The Caravaggio Conspiracy

by Connor, Alex

  ‘She was playing us off against each other! She denied it, but I knew she told Jacob Levens. And Harvey Crammer. Thought she could get her hands on the paintings and then sell them on to each of us, without the others knowing. Rip us all off.’

  ‘How? You had a collaboration, you’d talk to each other.’

  ‘Christ, you’re stupid, aren’t you? We all thought we were on to something that would make us a fortune. You think we’d share that?’ He paused, dabbing at his nose. ‘It used to make me laugh to watch the others and know that I had one over on them. I never realised that all the time they were laughing at me, and at each other. Holly took us all in. She was sure we’d keep silent because she knew our natures so well. Knew how greedy we were.’

  ‘So how did the group find out that you all knew about the Caravaggios?’

  ‘Alma.’

  Gil frowned. ‘What about Alma?’

  ‘She told us the night before she was murdered. She called a meeting of Der Kreis der Acht and revealed what Holly had done. Jacob was there and they had a row, which left Alma in tears. Terrill intervened and tried to smooth things over, but it was no good. Then Jacob left for London.’

  ‘And the following day the Hubers were killed,’ Gil said, thinking back. ‘I was called to Berlin to work on the case. Holly was already here – she said she’d been hired for a computing development programme. Harvey Crammer left the day after I arrived. You were here, hiding in your gallery, scared to death. The story of the murders was big news, all over the TV.’ He glanced at Oscar. ‘Why were the Hubers killed? Why them, seven years ago? If you all knew about the paintings, why were they the only ones who died?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  Gil stared at the dealer. ‘You think the paintings are hidden here, don’t you? That’s why the killer murdered the Hubers. That why he didn’t go after the rest of you seven years ago. The Hubers couldn’t – or wouldn’t – give him what he wanted. He tortured and killed them, but it was all for nothing.’

  Oscar Schultz stayed silent.

  ‘And then, seven years later, Luca Meriss blabbed all over the internet and the game was on again. He was out of hospital, vulnerable, advertising what he knew. An easy target, which everyone went after.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Yes, you,’ Gil corrected him. ‘You hired a nurse, Frieda Meyer, to look after Bernard Lowe. Don’t bother denying it. She was feeding you information about her employer. But Bernard Lowe was killed, and then she was murdered.’

  ‘I didn’t kill them! The police arrested Lowe’s driver.’

  ‘Who’s now been released,’ Gil said. ‘Which is a relief, seeing that he didn’t kill the nurse or Lowe.’

  ‘I don’t know who killed Frieda Meyer. Look at the others in Der Kreis der Acht.’

  ‘But there aren’t many of you left. Only you, Jacob Levens and Harvey Crammer. And my money’s on you, Oscar.’

  ‘I’ve just explained what happened.’

  ‘It could all be a lie. Maybe the others didn’t know about the Caravaggios until last week. Or maybe Holly only told you part of the truth. Maybe she kept the rest to herself. She knew the Hubers well, had access to this gallery. What was to stop her hiding something here?’ He stared at the dealer, who had looked away. ‘You know, don’t you? That’s why she’s dead. Holly told you, thinking that you could work together, that you loved her. Jacob said she had another man. It was you, wasn’t it? And when Holly told you everything you wanted to know, you killed her. It wasn’t an accident, you just had to get her out of the way. Silence her.’

  Slowly, Oscar Schultz rose to his feet. His nose had stopped bleeding, his arrogance returned.

  ‘Get out of my gallery or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Call them. I’d like to talk to them.’

  ‘And say what, Eckhart? You’ve no proof of anything. It’s all hearsay. Millions could have seen what Luca Meriss put up on the internet. There could be hundreds out there chasing him.’

  Gil nodded. ‘True, but the police will only be interested in the people who were involved seven years ago.’

  ‘And what happened seven years ago? A wealthy couple got murdered by a lunatic that no one ever caught. And a young woman got killed in a traffic accident.’

  ‘Holly was my wife—’

  ‘Holly was my lover,’ Oscar replied. ‘Seems we both lost out.’

  Gil was watching him, keeping his temper controlled as Oscar shrugged. ‘You’ve nothing. The people who were involved are either dead, beyond reproach – like Harvey Crammer – or washed up, like Jacob Levens. Where are the paintings that prove all this? The proof that Luca Meriss is who he says he is? It could all be a scam, Eckhart, and the joke’s on you.’ He moved to the door, opening it for Gil to leave.

  ‘You won’t get away with it. I’ll stop you if it’s the last thing I do,’ Gil said quietly. ‘And I’ll ruin you into the bargain.’

  ‘Didn’t you once say you’d kill me? Or doesn’t that threat still hold, now that you’ve found out what your wife was really like?’

  To his surprise, Gil smiled.

  ‘You’re dead, Oscar. Today, tomorrow, next week – who knows? But you’re dead already.’ He walked to the door, then turned back. ‘You want to know why? Because if I don’t get you, the killer will.’

  Seventy-Four

  When Gil got out onto the street, he checked his phone. The message from Catrina Hoyt was short and not too sweet. Phone me. Fast.

  She picked up at once. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Berlin,’ he said. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘That fucking Italian, Luca Meriss. He’s a fake.’

  Gil stopped walking. ‘What?’

  ‘I found something in his bag and had it checked out. It’s a muscle relaxant. In large doses it can paralyse a man.’ She paused before adding, ‘Sound familiar? Why would Meriss have that unless he was intending to use it? And why would he even know about it, unless he’d used it before? On the Weirs.’

  Jesus, Gil thought. Greta … Clicking off the phone, he began to run across the traffic, cars blaring their horns for him to get out of the way as he raced between a coach and a bus to get to the other side of the street. He knew it would take him at least five minutes to reach Greta’s apartment. Five minutes in which anything could happen.

  Still running, he dialled Greta’s number, hearing it ring out. Finally it was answered.

  ‘Greta?’

  ‘Gil?’ she asked, surprised. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Where’s Meriss?’

  ‘In the spare bedroom, asleep.’

  ‘Check on him.’

  He could hear her moving down the corridor, opening the door and then calling out his name. A moment later, she came back on the line.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Down the fire escape.’ She paused, moving back into the sitting room and looking round. ‘And he’s taken my money.’

  Seventy-Five

  Sitting on a bench in the Albrechtshof railway station, Luca shuffled around in his new clothes. The jeans and jacket he had bought were nondescript, the baseball cap disguising his colouring and making him look like any of the hundreds of other tourists or students. Above his head a tannoy announced the train arrivals and departures, a guard blowing a whistle as a freight train pulled out of the station.

  He watched everyone: men, women, even children. Waited for someone to approach him. But no one did. An hour passed, then another, the day giving in to evening, the station lights coming on. Restless, Luca walked down the length of the platform, keeping away from the edge. Sweet wrappers and the early evening paper were blowing down the tracks towards the sidings. He glanced at his watch, stared at the second hand, counted the moments out, then returned to his seat.

  He was cold. Alone. And scared. Jiggling the money in his pocket, Luca thought of Greta. She had been very kind, had made him food and offered him a bed. The sheets had s
melt of washing powder, the duvet yielding softly under him as he lay on it. But he hadn’t slept – he wouldn’t risk that. He could hear her singing along to the radio in the kitchen and had wanted to join in, but instead he just moved his lips in time to the words. Singing in silence, lying on a duvet covered in printed roses.

  ‘Luca.’

  He jumped at the sound of his name, then slid along the bench to allow room for someone to sit down next to him.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Gil reassured Greta, looking out of the window and down the fire escape. ‘I don’t get it. Did he say anything to you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, nothing. He seemed to relax. I gave him something to eat and he just said he wanted to rest. So I left him to it.’

  ‘How long d’you think he’s been gone?’

  Greta glanced at the clock. ‘It’s six now, and I last saw him about an hour ago. We talked a little about the dealers, but that was it.’ She frowned, moving over to her handbag and searching through it. ‘He’s taken my mobile too! And my keys—’

  ‘We’ll get your locks changed.’

  ‘Not the keys for here, the keys for the gallery,’ Greta said, staring at Gil anxiously. ‘I had a spare set and forgot to hand them over when we exchanged contracts. They were labelled – Luca would have known they were the gallery keys. But why would he take them?’

  Gil thought back, remembered that Luca had told him the Fillide Melandroni portrait was in Berlin. As he had suspected all along, it was hidden in the Huber gallery. Oscar Schultz knew it, and Luca Meriss knew it … Gil thought of the phone call from Catrina Hoyt, of the drug found in Meriss’s bag. Could he be the killer, clever enough to fool everyone as he played the victim? Gil toyed with the idea. Someone had threatened Carlo Rannucio in Sicily – that couldn’t have been Luca. Unless he had paid someone to do it.

  Uneasy, Gil turned back to Greta. ‘Go and stay in a hotel tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t stay here, in case he comes back.’

  Her eyes were wide with shock. ‘You think he’s dangerous?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but he could be and I don’t want to put you at risk.’ He paused, thinking back. ‘Did your mother ever tell you about any disks?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Did she ever say that there was something hidden in the gallery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You said that there was an argument between your mother and Jacob Levens just before your parents were killed. D’you know what it was about?’

  She looked away. ‘They were always arguing when they met up. That’s why I hated my parents working with him, especially when my father got ill. My uncle disrespected them.’

  So Jacob Levens wasn’t just a mean drunk, he was vile with his family too.

  ‘Harvey Crammer hated the way he talked to my mother—’

  ‘Crammer?’ Gil said. ‘Was he involved in family arguments?’

  ‘No, but my mother used to talk to him, and when he was in Berlin he would help her out. She used to ask for his advice. He knew Berlin, knew tradespeople, contacts. My father was never very practical.’

  She stopped talking suddenly, watching Gil. Intrigued, she followed his gaze until both of them were staring at a photograph on a shelf of books. It was of Greta and Harvey Crammer smiling into the camera.

  ‘That’s what spooked Luca,’ Gil said, picking up the photograph and realising that although only Greta and Crammer had been visible, Alma and Terrill Huber were also in the photograph but had been hidden behind a book. ‘He saw that and thought you were working with Crammer.’

  ‘Working with Harvey Crammer?’ Greta shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen him for years.’

  ‘But he visited your parents’ gallery?’

  ‘Yes, but so did the other dealers, Jacob most of all.’ She paused, thinking back. ‘It was always difficult, always an argument. My father and my uncle even came to blows once. I don’t know what it was about, I just came downstairs when I heard all the noise and saw them fighting. He was very strong, very aggressive.’

  ‘Jacob?’

  ‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘My father. I’d never seen him like that before, and I never saw him like that again. Whatever my uncle said to him tipped him over the edge. He looked like he was going to kill Jacob, then my mother intervened and stopped the fight.’

  ‘You never knew what it was about?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. When I asked, my mother said it was a secret. Something priceless. Beyond money.’

  Something priceless, beyond money … The Fillide Melandroni portrait? Gil wondered. The painting supposedly hidden in the Huber gallery? The gallery now owned by Oscar Schultz. The gallery to which Meriss had stolen the keys. The place where Der Kreis der Acht was formed, where eight dealers had met and plotted. The gallery where Alma Huber was murdered on 14th March, 2007. The place where it had all begun.

  And where Luca Meriss was now headed.

  Saturday

  Naples

  1610

  The night was a long one. Caravaggio woke, then walked to the door. He nodded to the guard, tossed him some fruit, and closed the door again. Locked it. Lying back on the bed he rested his hand against his heart. Beating, always beating. And then against his face, on the crinkled skin, the buckling of nerves and sinew.

  They would be waiting for him. He knew that. Knew they would never give up. He tried to keep ahead of them, change his guards often to make sure none fell into the pay of his enemies. Made no friends, had no friends, only the old priest calling by as the months passed. What news? The pardon is coming. The pardon is coming.

  They are coming for me.

  He is waiting.

  Listening.

  Wonders how the knife will feel as it goes into his body. Cold or hot? Maybe hot, like the sun, like hell. Like the pigments he had left on the windowsill the previous day. They dried, but not entirely. He could still press the soft centre of the paint and see the yellow ochre burst like a boil under his hand.

  He had left his brushes in the sun too. He knew they would be ruined, but wanted them dry and brittle so that he could run his thumb across the hairs and watch as they bent under the pressure and broke, only a few snapping back.

  He snapped back. Whatever he did, whatever was done to him, he snapped back. His mind returned to his childhood and the hills, which were black when the sun went down, rounded like the belly of a whore. He had come to Rome no more than a boy, promiscuous and dark-browed, knowing what he needed to make himself a name. Painting in corners, in the backs of inns, then palaces, where the cardinals moaned over his lascivious cupids and his corrupting angels.

  Caravaggio turned on the narrow bed, the sheet sticky under him, and listened to the guard pissing against the wall outside. Tomorrow it may come, he told himself. Tomorrow the pardon would arrive. With the pardon he could return to Rome, batten his enemies, desert the sweating dens in which he had been forced to hide – going against his nature, taking advice to save his life. Hide they said, create no trouble, hide and the pardon will come to you.

  He opened his eyes suddenly. Outside the door he could hear a horse whinnying, then footsteps approaching.

  He held his breath.

  Was it the priest? Or the pardon? Or the end?

  Seventy-Six

  Van der Las Gallery, London

  11.30 a.m.

  Rain, rain and more rain. Rain that came hard and relentless, the sky louring, bad-tempered with cloud. Flicking on the passageway light, Stuart Lindsay came out of the back lavatory to find a man standing in his laboratory. He was silhouetted against the top half of the door, outlined against the glass, as Stuart squinted into the dimness to try to make him out.

  ‘Hello? Mr Van de Las?’

  The figure didn’t respond and Stuart hovered nervously by his bench, then he realised that the man was carrying something in his hand. Without thinking, he moved towards him.

  ‘What hav
e you got there?’

  He could see his report and the small pouch that held the paintbrush and note he had been testing.

  Stuart Lindsay may have been timid and agoraphobic, but his laboratory was sacrosanct. It was his territory, the only place on earth in which he was master. Reaching out, he tried to snatch the items back.

  ‘Those are mine!’

  The man responded by grabbing Stuart, twisting him round and getting him in a headlock. As he struggled Stuart could feel himself being lifted up, his feet leaving the floor. Surprised, and fighting for breath, he kicked back at his attacker, who held on and tightened his grip till Stuart was about to pass out. Frantically he scrabbled at the bench behind him, his fingers closing over a glass container. With a last, frantic effort, he flung the contents into his attacker’s face.

  The man screamed and let go, running for the door and stumbling up the basement steps towards the street. In shock, Stuart stood rubbing his throat, sweating, panting. Then he collected together the papers and the pouch which had dropped to the floor, slammed the back door closed and locked it.

  The rain was falling more and more heavily, the sky tipping out its contents onto the street below as the intruder lifted his face to the downpour. The acid had missed his eyes, mostly striking his hat and his clothes, chewing its way through the material. Enraged, he felt the pain a moment later and touched his neck, moving his fingers carefully.

  He hadn’t escaped injury after all, he realised, feeling the skin as it puckered from the chemical burn. The bastard had got him, and worse, he’d left the proof behind. But he had been lucky. He had feared that the acid would mark his face and brand him. Point him out as surely as a sign above his head. But fortune had been with him again. Turning to look into the reflection of a shop window, the man pulled up his collar to cover the injury, moving his head from side to side to check that it couldn’t be seen.

  Satisfied, he walked on. He hadn’t got what he wanted, but he knew where it was. All he had to do was keep his patience. Follow his plan. Wait. Plan. Wait. Plan. Soon he would have what he wanted.