by Connor, Alex
‘You should stop drinking. It’s making a monster out of you.’
‘Maybe I was always a monster, it just came out with the alcohol,’ Jacob replied, finishing the glass of water and rubbing his forehead. His bile was dissipating, his self-pity suddenly overriding it. ‘I found the bodies of the Weir twins. It was like Alma, all over again …’
The words had no effect on Naresh.
‘I should tell you that I’ve been talking to Gil Eckhart. He’s no longer working for you.’ Naresh paused, but when Jacob didn’t reply, he went on. ‘So I’ve hired him myself to find the killer.’
‘Good luck. He’s not doing too well so far.’
‘Why did you hire him then?’ Naresh asked, smiling coldly. ‘You’re pitiful, Jacob. All your scheming is so transparent. You hired Gil Eckhart because he’d been out of the art world for a while, that’s why. Perhaps you knew it would make his job that much harder. Perhaps you wanted that.’
‘The killer could be after me!’
‘The killer could be you,’ Naresh retorted.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Do I look like a murderer?’
‘You look like a drunk,’ Naresh replied curtly. ‘I’ve been talking to your niece—’
‘Who hates me.’
‘Be that as it may, she’s uncovered some interesting facts.’ He could see Jacob was listening. ‘Why did Oscar Schultz buy the Huber Gallery?’
‘How the hell would I know? Ask him.’
‘Why didn’t you buy it?’
‘My sister was murdered there. I didn’t want the place.’ Jacob picked up the whisky bottle from the floor and jiggled its contents.
‘It’ll kill you.’
‘Have you never got drunk, Naresh? Never lost control? Nah, I doubt it.’ He sneered at his visitor. ‘Come on, man to man, let’s be honest for once – what d’you know about the Caravaggios? You must have seen Luca Meriss’s website.’
‘Actually, I met him years ago and I didn’t believe his claims.’ Naresh could see the surprise on Jacob’s face. ‘Yes, I was wrong. I made a mistake. I dismissed him and lost one of the biggest stories ever to hit the art world. I could have believed him and furthered my own career, but I was foolish.’ He leaned towards Jacob, his tone calm. ‘But you know something? I’m glad. Too many people have died because of those paintings and I don’t want to be among their number.’
‘You spoke to Meriss years ago?’ Jacob was finding it hard to breathe. ‘Where did you meet him? What did he tell you about the Caravaggios?’ He pushed aside the whisky bottle, sobering up. ‘His website said he had proof.’
‘Of his lineage and of the whereabouts of the paintings.’
‘Did he?’ Jacob asked, his voice barely audible. ‘Did he?’ Naresh smiled and turned away as Jacob’s voice rose. ‘Did Luca Meriss have proof?’
‘Have you seen the clock on Meriss’s website?’ Naresh asked, moving his index finger from side to side. ‘It’s up there, ticking away. Someone put that on his site. Can’t have been Meriss himself – he’s running for his life. So who did it? And why?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I think it’s the killer. The same person who tried to find the proof in Berlin seven years ago and failed. And now he’s back, trying again. Three London dealers dead in only a few days. How very quick our murderer is. Just strikes and disappears. He would need to be an insider to move around so easily. Someone all the dealers trusted. Someone Luca Meriss would have trusted.’
‘In that case it could be you!’ Jacob hissed, slopping some whisky into his glass.
‘No, as you just reminded me, I don’t have the art world’s ear,’ Naresh said bitterly. ‘The inner sanctum is closed to me. I don’t have their confidence, never did. But Gil Eckhart does. He might have been out of the sphere for a while, but he was in Berlin working on the first murders – and he’s a very clever man with something to prove, which is the best of incentives. He knows how the business ticks. Like that clock on the website, Jacob. Tick, ticking away.’
‘Get out of here!’
Naresh ignored him. ‘Is it you? Or one of your associates? You know that Meriss is running for his life now, but you want that proof. You have to get the proof or it’s all hearsay. The proof is the only way to the paintings. Poor Luca Meriss, being run to ground like a cornered animal. And when the proof’s been wrenched away from him, then what?’
‘You’re rambling!’
‘I’m not the drunk here. You know what I’m saying is the truth. Think of it, Jacob. Imagine if it was you who found The Nativity with St Lawrence and St Francis, and the portrait of Fillide Melandroni. Who cares that Meriss might be a descendant of Caravaggio? He’s dispensable to you. What’s a man’s life in comparison to those paintings? What are two lives? Five lives?’
‘Why are you hounding me?’
‘Because you were in Berlin when it started,’ Naresh countered.
‘So were Oscar Schultz and Harvey Crammer!’
‘I know you’re involved, Jacob. All of you might be involved. I just don’t know how.’ Naresh moved to the door and paused, struggling to keep his temper. ‘Gil Eckhart will find out the truth – I can’t. But he’ll discover what you’ve done. What all of you have done. Your business might have shut me out, but wait and see what the world will do to you.’
Sixty-Seven
Stadion Britz-Süd, Neukölln, Berlin
1.30 p.m.
Gil drove up to the garage, parked at the kerb and looked around. A group of teenagers was gathered together, some sitting on the wall, the others kicking a ball against the shuttered windows of the garage showroom. None of them even glanced in his direction. Gil started as the passenger door was wrenched open and Luca clambered in.
His face was drawn with cold and he was shivering uncontrollably. The jacket he had taken from the ambulance was several sizes too big for him, the rubber boots loose around his calves.
Handing him a sandwich and turning up the heater, Gil watched as Luca ate it hungrily, his hands trembling.
‘What happened to you?’
‘They took me from the hospital,’ Luca explained, looking round repeatedly. ‘They injected me and next thing I knew I was coming round in an ambulance. I jumped out when it slowed down.’ He yanked up his left sleeve to reveal a bruise like a side of beef running the length of his arm. ‘I thought they were going to kill me.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘I don’t know! They were dressed as male nurses. They just came into my room and overpowered me.’ He began to sob, raking noises in his throat, the sandwich dropping onto his lap. ‘I’m finished, aren’t I?’
‘No.’
‘I’m am! I know it!’ Luca’s voice fell. ‘Who is it? Who’s after me?’
Gil didn’t like to say that it could be one of a number of people.
‘I’ll get you somewhere safe.’
‘I can’t go back to my flat!’
‘You won’t have to,’ Gil reassured him.
It was obvious the Italian couldn’t go back to his old apartment. He had to be hidden somewhere no one would think of looking, somewhere safe. A block of apartments with a porter on duty twenty-four hours a day. A secure apartment many floors above ground level. An apartment with someone Gil could trust.
He glanced at Luca. ‘A friend of mine, Greta Huber, is willing to let you stay with her.’
He hadn’t wanted to get her involved, but he had had little option. Greta had known from the phone call that someone was in trouble so Gil filled her in about Luca Meriss and his connection to the murders. Her response had been immediate. Luca had no identification papers so going to any hotel or a rented room was out of the question. With no clothes and no papers, there had been no choice. And besides, Greta had wanted to help.
‘Why would a stranger help me?’ Luca asked, surprised.
‘Her parents were the first murder victims. Seven years ago, in Berlin.’ Gil paused, his tone warning when
he spoke again. ‘I’ll take you to Greta’s place. But when you get there, you stay there, you hear me? You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t let yourself be seen or heard. You don’t endanger yourself, or her. Just stay put.’ Gil started the car, turning to Luca before he pulled out into the road. ‘Greta’s as much of a victim as you are. Remember that.’
Luca paused, then began talking in bursts.
‘It’s all my fault. I should never have talked about the Caravaggios. My ancestry – bragging about it. Going on the internet. Jesus, it’s all my fault.’ He glanced over anxiously. ‘My father – is he all right?’
Gil nodded, thinking of the pouch he had been given. The object which had been passed from hand to hand, in a relay across centuries.
‘Your father’s safe now. And none of this is your fault, You never realised what could happen.’ He paused, staring at the group of teenagers. It was cold, rain beginning to fall, the boys still kicking the football against the showroom wall. ‘Your father gave me something when I was in Sicily. Proof. I took it to a friend in London and I’m having it carbon dated.’ He looked at Luca. ‘Where’s the rest?’
‘The brush and the note is all I had. Apart from the disks. Have you found those?’
Gil shook his head. ‘No.’
‘The brush and the paper are genuine. It’s all his.’
‘Caravaggio wrote the note?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
Gil stared at him. ‘You have to tell me where the paintings are. You do know, don’t you?’
Luca nodded, picking up the sandwich again and biting into it. He chewed slowly and Gil waited until he spoke again. ‘The Nativity’s in Palermo.’
‘So you said, but where?’
‘I’ll take you to it.’
‘You still don’t trust me!’
‘I’m protecting you!’ Luca replied, his tone agonised. ‘You’re in danger because of me.’
‘No, because of the paintings,’ Gil corrected him. ‘Because of the people who are after them. Because of them, not you.’
He thought of the image of the foetus he had been sent: without words, but chilling enough to turn his stomach. Then he thought of Bette and the baby, as vulnerable as a bubble between thorns. And he knew how much he would fight to keep them. Because they were good. Because they were a million miles away from Holly and the art world.
His late wife’s image came unbidden and unwelcome. To be betrayed by the person closest to him – to be manipulated and used as a decoy – was almost unbearable. Luca wasn’t the cause of the trouble, and neither were Caravaggio’s paintings. It all began with a woman – the woman Gil had loved but never truly known, Holly Eckhart.
‘We have to go back to Palermo.’
Gil turned to him. ‘If this turns out to be a wild goose chase …’
‘Why would it?’ Luca replied. ‘My life’s in danger here.’
‘Not just yours. My family have been threatened too. If you show me where the paintings are, then what? Will that take me to the murderer?’
Luca looked away. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Are The Nativity and the Fillide Melandroni painting in the same place?’
Luca shook his head. ‘No. The portrait’s in Berlin.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘It was supposedly burnt in 1945 in the flak tower, Berlin – along with other paintings taken there from the Kaiser Wilhelm Collection for safety.’ Luca swallowed. ‘But the Fillide Melandroni painting was saved, cut out of its frame and smuggled out.’
‘By who?’
‘A German doctor.’
‘Why would he take it?’
‘He knew its value. Remember, there were thousands of Berliners hiding in the flak tower at the end of the war. They stayed until their supplies ran out and then they had to leave.’
‘And this doctor just happened to leave with the portrait?’
‘When the fire broke out he was in the area where the paintings were stored. He cut the portrait out of its frame, rolled it up and took it with him. It was small, remember? He could carry it.’
‘And how did you find this out?’
Luca hesitated. ‘I heard the story when I was in the psychiatric hospital seven years ago. It was when I talked about Caravaggio and said I was related to him – before I realised they thought it was just one more symptom of my craziness and shut up.’
‘But someone told you the story of the painting?’
‘A nurse did. She was old, coming up for retirement, but she told me the gossip. Said it was a rumour that one of the doctors had taken the painting. She had worked for him after the war and knew about it … She swore me to secrecy. Said it would mean her job if anyone found out that she’d talked.’
Gil looked at him, his voice wary. ‘I don’t suppose she gave you a name, did she?’
‘The doctor’s name was Crammer,’ Luca said quietly. ‘Bertholt Crammer.’
Sixty-Eight
Piccadilly, London
Still smarting from his argument with Jacob Levens, Naresh crossed the road at the traffic lights and headed towards Hyde Park. The insults had gone deep, the drunk dealer reminding Naresh of the bigotry he had encountered many times in his life, but never as openly. Usually muttered behind hands, or implied in faux smiles. The sheer brutality of Jacob Levens’ attack had been shocking.
Naresh reached for his mobile and called Gil. He answered quickly, recognising the number.
‘Luca Meriss is safe.’
‘Thank God. You found him then?’
‘He’s fine,’ Gil replied.
‘Where is he?’
‘I’d rather not say. Not over the phone,’ Gil replied, overtly cautious but unwilling to risk Luca. He had him safe, in Greta’s secure apartment, and he had paid the porter extra to ensure his vigilance.
‘Is he in Berlin?’
Gil ignored the question. ‘I’m staying here a little longer—’
‘Are you on to something?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gil said honestly. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’
‘I saw Jacob Levens.’
‘And?’
‘That man is capable of anything. He’s so drunk I doubt he’s been sober for days now.’
‘The Weirs were killed on Monday …’ Gil thought back. ‘Jacob was drinking then. I remember smelling booze on his breath.’
‘He’s a different person now. He was never this bad before. You think he began drinking before or after the Weir murders?’
Naresh let the inference hang for a moment. Gil was surprised. ‘Are you asking me if I think Jacob Levens is capable of murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘He could be. If you’d asked me that question a month ago I’d have laughed in your face. But now … it’s possible, yes. He’s certainly hiding something.’
‘Greta thinks so.’
‘You two have talked?’
‘Not lately. I’ve been travelling and we seem to have missed each other. I was surprised that she sold the gallery. It seemed so sudden.’
‘I think she just made her mind up and wanted to get rid of it,’ Gil said, without mentioning what else Greta had said about who had bought it.
‘She intimated that she had discovered something that worried her,’ Naresh went on. ‘She said she had told you about it.’
Gil hesitated. He liked and admired Naresh Joshi, but no one could be trusted entirely, even the man who hired you.
‘There was nothing to it,’ Gil lied, ‘nothing important.’
Naresh sighed. ‘You will keep me informed? If Greta needs any help, any financial support, you must come to me.’
‘You’re a good friend to her.’
‘She was alone after her parents were killed. At eighteen to be left alone is hard, particularly on a girl. Her uncle was no help.’
‘Was it your idea that she went to India?’
‘It was a holiday that turned into a new life. Greta settled down in Delhi, took a job teaching
, found some peace.’
‘What about boyfriends?’
Naresh laughed.
‘Was I her boyfriend? No, Mr Eckhart, I was not. Greta is like family to me. I love her, but not as a man – as a brother, a friend.’ Naresh turned into Hyde Park, walking along the winding pathway through lawns where the short grass buckled in the winter cold. ‘I’m the wrong race and religion. I would not fit.’
The words surprised Gil. They sounded oddly vulnerable. Unexpected, from such a cultured man.
‘Did Luca Meriss mention the paintings?’ Naresh continued.
‘I might have some news about that soon,’ Gil replied. ‘Some proof.’
‘Proof?’
‘I should have the whole story on Monday.’
Naresh took a breath, obviously surprised. ‘Monday? That’s only three days away. Why Monday?’
‘Because I think I’ll know everything then.’
‘How are you so sure?’
Gil wasn’t – he was just setting out a marker, giving himself three days’ grace. He was prepared to do anything, follow any hunch, but only for a little longer. Bette was in danger, their baby due to be born. He wanted out of the mire, and fast. On Monday it would be a week since the Weir brothers had been murdered. One week in which Bernard Lowe and Frieda Meyer had also met their ends. Seven days in which Jacob Levens had shown his hand, Oscar Schultz had bought the Huber Gallery, and Luca Meriss had been terrorised.
He had to move fast. The dealers were watching him, just like the killer. Gil didn’t know which one of them it was, but he knew he had to force their hand, compel them to show themselves. The murderer would be impatient by now. He had waited a long time, been cheated out of his prize for seven years. Killed for it, plotted for it, and still it eluded him. That would burn. He would want it to end, he would want a conclusion as much as Gil did. The murderer would be tiring of the bloodshed, getting older, getting wearier, slower. But he would keep coming because he wanted what he had always wanted: the paintings. And Gil would take him to them. Offer them up, like Salome offered up the Baptist’s head.