‘And did he?’

‘Oh yes, but after that things became more difficult,’ the man replied, his voice dropping. ‘He was teasing me, you see. Probably knew I’d go for The Garden of Earthly Delights, which I did. But after that, Basinksi moved away from the triptych and into less familiar waters. For example, there was a detail of only the top half of an owl . . .

‘Quite simple, you’d think. Unless you know that Bosch repeated the owl symbol over and over again.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have a large grandfather clock in my study, and I used to find its ticking soothing. But during those days that clock began to speed up, I swear it. It ticked and ticked and pushed and pushed me. The sound was behind me, around me, like an echo telling me to hurry, hurry, hurry.’ He rubbed his eyes as remembering his exhaustion. ‘As the days went by I could hear footsteps passing outside the house late at night and the phone sometimes rang. When I answered, no one was there. It was intimidation and, believe me, I was intimidated.’

‘But you kept looking?’

‘I had no choice. I couldn’t go to the police, I had made my bed and was strapped to it.’ The dealer sighed. ‘But, scared as I was, I found the second and third details relatively quickly – and I was jubilant.’

‘Until?’

‘I stalled on the fourth. I couldn’t find it. I looked at every portion of every Bosch painting – and he painted many – but I just couldn’t see it. And then I panicked and thought that the only way I could calm myself down was to find the fifth detail and then go back to the penultimate one.’

David was hooked, listening intently. ‘Did you find it?’

‘Yes, I found the fifth.’

‘. . . And the fourth?’

The man paused, finished his coffee and set down the mug on the table. ‘No, I couldn’t find the fourth. It stumped me completely.’

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.’