by Connor, Alex
For a tough man, Carlo was a moral coward.
Sliding behind a building that had been long deserted, Luca Meriss moved towards a shed half hidden by trees. In the early morning it smelt of dew and earth, a white spider trailing its cobweb girders across the ceiling struts. In the corner was the seat Luca had dragged in when he was a child. Riddled with moth and mice, it sagged under the weight of weather and years as Luca sat on a metal stool next to it and gazed out of the broken window.
He knew it was all coming to an end. That within days, possibly hours, everything would be solved, like a puzzle broken by an awkward child. Luca knew they would all follow him to Palermo. They would read his announcement on the website and come to him. No one would be able to resist.
He shivered, chilled in the cool morning. The scene through the window had changed little since he was a child, and, as he had done when he was a child, he hugged his arms around himself, crooning, rocking backwards and forwards on the little metal stool, waiting.
Eighty-Seven
Taking the last available seat on the earliest plane, Gil had flown back to Sicily. He had no idea how many people would have seen Luca Meriss’s announcement, but knew he would not be the only person heading for Palermo. Finally, tired and edgy, he arrived at the airport. His senses were heightened, waiting at any moment for someone to tap him on the shoulder.
But no one did. Instead he made his way in a hire car back to Carlo Ranuccio’s house outside Campolfelice, and found the old man sitting in the doorway, smoking. He nodded as he saw Gil. The same woman who had translated for him before was pegging up washing on a slack line, the morning too cold to dry anything.
Smiling remotely, she moved over to Gil. ‘He was here. Luca. We saw him looking at the house.’
‘You didn’t invite him in?’
She shrugged. ‘When we opened the door he moved off. If he wants us, he’ll come back.’ She glanced over at the old man who was knocking a stub of ash off the end of his cigarette. ‘Carlo wanted to know if you were happy with your proof?’
Gil thought of the message Stuart Lindsay had left him.
‘More than happy. It’s authentic. Right dates. Can’t swear that Caravaggio wrote the note though, as there are no surviving examples of his handwriting.’
She shrugged again. ‘Chi sa qualcosa di certo?’ Then she translated for him. ‘Who knows anything for certain?’
Who knows anything for certain? Gil mused on the words, glancing around him. All was still, waiting, the old man watching, the two younger men staring from a front window. What did they think was going to happen? Gil wondered. It was as though they had expected him, that his arrival was no surprise. A thrill shot through him, a mixture of anxiety and foreboding. He had expected to find the answer in Berlin, but he had been forced to go even further back. Not in the life of Luca Meriss or the dealers, but into the life of Caravaggio himself.
It had begun in Palermo, Gil realised. First Sicily, then Berlin, then London. He picked his way through what he knew as he shielded his eyes from a sudden dart of sunlight. Luca had said that The Nativity with St Lawrence and St Francis was still in Palermo, that the painting had never left the town.
He turned back to the woman. ‘Did Luca leave a message for me?’
She nodded, reaching into her pocket. Then she drew out a note and handed it to him. ‘He pushed this under the door, with your name on it.’
DEAR MR ECKHART
I AM SO SORRY FOR ALL THE TROUBLE I HAVE CAUSED YOU. I KNOW MANY OF MY ACTIONS WILL HAVE SEEMED STRANGE. FOR THAT I APOLOGISE, I DID WHAT I THOUGHT WAS RIGHT, AND SAFE, FOR ME. EVERYWHERE I LOOKED THERE WERE SECRETS. EVERY PERSON I THOUGHT I COULD TRUST TURNED OUT TO BE SUSPECT. EVERY ANSWER I FOUND ONLY TURNED INTO ANOTHER QUESTION.
THE NATIVITY IS IN PALERMO.
YOU WILL FIND THE PORTRAIT OF FILLIDE MELANDRONI LAST.
THE KILLER IS IN PALERMO.
I KNOW IT. YOU KNOW IT.
I’LL COME FOR YOU, MR ECKHART.
Luca Meriss
Surprised, Gil turned to the woman. But she had already walked back into the house and was watching, with the others, from the shaded window.
Eighty-Eight
Van der Las Gallery, London
Irritated that they had missed each other’s calls, Stuart Lindsay suppressed his reluctance and finally left a message on Gil’s voicemail.
‘Look, I wanted to talk to you directly, but I’ve got to tell you something important. There was a man here who tried to steal the … stuff … you left with me.’ He hurried on. ‘I’m OK. The bastard wanted to hurt me, but I’m fine. Tougher than I look, hey?’ His voice was firm, clear down the line. ‘I threw some acid on him. I don’t know if I got his face, but I must have got him somewhere because he screamed, so I must have hit him. Look, I don’t know what you’re involved with – and believe me, I didn’t tell anyone about the carbon dating – but watch your back, Gil. And don’t worry about the things you gave me. I put them in the bank, in the Van der Las security box.’ He paused, his tone warning. ‘The man who came after me will be scarred. You’ll know him, Gil. If you come across someone with an acid burn, it’s him.’
Eight-Nine
Campolfelice, Nr Palermo, Sicily
9.00 a.m.
Moving back into his hire car, Gil turned on the heating. The weather was colder than expected, the early morning shivering on the horizon, the fields smoked with mist. He had parked a little way from Carlo Ranuccio’s house and was reaching for his mobile when someone tapped on the window.
‘Luca!’ he said, opening the car door and getting out.
Meriss was even thinner than before, his clothes loose, his colour pasty. His hair curled indolently around his narrow face, his eyes black, fierce with intent. Wearing jeans and a dark polo-necked jumper, he seemed far removed from the timid man Gil had rescued in Berlin. His voice was challenging.
‘I knew you’d come.’
‘I had to,’ Gil replied, looking around him. ‘But how did you know I’d be in Campolfelice?’
‘Where else would you go in Palermo? This is the only place you know. And besides, I knew you’d visit my father again. How is he?’
‘Why didn’t you ask him?’
‘He knows why,’ Luca said enigmatically, then pushed his hands deep into his pockets. The area suited him; he seemed for once in the right place.
But he was edgy, Gil could see that. ‘So now what?’
Luca put his head on one side. ‘What d’you think?’
‘I think I’m tired of running around. My wife’s due to give birth very soon and I want to go home. I want all this crap to be over. I was hired to find a killer, and that’s what I intend to do.’
‘He might not be what you expect.’
‘Who is?’ Gil said wearily.
He was watching Luca, waiting for anything to tip him off as to the man’s true state of mind. Was he armed? A knife was quick and quiet. Luca Meriss had been running for a while. He was overwrought, hyper. Was he afraid that someone was coming after him? Or was about to rid himself of the man hired to find the killer?
They were alone, in a remote spot, and Gil wondered about Luca Meriss’s mental state. Wondered if he had suffered a breakdown, and if so, whether he had recovered. Or whether he was a dangerous fantasist backed into a corner. And Sicily was his corner, not Gil’s.
‘I’ve had the proof authenticated.’
‘I told you it was genuine!’ Luca snapped. ‘Do you believe me now?’
‘I will when you show me The Nativity—’
‘Why? I thought you wanted to catch the killer. I thought the paintings were secondary.’ He stared at Gil, walking closer towards him. ‘Or are you working for another dealer? I know Bernard Lowe was after the pictures, but he’s dead. So who’s paying you now?’ He was circling Gil, hands still in his pockets. Aggressive, feral. ‘Still Jacob Levens? I wonder how long before he gets here? And we can’t forget Naresh Joshi. He won’t be able to dismiss me
so easily when the proof’s staring him in the face. I thought he was a decent man. I gave him the first chance at the story. Bastard!’
Gil breathed in sharply. He could see that Luca was sweating, his face flushed. Unpredictable, even dangerous.
‘And then there’s Harvey Crammer.’ Luca glanced over at Gil slyly. ‘I saw his photograph in Greta Huber’s flat.’
‘So what? She knew him. Crammer was once married to her mother.’
Luca wasn’t listening. ‘Of course Oscar Schultz won’t be coming.’
How did he know that? Gil wondered. Unless he’d killed him?
‘It was you in the Huber gallery, wasn’t it, Luca? You stole the keys from Greta. You were searching. I saw the marks on top of the safe – someone had climbed up to look down the back.’ He kept his gaze fixed on him, waiting for any reaction. ‘When I looked there wasn’t anything to find – unless you’d already taken it.’
‘The portrait wasn’t there,’ Luca said, smiling indulgently. ‘You’re way off.’
Gil ignored the comment.
‘Why kill Oscar Schultz? Did he come back unexpectedly and catch you? He was killed in exactly the same way as the others. Only the killer knew that, only the killer knew exactly which injuries to inflict.’
‘That’s not true. The injuries were reported on the internet. Anyone could look them up or copy them.’ Luca was taunting him. ‘You think I’m the killer?’
‘You could be. It would be clever to make yourself out to be the victim in order to throw everyone off track.’
‘I was attacked!’
‘Were you?’ Gil replied, watching the Italian as he leaned against the car door. ‘I’ve only got your word for that. As for being abducted from the hospital, perhaps you were taken away for your own good. Perhaps because you were relapsing, hallucinating. Dangerous. Perhaps you weren’t under threat, but under doctor’s orders.’
He moved so fast Gil barely had time to duck as Luca pounded his fist into the car door and then spun round, face distorted with rage.
‘I’m not mad!’
‘Prove it!’ Gil replied, watching Meriss warily. ‘Why did you leave Greta Huber’s flat?’
‘I didn’t trust her.’
The sun was rising higher, a little warmth dribbling through the shutter of clouds.
‘But she wanted to help you.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ Luca countered, recovering his calm.
‘Greta isn’t in the business. The paintings would mean nothing to her,’ Gil retorted, changing tack. ‘Why did you have the drug on your bag?’
‘What?’
‘Catrina Hoyt found muscle relaxant hidden in the base of your bag—’
‘Liar!’ Luca roared. ‘She’s lying!’
‘Why would she?’
‘Someone put it in my bag!’ He was shaking his head, baffled, confused. ‘Someone’s trying to frame me!’
‘Who had access to your bag?’
Luca thought back, then remembered the plane. ‘On the flight – someone could have done it then. I left my seat. They could have planted the drug then!’ His voice accelerated. ‘There was someone on the plane, someone who left me a note. They did it.’
‘Where’s the note?’
Luca paused. ‘In my bag.’
‘The bag that you left at Catrina Hoyt’s?’ Gil said quietly. ‘It’s always the same story, Luca. Nothing adds up with you.’
‘I’m not mad,’ he repeated frantically. ‘It’s not me. I’m not the killer. I’m not mad.’ He was confused, lost, suddenly relapsing into the same terrified man Gil had rescued in Germany. His moods were changing, flickering in and out of logic as he suddenly reached out and grabbed Gil’s arm. ‘I want to show you something. I have to show you. Follow me.’
Gil shook him off. ‘Turn out your pockets first.’
‘What?’
‘Turn out your pockets,’ he repeated, watching as Luca emptied them. He had a few crumpled banknotes, some coins, a comb, and a key with a label attached. Nothing threatening. ‘OK. Now where d’you want to go?’
Luca gestured towards a nearby wall. ‘I’ve got a bike. You follow in the car.’
It was obvious he knew the route, cycling fast down the long country roads, weaving through villages and then pausing for Gil to catch up, his own route hampered by traffic or pedestrians. Once Luca waited by the side of the road, right foot on one pedal, left foot on the ground, sipping at a bottle of water. Dark hair wiry under the growing sunlight. When Gil drew level he nodded, then set off again, following the signposts towards Palermo.
Even early on a Sunday morning, off season, there were people about. Some came from church, the women’s heads covered with lace like frosting on winter trees. Children, released from over-long sermons, chased each other, ducking into alleyways as Gil followed the bike. He was surprised at the traffic, the city roads badly marked, narrow and shadow-warped, leading into squares and unexpected shopping galleries.
Slowing down, Gil watched as Luca stopped, got off his bike, and walked over to him.
‘I’ll show you where to park. We can walk from here.’
Ten minutes later Gil finally managed to secure a space, Luca impatient, tapping his foot as he watched him.
‘Come on, come on!’ he urged, moving off quickly through the streets, weaving into the middle of Palermo. Barely able to keep up with him, Gil was relieved when Luca finally stopped, pointing to a sign on the wall.
‘Via Cipressi,’ he said, his tone satisfied. ‘Follow me.’
The building to which Gil was led adjoined a church. It was painted a pale terracotta, the walls flat-faced, with a small entrance over which was a jaunty, weathered blind. Outside, a couple of old men were opening up. Luca spoke to them and gestured towards Gil. A moment later, they nodded.
‘Come with me,’ Luca said, beckoning to Gil. ‘Come on!’
There were no other people waiting as Luca led Gil through the doorway. The difference in light from the brightness of outside to the gloomy interior disorientated Gil. Taking a moment for his sight to adjust, he followed Luca down a flight of steps into the basement area of a church. On either side of the stone passageway were grip rails, shiny from the passing of a thousand greasy hands.
The smell was not so much damp as dusty, a peculiar mixture of dry sunlight and old clothes with an underlying odour of wood. Surprised, Gil followed as Luca led him on, the narrow passageway widening suddenly. In front of them was an elevated walkway that straddled a subterranean area, the passageway on which they were standing hung either side with dried corpses.
Startled, Gil jerked back. The cadavers were only feet away from him. Mummified, they were dressed in the remnants of their clothes, their faces skulls, their jaws hanging open. Clumps of hair were still attached to some of the heads, the bodies of the glowering monks held back by barriers, their crumbling remains forced upright by the use of wires and steel.
‘God Almighty!’
‘Come on!’ Luca urged him. ‘Hurry.’
Following the Italian, he continued onwards. And then the space opened further, into a vaulted, church-like interior. The walls were old, lime-washed plaster, the bodies arranged in rows from the floor to the ceiling. Rotting cadavers with hooded heads were packed into narrow arches, and on either side brick piles supported skeletons, torsos, and some crumbling bones of children.
Staggered, Gil looked around him. The electric lights had been turned on, their illumination crawling up the walls to where more bodies stood to attention. All were clothed, some in monks’ habits, others in finery, Sunday best clothes grown mouldy with age, whites yellowed and curling with dust. As he turned, Gil could see above him a withered hand reaching from beyond the wire cage, a cardinal’s hat slipping over a skeleton face.
‘What is this place?’
Luca turned to him. ‘The catacombs. They buried the monks here at first, when it was just for the religious orders. But later people buried their own dead. They dresse
d them in their best clothes and came to visit, to talk to them.’ He pointed down the passageway. ‘There are infants in there. One is perfectly preserved, like she’s asleep.’ His voice was low, reverential. ‘I’ve been coming here since I was a child. I used to sneak in, hide, and then wait until it was quiet. The Fathers knew.’ His smile was oblique. ‘They left me alone. They knew I needed to be here.’
‘But why do I need to be here?’
Luca seemed surprised that he should ask. ‘Why? To find the answers you’re searching for.’
‘The killer?’
‘And the painting,’ Luca replied, his face questioning. ‘Which answer do you want the most, Mr Eckhart? To know who the murderer is or where the painting’s hidden? The Nativity with St Lawrence and St Francis, missing for so long, looked for, longed for. All those dealers wanting it. Willing to do anything to get their hands on it. Willing to kill.’
‘You said it never left Palermo. That it was hidden.’ Gil looked about him. ‘Is it here?’
Shrugging, Luca moved away, walking towards a bank of dead monks held back by a wire fence. His hand reached out, his fingers curling around the steel.
‘No one really believed me. No one was really interested in what I had to say. It was irrelevant that I’m a descendant of Caravaggio. All people wanted was the paintings and the money they would bring. They were prepared to kill me to get to them, just like they wanted to kill Caravaggio. Strange that, how we both ended up being hunted.’ He took in a long, measured breath. ‘Are they here yet?’
Gil frowned. ‘Who?’
‘The people I’ve called out. I told you in my note, Mr Eckhart, the killer’s in Palermo.’
‘You’re in Palermo.’
‘As are you.’
‘But I have no reason to kill the dealers.’