by Connor, Alex
Simmons was watching him steadily. ‘I’ve been thinking. You used to work for the art world, solely for the art world. You knew all their dirty tricks. So why would Jacob Levens call you in unless it was for something art-related?’
Gil shrugged. ‘We’re friends – of course he would call me. It doesn’t mean it was about the business.’
‘Oh, come on! You’ve been out of the art world for years,’ Simmons persisted. ‘So why bring you back, unless Jacob Levens thought there was a connection?’
‘We’ve already been through this. There was a connection – the Weirs were murdered like the Hubers—’
‘And now Bernard Lowe’s dead. And he’d dealt with all the victims, and he also knew Jacob Levens.’
‘Everyone knows everyone in the art world,’ Gil said simply. ‘It’s very enclosed. Few people manage to infiltrate it—’
‘A killer did. Which make you wonder how. Unless, of course, he was already in the art world. A dealer, or a collector.’
Gil smiled.
‘Oh, come on, a dealer or a collector? Hardly. How could a violent killer do business and act normally for over seven years?’
‘Maybe he’s been out of the business for a while. Maybe he comes and goes – like you.’
‘Yeah? Well, I didn’t kill them,’ Gil replied. ‘And I still say that no one who could torture like that could behave normally. They’d give off some signs, some warnings.’
‘You know that for a fact, do you?’
Gil bridled.
‘Actually, I do. I’ve been on other murder cases and killers aren’t stable. They can act normally for a while, but it doesn’t last.’
‘Doctors have been serial killers.’
‘They usually drug their patients and the victims don’t know what’s happening to them. It’s once removed. Not like stripping a person, torturing them, and then strangling them slowly. That takes time and effort. It’s concentrated cruelty. And it’s personal. Why don’t you look at the chauffeur?’
‘I already have. Gary Rimmer has an alibi.’
‘He can’t have. He was parked outside the door with the car engine running when I found Bernard Lowe.’
‘Rimmer was talking on his mobile for over fifteen minutes. We checked it out. He wasn’t killing Bernard Lowe, he was arguing about child maintenance with his ex-wife.’
‘What about Lowe’s nurses? Have you talked to them yet?’
‘Only the night nurse, who was with her husband. The day nurse is a different matter. She was here earlier, left to pick up something from the pharmacy, and didn’t come back. She’s not answering her mobile, and no one’s at her flat. We’re checking her out.’
‘Good idea,’ Gil said sarcastically.
‘Why?’
‘Because she’d just started working for Bernard Lowe.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘The chauffeur fancies her, chats to her. He said that he saw her this morning when she came on shift. He also said that Frieda Meyer had an accent and that she told him that she came from abroad.’ Gil paused, then added, ‘Berlin, of all places.’
Thirty-Four
Meatpacking District, Manhattan, New York
Catrina Hoyt was talking on the phone when she spotted a stranger through the glass wall of her office that looked out onto Reception. The man was handsome in an overblown way, but he looked spooked, unshaven, and was clinging onto a cheap canvas holdall.
Beckoning her secretary to come in, Catrina ended her phone call. ‘Who’s that?’
‘He says you’re expecting him. Mr Luca Meriss.’ She glanced over. ‘You want me to get rid of him?’
‘Nah! Show him in,’ Catrina replied, getting to her feet and walking to the door.
Holding it open, she watched as the Italian moved past her into the office. She was taller than him, and as he passed she caught a brief whiff of supermarket cologne. His ears were pierced but he wore no jewellery, just a digital watch on his right hand.
‘Mr Meriss,’ she said, waving for him to take a seat. He was nervous, taking the nearest chair and putting the holdall by his feet. ‘I’m glad you got here.’
He nodded, dry-mouthed. Catrina poured him a glass of water. He took it gratefully, drinking it off in one go, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For helping me.’
She flicked away the words, pointing to the bag at his feet. ‘Is that the proof?’
‘Someone was on the plane, watching me,’ Luca said, ignoring the question and handing Catrina the note.
NEW YORK IS NO SAFER THAN BERLIN.
WAIT TO BE CONTACTED.
In silence, he studied her as she read it; the long, muscled legs in high heels, the strong arms. Impressively Amazonian, her hands as large as a man’s. Catrina Hoyt was not what he had expected, and neither was the gallery, open-plan, its walls red brickwork, steel girders supporting the vaulted ceiling. And the paintings confused him too: a cacophony of abstracts and graphic eroticism, with only the occasional Baroque picture thrown in like an afterthought.
She tossed the note back to him. ‘Who gave it to you?’
‘I didn’t see. I went to the toilet and it was there when I got back. On my seat. There had been a man watching me, but it wasn’t him.’
Folding her arms, Catrina leaned back against the glass desk. ‘But it had to be someone on the plane?’
He nodded. ‘It could have been anyone.’
‘And no one’s contacted you?’
‘What?’
‘The note said wait to be contacted. Have you been?’
‘No, no one’s approached me – and I threw away my mobile phone. I thought it was the right thing to do,’ Luca replied, resting his left foot against the holdall.
‘What’s in the bag?’
He ignored her again, looking around the gallery. ‘It’s all modern art.’
‘On this floor, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Upstairs we have Italian Baroque.’
‘I read that you admired Caravaggio. That you knew everything about him and his works.’
‘Are you cross-examining me?’
‘No …’ Luca stammered. ‘I just wanted to know that you were serious.’
‘You wanted to know if I’m serious!’ she snapped. ‘You son of a bitch!’
And then, in one quick movement, she snatched up the holdall and emptied the contents out onto her desk. Luca was on his feet in an instant, watching her in horror as she picked through his belongings. Finally she flung the clothes onto the floor and threw the empty bag to one side.
‘OK, joke over. I paid for your fucking flight. We had a deal. I help you, you help me. You said you had proof of who you were—’
‘I do!’
‘—and that you knew the whereabouts of two Caravaggio paintings—’
‘I do!’
‘So where’s the proof?’ she demanded, grabbing his arm.
‘I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you in a little while!’ He wriggled in her grip, panicking, realising that he was way out of his depth and desperately trying to stall. ‘Can’t we talk a little? We need to talk and I need to think—’
‘Your time for thinking has long gone.’ She towered over him. ‘I want the truth. Now. Or I’ll call the police and tell them it was you that broke in here the other night. Oh, I know that you were in Berlin, but how long d’you think it’ll take them to find that out? D’you know how long you can get for breaking and entering in New York?’
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘But it was, Mr Meriss,’ she said, her tone chilling. ‘I saw you. You pulled a knife on me, threatened me, and then you took my jewellery.’
His eyes were fixed on her, his mind reeling, his hand reaching for the holdall she had thrown on the floor.
‘It wasn’t me! That’s a lie! I wasn’t even here! It wasn’t me—’
‘I bet whoever’s after you will find it really easy
to get to you in jail,’ she said bleakly. ‘You’re stupid. A stupid amateur. You should learn to keep your mouth shut. Blabbing all over the internet!’ She looked at the cowed man trembling in front of her, his arms wrapped around the empty holdall. ‘You’re a long way from home, Mr Meriss, remember that. But we don’t have to make this unpleasant, you know. All I want is the proof. What you promised me. That’s all. It’s simple. Just give me what I expected.’
The one thing Catrina Hoyt didn’t expect was the sudden and violent punch to her stomach. Caught unawares, she fell backwards, grabbing for Meriss but catching hold of his bag instead. Winded, gasping for air, she doubled over and slid to the floor. And as she did so, Luca Meriss smashed the nearest window and made for the fire escape.
Wednesday
Naples, Italy
1610
It was dawn, a cock crowing, a little bleak sun making its hesitant way into life. Rising to his feet, Caravaggio moved to the door, passed the sleeping woman and the two men. He could smell the urine on his pants, the sweat making his shirt stiffen, along with the dried blood. Wiping his sweating hands on his trousers, he moved on, glancing in a broken mirror by the door.
The reflected image confused him and he turned, wondering who had come behind him. Then, slowly, he looked back at his own reflection. His left eye was drawn down at the outer corner, the dark knife wound running down to his neck and distorting his cheek. Disbelieving, Caravaggio touched the ruin of his face. His attacker had been thorough, severing the nerve on his left side so that his mouth drooped like an old man’s in sleep.
Rumours of the assault would spread – perhaps his attacker might believe he had killed him. Certainly the people who had seen him the previous night would doubt he could have survived. When they woke and found him gone rumours would follow. That Caravaggio – his throat cut – had slunk away to die.
Carefully he drew his collar upwards. Then, realising it would not cover the mutilation, he hung his cloak over his shoulder and drew it partially across his ruined face. Opening the door, Caravaggio looked out into the early day. His disguise would aid him, as would his disfigurement, perhaps long enough to escape the city.
Hope rising, the artist stepped out into the alleyway and moved swiftly towards the docks. He would board a boat, hide himself until he left the Bay of Naples behind, then return to Rome and await his pardon.
It wasn’t the end. Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio wasn’t dead. No man could kill him … He hurried along, his face ripped with pain, the left eye drooping, the right eye fixed on the street ahead of him. It took him every ounce of will to keep upright and walk on. Zigzagging along cobbles, intermittently resting against walls, he moved towards his escape. Towards his pardon. Towards his freedom.
And just a little way behind him, a man followed.
Thirty-Five
London
10.45 a.m.
‘What did you tell Bette?’ Gil asked, staring at Jacob incredulously. ‘That Holly left some disks with you? Why would she do that? And why didn’t you tell me before now?’
‘She just asked me to look after them for her. She said she’d come back, but she never did – she was killed in that car accident. I kept them and forgot all about them until now.’
‘And now they’ve been stolen?’ Gil said, his suspicion obvious. ‘Are you really expecting me to believe that you forgot about these disks?’
‘But I did!’ Jacob insisted. ‘I didn’t know they meant anything.’
‘What did Holly say they were?’
‘Work. Computer stuff.’
‘And she gave them to you? An art dealer?’
‘She’d been in Berlin with you, and called by to see how I was after Alma’s death. She was my friend, and she was being kind. She was worried about me,’ Jacob went on. ‘I asked about her work, just making conversation, and she told me she was working on some computer analysis, and that she had some disks she wanted to copy. Her own computer was broken – she couldn’t burn copies on it.’
‘But you could?’ Gil was incredulous. ‘Oh, give me a break, Jacob! You wouldn’t know how to burn a copy of a disk. You wouldn’t know how to burn paper—’
‘I didn’t say I did! I just told Holly that she could use my equipment. You called her back to Berlin and she asked if I’d look after the disks for her until she got back.’
‘Did you look at them?’
He was stunned.
‘I can’t work a computer. My secretary does all that. No, I didn’t look at them. I just let Holly put them in the safe and I forgot about them.’
‘For seven years?’
‘It’s a big safe – they were right at the back with some old ledgers,’ Jacob said coldly. ‘What’s the matter? You still don’t believe me?’
‘Why would someone steal the disks now? After seven years?’
Jacob shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But you missed them. You’d forgotten about them for years, but you realised they’d gone.’
‘I’ve just had a break-in at the gallery! Someone opened the safe. I had to check what was missing, and go through everything – and that’s when I remembered them. And knew they’d gone.’
‘What else was taken?’
‘Some money. Ten thousand pounds.’
‘You’ve been very unlucky lately. A burglary at your flat, and now a break-in at the office.’ Gil paused, holding the dealer’s gaze. ‘D’you want to tell me what’s really going on?’
Jacob shook his head again, his breath whisky-sour. ‘You don’t want to know.’
Tell me.
‘You won’t like it, Gil.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Tell me.’
‘Holly was working with Bernard Lowe.’
Gil blinked, like someone caught in the headlights. ‘What?’
‘You know Holly, she was always up for a challenge and she took on a job for Bernard Lowe. Don’t look at me like that!’ Jacob said, shamefaced. ‘It was just a lark for her at first. She asked me not to tell you; she said you wouldn’t understand. You were investigating those fakes that had come in from Rome and you’d just exposed David Rapport. Then he’d had you charged with assault—’
‘What’s that got to do with Holly?’
‘Where was she when you were working on that case?’
Gil thought for a moment. ‘New York, setting up a computer programme for a gallery over there.’
‘It was a good cover, wasn’t it? Even you didn’t suspect it.’ Jacob paused, putting his head on one side. ‘Come on, you knew what Holly was like.’
Gil could feel his head buzzing. Jacob Levens was talking about Holly, his wife. The woman he had loved. And trusted.
‘Bernard Lowe was bringing in pieces from the Far East. Transporting them in through his own shipping company. Holly smuggled some artefacts for him.’ Jacob paused, walked round his desk and reached for the whisky bottle in his drawer. He refilled his glass and pushed one over to Gil. ‘Have a drink. You look like you need it.’
‘I don’t want a fucking drink!’ Gil exploded. ‘My wife was smuggling while I was investigating David Rapport? And you knew?’
He was desperately trying to make sense of what he was hearing. This was his friend, Jacob Levens, the man who had been so understanding after Holly was killed, the man who had introduced him to Bette. This was the person with whom he had empathised in those terrible days in Berlin, and he was now telling him about his late wife’s illegal dealings. About treachery.
Gil stared at the dealer, who couldn’t return his look, remembering all the niggling doubts which had begun to plague him. Like why Jacob hadn’t mentioned the Caravaggios. Why he had been the one who found the Weir twins. And now there was another question he had to answer. Why he had kept quiet about Holly for so many years?
Holly, his wife, smuggling for Bernard Lowe. And Jacob had known and hidden it from him. Gil had thought him
open-hearted, only a fool when drunk, but he had been blindsided by affection. Jacob Levens was treacherous.
‘I don’t believe any of this.’
Jacob shrugged. ‘It’s true. All of it. Holly was always keeping secrets. That was how she was. She played people off against each other. Had a different face for everyone. She led Bernard Lowe by the nose, and me.’ He finished his drink and poured another. ‘She swore me to secrecy. She was afraid it would reflect badly on you if it got out what she’d been up to.’
‘Reflect badly on me?’ Gil repeated disbelievingly. ‘It would have ruined me!’
‘That’s why she begged me to keep quiet. She didn’t want to lose you. She was afraid of your temper—’
‘What are you talking about?’ Gil retorted. ‘I loved my wife. I never raised a hand to her, and she knew I never would. You’re lying, Jacob. Don’t take me for a fool.’
‘I’m telling you the truth.’
‘How much?’
Jacob blinked. ‘What?’
‘How much did you get out of this?’ Gil repeated, leaning over the desk towards the dealer. ‘There must have been money in it. It wouldn’t have been worthwhile otherwise. Did you force her into it? Or was it Bernard Lowe? Who made her do it?’
Sighing, Jacob looked at Gil.
‘How well did you know Holly? I mean, how much of her life did she tell you about? I was surprised when you two married. Lovers, yes, that was on the cards, but marriage? No, I never thought it would come to that. I’m sorry, but she wasn’t what you thought she was.’ Jacob could see the anger in Gil’s face and put up his hands. ‘Don’t take it out on me – I’m just telling you the truth. If you’d asked me before you married her, I’d have told you then. Holly liked excitement, danger. She got bored. If she hadn’t died, she would never have stayed with you. Don’t you know that?’
Gil was breathing rapidly, staring at the dealer. ‘You bastard.’
‘She was leaving you,’ Jacob went on. ‘Sorry, but that’s the way it is. She was tired of London, wanted to get to California, but she wanted to live well there. She couldn’t do that working in computers. Even as a freelance consultant it would have taken too long. And you didn’t have the kind of money she needed. Holly had two choices – get money from another man, or steal it.’ Jacob downed his whisky. ‘She did both.’