill Huber.
‘Rome?’
Gil shook his head.
‘Perhaps Berlin?’
He had known all along, Gil realised. Just playing with him.
‘Yes, I remember now. You were investigating the Huber murders.’
‘Which happened just before you left Germany,’ Gil replied. ‘And here you are, back in London – just after the Weir murders. Strange, isn’t it?’
‘No. What is strange is your being here asking me questions. Almost – dare I say it – interrogating me. Why is that, Mr Eckhart? The police haven’t contacted me, so why are you here?’ He paused, then carried on when Gil didn’t reply. ‘The Huber murders were grotesque. I remember the fallout from those killings. No one felt safe for a long time. And they never caught the murderer, did they? Neither the police, nor you.’
‘No, we never caught him.’
Crammer was thoughtful. ‘You said that Jacob Levens found the bodies of the Weir twins?’
‘Yes.’
‘And of course you know that his sister – Alma Huber – was one of the Berlin victims.’
‘Of course I do. I was involved in that case,’ Gil replied shortly. ‘In fact, three of the people who were around at the time of the Berlin killings are now involved again. You, Jacob Levens and myself. But now it’s London.’
Crammer’s tone hardened. ‘I have nothing to do with the Weir murders. Or, if it comes to it, the Huber deaths.’
‘But that’s not true, is it, Mr Crammer?’ Gil said evenly. ‘After all, Alma Huber was your ex-wife.’
Fourteen
Berlin
6.00 p.m.
Luca was still shaking when his mobile rang. For a moment he was tempted to ignore it, but then he answered tentatively. ‘Hello?’
‘Luca Meriss?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Catrina Hoyt. You’ve just emailed me.’ She paused, surprised by his lack of response. ‘You wanted to talk, so talk.’ Frowning, she continued. ‘For God’s sake, you’ve been pestering me enough! You even broke into my gallery—’
‘What?’ Luca replied, taking a seat in front of the laptop and slamming down the lid to obliterate the image online. ‘I never came to your gallery!’
‘But you called me.’
‘No, I didn’t! I just contacted you by email. How could I come to your gallery? I’m in Berlin.’
Surprised, Catrina thought for a moment.
‘Aren’t you pretending to be Caravaggio’s descendant?’
‘I am his descendant,’ Luca replied. ‘I have proof.’
‘And you said that you knew about the Fillide Melandroni portrait?’
‘Yes.’
‘And another very important Caravaggio work – a famous missing work?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he agreed. ‘That was me.’
‘So who the hell broke into my gallery?’ Catrina asked, thinking quickly. ‘This story of yours—’
‘It’s no story! It’s all true.’
‘OK, whatever. Who else knows about it?’
‘No one.’
‘Someone must,’ she said drily. ‘I don’t like to be the one to break it to you, Mr Meriss, but I think someone’s trying to steal your thunder.’
‘But no one else knows! I’ve only just put it up on the internet—’
He stopped short. ‘What’s the matter?’ Catrina asked, alert.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t mess me about! You were going to say something. What was it? Has someone contacted you already?’ She could sense she had hit a nerve. ‘What?’
‘Why would they send it?’
‘Send what?’
‘The photograph. Someone sent me a photograph—’
She took charge at once. Afterwards she would ask herself why. Was it just because she wanted to know about the missing paintings? Cut out her rivals? Thumb her nose at the art world who had sneered at her for so long? Or was it because she wanted to know who had broken into her gallery? Who had had the gall to trick her and make a fool out of her?
‘Forward it.’
‘What?’
‘Forward the photograph to me.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Do it!’ she snapped.
A couple of moments later Catrina Hoyt was staring at an image she hadn’t expected. An image she hadn’t wanted to see. But she had invited the image into her life – and could never delete it.
Fifteen
London
After leaving Harvey Crammer’s flat, Gil made his way into the centre of the capital, to the sluggish heart of the art district. The protracted recession had buckled the business; trading was still continuing, but in a limited, cautious way. The Russians and the Chinese were now buying, bringing their cash into the British capital in the same way the Arabs had in the 1970s.
Walking up New Bond Street, past Asprey, Chanel and Versace, Gil took a turning towards Cork Street. Some of the galleries had closed for the night. Some had changed and were now under different names or different management, but many of the old stalwarts remained. The same genre scenes and Dutch still lifes groaned from their gilded frames, the same smattering of Elizabethan portrait heads smirked out of doily ruffs, and the same brittle German nudes glowered out into the winter dusk.
Gil was staring at one when someone called out to him.
‘Gil, is that you?’
He turned, trying to make out the figure that was silhouetted against a street lamp, finally recognising Oscar Schultz. Of course, Gil thought. Who else? The tom-toms had been working overtime. He had only been in the area for minutes and had already been spotted.
‘Are you working on the Weir case? I hope so – we need you. Everyone’s really scared.’ He looped his arm around Gil’s shoulder, apparently impervious to his resistance. ‘It’s good to see you. How long has it been? Five years?’
‘Seven.’
Oscar nodded, giving Gil a quick hug and then releasing him. He didn’t appear to notice the animosity coming from the other man. Or maybe he did, and was just deliberately ignoring it. Just as he made the deliberate mistake of saying five years instead of seven.
‘Jacob’s in shock. In fact, I think he’s drinking again, and that’s not good. Not good for him at all,’ Oscar went on. ‘The police are talking to all of us, interviewing everyone, but no one knows anything. I mean, why would they?’ He dropped his voice. ‘Jacob said they’d been tortured.’
‘Yes, they were.’
‘But I heard that nothing was stolen. Is that true?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But if you’re working on the case you should know—’
‘Should I, Oscar?’
He could feel his blood rising, his anger veering out of control as he faced the dealer. This was the man he hated, the man he blamed for ruining his life. And much as Gil might hope his feelings had faded, they had not. Instead they had seemed to flourish during the intervening years.
The German’s boyish face flushed.
‘I see there’s a little bad feeling between us.’
‘Not a little, Oscar – a lot of bad feeling,’ Gil countered, staring at the man who had killed his first wife.
Oscar Schultz had driven into the side of Holly’s car in Berlin seven years earlier. He had been travelling at speed and the impact had crushed the vehicle, trapping her in the wreckage. It had taken over an hour for Holly to be cut free. Sixty minutes, while the paramedics struggled to stop the bleeding. Sixty minutes, while they tried to resuscitate her. For a short time it seemed that she might survive, but Holly Eckhart died in hospital later that night.
Everyone said it had been an accident. That the traffic lights had been faulty and that Oscar Schultz wasn’t to blame. But he escaped from the crash with trivial injuries and Holly died. And now, meeting up with her widower, Oscar Schultz couldn’t – or wouldn’t – even remember the year it had happened.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ Oscar went on, his tone injured. ‘I’ve found it as hard to live with as you have—’
‘I doubt that,’ Gil said, moving off.
Embarrassed, Oscar followed him.
‘Are you taking the Weir case? Jacob said that they were killed the same way those dealers were—’
‘The Hubers. Their names were Alma and Terrill Huber. You know that well enough.’ Gil paused, looking the man up and down. ‘I see you and all I can think of is that time in Berlin. The art colony was panicking then too, just like they are now. Everyone terrified that the killer would come after them. You were terrified, Oscar. Scared shitless. But not scared enough to miss a PR opportunity. I remember you giving interviews to the press in Berlin, and on the television. You were even thinking about going into politics, weren’t you? But then you killed Holly. So I suppose the political career didn’t come off?’
‘It was an accident!’
‘Yeah, that’s what you say. That’s what everyone says. But you know something? I don’t believe it. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now.’
Oscar snorted with outrage.
‘You think I deliberately killed your wife? Are you bloody crazy? What reason would I have?’
‘I don’t know. But you were in Berlin when the Hubers died. You’d done business with them for years, but suddenly you’d become enemies. There was a rumour that you’d had an argument about a painting—’
‘Dealers argue about paintings all the time! It’s the business.’
‘Maybe. But you’d been close friends. You weren’t just dealers; your families socialised. And now here you are, in London, and the Weirs have just been killed—’
‘I came over for an auction!’
‘Did you buy anything?’
‘No,’ Oscar said, his tone incredulous. ‘You think I had something to do with the murders?’
‘Which ones? The ones in Berlin or the ones in London?’
Oscar folded his arms, suddenly arrogant.
‘You suspect me of being involved with the Weir killings because I was around when the Hubers were killed? That’s coincidence, not motive.’ He paused, taunting Gil. ‘But then you never found out what the motive was, did you? Neither did the police. To all intents and purposes it might just have been some lunatic. A drug addict looking for easy money.’
‘Nothing was stolen from the Huber Gallery. Not even the petty cash,’ Gil responded. ‘And the Hubers were tortured. So what were they hiding? Eventually I came to the conclusion that they must have told their attacker what he wanted to hear, otherwise there would have been more murders.’ Gil paused. ‘But that can’t be the case now. Not when the Weirs have been killed in exactly the same way. So I’m back to square one. What did – does – the killer want?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
‘You wouldn’t. Unless you were the killer.’
Oscar Schultz’s smooth features softened into an unexpected smile.
‘You’ve no other suspects? What about Jacob Levens? Alma Huber was his sister. And then there’s Harvey Crammer. I distinctly remember the Canadian being in Berlin seven years ago. And he was married to Alma Huber once.’
Gil watched him pull out names like corks from a row of bottles. He was guilty of something, but Gil wasn’t sure if it was murder. All he knew was that an innocent man wouldn’t have been so prepared. Oscar Schultz was prepped.
‘Frankly, Eckhart, you’re clutching at straws suspecting me.’ The winter evening was curling in, a cold wind shuffling up Cork Street towards the two angry men. ‘You’ve nothing to go on.’
‘You’re a liar and a thief – that’s a start.’
Oscar Schultz flinched.
‘And what are you? A bruiser with a history of picking fights.’
‘I never pick fights. I never start anything. I just retaliate.’
‘Is that supposed to scare me?’
‘No,’ Gil replied coldly. ‘But this is – if I find out that you killed my wife on purpose I will kill you.’
Sixteen
New York
11.30 a.m.
Unnerved, Catrina stared at the grisly image Luca Meriss had sent her. She could tell that the scalps were human, the blood fresh, and her stomach heaved.
Finally she picked up the phone again. ‘You’ve no address, no name, to tell you who posted this?’
‘Nothing,’ Luca replied, locking the door of his flat in Berlin. His hands were damp, trembling as he clung to the phone. ‘I’d just launched my website, announcing who I was.’
‘I know, I saw it,’ Catrina replied, trying to gather her thoughts. Bernard Lowe had seen it too, which meant that by now most of the London art world knew. And then it would spread to the rest of the business, in cities around the world. She stared at the image on the screen. ‘Did this photograph come through straight away?’
‘Almost immediately.’
‘Who knew about the website? That it was up and running today?’
‘No one. Only you.’
‘Well, I didn’t send it,’ Catrina replied drily. ‘Have you checked your emails since?’
There was a pause; she could hear Luca’s fingers tapping on the computer keys, then a surprised intake of breath. ‘I’ve got over fifty messages!’
‘OK. Look down the list. Is there one from Bernard Lowe?’
He checked. ‘Yes.’
‘Read it to me.’
‘… I’d like more information, Mr Meriss. Also would like to talk about your ancestor. If, of course, you can prove it’s your ancestor. Please reply and we can correspond.’
Luca paused. ‘That’s it. Nothing else. No attachments or photographs.’
The phone line was becoming indistinct and Catrina raised her voice over the static.
‘OK, now read me the names of the others who’ve sent you messages.’
‘You think one of them sent me that photograph?’
‘Just read the names!’ Catrina snapped, concentrating as Luca read down the list. Suddenly she stopped him. ‘Did you say Harvey Crammer?’
‘Yes,’ Luca replied, reading out the message the Canadian had sent. ‘… Please contact Mr Crammer by email. He would like to talk…’
The long-distance phone connection was poor, worsening by the second.
‘Go on,’ Catrina urged him. ‘Keep reading out the names.’
‘Goldstone, A. F. Holdings, The Fine Dealers Limited.’
She kept listening, then flinched and sat bolt upright.
‘Say that again!’ Catrina snapped. ‘What was the name?’
But there was no answer.
Only a long, dead humming down the line.
Seventeen
London
Moving over to a far table at the back of The Wolseley, Oscar Schultz ordered a coffee and a salad. No meat. He was a vegetarian. A non-drinking vegetarian, who had never smoked and never taken drugs. A healthy specimen, his body athletic, toned, his face sculpted. Listlessly he picked at the watercress on his plate, then jabbed at it with his fork. F
ucking Gil Eckhart. Fucking, fucking Gil Eckhart!
His head down, he thought of Eckhart’s threat and his hatred. Schultz had killed Holly, that much was true, but it had been an accident and the world had moved on. Gil Eckhart had moved on too, or so it seemed. Married again, apparently got over Holly easily enough. Oscar frowned, brooding. They had run into one another a number of times while Gil had been working in the art world. He had seemed to come from nowhere, arriving as unexpectedly as a yob at an opera. But not quite the yob he seemed – that much was soon apparent. To the surprise of the artistic elite, Gil Eckhart had an extensive knowledge of the arts. No one expected a bruiser to be able to tell a Fra Angelico from a Fra Filippo Lippi.
A broken nose, meat-packer’s hands and a serious weight-training habit didn’t gel with the denizens of the art world. Neither did the fact that Eckhart had a reputation for using his fists when provoked. In short, he didn’t fit in. But then again, he hadn’t wanted to. His speciality was investigating crimes and solving them; his knowledge gave him the entrée, his bulk the clout.
Oscar stared at the watercress on his plate, looking up when someone slid into the chair next to his.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing to do with you!’ Oscar snapped, glancing over to the woman beside him. She was fair-haired, around twenty-five, with an accent that he could place only too easily.
‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
Oscar reached out, taking her hand. ‘Sorry for shouting at you. So, how’s my little nurse today?’
Frieda dimpled back at him. ‘Thank you for finding me the job. I really needed it.’
‘No problem.’
‘I was struggling, and you helped me out. I’ll never forget that.’
He had no intention of letting her.
‘It was just a favour, nothing at all. And your patient – how’s he?’
‘Old, bad-tempered.’ She shrugged. The pay was good enough to compensate for the drawbacks of working for a sick man like Bernard Lowe. ‘I’ve had worse.’