The Caravaggio Conspiracy

by Connor, Alex

  ‘So you did tell someone?’

  ‘When I was first admitted.’ Luca hurried on. ‘But I never mentioned it again.’

  Someone had heard it, Gil thought. Someone in that hospital had heard about Caravaggio and the paintings. Luca might have forgotten it, but while he recovered the news spread into the wider world and set everything in motion. It might not have been his father who had talked; Luca could have given himself away.

  ‘You stayed in hospital for seven years?’

  ‘Yeah, it took a while but they got me better. In time I learnt how to cope in the real world. How to function, so that I could a get a job when I left. You could learn a lot of things in the hospital: Bookkeeping, gardening …’

  ‘You learnt to garden?’

  ‘No, I learnt how to work a computer.’

  Gil felt a chill run down his spine. He didn’t know what was coming, just that it was.

  ‘Did you have a teacher?’

  ‘We had a few. But my favourite was an Englishwoman. She was the best. Only came in part-time – all the patients adored her.’ Luca paused. ‘I think she was some kind of highflier in her career. She said that she travelled a lot, but she used to volunteer at the hospital when she was in Berlin.’

  ‘D’you know her name?’

  Because I do, Gil thought. I know her name. I know who was in Berlin seven years ago. I know who charmed you, who found out about Caravaggio. Because she will have done. You might not remember, Luca, you might not recall what you said or how you said it, but she will have found out.

  ‘Luca, what was her name?’

  I know before you tell me, but I want to hear just the same.

  ‘She was called Holly. I didn’t know her last name, but I’ll never forget her.’ Luca changed the subject suddenly. ‘What about my father? I have to go home.’

  It took Gil a moment to rally. ‘No, that’s the last thing you should do. Make for the nearest hospital, Luca. Go to the psychiatric department and say you’re sick, you’re having a relapse. Tell them your history, say you want to get checked out. They’ll admit you, and you’ll be safe there.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back into hospital.’

  ‘You’ve no choice. There’s nowhere else you’ll be safe.’

  ‘What about my father?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Gil replied. ‘Your father’s my concern now.’

  Forty-Three

  She had heard him say the name, Holly. A simple name, almost childlike. Unsuitable for the woman who had owned it, Bette thought, watching her husband as Gil flipped off his mobile and stood by the corridor window. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed, and she knew something terrible had happened, just hearing the name Holly and seeing the way his body had reacted, how every part of him was suddenly under threat.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  He walked back to her and guided her into her room, sitting beside her on the bed.

  She said it for him. ‘You’re going away, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not for long.’

  ‘What did she do?’ Bette asked. ‘I heard your conversation, I heard you say her name. And you wouldn’t tell me what Jacob said this morning about Holly and the disks. So I know it’s bad. It is bad, isn’t it?’

  He stared at her, mute.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, answering herself, ‘it’s bad. And you can’t go to the police?’

  ‘No.’

  Gil thought of his late wife’s involvement with Bernard Lowe and Luca Meriss. No, he couldn’t go to the police and tell them what he knew. No one would ever believe that he hadn’t been in league with Holly. Five dealers were dead, and he was sitting right in the middle of the maelstrom, as he had been in Berlin.

  The police would look at him and see the obvious. Not the truth, but what would pass for the truth. Seven years ago Gil had worked in the art world and been called in on the Huber murder case. He had known all the dealers, had had easy access to them. And he had a history of violence. The treacherous Jacob could say that Holly had been afraid of her husband and jealous that he had been duped for another man. And besides, Gil Eckhart knew all about Caravaggio. The police would believe that Holly had told him about it at first, then Luca Meriss had confided the rest.

  Gil knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on, and the last place he could go for help was the police.

  ‘What did she do?’ Bette repeated, resting her head on her husband’s shoulder. ‘Talk to me, Gil. I love you and I’m the only person you can trust.’

  He took her hand. ‘I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t know the woman I was married to. Jacob told me what she was like this morning, and I didn’t have any idea. She fooled me completely.’

  Bette tightened her grip on his hand. ‘What about the disks?’

  ‘They were stolen. Or so Jacob Levens said. Conveniently taken – after he’d had them for seven years.’

  ‘What was on them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I think they were something damning. Obviously something Jacob’s worried about.’ His voice hardened. ‘Levens is guilty. I’m not saying he’s the killer, but he’s guilty of something. He was like another man this morning – he was a bastard.’

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can you get out of it?’ she asked, gripping his hand even harder. ‘Can you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you have to go away?’

  He nodded. ‘I have to go back to the beginning, to where it all started. It’s the only chance I’ve got.’ His lips rested against her forehead, his breath cool. ‘You were right to hate Holly.’

  ‘I never said I did.’

  ‘You didn’t have to. I knew you hated her, I just didn’t know why.’ He put his arms around his wife, resting his head against hers. Like her, he was whispering. Like children do in the dark. ‘I have to clear up this mess. No one else can. I have to do it … You understand, don’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘Promise me one thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you’ve solved the case, walk away. Don’t look back. And get rid of her. Bury her. Get Holly out of our lives – once and for all.’

  Forty-Four

  New York

  Harvey Crammer bent down and wiped the rain off his shoes with a handkerchief. It amused him that his fastidiousness surprised people, but even an ugly man wants to look good. Stretching up, he checked his mail then his mobile, irritated that there had been no message from Luca Meriss. He had been sure that the Italian would turn to him for help, especially after Crammer had intimated that his father might be in danger.

  A buzz on the intercom of Crammer’s flat disturbed his thoughts and a strident female voice answering his greeting.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  He buzzed her up. Watched as Catrina Hoyt walked into his apartment in jeans and a thick quilted jacket. Sighing, she slumped into a chair, pulling off her knitted hat and gloves. Her nails were painted dark red and she wore a ring on each thumb.

  Crammer had known Catrina for several years and had always disliked her. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Luca Meriss,’ she said without preamble. ‘And don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. I know you’ve been in touch with him – he told me.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He’s in New York. I paid for him to come over and the little bastard turned on me.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘It’s freezing in here. Why don’t you put some heating on?’

  He ignored the comment. ‘What d’you want from me?’

  ‘I want to know where Meriss is.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What d’you want him for?’

  ‘The same fucking reason you want him: to get to the Caravaggios.’ She folded her arms, face pinched with cold. ‘Of course he could just be jerking us all
around with that crap on the internet. It could all be rubbish. I bet the son of a bitch doesn’t know anything, he’s just some deluded nutter.’ She glanced around at the immaculate apartment, her gaze resting on the stuffed deer head. ‘Kill it yourself?’

  ‘Actually I did,’ Crammer replied deftly. ‘In Canada.’

  ‘You must be a good shot.’

  ‘I always hit my target.’

  She laughed loudly. ‘So, what d’you think about Meriss? You think he’s genuine? Did he show you any proof about these paintings?’

  ‘No. And I know he didn’t show you anything either.’

  ‘I knew you’d talked to him!’ she snapped. ‘He’s been in touch with Bernard Lowe too.’

  ‘You haven’t heard then?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Bernard Lowe died yesterday. He was murdered.’

  Her face was incredulous. ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘He was the third dealer to be killed in three days,’ Crammer replied. ‘We appear to be dropping like ducks in a shooting gallery. That’s five now. Perhaps we should consider a change of career.’

  ‘Five?’ Catrina echoed. ‘I’ve only heard about three.’

  ‘There were two others, seven years ago. In Berlin.’ Her astonishment amused him. It felt good to get one over on the abrasive Ms Hoyt. ‘You didn’t know about the Hubers?’

  ‘No … How are they connected to the London murders?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Crammer said enigmatically. ‘I’m not a detective, but I believe that one’s been called in. Gil Eckhart. Oddly enough he worked on the Berlin case. Jacob Levens hired him then, and again now.’

  She was trying to follow but couldn’t join up the dots. Not too much, Crammer thought. Just give her enough to keep her interest. To keep her close.

  ‘Jacob Levens? He’s in on this too?’ She frowned. ‘Of course he is. He’d want those paintings as much as we do. What about that German?’

  ‘Oscar Schultz?’

  She nodded. ‘He’ll be aching to get in on this.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Crammer replied elusively.

  ‘Have either of them talked to Luca Meriss?’

  ‘Who can tell?’

  She was trying to piece it all together, and failing.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised. There’ll be plenty of others interested. We won’t have been the only ones who saw Meriss’s website. There could be hundreds out there, all looking for him. Cretin! Why did he go and expose himself publicly? He was attacked in Berlin, you know …’ She paused, but Crammer said nothing. ‘Made him pretty keen to leave Germany. Said someone left a note on the plane for him on the way over here. Some kind of warning.’ She rubbed the side of her nose. ‘Meriss was scared shitless when he came to the gallery. Desperate for help. I never thought he’d do a runner—’

  ‘Why did he?’

  ‘We didn’t get on!’ she snapped. ‘He was pissing me about. I was beginning to think he had made the whole thing up. He said he had proof, but not with him.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t trust you.’

  ‘He didn’t trust you either, did he?’ she countered. ‘I don’t see Luca Meriss here.’

  Thoughtful, Crammer moved over to his laptop, entering Luca Meriss’s website. It came up at once and seemed unchanged, until he noticed that a clock had been added in the bottom left-hand corner, the hands ticking by the seconds as he watched.

  ‘That’s new.’

  Catrina looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Meriss told me that no one else had access to the site.’ She pointed to the ticking clock. ‘So how did that get on the website?’

  ‘Good question. I think Mr Meriss has a hacker.’

  As they watched the ticking clock, a series of images suddenly came up. The first was of the Weir twins, bloodied and tortured. Not dead, but dying. The second was of Bernard Lowe, the oxygen mask over his face. And the third was the photograph that had spooked Luca Meriss, that of the two scalps laid out on a tabletop.

  The dealers watched the screen, transfixed. But it was the last photograph that shocked them the most. It was an image shot through an apartment window and it showed two people talking, an ugly middle-aged man and an athletic young woman.

  Harvey Crammer stared at the image.

  Catrina Hoyt stared at it.

  They were looking at themselves as they had been only seconds before.

  Forty-five

  Campolfelice, Nr Palermo, Sicily

  11.30 p.m.

  Checking the address he had been given, Gil made his way across the small, scruffy square towards Carlo’s home. There was only a little moon and the air was surprisingly cold as he hurried along. Unfamiliar streets were empty in the darkness, lights shining out from upper floors and the occasional car passing but otherwise quiet. Eerie.

  The rain had kept people indoors, but it wasn’t just the weather that was casting such gloom. It was the place itself. The house was set back from the row, a pair of rusting, buckled iron gates pulled open at the entrance. A poor man’s house needing attention, money made to stretch to necessities, no more. Above the bell was a note with a name on it, too faint to read. Gil stepped into the porch and knocked loudly.

  He could hear a dog barking inside, but no footsteps. A moment later he knocked again, then glanced at the upstairs windows. They were unlit, but he had the distinct feeling the place was occupied. That someone was inside, hiding. Cautious, he moved round to the back of the house and a woman’s silhouette appeared in the window next door. She paused, looked out, then moved away.

  The air was clogged with water; but not refreshing, too cold to be pleasant and too quiet to be comfortable. He tried the back door. Locked. Then he moved to the kitchen window, slid it open, and clambered in.

  The blow hit Gil on the back of his head. The force was enough to knock him out, his knees buckling as he hit the stone floor.

  Forty-Six

  When Gil came round he was tied to a kitchen chair and three men were watching him. Two were young and the third was an elderly man wearing glasses. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Gil stared at the older man.

  ‘Carlo Meriss?’

  The young men looked at each other. ‘Che cosa ha detto?’

  ‘Me, Carlo Ranuccio,’ the older man said, pointing to himself. ‘Not Meriss. Carlo Ranuccio.’

  Gil nodded, wincing as the pain shot through his head. ‘Are you Luca’s father?’

  There was a momentary pause as the old man struggled with his English. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I want to help,’ Gil began. ‘Aiuto.’

  ‘Aiuto?’ one of the younger men questioned. ‘Perche?’ He gestured towards a back room as a stout woman entered and shuffled over to them.

  ‘I speak English,’ she said to Gil. ‘Carlo wants to know who you are. Why you broke in.’

  ‘My name’s Gil Eckhart. I came to help Carlo. Luca sent me.’ He could see the old man react to his son’s name as the woman translated for him.

  Taking off his glasses, Carlo rubbed his eyes, speaking angrily in Italian.

  ‘He doesn’t know where his son is,’ the woman translated.

  ‘I know he doesn’t, but I’ve seen Luca.’

  She translated again and Carlo interrupted her. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s worried about you.’ Gil looked back at the woman. ‘Tell him that I know about the Caravaggios. Luca told me that he confided in his father seven years ago and gave him something …’

  She translated. Carlo nodded, his eyes never leaving Gil’s face as he continued.

  ‘And now Luca’s put himself in danger. People are after him because he’s saying that he knows where two Caravaggio paintings are hidden. He says he’s a descendant of the artist and that he has proof of this.’

  She translated, the younger men listening, Carlo blowing out his cheeks.

  ‘Crazy!’ He slapped the tabletop with the flat of his hand. ‘Crazy!’

  �
��Do you know where the paintings are?’

  ‘No!’ He said something else and the woman hesitated to translate.

  ‘What did he say?’ Gil prompted her.

  ‘He said why should he tell you? Even if he knew, why would he tell you? You might be lying. You might be working for the man who came here this morning.’

  ‘Who came this morning?’ Gil asked, glancing at Carlo and then back at the woman. ‘Was he threatened by someone?’

  There was a long pause, Carlo defiant, his arms crossed, the other men watching Gil.

  He turned to the woman.

  ‘Can you get my phone out of my pocket?’ She hesitated then did so, laying it on the table in front of him. ‘You want to untie me?’ Prompted by the younger men, she shook her head. ‘OK,’ Gil said wearily, ‘I’ll give you a number to call.’ He watched her punch out the digits and the phone rang on the table between all of them.

  Luca answered, his voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Luca!’ his father said, snatching up the phone and talking into it hurriedly in Italian. After another few moments he gestured for Gil to be untied, then passed the mobile back to him.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Luca asked Gil. ‘They thought you were after my father. You see, I told you he was in danger.’

  ‘I know—’

  ‘Some man threatened him, asked him to contact me. But he couldn’t, he didn’t have my number. They said that unless he gave me up, they’d kill him.’

  Gil turned to the woman. ‘Ask Carlo about the man who threatened him. What did he look like?’

  She translated, but the old man shrugged.

  ‘He wasn’t wearing his glasses,’ she explained. ‘He couldn’t see clearly. But the man was tall and spoke with a Roman accent.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Gil asked Luca down the phone. ‘Does that sound like anyone you know?’

  ‘No.’ Luca dropped his voice so low Gil had to strain to hear him. ‘I did what you said. I had myself admitted to hospital. They don’t know I’ve got a phone. They don’t allow them but I smuggled it in. And I used another name, Zerafa. Luca Zerafa.’