The Caravaggio Conspiracy

by Connor, Alex

  ‘And the paintings?’ Gil asked. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Find them. But not for me – for the world.’

  Fifty-Three

  Belgravia, London

  3.00 p.m.

  ‘I need to ask a favour,’ Gil said, walking in at the back door of The Van der Las Gallery. He had picked his time, waiting until the owner had left when he knew he would have private access to the best researcher in London. In fact, Gil could smell him before he saw Stuart Lindsay, body odour catching at his throat in the narrow confines of the passageway that led to the laboratory.

  ‘Busy. Go away. Hate you, Eckhart.’ A smiling head popped over a dividing screen. Eyes tiny under bushy brows, a pen stuck behind his right ear. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘I need your help,’ Gil replied, moving closer. ‘You stink.’

  ‘Do I?’ Stuart replied, sniffing his left armpit. Unconcerned, he shrugged. ‘No sense of smell myself.’

  ‘Take it from me, you smell.’

  ‘Keeps the flies away,’ Stuart said, leaning against his workbench. ‘And people. Anything that keeps people away is all right with me.’

  Gil smiled.

  ‘Look, I need a favour – and don’t make me have to remind you why you owe me this favour.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pouch. ‘Are you still bloody amazing?’

  ‘Even more so,’ Stuart replied as Gil dropped the pouch into his open hand.

  Carefully Stuart shook out the broken brush, then looked at the note. His expression didn’t alter, his attention fixed. For over twenty years Stuart Lindsay had worked at The Van der Las Gallery, his equipment state-of-the-art, a bank of computer screens surrounding him, chemicals loaded onto shelves above a double sink, an expensive microscope training its eye on a lens below. By the barred window was a table on which was an easel supporting a Hogarth painting, cleaning tools lying alongside in regimented rows.

  The gallery had invested over a million pounds in equipment, and continued to invest – in the equipment and the researcher. Once an academic in Cambridge, Stuart had developed agoraphobia, and gradually his world had narrowed until finally his whole existence had become contained within the impressive laboratory of The Van der Las Gallery. And knowing that he had the most gifted chemical researcher in London, Johann Van der Las allowed Stuart to live at the gallery, rent free. In return, he was not to work for anyone else.

  But Gil Eckhart was an exception.

  Stuart glanced over at him curiously. ‘You’re working on the Weir murders, aren’t you?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Everyone’s scared stiff. I got myself a dog as a guard.’

  Gil looked round. ‘Where is it?’

  Staring at the broken brush, Stuart gestured to a far corner where a poodle was fast asleep. ‘I know he’s only small, but poodles are supposed to yap. I thought he’d be a warning system. Got him from the rescue. But it turns out he’s deaf, and I didn’t have the heart to return him.’ He waved the broken brush in his hand. ‘You think it’s genuine?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He shrugged. ‘What d’you want me to do with it?’

  ‘Carbon-date it.’

  ‘Date the note too?’

  Gil nodded. ‘Yeah. Can you check out the pigments?’

  Stuart reached for a magnifying glass and studied the ferrule. ‘Might be something left here … Yeah, I’ll check it. And before you ask, I’ll run a check on the ink on the note too.’ He put down the glass. ‘That was what you were going to ask, wasn’t it?’

  Gil smiled. ‘Exactly. How soon can you do it?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Too long. Three people have been killed since Monday. It’s Thursday now – I haven’t time to waste.’

  Stuart put up his hands.

  ‘OK, two days. Come back Saturday afternoon, late as you can, after the gallery’s closed. I’ll leave the basement gate open for you, but not the door. Just knock and I’ll let you in.’

  ‘Thanks. Be careful.’

  Stuart’s burly eyebrows rose. ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Just keep your doors locked. Don’t let any strangers in.’ Gil paused, frowning. ‘Look, you can say no. You can refuse to do this—’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Stuart said lightly. ‘You saved my career, remember? Anyway, I don’t let anyone in.’

  ‘You let me in.’

  ‘I saw you on the monitor.’ He gestured to a screen over his head. ‘You think I’d have released the door if I hadn’t known it was you? Look, Gil, I can take care of myself. I don’t talk to anyone and I don’t go out. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘Keep it that way,’ Gil insisted. ‘I mean it. Don’t tell anyone.’

  Stuart crossed his heart with his index finger, watching as Gil walked to the door.

  ‘There’s a lot of nervy dealers out there,’ he said. ‘All worried about themselves, wondering who’s going to be next. Who the killer is. Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘The atmosphere,’ Stuart said. ‘I can even feel it down here – everything’s different. You can see dealers watching from the windows, like they think they’ll see the murderer coming. They want him caught, want it to be over. You’re the cat set to catch their pigeon, Gil. And they want that pigeon dead.’

  ‘I’ll catch him.’

  ‘Yeah, I think you will. But remember one thing – no one gives a fuck about the cat.’

  Fifty-Four

  Berlin

  4.00 p.m.

  He had never been a brave man. Opportunistic, yes. But brave? Never. Oscar Schultz moved around his newly acquired Huber gallery. He had paid over the odds, but what did that matter? He had the gallery and now he could search it room by room, inch by inch. In his own time.

  Oscar wasn’t used to manual labour, but for once he was going to force himself. Fear was changing him, and the death of Frieda Meyer had sent him scurrying from London before anyone connected him to the nurse. He thought of what Frieda had told him. For a while he had even been excited, believed he was onto something. Bernard Lowe was talking to Harvey Crammer about the Caravaggios and both of them were talking to Luca Meriss.

  Neither of them had told Oscar what was going on. So much for a collaboration, he thought bitterly, conveniently forgetting the times he had cut them out of deals. They couldn’t have believed he wouldn’t get to hear about Meriss and his claims, or think they could steal a march on him. How could they think that a dealer of Oscar Schultz’s cunning wouldn’t find out information that was readily available all over the bloody internet?

  Surely they didn’t take him for a fool? Oscar pulled himself together and looked around the gallery. Frieda Meyer should have been a good plant with Bernard Lowe, but Oscar had only gleaned a little information that way. The London police would be puzzled by Frieda Meyer, he thought contemptuously. Perhaps they would connect her to the death of Bernard Lowe. Certainly it would keep them busy for a while, thinking she had killed the old man – but he knew differently. Bernard Lowe’s death was deliberate and Frieda Meyer was just unlucky.

  As for the bastard Eckhart … Oscar fumed. So free with his accusations, so quick to speak his mind! He should be careful – now was hardly the time to act like a hero. And he was running around in circles. Call himself a detective! Oscar thought. The man couldn’t detect water in a well.

  Checking all the gallery doors were locked, Oscar moved into the main viewing area, thinking of Der Kreis der Acht, the group he himself had named but not formed. It had been Harvey Crammer’s idea. The Canadian had been the one to suggest that they collaborate, bringing in Jacob Levens and the Hubers. Bernard Lowe had been the last member to join, his shipping company a useful asset. Did they smuggle? Of course they did, but Oscar doubted that anyone knew how much. The dealers might pretend affiliation, but they were all devious, out for themselves. Which, in a way, made it easier.

  He thought of the Canadian, Harvey Crammer’s ugly features imprinted on his memory. Once
seen, never forgotten. A dealer and collector known around the world, a traveller to the bone, Crammer had contacts and money and he was the cleverest of all of them.

  But Oscar had the Huber gallery.

  Fifty-Five

  New York

  12.00 a.m.

  Concentrating hard, Catrina Hoyt thought back to Luca Meriss as she reached into a bottom drawer and pulled out his holdall. Emptying the contents on the floor, she sieved through them carefully, but, as before, there was nothing to find. Her visit to Harvey Crammer had infuriated her and now she was too angry to be afraid. Someone was watching her and the Canadian. Someone was filming them and then putting it up on the internet, on Meriss’s website.

  Someone was laughing at them.

  Catrina didn’t like to be mocked, didn’t like to be out-smarted. She flicked on her laptop. But this time there was no image of her or Harvey Crammer. Only the clock was the same, ticking over, minute by minute … Catrina clenched her fists. To have been so close to getting the Caravaggios, and Harvey Crammer didn’t fool her in the least. He was testing her, trying to find out what she knew. Feeding her titbits so she would let something slip.

  As if … Carefully she jotted down what he had told her: Gil Eckhart, the Huber murders in Berlin. Typed in the words Huber and Berlin art dealers murdered and waited for the results to come up. Seconds later she was looking at the beautiful face of Alma Huber, and next to her, an image of her husband, Terrill. Hurriedly she read the account of the murder, then came across the name Gil Eckhart.

  Typing it into Google, Catrina read that, as Crammer had said, Eckhart had investigated the Huber murders seven years earlier. She read his profile, and then remembered that Gil Eckhart had been hired by Jacob Levens on both occasions. Coincidence? She doubted it. In fact, she was beginning to think that there might well be a tie to Luca Meriss and the murders. All the murders.

  The news report on the Huber killings mentioned torture and UNUSUAL AND BIZARRE PRACTICES. Torture had been used in the Weir killings too. And Bernard Lowe had been murdered. No details forthcoming yet. Then she thought of her conversations with Luca Meriss over the phone, when he had read out the names of the people who had contacted him.

  Harvey Crammer, Bernard Lowe and the London Galleries Limited. The London Galleries Ltd. Catrina struggled to remember what she had heard about them, then turned back to her computer, entering the company name. After reading about them she continued searching, finally uncovering the names of the directors – Sebastian and Benjamin Weir.

  Her eyebrows rose. Of all the dealers who had contacted Luca Meriss about the Caravaggios, three were now dead … Leaning back in her seat, Catrina stared at the screen. She had been talking to Meriss. Was she next? Spooked, she thought back. Someone had broken into her apartment. Someone had threatened her on the phone, and in person. It hadn’t been Luca Meriss – even disguised she had known the voices were different. So who had it been? And if it was the same person who had murdered the other dealers, why hadn’t he killed her?

  Picking up the handgun from her drawer, Catrina put it in her pocket. Suddenly, getting hold of the Caravaggios seemed secondary to staying alive.

  Fifty-Six

  London

  4.30 p.m.

  Simmons was sitting in his office, watching as Gil walked in. The detective looked tired and the rash around his neck had flared up painfully. Gesturing for Gil to sit down, Simmons sighed.

  ‘Gary Rimmer wants to talk to you, and as I can’t get anything out of the stupid bastard, I’m willing to let you have a try.’ He picked at his neck. ‘Go on, I’ve cleared it with the officer in charge – he’ll take you to the holding cell.’

  As soon as Gil walked in Gary Rimmer jumped to his feet, his voice shrill. ‘I didn’t kill her!’ He looked totally different out of his chauffeur’s uniform: younger, thinner, with a buzz cut and wearing a cheap T-shirt.

  ‘I don’t think you did.’

  ‘The police do!’

  ‘Why would you kill her?’ Gil countered. ‘They’re just checking it out, don’t worry.’

  ‘Don’t worry?’ Gary replied. ‘You didn’t see her. She just walked into the hall and dropped down dead. Fucking hell, there was blood everywhere. I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘I know,’ Gil repeated, leaning towards him. ‘You were friends?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You said she came from Berlin. What else did she tell you?’

  ‘Only that she’d been in London for a month or so.’

  ‘And what did you tell her?’ He could see Gary flush and knew he had struck a nerve. ‘Was she pumping you for information?’

  ‘No, not really …’ He paused, thinking back. Had Frieda asked him about Bernard Lowe? No. But then again, she had been interested. Pretended not to be, but she had asked some questions. Christ, he thought, had he told her something dangerous? Was her death his fault? ‘It was just talk, bigging myself up.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘That Lowe had been all het up about some Caravaggio paintings, excited about them. They were worth a lot of money.’

  ‘Money you could have used, hey?’ Gil asked. ‘I know you didn’t kill Frieda Meyer, but I bet you tried to impress her, didn’t you? Talked about getting hold of the paintings? Talked about some great heist?’

  Gary flushed. ‘It was just talk!’

  ‘I know, I know. Men brag to get women into bed.’ Gil paused. ‘Did you mention which paintings they were?’

  ‘I only knew about one. That religious picture that the Mafia were supposed to have nicked.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know it would be bad for Frieda – it was just a story, just bullshit. I didn’t know it would harm her! I was just bragging, just trying to look big—’

  ‘Did she have any friends in London? Any family?’

  ‘Nah, she was on her own.’

  ‘You never saw her with anyone?’

  ‘Only the guy that dropped her off the first morning.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘I was working on the car and I’d been for petrol and I was just coming round into Eaton Square and there was this taxi pulled up. Right on the corner, stupid bastard! I had to stop to avoid hitting him. I tooted the driver and he gave me the finger.’

  ‘Who was Frieda with?’

  ‘Because I’d had to stop I could see right into the cab. He was a well-dressed guy,’ Gary said with a touch of bitterness. ‘I thought he was her boyfriend, but when I looked in my rear-view mirror as I pulled off she got out of the cab without kissing him or anything. I can’t tell you how surprised I was to see her arrive at Lowe’s place only minutes later—’

  ‘What did the man look like?’

  ‘Well dressed.’ Gary thought back. ‘Handsome. To be honest, he looked like a bloody film star.’

  ‘Fair or dark-haired?’

  ‘Fair.’

  Gil reached for his mobile, found a photograph of the dealer, and showed it to Gary.

  ‘Yeah, that’s him! Who is he?’

  ‘Oscar Schultz,’ Gil replied, flicking off his phone. ‘Did you see him again?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Did Frieda mention him to you?’

  ‘Nah.’

  Gil stood up to leave.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Gary asked, panicked.

  ‘I’ll come back. Don’t worry, you didn’t murder Frieda Meyer and I’ll prove it.’

  ‘Did he do it?’ Gary asked desperately. ‘This Oscar Schultz? Was it him? She was really beaten up. I mean her face was all smashed in. If it was that bastard, you do the same to him. Just promise me the same will happen to him.’

  Fifty-Seven

  5.00 p.m.

  Phil Simmons was standing in the corridor as Gil walked out of the holding cell. ‘Did you beat a confession out of him?’

  ‘Gary Rimmer didn’t kill Frieda Meyer. I think he was set up.’

  ‘I think so too,’ agreed Simmons. ‘But my bosses want results. And the pr
ess want answers. And the galleries are hassling me twenty-four hours a day. This is about the art business, isn’t it? That crafty bag of snakes who keep everyone out until they need help.’

  Gil had no loyalty to Jacob Levens any more, but he wasn’t about to divulge what he knew to Simmons.

  ‘I’ll keep you posted on what I find out.’

  Simmons folded his arms, staring at Gil. ‘The killer’s not finished, has he? No one kills repeatedly, using the same methods over and over again, without wanting to send a message. Frieda Meyer wasn’t one of his victims, because she wasn’t killed in the same way.’

  Gil sidestepped him. ‘How was she killed?’

  ‘Someone used a hammer on her head and face, then stabbed her. Last wound punctured her lung.’

  ‘Was she killed in Rimmer’s place?’

  ‘No,’ Simmons replied. ‘She was murdered somewhere else and dumped outside Rimmer’s flat. Whoever did it must have thought she was dead, but she wasn’t. She managed to get to her feet and then collapsed. That’s when Gary Rimmer found her.’

  ‘Premeditated.’

  Simmons nodded. ‘Exactly. Rimmer’s just the scapegoat, someone to capture our attention for a bit and take the blame.’ He sighed, shook the empty ointment bottle he was holding and then tossed it into a nearby bin. ‘Seven years – that’s how long the killer had to plan all this.’

  Gil said nothing, just let Simmons continue. ‘Since the murders in Berlin there was nothing, but now he’s off again. And all you have to do is find out why.’

  Gil raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you mean we?’

  ‘Not any more. You won’t tell me what’s going on, you want to keep control. I get it – you didn’t catch the killer seven years ago and he’s making you look like an idiot.’ The detective shrugged. ‘But I want to find him too. We could have worked together, but you’re shutting me out. So I’ll go after him my way, and you go after him yours. Sorry, Gil, but I can’t play with half a pack of cards.’

  Fifty-Eight