by Alex Connor
With the index finger of his left hand the dealer pushed the fourth image towards David.
‘What is it?’ David asked, glancing at the magnified photograph and then back at the man across the table. ‘I can’t make it out. It could be anything.’
‘Exactly. I stared at it. I sweated over it. I looked at it in every way, turned it round. It was a landscape, or part of a landscape . . . or was it? I went back to the books, to the computer, to every bloody catalogue about Bosch’s works. But I had no luck, and I was running out of time fast.’
‘And the pressure was mounting?’
‘Oh yes. I’d even seen one of Basinksi’s men hanging around the gates of my house, and the phone kept ringing, on and off, through the night. If I was in doubt before, I wasn’t any longer. If I didn’t solve the puzzle and absolve my debt, I was in trouble.’
‘So you feared for your life?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ the dealer replied. ‘And then I thought of my wife and son – what if they went after them? What greater punishment could there be than to see the ones you love suffer for what you’d done? I had fourteen hours left and I’d decided that if I couldn’t solve the riddle I’d sign the gallery over to Basinksi. That would have more than covered my debt, but I knew even then that he wouldn’t have agreed. As I said before, it wasn’t really about the money . . .’
David could hear the anxiety in the man’s voice – his hands shook and a couple of times he fiddled with his collar, almost as though he could feel an imaginary noose tightening. His composure had fizzled into despair.
‘…Then I had an inspiration. What if it was a trick within a trick?’
David frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘What if Basinski had picked a painting whose provenance had been questioned? A picture that had had doubts over it. Was it a work by Bosch . . . or not?’ He smiled, as though he was feeling relief once again. ‘You should have seen me – I went scrambling through my books, back through the old catalogues, gallery listings. God, I was desperate! But I found it. The detail of a landscape that belonged in a painting of St Jerome. A picture which had been under doubt, but was recently authenticated as by the master Bosch.’
David was almost holding his breath with anticipation. ‘How long did you have left?’
‘One hour,’ the dealer replied. ‘Just one hour. I hadn’t slept properly in days. I put the pictures back in the envelope. On each of then I had written the name of the painting to which the detail belonged. All in all, it was a hell of a feat. Not something I would have believed I could have done. But panic concentrates the mind nicely. I had everything to lose – and I’d saved myself.’
‘What did Basinski say?’
The dealer’s smile faded. ‘He said “Well done”.’
‘That was it?’
The man paused to recover himself, then continued. ‘I’d been so relieved,. I thought it was over. I thought my debt was paid off. After all, I’d done what had been asked of me. I’d solved the puzzle.’
‘But you weren’t right?’
‘Oh, I was right! Basinski couldn’t argue with that. I knew I’d found the right answers and placed the details with the correct Bosch paintings.’ He stood up suddenly, and began pacing the room. ‘I’d done what was asked of me. I’d kept my side of the bargain—’
Uneasy, David stared at him, sensing his despair. ‘What happened? What else did Basinski say?’
‘He said “Well done. You’ve finished the first part”.’
FOUR
The rain had stopped, but the water kept running down the window panes, the iron railings shiny. The dealer had stopped talking, the recorder’s red light flicking off as silence descended over the two men.
David Gerrald, of number 16 Cromwell Road, Battersea, aged thirty-eight, freelance journalist and mortgage-shackled, stared at the dealer. Of course he had wanted to do the story. It had been a great chance for him, and the magazine was paying well. But that had been before. Before, when he had thought of the art world and its cohorts as a coven of the privileged, a bastion for the elite . . . an area off-limits to normal people.
Naturally he had visited the dealer’s gallery. He’d been somewhat taken aback by the stone columns flanking the entrance, and the expansive window displaying a triptych from the late Middle Ages. School of Bosch. On entering, David had found himself ignored, his awkward wander around the gallery tracked suspiciously by the receptionist and the doorman.
Did they think he was going to steal something? he wondered. Then he realised he was wearing jeans, trainers, and had a bad haircut. Nothing to indicate that he was one of the chosen – a buyer. So David had cut his visit short, not before developing an intense hatred for the dealer he was preparing to interview for the article.
*
But the dislike hadn’t lasted. Now he realized he wasn’t looking at a lucky man. He was looking at a broken one.
‘There were two parts to the puzzle?’
The dealer sat down again. He seemed tired, his voice strained, his face puffy from lack of sleep. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘There were two parts.’
‘What was the second?’
‘You know. That’s why you’re here.’
David’s voice was sympathetic. ‘I need to hear it in your own words. Please.’
‘In my own words,’ the dealer repeated. ‘Well, in my own words Iwo Basinski had me over a barrel. His intimidation techniques had worked. The possible danger to my family had cowed me. I had thought I was home free. But I wasn’t.’ He took in a long breath, held it, then tipped back his head, looking up at the ceiling. ‘The dealer who had cheated Basinski years earlier – Leo Joyce – turned out to be the new owner of the St Jerome painting.’
David raised his eyebrows. ‘The painting that held the fourth detail?’
‘Yes,’ the dealer replied, glancing back to David. ‘The detail I’d struggled with for so long . . . it was owned by the man who had cheated Basinski.’
‘And?’
‘You know the rest.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It was to be the second part of the puzzle. Once completed, my debt was wiped.’
David chose his next words carefully. ‘What did Basinksi ask you to do?’
Again, the dealer rose to his feet. His pacing was slow, laboured, the room cramped. ‘Of course it wasn’t just about the money. I’d already worked that out. I had thought it was about revenge. And I’d been right.’
‘But there was more to it?’
The dealer paused, rubbed the back of his neck as though his muscles were stiff. ‘Oh yes, it was a double whammy, you see. A way for Basinksi to get his money back and get revenge at the same time. I was on a string, he could jerk me around and get me to do anything. And Basinski had plotted this move for years. The dealer who had cheated him, Leon Joyce, had probably forgotten what he’d done. Put it down to business . . . but Basinski never forgot. He had been humiliated, lost money and lost face. His revenge was to be perfectly pitched . . . ’
David watched the man talk, studied the pacing, the regular slow marching.
‘I doubt I was part of it to begin with. It just turned out that way. Basinski needed someone and I walked right into his plan. As I said before, I adored the private club in Hampstead and had soon become a regular. I was flattered to be allowed into this elevated, moneyed, circle. As the owner, Basinksi knew that, and possibly he let me win for a while just to keep me coming back. It’s psychological, you see. You win so much you think you can’t lose. So when you do lose, you think that if you just keep on playing you’ll start winning again.’ He shrugged. ‘Only you never do.’
‘You think Basinski rigged it?’
‘Probably. He counted on a gambler’s stupidity, and I didn’t disappoint him. I lost a fortune. And even better, I was an art dealer, with access to the world – and the dealer – who had humiliated him. I had access to a business that revels in its secrecy and inclusiveness. With me, Basinski h
ad a way in.’
‘And you never saw it coming?’
The dealer smiled bitterly. ‘Does it look like I saw it coming?’
There was a long pause. The light on the recorder clicked off, fell into a rickety sleep. In silence, David watched the dealer and then finally spoke again.
‘Did you know Leon Joyce?’
‘Very well. He and I were friends, so were our wives. I spent time at his gallery, as Leon spent time at mine. We enjoyed each other’s company and collected similar paintings.’ He paused, then added: ‘Leon had no reason not to trust me.’
‘Which was why Basinski set you up.’
The dealer nodded.
‘And you never suspected.’
‘Never. I couldn’t believe it.’ He slumped in his seat. ‘Remember, I thought it was over, I thought I’d cleared the bloody debt. But Basinski had only just started. When I got over the shock, I finally asked what else he wanted.’
‘And?’
‘It was simple, he said “Just steal the St Jerome and we’ll call it quits”.’
FIVE
Before the dealer could continue, the door of the room opened and a prison guard walked in, addressing David. ‘Your time’s up.’
‘I was given an hour.’
‘And you’ve had an hour,’ the officer replied, gesturing for the dealer to rise. Smiling ruefully, but still elegant in his prison garb, he got up, then turned back to David. ‘I was a good art dealer, but a lousy thief. As everyone knows, I was caught during the robbery. Didn’t even make it past the alarms—’
‘But Bosch’s St Jerome is missing.’
‘Really?’ he replied. ‘I don’t know anything about that. I just know that I didn’t get it. Ask Basinski where it is. That bastard’s ruined me.’
*
David watched him as he was lead out. He could hear the dealer’s footsteps and those of the prison guard. He tucked the recorder into his coat pocket, ready to leave. Of course, he could never prove it, but what if the dealer had managed to steal the St Jerome? Even in the moments before he was caught he could have hidden it, or passed it out of a window to an accomplice.
If he’d been quick he could have done it and then allowed himself to be caught to give his helper time to escape. In prison, the dealer was tucked away and could do his three year sentence in safety – his family having been conveniently spirited away, out of the country. To an unknown destination; beyond the reach of the thwarted Iwo Basinski.
Secretly, David suspected that the dealer had organised everything. Had allowed himself to be played, whilst all along planning a double-cross. All he had to do now was wait. When he was released from prison he would go to his family – and the fortune the sale of St Jerome would eventually realise. He was a dealer, after all. The sale would be done discreetly, to a buyer who wished to keep it a secret – just like the dealer.
Getting to his feet, David picked up the photographs of the images and looked at their backs. But there was nothing. No clue, no tidy solution to his suspicions. Instead, on that rainy morning, David Gerrald left the prison wondering just who had been the victim, after all.
Read on for an exclusive preview of Alex Connor’s new novel
ONE
Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London, the present day
‘Father?’
The priest turned, staring at a face he didn’t recognise. At first. ‘Nicholas?’
He nodded, moving towards the older man. Nicholas Laverne, forty-one years old, a man who had left London ten years earlier and had – to all intents and purposes – disappeared. Nicholas Laverne, the ex-priest who had railed publicly against the Catholic Church and been excommunicated for his pains. The same Nicholas Laverne whose very name was inflammatory.
‘Is it really you, Nicholas?’
He nodded in reply.
Hurriedly the old priest looked around, but there was no one on the street and, without thinking, he beckoned for Nicholas to follow him into the church. They entered by the back door, skirting the anteroom where the priests prepared for Mass, and moved into a gloomy kitchen. Turning on the light and pulling down the blind at the window, Father Michael gestured for Nicholas to sit down.
He hesitated, then took a seat. ‘I’m sorry I came here. I hope no one saw me—’
‘It’s a church. Sanctuary for everyone.’
‘Which is why you took me round the back,’ Nicholas replied bitterly.
‘You don’t change.’
He knew he should have been ashamed of the remark, but Nicholas was unrepentant. He stood over six feet tall, his hair black and dusty looking and his eyes blue. Well-fed and well-dressed, he could have been handsome. As it was, he had the appearance of someone recovering from a long illness.
‘Where have you been?’ Father Michael asked, making a drink for both of them and passing Nicholas of cup of tea. ‘D’you want something to eat?’
‘Why?’
Father Michael paused. ‘Why what?’
‘Why did you do it?’
The older priest shrugged. ‘What did I do?’
‘Nothing changes, does it?’ Nicholas replied. ‘Denial all the way.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to confess.’
Nicholas stared at the ageing priest, taking in the foxing of grey hair, the narrow face, the pale, appealing eyes. Perfect for confession, forgiveness oozing from every compassionate pore.
‘You turned on me.’
The priest shook his head. ‘You turned on yourself. And on the Church.’ He leaned towards Nicholas. ‘You acted like a madman. What did you expect? For the Church to sanction what you said? You had no proof—’
‘I had proof!’
‘Which wasn’t reliable. Or so you said,’ Father Michael replied, eyes hostile now. ‘What d’you want? No one’s seen you for years – why come back now?’
‘I need to talk to you. It’s important. I wouldn’t have come back to London otherwise.’
‘Where were you?’
‘France.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Why d’you care?’ Nicholas countered.
‘You don’t look well.’
‘But I’m better now. Much better.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I won’t stay for long – don’t worry. But I need some help before I go. And before you refuse, remember you owe me—’
‘Nothing.’
‘Think back, Father. Examine your conscience,’ Nicholas replied, pulling a cloth bag from the inside pocket of his coat. Silently he shook out the contents, a heavy gold chain falling on to the bleached wood of the kitchen table. With his forefinger he straightened it out, the gold weighty, its value obvious.
The priest put on his glasses and stared at the chain. ‘It looks old.’
It is old. Centuries old,’ Nicholas replied, ‘and it’s worth a fortune. The gold itself could fetch thousands, its provenance millions. But the real value lies in what the chain held.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The past. You’re a historian, Father – you know all about the religious organisations of the old Catholic Church,’ Nicholas replied, weighing the chain in his hands. ‘What d’you know about the Brotherhood of Mary?’
‘Brotherhood of Mary … let me think for a minute.’ The priest gathered his thoughts. ‘… It was also known as the Brotherhood of Our Lady. It was one of many groups which worshipped the Virgin in the late Middle Ages.’
‘In Brabant?’
‘All around Europe, especially in the Netherlands. There was a Brotherhood of Our Lady in ’s-Hertogenbosch.’ The priest was unable to resist the temptation to flaunt his knowledge. ‘Devotion centred on the famous miracle-working image of the Virgin, the Zoete Lieve Vrouw, in the church of Saint John, where the Brotherhood had a chapel.’
Nicholas was listening intently. ‘What else?’
‘The congregation consisted of members from Northern Netherlands and Westphalia. It supported the religious and cultural life
of ’s-Hertogenbosch.’ Father Michael leaned back in his chair, suddenly suspicious. ‘Where did this chain come from?’
‘’s-Hertogenbosch. The same city Hieronymus Bosch came from. Apparently he was commissioned to create paintings for the Chapel of Our Lady there.’ Nicholas continued, ‘Bosch’s father managed to get most of his family employed by the Brotherhood. Hieronymus was the most talented, the most famous of all of them, but his grandfather, father and brothers were painters too. They must have been quite a force to reckon with. You knew that Bosch’s father, Antonius van Aken, was artistic advisor to the Brotherhood?’
‘You’ve obviously read up on it, so why are you asking me for information?’
‘You’re the expert; I’m just learning as I go along.’
Abruptly, Father Michael rose to his feet. ‘I don’t want trouble!’
‘I’m asking about a religious organisation and a painter. What trouble could come from that?’ Nicholas asked. ‘I’ve found out some facts, but you know a lot about Hieronymus Bosch, the artist. You’ve always been interested in him. So tell me what you know.’
The priest hesitated, then sat down again.
‘Bosch lived and died in his hometown. There’s no documentary evidence that he ever left the place where he was born. But then again, there are very few details about his life. Sometime between 1479 and 1481, he married Aleyt Goyaerts van den Meerveen. She was older than him, a wealthy woman in her own right. After they married, the couple moved to the nearby town of Oirschot because she’d inherited a house and land from her family.’
‘Did they have children?’
‘Apparently not.’
The elderly priest was regarding his visitor with caution. Perhaps if he gave Nicholas Laverne the information he wanted, he would leave – and stay away. He brought with him too many memories, too many reminders of scandal. Once he had been a friend, a colleague, but that was a long time ago.
‘The final entry in the accounts of the Brotherhood of Our Lady notes that Bosch died in 1516.’