The Caravaggio Conspiracy

by Connor, Alex

  ‘He thought he was going to be killed. Why didn’t you explain to him what you were going to do?’

  Crammer was impatient.

  ‘Because he didn’t trust me! We’d met in New York and Luca was panicking. Didn’t trust anyone, even though I offered to help more than once. In the end all I could do was watch out for him.’ He sighed. ‘I could see the way it was going – the murders, everyone desperate for the Caravaggios and after Luca Meriss. It was becoming a bloodbath and he didn’t see it until it was too late. He thought the pictures were his guarantee of safety. They weren’t – they were his death warrant.’

  ‘And you did all of this out of the kindness of your heart?’

  ‘You’ve a bitter soul,’ Crammer shot back. ‘Or are you just sickened by the art world? I wouldn’t blame you – it’s a pit of deceit. But you must understand something. I didn’t have to kill anyone to get to the portrait in Berlin. I always knew where it was.’

  Gil stared at him. ‘How?’

  ‘Because I was the one who hid it.’

  Ninety-Five

  Van der Las Gallery, London

  Stuart Lindsay was smoking a cigarette, flicking ash onto the ground outside the back door of the basement. When a shadow fell over him, he shielded his eyes and looked up.

  ‘About bloody time,’ he said, recognising Gil as he walked down the steps. ‘You take a while to pick up your messages. I was worried—’

  ‘You said that someone threatened you. I’m sorry,’ Gil said. ‘I never thought it would come to that. I didn’t think anyone knew I’d even been here.’

  Stuart pulled a face. ‘I got him, you know. Well, I think I did … maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just threw the acid on his clothes. After all, you’d have noticed someone with face or neck burns, wouldn’t you?’

  Gil shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Doesn’t now. You got him.’

  ‘I got him,’ Gil agreed.

  ‘Naresh Joshi. Who’d have thought it?’ Stuart smiled. ‘How’s Bette?’

  ‘Due to give birth any minute. Impatient, glad to have me back. Begging me never to take on another case.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’

  ‘Christ, no,’ Gil replied. ‘Is the proof still in the bank?’

  ‘Yes. Locked away in the Van der Las security box. What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Give it back to Luca Meriss. It was his originally, so he should decide what happens to it.’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t flog it on eBay.’ Stuart ground out the stub of his cigarette with the heel of his boot. ‘You’re all done then?’

  ‘No, not yet. I came back to see Bette, and Jacob Levens. But he’s disappeared. Left the gallery without a note or anything. Same with his flat. The man’s gone.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘If he is, Naresh Joshi didn’t do it.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s committed suicide?’

  ‘No, he was too sly for that.’

  Gil remembered the disks that no one had ever found, or even appeared to know about – apart from Levens, Luca Meriss and Holly. He thought of his late wife: the woman he had grieved for, the woman Bette resented, the woman whose recklessness had detonated a maelstrom. Holly Eckhart, devious but outclassed by men more ruthless than herself. A victim.

  Gil cringed at the thought. How she would have hated to be viewed like that, as someone out-manoeuvred and outsmarted. And for all her deception and betrayal of him Gil felt oddly forgiving. Holly had died with nothing, murdered by a man she had loved. Whereas Gil had a new wife, and a child about to be born.

  ‘What if Jacob Levens washes up on some beach somewhere?’ Stuart asked. ‘He might.’

  ‘No, Jacob’s clever. People like that keep ducking and diving – they don’t give up.’

  Stuart watched as Gil moved to the door. ‘You going home now?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’ve still got one loose end to tie up, then it’s done. I’m going back to Berlin. I have to settle something. After that, it’s finished. No more investigative work.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Gil replied firmly.

  ‘Funny to think that Luca Meriss was kosher, after all. Think about it – the living descendant of Caravaggio.’ Stuart looked at Gil, curious. ‘What? You don’t believe it?’

  ‘I think Luca believes it. And who’d risk their life for a fantasy? But no one can prove it for certain.’

  ‘No one can disprove it either,’ Stuart replied smartly. ‘It’s a great story. Should get Luca Meriss some bookings on the chat-show circuit. Even money he writes a book.’ He warmed to his theme. ‘I mean, no one will dare to harm a hair on his head now, will they? He can make a nice living out of being a victim. Although, to be honest, he’s not exactly what you’d expect.’

  Gil frowned. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Caravaggio was the hard man of painting. Like someone once said, he’s “the resident thug of art history”. But Luca Meriss is the polar opposite. People tried to kill Caravaggio, and he fought back. It was almost a blood sport around Italy then – killing Caravaggio. Strange that the same thing happened to Luca Meriss. Only difference is that Caravaggio toughed it out himself, whereas Meriss relied on others to protect him.’ Stuart inhaled again, then exhaled, making smoke rings in the London air. ‘It’s just odd, that’s all.’

  ‘What’s odd?’

  ‘That Caravaggio was famous for his talent, whereas Luca Meriss is going to be famous just for having some of his genes.’

  Monday

  Ninety-Six

  Huber Gallery, Berlin

  Head lowered against the freezing temperature, Gil walked down the Friedrichstrasse. Across the street cars were queuing, waiting for the traffic lights at a busy junction to turn from red to green. His eyes fixed on the lights as his thoughts went back seven years. Alma and Terrill had been murdered and Jacob Levens was calling him in to investigate. Had it been Holly’s idea? Bring in Gil, she might have said. He’s my husband. No one will suspect us of anything if he’s working on the case. It would have been like her to suggest it. Like the Holly he had grown to know. How she was in other people’s eyes, not his. And all the time Gil had been duped, Holly had been plotting, and in the end it had all come to nothing.

  He stared at the traffic lights on the corner and remembered her car smashed into a window nearby. The metal had caved in, pinning Holly inside, and rain had started to fall, chilling that late night. Her face had been covered in blood, her arm broken across the wheel, her left eye swollen, her right eye closed. The police said she had been caught out, sideswiped, by Oscar Schultz. An accident. A tragedy.

  It certainly had been for her.

  Sighing, Gil continued on his way to the Huber Gallery. Harvey Crammer was already waiting by the door and let him in.

  ‘I saw you coming.’

  ‘Let’s make it quick, can we?’ Gil asked. ‘I need to get back to London.’

  He followed the big man into the gallery, crossing the main floor and entering the office at the back. Inside, it was warm as Crammer offered him a whisky.

  ‘Take it, it’s not poisoned,’ he joked. ‘Remember, you’ve caught the killer.’ He watched Gil take a sip and leaned back against the desk. ‘The gallery’s mine now.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  A noise outside startled them both, a car’s brakes screeching. Crammer went to the window and looked out into the street, towards the traffic lights. ‘It’s that bloody corner. Always been dangerous.’ He turned back to Gil, returning to his previous subject. ‘As I said, the gallery’s mine. That was part of the arrangement with Der Kreis der Acht. The place was to stay in our possession. If anything happened to the other dealers, the last one inherited it.’

  Gil looked at him curiously. ‘Quite a motive. I don’t suppose he meant to, but Naresh Joshi did you a favour.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t kill for this gallery.’

  Hesitating, Gil stared a
t the whisky in his glass as Crammer downed his drink in one.

  ‘Not for the gallery perhaps – but for what’s in it.’ He glanced at Crammer. ‘Where’s Jacob Levens? I mean, he was one of your group and he’s not dead. So why isn’t he claiming his stake? He isn’t usually a man to miss out on anything.’

  ‘I’ve no idea where Levens is. Mind you, he had money abroad, so he’s probably heading for Switzerland as we speak.’ Crammer gestured to the glass. ‘Want a top-up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re very edgy.’

  ‘I want to finish this case and get home.’

  ‘Your wife’s due any time, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gil replied cautiously. ‘How did you know she was pregnant?’

  ‘I heard,’ Crammer said, changing the subject. ‘Luca’s quite the hero. Giving interviews already. I imagine he’ll be very famous soon. Of course, his story would be more interesting if he could have presented the world with both the Caravaggios. But still, there are remnants from The Nativity with St Lawrence and St Francis to prove what he said. A few vignettes, which can be preserved and exhibited. Along with the lurid tale of the insane Naresh Joshi.’ Crammer smiled his wide, reptile smile. ‘He had a brilliant mind, but he was over-educated for a serial killer. I heard he left Greta well provided for. She’ll be rich—’

  ‘And infamous.’

  Crammer shrugged. ‘D’you think she knew that Naresh killed her parents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But she had a breakdown.’

  ‘I still don’t think she knew. She blocked everything out. But one day it might all come back, and then …’ He shrugged. ‘It’ll be hard for her if it does. She trusted Naresh.’

  ‘You trusted your late wife.’

  Gil bristled. ‘I don’t have time for this! You said you hid the Caravaggio in this gallery. That’s what I’m here for. To finish this bloody case. Did you hide the painting?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I want it.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Crammer replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘Luca Meriss knew it was here. Prove him right. He wants to exhibit the portrait, show it off to the world. After all, he’s claiming to be a descendant of Caravaggio and Fillide Melandroni. The portrait’s special to him.’

  ‘Apparently she was a great whore.’

  Gil ignored the comment.

  ‘Luca wants to be Caravaggio’s mouthpiece for the twenty-first century,’ he continued. ‘And he’s got proof of what he’s claiming, the paintbrush and note. They’re authentic. So let him have the painting. He’ll give it back to the Italian people—’

  ‘And where does that leave me?’

  ‘The hero. You could say you’d hidden it for safe keeping. After all, you can’t sell it, can you? It’s too well known to broker—’

  ‘I thought you knew the art world,’ Crammer retorted slyly. ‘I could sell it to a private dealer tomorrow. So what if the world never saw it? The owner would have it all to himself, and that’s what people want – exclusivity.’

  ‘It cost six lives!’

  ‘On the contrary. Naresh Joshi killed for revenge. The paintings were secondary to him.’

  Exasperated, Gil looked around. ‘So what am I doing here?’

  ‘Think of it as a reward,’ Crammer replied, moving towards the stairs. ‘Come on, follow me!’

  Together they moved into the upper offices, Gil remembering how he had broken into the gallery the first time and been locked in the cellar with the dead Schultz on his next visit. But now the office was empty, the door of the massive safe hanging open.

  Crammer gestured to it. ‘Get in.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Only joking!’ he replied, laughing and walking towards the safe. Then he pointed behind it. ‘The painting’s here.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Gil replied, keeping his distance. ‘I looked behind the safe. Others people did too and none of us found anything.’

  ‘I tell you, it’s here.’

  ‘No, it can’t be. We all looked.’

  Sighing, Crammer knelt down, the fingers of his right hand picking at the base of the skirting board. Carefully, he lifted a corner of wallpaper and began, slowly, to pull it away. He had little room for manoeuvre, but inch by inch Gil could begin to see the corner of a canvas being uncovered.

  He jumped forward, crouching down. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘You can see for yourself.’ Crammer turned to look at Gil. ‘Behold, Caravaggio’s portrait of his lover and muse, Fillide Melandroni.’

  Gil was leaning forward, looking down at the edge of the canvas, when he glanced towards Crammer – and froze. The collector was struggling, leaning at an odd angle, his head bent, revealing a part of his neck which would usually be covered. There was a small, angry burn on the skin. A recent acid burn.

  Gil breathed in, watching as Crammer lifted more of the wallpaper. The outline of Fillide Melandroni’s hand holding the jasmine cane into view – luminous, even in the shaded light behind the safe.

  ‘That’s all I can show you for now,’ Crammer said, standing up and brushing the dust off his hands. ‘But it’s there, safe as houses. Has been for years. Hidden away.’

  ‘You hid it when you got the safe.’

  Crammer nodded. ‘Alma had this office redecorated. I’m not usually very handy, but when the decorators left that night, I took the painting off its stretcher and laid the flat canvas on the wall. Then I put another piece of wallpaper over it – taking care only to plaster the sides down, I wouldn’t have wanted to get common glue on a masterpiece.’ He was bragging. ‘In the morning the safe arrived and was put in place. No one could move it after that.’ He smiled, pleased with himself. ‘People always look for the obvious. That something will be hidden behind, on top, or under something. Never that it’s in plain sight, disguised to look like something else.’

  ‘Like people,’ Gil said coolly.

  Crammer nodded. ‘The cleverest people consist of layers. They’re not just one personality, one character, but different levels of temperament: glazes of moods, perceptions, attitudes. Intelligent people shift, alter.’

  ‘Dupe.’

  Crammer shook his head. ‘No, they challenge.’

  ‘They manipulate.’

  ‘If you like,’ Crammer agreed. ‘But what’s manipulation anyway? The exploiting of one person’s weakness to another’s advantage.’

  ‘You say it like it’s a good thing.’

  ‘Some people need guiding.’

  ‘Some people need putting away,’ Gil replied.

  ‘You don’t seem impressed,’ Crammer remarked. ‘You’ve just seen a painting the art world lusts after.’

  ‘I saw another Caravaggio yesterday – which fell apart. Seen one, seen them all.’ Gil was being deliberately provocative and Crammer bristled.

  ‘You’re a smug bastard, Eckhart. But you predicted you’d have it all sewn up in a week. Well, today’s Monday. Don’t renege on your promise.’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’

  ‘You just need the last piece of the puzzle,’ Crammer replied, ‘and I want to give it to you. Think of it as a bonus. You were very clever. A bit slow at times, but you certainly picked up towards the end.’ Gil frowned, watching Crammer as he continued. ‘It was complicated, I thought I’d fooled you, but you got there. Diligence is an admirable quality in a man.’

  Gil faltered, taken aback. ‘You can’t be the killer. Naresh Joshi confessed, he admitted what he’d done.’

  ‘Yes. He admitted what he’d done …’

  The moment shimmered between them.

  ‘But you planned it,’ Gil said at last. ‘You plotted it out. Played them all, didn’t you? Of course you did. You knew every one of your victims intimately.’

  ‘Not victims. I didn’t kill them.’

  ‘No, you got Naresh Joshi to do the work for you.’ Gil paused, studying the big man in front of him. ‘How long did you plan this? Years? Decades
? You knew Naresh was hypersensitive, prone to hysteria about his origins, terrified of being snubbed. For all his learning, the art world patronised him. You worked on that. You made sure that Der Kreis der Acht rejected him, cut him out. And of course his affair with Greta played into your hands perfectly. Naresh resented her parents’ disapproval and that was one more rebuttal.’ Gil stared at him. ‘But he killed Alma. You loved her—’

  ‘Which was the reason why I had to destroy Naresh Joshi,’ Crammer said coldly. ‘I never thought he’d hurt her. I knew he’d go for Terrill, but Alma? You don’t kill women.’

  ‘You goaded him into it.’

  Crammer was genuinely surprised. ‘It wasn’t all my fault. Naresh had it in him, the violence, or he could never have done it.’

  ‘You played him.’

  ‘I guided him. I admit that after he killed Alma it was easy. I wanted to see him in hell then. I wanted him in so deep he could never get out.’

  ‘And you knew how to drag him down further and further, didn’t you? How to make him keep killing. You knew the dealers better than anyone. Knew that Oscar Schultz was sly, but a thorn in Naresh’s side. He refused to work with him, I remember now. As for Jacob Levens, he’d insulted Naresh Joshi for years. I imagine the Weir brothers—’

  ‘They were a vicious wolf pack, all of them,’ Crammer interrupted. ‘The Weirs were arrogant and corrupt, Bernard Lowe was smuggling – with your wife – and Oscar Schultz was scared witless. It was so easy to keep them in line because they all had so much to hide. Once the murders started, Schultz and Levens panicked. They didn’t know where to turn. Dealers aren’t cage fighters, you know.’

  ‘But it took you seven years.’

  Crammer sighed. ‘Longer, actually. It took seven years from when I heard about Naresh’s affair with Greta Huber. After that, it was easier, I could manipulate Naresh, prey on his weaknesses.’

  ‘But if you knew where the portrait was all along—’

  ‘I didn’t know where The Nativity was though, did I?’ Crammer countered, surprised that Gil hadn’t already worked it out. ‘I wanted the gallery and both paintings. That’s when I had to wait for Luca Meriss. Had to be patient – for seven long years – until he came out of hospital. I was going to pay him to give me the information, but the bloody fool went public and it turned into a free-for-all.’