by Connor, Alex
‘I bet you have,’ Oscar replied, temporarily putting Gil Eckhart out of his mind. ‘You remember what we agreed?’
She nodded, but looked a little anxious. ‘I just wondered why.’
‘Why?’ he repeated, smiling as though he was amused. ‘It’s business, libeling – that’s all. The art world’s a cutthroat place – you have to take any advantage you can. And besides, what’s the harm in it? You just have to listen to what’s going on and pass what you hear on to me.’
Her reservations were fading; she was too anxious to please the glossy Oscar Schultz.
‘I heard him talking about the murders. You know – the brothers, the dealers.’
Oscar nodded. This was going to work very well. Very well indeed.
‘I know about that, but I want you to tell me what else he talks about – and to whom. I want to know who visits him, when, and why.’ He stroked the inside of her arm sensuously. ‘There will be a bonus in it for you, of course. A little extra reward.’
She ran her tongue over her lower lip. ‘I can do it.’
‘I know you can,’ Oscar replied, his hand sliding further up her arm. ‘You’re a quick learner. Anyone can see that.’
Tuesday
Naples, Italy
1610
He was still bleeding when he reached the house, pushing open the door with his shoulder and stumbling in. A woman, her face covered in sores, glanced up from the table where she was sitting with two men, and then looked away. Face averted, Caravaggio, the most famous painter in Italy and now its most infamous fugitive, slunk into the space under the stairs. Once there he leaned back against the straw, his focus blurring as he slipped in and out of consciousness.
He had held all of Italy in his hands; Malta had once idolised him; Sicily had worshipped him. Notables had come from abroad to view his works and the Church made him a temporal saint in Rome. From his early whoring days he had clambered out of the shit into the Roman sun. From selling himself, and posing for cardinals’ titillation, he had painted his way out of the midden. Rewards had been opulent, plentiful. He had been courted, wooed like a virgin, Italy thrilling to the talent of her brightest son.
The sun goes out. Night comes readily, and the long dense shadows of cities draw back their wandering child.
Sleeping, his mouth falling open, Caravaggio’s hand rested against his knife, the short-blade sword always with him. Fame had not changed him. There was always a fight, some altercation he couldn’t avoid, some insult he couldn’t resist. Some provocation prepared, some friend insulted, some peer mocked. He swaggered like a greasy little tug amongst a fleet of shining vessels, bearing no colours but his own.
Down, down, down into the dark, into the burnt umbers and blacks of paints, into the tinted aspic of his works. And as his fame increased, so did his temper. Beaten out of shape by struggle.
Caravaggio turned over and pressed his face against the straw, dribbling from his cut mouth. He would sleep a little and then eat something, get back on his feet. His pardon was due, on its way from Rome, from the Pope, friends working their magic on the Pontiff to excuse a murderer.
He had never denied it. He had attacked Ranuccio Tomassoni. Not in an argument over a tennis game – as many first believed – but because of Fillide Melandroni. Jealous, believing that Tomassoni was her pimp, Caravaggio had cornered him. It was tradition, the machismo settling of scores. In one stroke Caravaggio had severed his rival’s femoral artery. The blood came pumping out under the sun, no shadows then, exposed in the daylight. Tomassoni clutching at his groin, shocked, the screaming cut off. Caravaggio standing, confused, the sword in his hand, his shadow like a tree stump, dark and blasted.
He had meant to castrate him, tradition for a jealous Italian. He had wanted Tomassoni neutered, never to make love to Fillide again. She was Caravaggio’s whore. She was Rome’s whore: beautiful and violent, dirty at times, at other times shining, glossy with massage and oils. Her face had forced itself into Caravaggio’s mind first, then his paintings. His Madonna, his St Catherine, his Judith cutting off the head of her lover Holofernes. Placid in paint and calmly, rigidly beautiful on canvas.
On the street, a whore. From the notables, the rich, Fillide slid at night into the bar brawls, the street fights. She could use a knife, was a match for anyone. Caravaggio was alternately stimulated and awed by her. She made a mouse of him, then a bull. She was uncontrollable, capricious, a liar without remorse. Afraid of nothing.
Oh, but she was, and Caravaggio knew it. Knew that she heard the seasons passing, and with them the terrifying power of her appeal. She would age. The fights, the drinking, the whoring – all would age her. If she lived until she was thirty, Fillide Melandroni would die foul.
Caravaggio shifted his position. The blood had dried, beginning to knit together the wound. And he knew he would live. That he wouldn’t bleed out. Wouldn’t be found stiff as a stuck pig on a pile of straw … His eyes flickered under his closed lids as he remembered Fillide – his idol, his vicious muse, the woman who had brought him to his knees.
All of Rome had come to see his paintings, and her. Gazing at the woman who aped a saint. Pretending goodness were there was none. A damned soul mimicking salvation.
But I would do it again, Caravaggio thought. Every day, every fight, every insult, every whore. Every drop of blood drawn by me or from me. His spirit flared like a damp match, struggling against itself. A fugitive he might be, shamed, hunted, but not for long. He would return and be the same again.
Everyone might pardon me, Caravaggio thought, the Pope might wipe my sins away as if they were little more than mud, but I would do it again.
I would do it all again.
Eighteen
Belgravia, London
9.15 a.m.
Summoned to the home of Bernard Lowe, Gil found himself directed into an uncomfortable drawing room overlooking a garden which was in the process of being landscaped. The house, in Eaton Square, had the usual grand façade, but inside the furniture was a mêlée of Italian antiques and hideous gilded reproductions. A variety of small chairs hugged the peripheries of the room like wallflowers at a school prom, and a high-backed sofa stood, obese and overstuffed, facing the bay window.
Gil hadn’t known that Bernard Lowe was in the room and was surprised when the old man peered round the side of the sofa.
‘Mr Eckhart, good to meet you,’ he said, pulling a portable oxygen cylinder closer to him as he made room for Gil to sit down. ‘You got my message?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘So you’ll work for me?’
‘Not a chance,’ Gil replied, sitting down and trying to get comfortable on the unyielding seat. ‘I’ve already been hired by Jacob Levens.’
‘But you can work for me now.’
‘Like I said, I’m hired.’
Bernard Lowe wheezed. He had the look of a man who was undernourished and over-medicated, his wig badly fitted. ‘So why waste my bloody time coming over here?’
‘I want to pick your brains, just like you want to pick mine.’
Lowe smiled, showing over-large false teeth. ‘You speak your mind, don’t you?’
‘Always.’
‘I like that,’ Lowe replied. ‘I’ve just had the house redone – garden’s being landscaped now. Buggers rob you for a few bleeding plants. Cost a lot of money, alterations do. And furniture. But then again, all good things cost money. Like paintings.’ He wheezed again, coughing like a goat, then composed himself. ‘You’ve seen the website, I take it? Mr Luca Meriss trumpeting his lineage and dropping hints everywhere like rabbit shit?’
‘I’ve seen it, but I can’t get hold of him.’
‘You think the wrong kind of people might be after him?’
‘Don’t act naive, Mr Lowe. You know the business. For every respectable Cork Street dealer there’s a villain. For every rarefied collector there’s an underling hired to grub around for the prize.’
Lowe feigned ignorance. �
��Meriss might be in danger?’
‘If he knows the whereabouts of those paintings, yes. And if not now, he will be soon.’
Lowe coughed, then thumped his chest like a scrawny ape. ‘You have to find him. Find out what he knows. That’s your business, isn’t it? Finding things out.’
‘Not any more. This is a one-off. I’m just doing a favour for Jacob Levens. But I’m guessing you already know that. News travels at the speed of light in the art world.’
The old man ignored the comment.
‘Want a drink? Or some coffee?’ Lowe’s hand wiggled in the direction of the refreshments, an incongruous plastic coffee pot sitting alongside bottles of Johnny Walker Black Label. ‘Jacob’s back on the sauce, you know. He was gibbering like an ass on the phone earlier.’
Gil sighed. It had happened sooner than he had anticipated, Jacob losing his nerve and talking. He always talked too much when he was drunk, always showed his hand. Sober, he was courteous and judicious; inebriated, he was a fool.
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That he’d found the bodies of the Weir twins and hired you to find their killer. A little bit of prodding got it out of him that it looks like the same killer who topped the Hubers in Berlin all those years ago.’ Lowe paused, his hands fiddling with the plastic tubing that ran from the oxygen cylinder to the mask on his lap. ‘You know what I’m up to, don’t you?’
‘You want to know about the Caravaggios. About the Fillide Melandroni portrait – and the other work Luca Meriss was hinting about. And if that turns out to be the Palermo Nativity,’ he paused for effect, ‘what wouldn’t you do to get your hands on that?’
‘But you said Mr Luca Meriss had gone quiet. Perhaps he’s missing? Or is he in hiding?’ Lowe asked artfully. ‘Of course if he does know where the paintings are, killing him would be pointless. The secret would die with him. Unless someone got it out of him first. With a nail gun in the bollocks.’
‘You think Luca Meriss is connected to the Weir killings?’
‘Now who’s being naive?’ Lowe replied deftly. ‘Think about it – Meriss bursts onto the scene announcing that he knows about the Caravaggios just after the Weirs have been killed.’
‘Coincidence.’
‘Nah!’ Lowe pooh-poohed him. ‘The Hubers were dealers like the Weirs. The killer’s after a painting – he has to be.’
Gil thought about the rumour he had heard about the Hubers having fallen out with Oscar Schultz over a picture. But he said nothing, just let Lowe run on.
‘There must have been a painting in the mix in Berlin. Someone knows about it. And I’m wondering if it’s anything to do with the Caravaggios – which have, so conveniently, got back into the news just after the Weirs have been killed. Now, tell me, don’t you find that just a bit bloody strange?’
Inwardly Gil agreed, but he wasn’t about to admit it changed tack. ‘What is your business, Mr Lowe? Oh, I remember – shipping. You must save on costs when you buy abroad. Shipping paintings is usually so expensive. Shipping artefacts isn’t cheap either.’
The intimation hit home. There had been rumours about smuggling dribbling around the art world for some time.
‘You’re on thin ice, Mr Eckhart,’ the old man warned him. ‘You want to mind what you say. People might take offence. Or perhaps you just like poking tigers to see if they’ll turn round and bite you on the arse.’ Lowe put the mask over his face and inhaled some oxygen; his lips were bluish. After a couple of moments, he took the mask off again and stared at Gil. ‘I’m not the enemy. Not this time anyway. You’ve got Oscar Schultz and Harvey Crammer to worry about. Bloody Schultz! Comes over so friendly, but he’s dangerous. In – and out – of a car.’ Lowe could see that he had struck a nerve. ‘I bet that’s another reason you want in on these murders, hey? Get close to Schultz again.’ When Gil didn’t take the bait, he pressed on. ‘Maybe you should have a look at Jacob Levens too?’
‘I’ve just remembered what I missed about the art world,’ Gil said wryly. ‘How loyal you are to one another.’
Unmoved, Lowe continued. ‘And there’s Catrina Hoyt in New York. Well, mind your step there. She knows about Luca Meriss.’
‘By chance? Or because you told her?’
‘I told her. And I’m telling you all this for one reason and one reason only – I want the Caravaggio paintings. That’s why I’m helping you, Mr Eckhart. You see, there’s one thing no one knows but me.’ He turned off the oxygen, one hand resting on the metal cylinder, staring at it pensively. ‘If you smoke around one of these you can blow yourself up. Did you know that? Blow your bloody head off. How’s that for short of breath?’
Gil kept his patience. ‘You want to tell me something, Mr Lowe. What is it?’
‘You couldn’t catch the killer in Berlin, and you won’t catch him in London, because you don’t know what his motive is.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Gil’s pulse rate speeded up. ‘Do you?’
‘Well, that depends. Can you get those paintings for me? If this Luca Meriss is genuine, can you get the pictures from him? I’ll pay him, I’ll pay you. But I want them – no collector, no dealer’s to get them.’ Lowe paused, distracted by a knock on the sitting-room door. ‘I’ve a meeting now, Mr Eckhart. Come back later, around six.’
‘Why can’t you tell me now?’
Lowe grinned. ‘I don’t do business like that, Mr Eckhart. I like to do things my own way, in my own time. Besides, I’ve a few jobs to do before we talk again.’ He heaved himself to his feet laboriously. ‘I want those pictures, you hear me?’
‘I hear you.’
‘I’ll give you the motive in return for the paintings. Fair swap, I’d say.’
Nineteen
Berlin
11.00 a.m.
Luca Meriss reached for his phone and pressed the redial.
It was answered almost immediately.
‘What happened to you?’ Catrina asked, sitting bolt upright on the side of her bed. They had been cut off mid-conversation, just as Luca was about to tell her the name of one of his email correspondents.
‘Someone attacked me.’
She thought of her own break-in and flinched. ‘What did you say?’
‘Someone broke into my flat. The whole place has been trashed. I was knocked out and I’ve just come to. They cut the phone line – I’m using my mobile.’
‘Who broke in?’
‘I don’t know! Some man,’ Luca said, almost in a wail. ‘He came up behind me, tried to strangle me. I told you, I blacked out.’
‘Was anything taken?’
‘Nothing. It’s all messed up, but nothing’s gone.’
She was baffled, trying to gather her thoughts. ‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing!’
‘He must have said something! Didn’t he ask you anything?’
‘No! I’ve told you, he knocked me out. He must have just wanted to search the place.’ Luca was almost hysterical. ‘I can’t stay here! I have to get away.’
Catrina was silent, thinking. Thinking that Luca Meriss was in trouble. That his naive grasp at fame had triggered a reaction he had never expected. He might be mocked for his claim to be related to Caravaggio, but the danger was not in his hubris but in his supposed knowledge.
‘Do you know where the Fillide Melandroni portrait is?’
After a pause, Luca replied in a low voice. ‘Yes.’
Catrina felt a thrill shoot through her. ‘And the other painting – the one you hinted at – do you know where that is?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have proof?’
‘Yes.’
Her voice took on a suspicious tone. ‘So why didn’t your attacker ask you for it?’
‘I blacked out!’ Luca wailed. ‘How could he? Maybe he was in a hurry, maybe he was scared of getting caught, maybe something scared him off. How do I know?’ he went on plaintively. ‘What if he comes back? What if—’
‘Is the proof with you?’
&nbs
p; ‘Of course not! I’m not that big a fool! Jesus, what the hell’s going on?’
‘Calm down!’ she snapped, thinking back to their interrupted conversation. ‘You were reading out the names of the people who’d emailed you. What was the last name you mentioned?’
His mind was a sudden blank. ‘I dunno, I can’t remember—’
‘Think!’
‘It was … it was … The London Galleries Limited.’
The name jangled inside her. It was familiar, but as more of a rumour than a fact. Where had she heard it? Where?
‘I’m leaving,’ Luca said suddenly, looking around him. ‘I have to get out of here! I have to leave Germany. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Where are you going?’ Catrina shouted, desperate not to lose track of the man who could lead her to the Caravaggios.
‘I don’t know. I just have to get away from here.’
‘Have you got any family?’
‘My father. He lives in Palermo.’
Palermo, Sicily – the place from which Caravaggio’s Nativity of St Lawrence and St Francis was stolen decades earlier. A coincidence? Catrina thought not. In fact she was beginning to believe Luca Meriss’s story, incredible as it sounded. And then she realised that the attacker was not the only one who knew about Luca’s claims. Bernard Lowe would have spread the news in the art market, and Luca’s postings on the internet would have already reached every nosy cranny of the art world. When he put up his first post Luca Meriss had all but painted a target on his forehead.
Catrina took her second gamble in two days. ‘Come to New York—’
‘What?’
‘I’ll pay for the ticket. Just get here. I’ll text you the details on your cell, and my address. You do have a passport, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. I’ve worked all over the world.’
‘And another thing, Mr Meriss,’ she said silkily. ‘That proof you were talking about …’
‘About the paintings or about who I am?’