‘Lucky you. Want to buy some pictures?’

She smiled with chilling coldness. ‘I am here to sell, not buy.’

‘Sell what?’

‘Not so fast, Mr der Keyser. You have to hear the rest of the story first. The rich have the money to be discreet; privilege brings protection. When you left Sabine so ruthlessly, her family married her off within weeks. She put the whole business behind her and, to all intents and purposes, forgot about it.’

‘It was a long time ago. I doubt she pined for me.’

‘She never mentioned you.’

His voice was suspicious. ‘What’s your name?’

‘All in good time, Mr der Keyser … What would you do to own the chain?’ He said nothing. ‘And the secret it holds.’

‘What secret?’ he said, trying to sound casual but but failing.

‘You know well enough.’

‘I don’t know the whole story. Just the rumour of a conspiracy. You’ve heard of it too, obviously,’ he replied, piqued. ‘I thought I was the only one.’

‘No, you didn’t. You hoped you were the only one. But then you found out that others knew, like Sabine and my husband, both of whom are now dead. But you must know that.’

‘I know about Sabine, but not about your husband.’

‘Even though the Bosch painting and chain once belonged to his father, Raoul Devereux?’

He looked rattled, thrown off balance. ‘I didn’t know anything about that … Anyway, so what? It’s just coincidence.’

‘No, it’s murder,’ she corrected him.

‘And you think I’m responsible?’

‘I don’t know, but if you are, I’ll see you punished.’

Gerrit smiled sourly and leaned forward across the desk. ‘You come here and all but accuse me of murder. Why would you do that?’ he sneered. ‘I’ve never killed anyone but if I was violent, what would stop me coming after you?’

‘You still don’t understand, do you?’

He was getting angry and veins stood out on his thin neck. ‘I should have you thrown out of here—’

‘But you won’t because you want the chain. You would do business with the Devil for that chain – for what it held, for what it means.’

‘If I’m so dangerous,’ Gerrit snapped, ‘why help me?’

‘Because I want to see if it is you. If you killed them. And in order to do that I’m prepared to help you, to get close to you, to be with you – until I’m sure of your innocence, or guilt.’

He was unnerved, but continued. ‘If I’m so dangerous, why aren’t you afraid?’

‘You won’t hurt me.’ She smiled coldly. ‘No father would kill their own daughter.’

Nicholas knows he is dreaming, but can’t wake himself. Instead he follows the same familiar route between the yew trees towards the outhouse in the church grounds. But this time it’s daylight and the dead boy is alive, leaning against the wall of the building, talking to a lad of his own age.

They see him and their bodies tense as Nicholas approaches. He knows the boys, both trainee priests from the seminary, sent from Dublin to study for the priesthood in London. Their families read the letters they send, never knowing each line is censored, believing in a false happiness. Nicholas sees the boys and calls out to them.

Patrick turns his head towards Nicholas and his left eye is puffy; there is bruising along his chin and the knuckles of both hands are bloodied. Nicholas asks what has happened. Are you OK? Is everything all right? Are you being treated well at St Barnabas’s? … Same questions, same answers, as always. Fine, all fine. Couldn’t be better … He knows they’re lying, and watches them flinch as a voice calls their names.

Their reaction is always the same in the dream, as it was in life. They turn and move away between the yew trees passing Nicholas.

And in the doorway of the church, waiting for them, stand two priests: Father Dominic and Father Luke. The first is sleek as a wild mink, the latter standing, arms akimbo, in the fading light.

I want a word with you, Nicholas says to them. What about? About the boys … Father Dominic shrugs and moves away. Father Luke, his defiant arms out of proportion with his short legs and narrow trunk, stands looking at Nicholas as though he doesn’t have time to chat. As though he wants him off the premises. Go back to your own church, St Stephen’s, he says. Mind your own business or I’ll take it up with Father Michael.

And Nicholas – as always, as ever – walks away. He’ll come back, he tells himself. Check on the boys. He pushes out of his mind Patrick Gerin’s bruises and puffy eye and goes back to St Stephen’s, passing between the yew trees that never change.

Twenty-Seven

Honthorst was just about to reach the doorway where Nicholas was hiding when his name was called. He hesitated, then turned and walked back on to the street. Nicholas waited for a few moments, praying he wouldn’t return, then moved out into the alleyway.

He was breathing rapidly, unnerved, as he walked into the high street. But there was no sign of the Dutchman, only a couple standing at a bus stop, smoking. Nicholas walked quickly back to St Stephen’s church and hurried up the gravel path towards the side door. He expected at any moment to be attacked, and his hand shook as he unlocked the entrance and went in. Bolting the door behind him, he moved into the vestry. A small saucepan of milk was simmering on the gas cooker and a half-eaten sandwich lay on the table.

The triumph Nicholas had expected to feel was lacking. Yes, the Dutchman had broken into the auction house believing he would find the chain, which proved that Nicholas and Philip Preston were being watched, but that was all. Honthorst had come away empty-handed, with only the realisation that he had been duped. He would have been angry. A violent man who used brutal tactics would resent being played for a fool.

And if he hadn’t been distracted, Honthorst would have caught him.

With growing unease, Nicholas realised the danger of his situation and the ruthlessness of his opponents. And those were just the ones he knew about. Members of the art world had come out into the open, but what of the Church? What would the Catholic Church do when it realised that Father Daniel – aka Nicholas Laverne – was privy to information which could expose them for the liars they were? He had been a sacred thorn in their side ten years earlier, but they had thought him powerless after his excommunication. Maybe this time they would rely on no one taking him seriously, letting his name damn him in advance.

But if not, Nicholas thought, what would they do? He was a man on his own, without protectors, without confidantes, without power. Alone, he was challenging an institution that had obliterated rivals and crushed nations. What chance did he have? he wondered bleakly. What wouldn’t the Church do to silence its most troublesome priest?

Twenty-Eight

There is an area of London in Kensington called Palace Gardens. The houses there are prestigious, many of them embassies or subdivided into sumptuous apartments. Only a few remain as private residences, with their own gated entrances and security guards. In one of these lives Conrad Voygel, with his wife and daughter. This Voygel travels a great deal, always leaving and arriving home at night, the windows of his car tinted so that he can see out but no one can see in.

His activities amuse his wife, Angela, who mocks his secrecy and pathological need for privacy. But he explains that it is to keep his family safe, and she believes him. After all, their little daughter would make a perfect kidnap victim. Since their marriage Conrad has also told his wife that there is another reason for his reserve: his employees do not know what their boss looks like, so he can move around his businesses unknown, eavesdropping on gossip, complaints and intimations of mutiny. But Angela knows otherwise.