by Connor, Alex
‘And you ran away?’
‘Whoever killed her could have been after me—’ Gary stopped short, realising that he had said too much.
‘Why would they be after you?’
‘I dunno …’ He was floundering. ‘We both worked for Mr Lowe.’
‘And that was a death sentence, was it?’
Shut up, Gary told himself. Stop talking now. You’re only making it worse.
‘I want a lawyer. I’m not saying another word until I talk to a lawyer.’ Gary’s face set. ‘And I want to talk to Gil Eckhart too.’
Fifty
London
12.00 noon
Walking down Cork Street, Greta crossed the road and made her way to The Levens Gallery. The window was displaying a series of sixteenth century Italian drawings, similar to the ones her parents had once dealt in. It reminded her of her childhood, nostalgia for days past catching her un-expectedly.
Peering in, she rang the doorbell and waited until a young woman of about her age appeared and let her in.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I want to see Mr Levens,’ Greta replied, ‘He’s not expecting me, but I’m his niece.’
Once inside she stood by the wall, her tiny frame hardly taking up any space, and a moment later Jacob appeared.
‘Greta, how good to see you!’ He kissed her cheek but she didn’t respond, following meekly into his office at the back of the gallery.
‘I didn’t even know you were in London,’ he said, caught off guard. ‘Are you on holiday?’
‘No, not really. I just thought I’d drop by because I wanted to talk to you. I know it’s been a long time and we haven’t been in contact. I should have replied to your letters but I was …’ She drifted off, both of them uncomfortable, thinking of the past.
‘Are you working?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still teaching English?’
‘Yes, but not in India any more.’
Surprised, Jacob looked at his niece. ‘You went to India? Why so far away?’
‘I wanted to get away from Germany, as far away as I could. Mr Joshi was very good to me. He arranged everything.’
‘Joshi?’ He thought of the historian. ‘You mean Naresh Joshi?’
Greta nodded. ‘When I got better, he offered me a holiday, then a job, and I stayed on. He looked out for me. Nothing romantic, nothing like that – he was just very kind.’ She glanced around the office. ‘I like the drawings in your window.’
‘They’re by Guercino,’ Jacob said, then returned to his previous subject. ‘I should have been in touch.’
‘You weren’t really interested though, were you?’
Her bluntness took him by surprise.
‘There should be no bad feeling between us, dear. Your parents and I lived in different countries. We met when we could—’
‘My mother said that you weren’t family minded,’ Greta went on, her voice expressionless. ‘It doesn’t matter – I didn’t expect anything from you, even after my parents were killed. You sent flowers to the funeral, which was thoughtful, although I imagine my mother would have liked you to be there.’ Her voice trailed off, the rebuke hanging in the air. ‘I heard about the murders that happened here. They’re the same, aren’t they?’
‘I … I think so, yes.’ Jacob was nonplussed by the frail young woman facing him. She seemed calm, but there was an anger about her that was palpable.
‘D’you think it’s the same killer?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘You said “looks that way” – did you know what happened to the victims?’
‘I found them.’
She didn’t seem surprised. ‘I found my mother … Stays with you, doesn’t it?’ For a moment she held his gaze, then changed the subject. ‘I sold the gallery in the end. After seven years.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ Jacob said, clearing his throat. ‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘In a way. I wanted to ask you if you knew who had bought it. I know I didn’t involve you with the sale. Well, it had nothing to do with you really, did it? But I wondered if you know who turned out to be the new owner?’
He had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like the answer.
‘Oscar Schultz.’
‘Oscar!’ Jacob said, alarmed. The very man who had chosen the name of Der Kreis der Acht; the man who had not seen fit to mention his purchase of the Huber Gallery. Jesus, Jacob thought, was else was the German hiding?
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No,’ Jacob said, trying to cover his unease. ‘Well, it makes sense: Oscar’s based in Berlin and he has one gallery in the city already.’
‘My mother hated him.’
‘He’s all right. A bit oily, but—’
‘She would never have sold the gallery to Oscar Schultz.’
‘But you did,’ Jacob countered, with an edge to his voice.
‘That’s the point – I didn’t,’ Greta replied. ‘I sold it to a company called Lexington Limited. A shipping company. There was no mention of Oscar Schultz. I admit I didn’t get very involved, but I do remembering asking who owned the company. The Managing Director was listed as a Mr Bernard Lowe.’ She let the words settle before continuing. ‘The name meant nothing to me then. But now … Bernard Lowe was a collector, wasn’t he? And he’s one of the people who have just been killed. Now, Uncle, I ask you – doesn’t that seem a bit strange?’
Without answering, Jacob reached for a drink. His jowls coloured up as the alcohol hit his system, his left hand gripping the glass. Clever little bitch, he thought. So she was trying to work it all out, was she? After seven years Alma’s little girl was going to uncover Der Kreis der Acht. And when she did, what else? The way he had involved her mother? What else was this tiny little demon going to find?
‘What’s this got to do with me?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Greta replied flatly, ‘but I’ll find out. Just like I’ll find out what my mother was afraid of. Because she was afraid. She wouldn’t tell me why, but in the months before her death every time your name was mentioned, she flinched.’
He laughed off the comment.
‘What are you talking about?’
She was defiant, resolute. ‘What did you do to my mother?’
‘Nothing!’
‘After the murders I was so ill I never thought about it. But I’ve been thinking about it now. About the time before my parents were killed. About who was around then. There was a group of dealers my people knew and traded with – including The London Galleries Limited …’ Jacob was watching her silently. ‘Did you know they were owned by Sebastian and Benjamin Weir? Odd coincidence, isn’t it? Like the fact that Lexington Limited was owned by the late Bernard Lowe, and is now managed by Oscar Schultz.’
‘Look, I—’
‘There was someone else around my parents at that time: Harvey Crammer. But then he had always been a constant, probably because he was still fond of my mother. He was married to her once, after all, and they liked each other. But we mustn’t forget the one other person who was around. Who hadn’t been around for a while, and seemed to suddenly pop up – you.’
‘She was my sister!’
‘All you dealers knew each other, didn’t you?
‘So what, my dear?’ Jacob said lightly. ‘The art world is like that. Tight. Everyone knows everyone else.’
‘But doesn’t it seem strange that within that tight little group five of you are now dead?’ Greta stood up, fastened her coat, and then looked back at him. ‘What did you do to my mother?’
Jacob stared at his niece. And as he stared he remembered. Remembered being envious of Terrill Huber’s clients and making a deal with Alma to try to benefit from their contacts. Pressurising her into joining Der Kreis der Acht. Blackmailing her into agreeing. Making it impossible for her to refuse. She had despised him for it. Later Jacob had felt remorse, but brushed it aside. He was giving his sister a business opportunity, h
e told her. She should thank him.
In the years that followed, everyone had made money. But Alma Huber never forgot the means by which her brother had forced her hand and it drove a wedge between them. Ignorant of the circumstances, Terrill didn’t understand her animosity, and even when she hinted at illicit trading he brushed it off. Terrill Huber had been a greedy man, like Jacob, unwilling to break ranks with the likes of Oscar Schultz and Harvey Crammer.
But for Alma, no amount of money or prestige could excuse her brother’s actions, and in early 2007 she tried to leave Der Kreis der Acht again. Jacob had prevented it by giving her something for safe keeping, something he knew was damning, and dangerous.
‘What did you do to my mother?’ Greta repeated.
‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t believe you. I think you were all involved in something, something you had to keep hidden. Was it important? Big enough to kill for?’
‘I’ve never killed anyone in my life!’
‘I never said you did.’
‘I loved your mother,’ Jacob said, trying to smile. ‘I care for you too, my dear.’
‘I’m not a fool, Uncle,’ she replied, staring at him coldly. ‘I don’t know if you’re the killer. But if you aren’t I certainly hope you’re the next victim.’
Fifty-One
Heathrow Airport, London
2.00 p.m.
Arriving back from Sicily, Gil left the airport, sliding into a cab and calling Luca’s number again. Having tried repeatedly to contact the Italian, he was relieved when the phone was finally picked up.
‘Hallo?’
‘Luca!’
‘Wer anruft?’
‘What?’
‘Who’s calling?’ The voice slid from German into English effortlessly. ‘Can I help you?’
Gil was praying that Luca’s phone had been confiscated; that it was just hospital rules that meant his mobile was out of his hands.
‘I’m sorry, I was just talking to a friend on this line.’
‘Mr Zerafa. Yes, this is his phone,’ the voice went on. ‘But we don’t allow phones in the ward, so we had to confiscate it. It’s hospital policy.’
‘I understand … How is he?’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘A friend. I’m coming to see him and he asked me to bring some things for him. To the hospital. Things he needed.’
‘Really?’ the nurse replied. ‘I find that strange.’
‘He just wanted some clean clothes.’
‘No, I don’t find that strange. It’s just that Mr Zerafa left us yesterday.’
The words were chilling. ‘He discharged himself?’
‘No, his doctor came for him.’
‘His doctor?’
‘Dr Lieberman,’ the nurse continued. ‘That is, Dr Lieberman sent an ambulance for Mr Zerafa and a nurse to accompany him. We were given very precise instructions. Mr Zerafa was to be sedated as he was a bad traveller and liable to panic when moved.’
Gil tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Where did he go?’
‘The Gruber Institute,’ the nurse replied. ‘All the papers were in order. The Gruber Institute is world famous, their psychiatrists the best. Rest assured, Mr Zerafa couldn’t be in better hands.’
Fifty-Two
Gil’s phone call to the Gruber Institute was short and clear. No, they had not admitted a patient from Berlin called Mr Luca Zerafa. No, Dr Gruber had not sent an ambulance for anyone. They were emphatic. No patient had been admitted and besides, Dr Gruber was in Egypt lecturing for the entire month.
It was exactly what Gil had feared. The papers given to the psychiatric hospital would have been in perfect order. He could imagine how precisely they would have been forged, so that no one would question them. He could also imagine the panic Luca would have felt on being sedated and taken against his will, to God only knows where. Events were escalating, spiralling out of control, Gil thought when he called in to see Bette at the hospital before returning to their flat.
The place seemed bleak without her, the nursery uninviting. Unsettled, Gil turned on the central heating, but the atmosphere was blighted, somehow changed. On his office phone he found several messages. As expected, an inebriated, panicked apology from Jacob Levens, plus a call from the gas company and one from Phil Simmons, asking him to phone back.
But it was the last message that surprised Gil. Glancing at his watch, he then called the number, and Naresh Joshi picked up almost immediately in South Delhi.
He sounded relieved.
‘Forgive my contacting you, Mr Eckhart, but I have an important matter to discuss. A delicate matter. I know you’re investigating the Weir murders and I need to talk to you.’
‘How can I help?’
‘This conversation must be in the strictest confidence.’
‘Goes without saying,’ Gil replied, sitting down in his office chair and touching the radiator. Stone cold.
‘I’ve heard that you were hired by Jacob Levens.’ When Gil said nothing, he continued. ‘I’ve known Mr Levens for many years, not as a friend but as a colleague. However, I’ve been very disturbed by something I heard today.’
Puzzled, Gil leant down and turned up the thermostat on the radiator.
‘Go on.’
‘Mr Levens called me.’
‘He called you?’
‘About the Caravaggio affair.’
‘Which you already know about,’ Gil replied deftly.
‘Luca Meriss told you that?’
‘Yes. He told me that you’d talked a long time ago, when he first approached you in Italy. But that you weren’t interested in what he had to say.’
‘I was stupid and dismissed him,’ Naresh replied, irritated with himself. ‘The man was genuine: he wanted the best for the paintings and I took him for a lunatic. More fool me.’
Gil smiled. ‘So what did Jacob Levens tell you?’
‘He rambled on for a while about the murders, seemed very afraid. Then he said that he was going to fire you and hire someone else to investigate the killings and Luca Meriss’s claims.’
Gil kept his voice even. ‘When did he say all this?’
‘Only an hour ago.’
‘But why would he tell you?’ Gil asked, suspicious. ‘Like you said, you weren’t friends.’
‘Jacob wants my help. He said that we should work together.’ Naresh paused, patently embarrassed. ‘Mr Levens seems to think that my reputation would assist him.’
‘Have you worked with him before?’
‘Never. But I am an authority on Caravaggio, and I do have a following.’
‘So has a muck cart,’ Gil said shortly.
‘I don’t mean to annoy you, Mr Eckhart. I only wanted to warn you. Mr Levens is behaving badly towards you, and I doubt his motives with regard to the Caravaggios. I would not like them to fall into his hands.’
‘But you wouldn’t mind them falling into yours?’
There was a long pause on the line before Naresh Joshi spoke again.
‘I understand your suspicion. After all, why should you trust me? I ring you out of the blue and tell you this – why should you believe me? You’ve known and worked with Jacob Levens for years.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘I’m based in Delhi but I travel the world, Mr Eckhart. As you know, the art business is very incestuous. Everyone is attached to everyone else in some way and gossip is the marinade. Please do not be angry, but I had you checked out. Surely the fact that I’m calling you proves that I am on your side?’
‘I didn’t know we were taking sides.’
‘I think it might be wise to do so,’ Naresh continued. ‘When Jacob Levens phoned me he was drunk, barely making sense. As you know, back in the nineties he had a severe drink problem and suffered blackouts. I believe he was also hospitalised?’
‘Dried out,’ Gil agreed. ‘And warned that if he didn’t stop drinking, it’d kill him.’
‘When he sobered up we all fo
rgot about it. About how aggressive he could be. Jacob Levens made a violent drunk.’ Naresh paused. ‘He was a good person when he was off the alcohol, but now he’s back on it and he’s changed. Jacob Levens is not the man he was.’
Amen to that, Gil thought. ‘So?’
‘I’m just warning you to watch yourself, Mr Eckhart. Jacob Levens is deceiving you. I will be very honest: I regret the lost opportunity I had with the Caravaggio paintings and Luca Meriss—’
‘But throwing suspicion on Jacob Levens and pretending to be my ally would jump you to the front of the queue again, wouldn’t it?’
‘What gives you the right to talk to me in this way?’ snapped Joshi, uncharacteristically ruffled. ‘I knew the Hubers and the Weirs. I liked them. I’m not a dealer. I didn’t have business with them. I knew them socially. It’s a small community and recent events have shaken us all. Despite what you may suspect, I care for works of art, and for the understanding of them. I have no interest in accumulating vast wealth or becoming a connoisseur. I am an academic, not an avaricious man.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gil said, remembering the historian’s reputation. ‘I didn’t mean to insult you, but people are seldom what they seem.’
‘I understand your doubts. But I am exactly what I seem. Please accept my offer of support and any financial help you may need. I know Mr Levens hired you, but in light of this conversation you may soon find yourself replaced. I do not wish to see that. I want you to stay on this case, Mr Eckhart. So if you need funding to continue, allow me to provide that.’
Gil paused, weighing the historian’s words. Finally he spoke again. ‘Do you think you’re in danger?’
‘No!’ Naresh almost laughed. ‘that isn’t what worries me—’
‘So what does?’
‘Death, Mr Eckhart, but not my own. You see, I did Mr Luca Meriss a disservice and I regret it. I know he’s in danger now and I feel partially responsible. I should have helped him years ago. Maybe then none of these murders would have happened.’
‘You can’t know that for sure.’
‘I think we both know that somehow the Caravaggios and the murders are related,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Your job is to find out how.’