by Connor, Alex
‘Which is?’
‘He tortures men and women. That’s rare. Not many killers torture both sexes in the same way.’ Gil paused. ‘But I’ve been thinking about it and I realise that there was a difference. He used the nail gun on the men’s genitals, but he mutilated Alma Huber’s breasts, not her genitals.’
‘So?’
‘Why?’
Phil Simmons was mystified. ‘Why what?’
‘Why would he do that?’ Gil asked. ‘Why not stick to the pattern? Torture them all by mutilating their sexual organs? But he didn’t. For some reason he didn’t go that far with Alma. It was too personal, too private.’
‘He killed her, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Yes, he killed her. But it wasn’t sexual.’
‘He mutilated her breasts!’
‘That’s different,’ Gil insisted. ‘That’s like he’s playing at it. He didn’t rape her, or assault her, and she was still a very beautiful woman. He murdered her – but her torture was post mortem. Alma Huber died quickly, from a heart attack, so it was over then. But he didn’t leave. He carried on with the torture to give us a signature. So we would know it was the same killer. I think it was window dressing, done to match the man’s injuries.’
Simmons urged Gil to continue. ‘So, go on, what’s the bottom line?’
‘The killer had limits with Alma Huber. And that made me wonder.’
‘Would you like to share?’
‘Maybe he knew her.’
The suggestion swung between them, Simmons the first to speak.
‘Which would point to someone in the art world?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s strange that both Crammer and Schultz are in London now, just like they were in Berlin when the Hubers were murdered.’ Simmons paused, thinking aloud. ‘Between you and me – if you had to guess the killer – who’s your money on?’
‘Crammer’s never put a foot wrong academically or socially,’ Gil replied. ‘But he’s a loner.’
‘A murderer?’
‘If Crammer’s a murderer you’ll only know it when he sticks the knife in your ribs.’
Twenty-Three
London
12.45 p.m.
Disgruntled after his meeting, Bernard Lowe slumped into his seat in the back of the car and glowered at his driver through the mirror.
‘Jacob Levens’ gallery, Cork Street,’ he snapped, then rang his secretary from his car phone. No mobile phones for Bernard Lowe, no texting. ‘Any messages?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Not heard from Gil Eckhart?’ When the answer was negative, Lowe put down the phone. A few minutes later they arrived outside Jacob Levens’ gallery and Lowe clambered out, brushing aside the help of his driver as he clutched onto his portable oxygen tank.
Having spotted his visitor, a surprised Jacob hurried towards the front entrance of the gallery and unlocked the door. Since the Weirs had been killed the previous day, the open-house atmosphere of the London galleries had changed. Porters who normally worked in the basements on packing or repairs had been pressed into action as surrogate doormen, and bouncers and receptionists greeted unfamiliar visitors nervously. No one was working late. No one left alone. No one trusted anyone. Even colleagues.
The atmosphere was brooding. Everyone had heard about the murders. Everyone was gossiping about the torture the Weir brothers had suffered. Some remembered the Huber killings and discussed the connection furtively as titbits of rumour and gossip surfaced. Everyone was terrified.
Showing the old man into his office, Jacob smiled diffidently. There was a faint whiff of whisky in the air, hardly obliterated by the pungent aroma of peppermint.
‘Good to see you, Bernard. What can I do for you?’
‘Come off it,’ the old man snapped. ‘This is you and me talking and I don’t have time to piss about.’ He sat down at the desk, facing Jacob as he took his seat. ‘It can’t have escaped your attention that the murdered dealers were all connected to each other. The Hubers to the Weirs, and all of them to us.’
Jacob glanced over to the door, to check that it was closed and that they couldn’t be overheard.
‘I never told anyone about our association with Der Kreis der Acht—’
‘The Circle of Eight!’ Bernard snorted. ‘I always thought it was a fucking stupid name. It’s none too accurate either, not now that four of us have been killed.’
‘It was just a business arrangement,’ Jacob said heatedly. ‘People form groups all the time. You know the art world – we all believed we’d do better if we combined forces. And we did.’
‘We think we did,’ Lowe contradicted him. ‘But how do we know? You think Oscar Schultz and Harvey Crammer have been telling us everything? And you, Jacob? Have you been an open book?’
‘If it comes to that, what about you?’
‘Yes, what about me?’ Lowe replied. ‘We made money trading with the Hubers and the Weirs. We had Europe covered, and the USA controlled by Harvey Crammer, and we were right to keep quiet about it. Why tip off the competitors? Nothing against the law in combining forces.’
Jacob was watching him nervously.
‘But?’
‘When Terrill and Alma Huber were murdered in Berlin I thought it was a one-off. Some nutter. Just one of those things. Until now. Now the Weirs have been killed and that’s not a coincidence.’
‘And I found them.’
‘I know,’ Bernard said, nodding. ‘I think you were meant to. I also think we’re in trouble, Jacob. Someone’s picking off the members of Der Kreis der Acht.’
‘We did nothing wrong!’
‘We cheated a few people, but it was business. Business is competitive. Hardly worth killing us for.’ Lowe sighed, exasperated, and pointed to the waste bin. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jacob, you’re not fooling anyone! Get yourself another drink.’ He watched as the dealer poured himself a double whisky. ‘I can’t say I blame you. It must have been nasty, finding the Weirs like that. Must have brought back a lot of old memories. About your sister—’
‘I know who you mean!’
‘Alma was a handsome woman,’ Lowe said admiringly. ‘I remember when she was married to Harvey Crammer. I was surprised that marriage didn’t last – they seemed suited.’
‘Crammer wasn’t a homebody. He liked travelling too much. Alma loved Berlin, the gallery. She didn’t want to spend her life in hotel rooms. She wanted a family. When she married Terrill and had their daughter she was happy.’
‘How is Greta?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jacob shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen her for a long time. I know she’s my niece, but Greta’s very independent, always was. Last I heard, she went to India to teach English. She wasn’t fond of Berlin, certainly not after her parents died.’
Lowe was watching the distracted dealer, trying to force something out of him. ‘What do you know that I don’t?’
His eyes widened. ‘I don’t know anything!’
‘You can’t even guess at a motive?’
‘No.’
‘Well, whoever killed the Hubers didn’t get what they wanted. Maybe they didn’t get it from the Weirs either. Which will leave the rest of us in trouble … Oscar Schultz is terrified, Harvey Crammer implacable as ever. You? Well, it’s clear you’re not sleeping.’
Jacob took a long drink of his whisky.
‘Who’s to say we’ll get targeted? It might be over! It might all be finished—’
‘You believed that?’ Lowe asked sardonically. ‘I don’t. I think someone wants to kill us all. I just don’t know why. We made money, I smuggled some paintings. Don’t act surprised, Jacob – you knew all about it. You just didn’t ask for details. But that doesn’t stop you being involved. The Weirs made a killing with that Murillo painting, but that was just luck. There has to be a real motive, a reason to kill.’
‘I don’t know what it is,’ Jacob said brokenly. ‘Ask the others.’
‘I intend to,’ Lowe replied,
adding, ‘Of course it could be someone in Der Kreis der Acht—
Jacob’s head shot up. ‘It can’t be!’
‘Can’t it? Harvey Crammer’s a hard man. Oscar Schultz, who knows? Even you’re beginning to look a bit suspect—’
‘You’re a member too—’
‘I’m dead on my feet!’ Lowe replied, laughing drily. The only thing I can kill is time. Nah, it’s not me.’ He changed tack. ‘You’ve hired Gil Eckhart – that’s good. I wanted him to work for me, but he refused. The killer’s got to be caught this time.’ Lowe reached into his pocket and slid a note across the desk to Jacob.
He picked it up and read:
WATCH OUT, OLD MAN, SEE YOU LATER.
Stunned, Jacob stared at his visitor.
‘God Almighty.’
‘Won’t help me now,’ Lowe replied. ‘Where’s Eckhart? I can’t reach him on his mobile phone or at his home. Have you got another number?’
Jacob shook his head. ‘No … What d’you want Gil for?’
‘I need his help – and I need to tell him something. I have to tell him something important.’
‘This note’s serious.’ Jacob glanced back at the piece of paper. ‘You should call the police.’
He was ashamed to admit that he was afraid. That he wanted the old man out of his gallery – fast – before anything happened. To either of them.
‘It all comes down to the motive,’ Lowe pushed on, feeling Jacob Levens out, trying to see if he was hiding anything.
‘No one ever discovered what it was,’ Jacob replied, changing the subject. ‘What are you going to do about that note? Was it hand-delivered?’
‘Yes.’
‘So they know where you live!’
‘They do,’ Lowe agreed. ‘But then again, so do a lot of people here and abroad. I’ve had plenty of visitors to my home over the years. I like entertaining, listening, watching. It’s just tough to think that one of my guests might well turn out to be my murderer.’
‘You can’t go back to your house.’
‘It’s my bloody home!’ Lowe replied shortly. ‘I’ve got staff to look out for me. They’re well paid.’
‘It’s serious!’ Jacob snapped, the drink flushing his cheeks. ‘You wouldn’t be joking if it had been your sister murdered. Or if you’d found the Weir twins.’ He took a long drink of whisky. ‘Call the police.’
‘The only person I want to see is Gil Eckhart.’ Lowe stood up, clutching his oxygen tank. ‘Get him to call, will you?’ He smiled slyly. ‘And stop worrying about me. I’ve got an alarm system that could stop Mossad agents. The bloody place is lit up like a brothel at night. Besides, I’m no fool. I won’t be opening my doors to any strangers.’
‘Alma did,’ Jacob said sadly. ‘But then again, maybe it wasn’t a stranger.’
Twenty-Four
4.00 p.m.
After picking up his messages, Gil returned the call from Bernard Lowe, but no one picked up. Surprised, he phoned Dr Dunning. The pathologist’s message had sounded unusually animated.
‘I found an injection mark,’ Dunning said as soon as he heard Gil’s voice. ‘It was hidden under Sebastian Weir’s hair, in his scalp, at the base of his skull. Easy to miss.’
‘What about Benjamin?’
‘Same,’ Dunning replied. ‘You were right, Mr Eckhart: the Weir brothers were sedated. With a muscle relaxant. Perhaps we should check out the Huber victims.’
‘We can’t. They were cremated,’ Gil replied. ‘Have you told Inspector Simmons about the drug?’
‘I’ve left him a message, but you got back to me first.’
‘This muscle relaxant – why didn’t you find it before?’
‘Because this drug’s effects wear off very quickly, about an hour after the injection’s been administered. It didn’t show up in their blood tests.’
Gil frowned. ‘So how d’you know it was there?’
‘I took two sets of bloods,’ Dunning replied. ‘When I arrived at the gallery, I took blood from both brothers. But one of the police officers there accidentally touched the syringes before I’d bagged them—’
‘So the tests would have been contaminated?’
At the other end of the phone, Dr Dunning nodded. ‘And I only found out after I’d finished examining the bodies – which was over an hour later. So then I had to repeat the blood tests.’
‘And by that time all trace of the drug would have gone?’
‘Exactly,’ Dunning agreed. He glanced at the notes in his hand. ‘But there was a particular test I could do, which would show traces. And it did. I’ve just got the results back, and they confirm it. The Weir brothers were drugged. Their systems were paralysed. Completely helpless. They knew what was happening to them, but they couldn’t move.’
‘The scalping?’
‘Was done while they were still alive,’ Dunning continued. ‘Likewise the injuries to their genitals. Strangulation eventually killed them.’
‘With this drug inside them, could they talk?’
Dunning paused, thinking for an instant. ‘No. Their vocal cords would have been paralysed too. They might have been able to grunt, but they couldn’t have made understandable speech.’
‘That means one of two things – that the Weirs had already told their killer what he wanted to know, so communication no longer mattered and the added torture was just a bonus. Or they didn’t tell him – maybe they didn’t even know – and he tortured them out of spite. He would have been angry that they didn’t come up with the goods, didn’t give him what he wanted. In his mind, they deserved to be tortured. As a punishment.’
He could sense the pathologist’s shock over the phone line.
‘But surely he knew how much they’d suffer?’
‘Of course he knew,’ Gil said wearily. ‘That’s why he did it.’
Twenty-Five
After double-locking the gallery door, Jacob drew the heavy black blind down over the window and then walked into his office at the back of the building. He was afraid to stay and afraid to leave. Outside, the street looked menacing and empty, the surrounding galleries closed, few tourists around on a sodden January night. And only fifty yards away blue and white police tape cordoned off The Weir Gallery, the window emptied.
There had been so much blood, Jacob remembered, swallowing hard. His first reaction had been disbelief when he had found the bodies, and then revulsion, his gaze fixing on the blue lips, the flecks of spittle on Sebastian’s chin. Even though the temperature had been over a hundred, the bodies had lost their flesh tones and were turning into grisaille, a monochrome engraving of torture. Details imprinted themselves on Jacob’s mind: the pool of urine under Benjamin Weir, the scuffing of the carpet where Sebastian had struggled frantically, kicking his feet, and the nail gun left between his legs. Details roared at him. The blood from the Benjamin’s left ear, the tongue half bitten off, the snot from Sebastian’s nose, his bound hands clawed up behind him.
Reaching for the bottle of whisky, Jacob then shook his head. No, he thought, as he pushed it to one side and moved over to the safe instead. His girth made bending down difficult but he knelt on one knee and entered the security code. When he heard the reassuring click, he opened the safe door and reached in.
He hadn’t looked inside the envelope for many years, but found himself suddenly compelled to shake out its contents onto his desk. There were photographs, notes, letters – and a small plastic bag in which there was something wrapped up in tissue paper.
You take it, Jacob, his sister had said to him. You look after it and make sure Greta never finds out. I don’t want her to know, and I don’t want her in danger. Hide it and I’ll come over to London in the spring to take it back.
But Alma had never made it. To London, or the spring. She had been murdered instead.
He was so angry, Alma had told her
brother over the phone. I’ve never seen
anyone so angry. I thought the
shock would kill hi
m.
Her voice had been panicked, the fear in it unnerving. Terror, genuine and raw.
I could see that he didn’t believe me, but I swore I didn’t know. You should never have told me, Jacob! You should never have told me. I have a family, a daughter to protect.
He reached for the whisky again, then threw the bottle across the room. It smashed against the far wall.
You dragged me into this. It’s your duty to get me out of it. We’re being watched, did I tell you that?
Alma had been beside herself, desperate.
Last night someone was hanging around outside the gallery. I’ve sent Greta away, but for how long? This is her home.
His hands shaking, Jacob picked up the plastic bag again.
If anything happens to me – or to my family – it will be your doing. Yours alone.
Jacob stared at the bag. Its contents were hidden, but he knew what they were. And then he remembered how he had lied to the Berlin police. How he had said that he had no idea why anyone would kill his sister and brother-in-law. They had no enemies, they were popular, well liked.
Did they have any criminal connections?
Jacob had stared at the policeman, incredulous. Criminal connections? My sister? Terrill? No, they were hard-working people, good people. They had a successful gallery, but never overreached themselves. And they had scrupulous reputations as dealers. Everything they did was respectable. Ask anyone who knew them. He had gone on emphatically. No one had a reason to kill them. No one.
The words resounded in Jacob’s head. Mocked him, sneered at him for the liar he was. And in his hand he held the little plastic bag which contained the secret Alma was desperate to protect. The secret she had promised to come back for. The secret he had used as a weapon against her. Just a piece of official paper, but capable of ruining lives. He hadn’t wanted to use it, but his hand had been forced.
It was a secret which would set in motion events that would destroy them both.