by Connor, Alex
‘Both. Bring it with you. Don’t leave anything behind. Don’t contact anyone. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going – just leave Berlin.’
He paused. ‘Why are you helping me? I can never repay you for this.’
‘Oh, but you will,’ Catrina replied drily. ‘One way or another, you will.’
Twenty
St Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
12.00 noon
Pushing open the doors, Gil hurried towards the ICU, heading for a cubicle cordoned off with curtains. Seeing him enter, a nurse moved over.
‘You’re not supposed to be in here, sir.’
‘My wife’s just been admitted. An emergency.’ He gestured to the screened-off area. ‘Is that her? Is that Bette Eckhart?’
‘The doctor’s seeing to her now.’
‘What happened?’ Gil asked, running his hands through his hair, out of breath from hurrying. ‘What happened?’
‘If you’d just take a seat.’
Without answering, Gil moved past her, arriving at the curtained area just as the doctor came out. He was startled, but regained his composure fast.
‘Can I help you?’
Gil glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Bette in the bed beyond.
‘That’s my wife,’ he said, pointing at her. ‘Is she OK? Is the baby OK?’
‘Your wife had a fall. She was bleeding.’
‘I know, she left me a message, but I’ve only just picked it up.’
The doctor nodded sympathetically. ‘As I say, she was haemorrhaging, but we’ve managed to stop the bleeding and she’s stable.’
‘The baby?’
‘Is doing fine.’ The doctor smiled. ‘We have to keep your wife hospitalised though. She’s too near term to risk anything.’
Nodding, Gil thanked him and moved towards Bette. She hadn’t seen him, that much was obvious, and her face was pinched, taut with anxiety.
Gently he touched her arm, then bent down and kissed her. Relieved, Bette buried her head in his shoulder. ‘I thought I was going to lose the baby.’
‘No way. He’s tough.’
‘Like his father,’ she murmured as Gil took a chair and sat beside the bed. ‘You look tired.’
‘I love you,’ he said by way of reply. ‘How did you fall?’
‘I was on the back steps. I lost my footing.’
‘That’s what happens when you can’t see your feet.’ He teased her. ‘You just fell?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’ Bette replied, laughing. ‘I was so worried that you’d pick up my message too late. You know, that the baby …’
He touched her stomach. ‘He’s still in there. Safe and sound.’
‘What about you? Are you safe and sound? How’s the case going?’
‘It’s not. I packed it in.’
The lie was out of his mouth before he had time to think about it. But it was what intended to do. In less than two days Gil had seen enough to worry him, and Bette’s fall had done the rest. He should have been with her … The thought sickened him. Why was he risking everything? For Jacob? No friendship was worth that. And besides, the killer was now active in London. Too close to home. Way too close to his home.
‘Why are you dropping the case?’ Bette asked. ‘You can’t. You’ve given your word.’
‘I gave my word to you when I married you. I didn’t marry Jacob Levens.’
‘He’d make someone a great wife.’
‘Only if he stays off the booze,’ Gil teased her, then became serious again. ‘It’s not worth it. I want to be with you for the next couple of weeks. When the baby’s born, I’ll go back to it,’ he lied again, glancing away from her because he knew she could read his thoughts. ‘I’ve lost the appetite for detective work.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ she said briskly. ‘Relax, Gil. I’m here, being looked after twenty-four hours a day. Me and the baby are fine. Safe as houses. Nothing can happen to us here. So what’s the point in giving up? You want to take this case, I know you do.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You do, because it’s unfinished business.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve been thinking while I was lying here. About us. About Berlin, and now the killings in London. I won’t lie, I didn’t want you to get involved – but that was selfish. You are involved. Because this didn’t start yesterday, it started seven years ago.’
Gil said nothing.
‘You said that you thought it was the same man. Same killer. And then I got to thinking about Holly,’ Gil held her gaze, ‘and how her death happened at the same time as the murders in Berlin. And how you’ll now have to talk to the man who killed her. And all the other dealers and collectors that were around seven years ago. And how it will open up all those old wounds. Theirs and yours.’ She sighed, shifting her position in bed. ‘And you can’t run away. And I can’t, not from Holly.’
He frowned. ‘Holly? She’s no threat to you.’
‘But I’ve made her one. And I’ve only just realised it. I’m having your child, we’re making a family, that’s what counts now. Only that. I don’t want to risk losing it – and I don’t want any darkness left over from the past.’ She touched his cheek. ‘You can’t run away.’
‘I’m not running away.’
‘You are if you give up this case.’ She held his gaze. ‘I want you to solve it, Gil. Not just because I want you to catch the killer, but because I think it’ll lay the past to rest. Your past.’ Her voice was urgent. ‘Do it, please. If not for yourself, if not for me, then do it for our child.’
Twenty-One
Alaknanda, South Delhi, India
5.30 p.m.
Moving his position on the sofa, Naresh Joshi touched his sleeping lover, feeling the warm flesh of her lower arm and the drowsy pulse at her wrist. She murmured in her sleep, but didn’t wake as Naresh rose and moved into the bathroom. They had made love earlier that afternoon and dozed off, the evening sliding in around them.
Naresh stepped into the shower. He wasn’t thinking about his lover, but about an event which had taken place years earlier. What a fool he had been, he thought, letting the cool water run over his shoulders. Why hadn’t he followed it up? He had liked Luca Meriss when he had met him in Italy but had not taken him seriously; had thought that the excitable Italian had been deluded, a fantasist. If Luca Meriss had been more circumspect, more subdued, Naresh would have listened, but he had been garrulous and obsequious by turns and easy to dismiss.
Naresh tilted his head back, feeling the water run over his face. The Indian art market was expanding, dealers and connoisseurs looking further afield to amass collections. Recent developments and openings of galleries in Delhi had caused excitement, Naresh’s own writings perpetuating the interest.
Educated at Cambridge, Naresh Joshi had worked for the Courtauld Institute in London and then moved to the USA, where he had researched some of the Getty Collection in California. Highly articulate, with a profound knowledge of the Italian Baroque, Naresh had not settled in the USA and moved back to London, before finally returning home to India. Modest to the point of shyness, he played down his knowledge and appeared unassuming, certainly not the intellectual powerhouse he was. In fact, with his bland features and cultivated voice, Naresh resembled an accountant, some backroom player, content in the shadows of brighter, more flamboyant men.
Stepping out of the shower, Naresh dried himself. He had missed such a chance! he thought. Why hadn’t he listened to Luca Meriss’s claims? He had wasted years and now here he was, running behind, while everyone else was grabbing a seat on the bandwagon. Meriss had gone public, trumpeting his claims worldwide. Claims he had shared years earlier. Claims Naresh had dismissed.
It had happened in Rome. Naresh had been giving a speech on Caravaggio and the new attributions which were causing a furore in the art world, and afterwards Meriss had come up to him. Asking for five minutes of the historian’s time, they had gone to the bar and Meriss had confided his knowledge of the missing Caravaggio
portrait of Fillide Melandroni.
‘I’m going public when I’m ready,’ he had said, ‘but you’re a living authority on Caravaggio and I wanted to talk to you.’
Naresh had been cautious. There had been a few people – eager for prestige – who had pretended a blood tie to a famous painter. Luca Meriss hadn’t been the first.
‘I have proof about two of his missing paintings. The portrait of Fillide Melandroni—’
‘—was destroyed,’ Naresh had said kindly. ‘There were 417 works of art housed in the Kaiser Friedrich Museum.’
‘Which were moved to the Friedrichshain flak tower for safety during the Second World War,’ Meriss had added, nodding. ‘I know.’
‘And the Flakturm, the tower, was burned down in May 1945. All the paintings were destroyed, including the Fillide Melandroni portrait.’
‘They weren’t all destroyed. The portrait was saved.’
Despite his doubts, Naresh had been intrigued. ‘How d’you know?’
‘During the fall of Berlin the towers were places of sanctuary. Hitler had four of them built, and the Flakturm – like the others – formed its own community. Thirty thousand Berliners took refuge there.’
Naresh had heard of the Flakturm and had known of its destruction, but this information about people living in it was fresh and had surprised him. He had thought of them as temporarily occupied, not established communities.
‘The towers only surrendered to the Russians when the supplies ran out. Then the occupants were forced to leave.’ Meriss had sipped at his glass of wine before continuing. ‘The Flakturm was burned, but not entirely. And although many of the works of art were destroyed, one was saved.’
Naresh had stared at him. It was incredible! What an addition to the Caravaggio oeuvre. He would write about it, add it to his lecture tour. One more intellectual diadem he could share. A triumph for India, a jab at the pompous European and American dealers. Dealers, Naresh knew, who viewed him with contempt. An untouchable, rejected from the upper artistic echelons.
‘You can prove this?’
Luca had nodded. ‘Someone cut the Fillide Melandroni painting out of its frame, and took it with them on the run.’
Hardly breathing, Naresh had struggled with the information. Could it be true? Could a lost masterpiece really have survived the Second World War? Could it have been saved? As he talked on, Naresh had studied the Italian. Luca Meriss seemed coherent, well informed. But then again, a dip into Google could reveal what had happened to the Flakturm.
But not what had happened to the portrait.
‘Who took it?’
‘I can’t tell you that. Not yet.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that either. Not yet.’
‘You said you knew about two missing Caravaggio paintings. Was the other in the Flakturm too?’
‘No … It was in Palermo.’
Naresh had been barely able to speak. ‘The Nativity with St Lawrence and St Francis?’
‘Yes, the most famous missing painting in the world.’ Meriss had glanced around him cautiously. ‘I can’t tell you any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘I need to know that you’re committed to this. That you believe what I say. I know you’re an honest man, Mr Joshi – your reputation is beyond doubt. But I have to be assured that what I tell you will not be bastardised, or mocked. You must use the knowledge wisely. This is very important to me.’
Naresh had nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Both of the paintings are important, but the portrait matters most.’ Meriss had finished his drink and, unblinking, had held Naresh’s gaze. ‘You see, Fillide Melandroni was my ancestor. She had a child with Caravaggio—’
‘What?’
‘I’m Caravaggio’s descendant.’
Naresh had suppressed a disappointed sigh. So the Italian was a fame hunter, he thought. Some jumped-up art groupie.
In that instant Naresh Joshi had dismissed Luca Meriss.
And now the historian was sitting on the edge of his bath and realising that he had missed an opportunity the like of which he would never see again.
Twenty-Two
London
1.00 p.m.
‘I thought you’d gone off me,’ Simmons said, recognising Gil’s number as he picked up his mobile. ‘Was it something I said?’
‘It’s everything you’ve ever said,’ Gil replied, smiling as he walked away from the hospital towards his car. ‘You wanted to talk?’
‘The case in Berlin. The German police are being very cagey about it. Won’t let me have anything but the basic details. I’ve got the case file, but it’s not complete. At least, it doesn’t tally with what you told me.’
‘What’s missing?’
Simmons reached for his notes.
‘No witnesses, no suspicious people in the area. According to the file, no one saw anything. Until the bodies were found by the Hubers’ daughter, Greta. She called the police.’
Gil unlocked his car door and slid into the driving seat.
‘That’s odd. I remember someone mentioning a man who’d been hanging around. He’d been seen on Friedrichstrasse days before the murders, close to the gallery.’ Gil thought back. ‘They said he was tall, scruffy, looked like he’d been sleeping rough.’
‘Who told you about him?’
‘Greta.’
‘But there’s nothing about him in the police file.’
‘Have you got a list of the people they interviewed?’
‘I can’t tell you that!’ Simmons said with mock outrage. ‘You’ve supposed to be helping me.’
‘To solve the case. Yeah, I know. And as both of us want this over and done with as soon as possible we might as well pool our resources. If you try to get into the art world without my help you’ll have no chance. They’ll close up tighter than a bear’s arse.’
‘OK, OK.’ Resigned, Simmons began to read out the names: ‘Hans Oppenheim, the janitor.’
‘He’s dead now.’
‘So you don’t think he killed the Weir brothers?’ Simmons asked mockingly, before continuing. ‘Lena Hertz – she was the accountant at the gallery – and Anton Hadstadt. He worked with her. They were cleared …’ Simmons read down the list. ‘All these people were cleared, alibis checked out. No one was suspected. The German police couldn’t find anyone to charge. No one with a motive, no one with a grudge.’ He paused. ‘They looked at the daughter—’
‘That was just routine. Greta had nothing to do with her parents’ death. She was with friends that day, and besides, she had no motive.’
‘She inherited the gallery and her parents’ house.’
‘You haven’t met her,’ Gil explained. ‘She’s tiny, nervy, very academic. Teaches English in Berlin, or at least she did. Greta was shattered by the death of her parents. She had to have psychiatric help to get over it.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I kept in touch with her for a while after the killings. But I haven’t spoken to her for a few years now.’
Simmons took in a weary breath. ‘So – off the record – who did you suspect?’
Normally Gil would have refused to answer. But he wanted the case finished. He wanted the killer caught before he could get to his family, or get into his head. He wanted Bette safe, along with his unborn child. He wanted – above all – for the echo of Berlin from seven years earlier to be expunged. And he was prepared to take any help he could to make that happen.
‘I investigated Oscar Schultz,’ Gil began. ‘He’s a German dealer in Berlin and often visits London. There are rumours that he hires runners to undercut dealers – he’s even been suspected of getting his men to steal to order. Nothing proved. Had one conviction for fraud in his twenties, but thinks no one knows about it.’
‘You think he might be the killer?’
‘Honestly? I don’t know. Schultz is a wriggler. Can’t get a grip on him. Deals in Italian and French art, always
on the periphery though. Never quite been accepted by the old guard. Handsome, but a bit of the car salesman about him. Hides his background.’ Gil paused, thinking of the man who had once shattered his life. ‘He seems friendly and open, but he’s a coward at heart. I wouldn’t put anything past him if he thought he was under threat.’
He left out the part Oscar Schultz had played in Holly’s death.
‘I investigated Harvey Crammer too.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Clever, brilliant mind, very learned. Knows the art world better than anyone and keeps what he knows to himself. Big man – has gravitas, presence. A powerful man with powerful friends, some of them in American politics. He’s no stranger to European royalty either. Comes from a medical family, parents were both surgeons, well respected.’
On the other end of the phone, Simmons was juggling with his notes, finally getting them in order and reading out his last entries.
‘I’ve got some other names I want to run by you. Jacob Levens.’
Gil flinched. ‘He’s harmless.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
Was he? Gil wondered. Was he really that sure about Jacob Levens?
‘What about Bernard Lowe?’
Surprised, Gil wondered if he had been watched as he visited the old man earlier.
‘Lowe’s on his last legs. He couldn’t murder a bacon sandwich.’
‘Just one more name for you,’ Simmons went on. ‘Catrina Hoyt.’
‘Based in New York. I don’t know her personally, only by reputation. It’s said that she barbecues kittens, but it’s only a rumour. Look, if you’re asking me if she’s a killer I don’t know, but frankly, I wouldn’t think so.’
‘Why?’
‘Catrina Hoyt’s certainly capable of murder. She’s easily as strong as a man. But she’s a fighter – you know what I mean by that? In your face, no backing down, street hard.’
‘So?’
‘This killer’s not like that. This killer’s sly. He’s been waiting seven years. Seven years – that takes persistence. You need restraint to wait so long. And it takes a certain temperament to torture people slowly, making it last. The person who killed the Hubers and the Weirs is controlled, disciplined. Patient. I reckon he’s got a grudge, something that’s needled him for a long time. He’s unusual in another way too.’