Paris, France
Carel Honthorst ordered a coffee as he watched Madame Monette take a seat outside. He sat down, facing in the opposite direction but able to see the Frenchwoman’s reflection in the cafe window. She lit a cigarette and began talking rapidly on her mobile, then finished the call and threw it into her bag irritably. Honthorst was impressed. Sixty-seven years old and she hardly looked a day over fifty, he thought, taking in the slim legs and firm jawline. Still sexually attractive … Uncomfortable, he shifted his thoughts. What did she weigh? A hundred and twenty, tops. Height? Five foot six, possibly seven. His gaze moved to her neck. Fine, almost unlined, and long. Delicate. Easy to break.
Honthorst sipped his coffee and put his fingertips to his face, checking that the concealer he was using had not run. He had been assured that it would cover his bad skin and stay in place until he washed it off. Waterproof, the woman had assured him, trying not to smirk. A man using concealer! her expression said. Ponce, obviously … Honthorst could read her mind – women always found it amusing. It wasn’t their fault; he could put himself in their place and see what they saw. A hulking man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with skin like orange peel. Cratered, burnt or acne-scarred. Not pretty, not pretty at all.
Which was where the concealer came in. Back in Holland he had a chemist make it up for him, so he could avoid the embarrassment of shopping around. But on this trip Honthorst had lost his potion and had had to endure the barely disguised contempt from the shop assistant. Trying not to laugh, she had tried out various shades on the back of his burly hand, matching the concealer closest to his complexion, and once he had made his choice she had said: ‘Do you want me to wrap it, sir? Or will you be putting it on now?’
Honthorst flinched at the memory of the words, continuing to watch Madame Monette’s reflection in the window. He knew that the shop girl would have laughed at him after he had left, shared the story with her colleagues, even – perhaps – her boyfriend. Who would have clear skin, naturally. But Honthorst took some pleasure in the fact that after the amusement of the day the shop girl would spend that night crying over the death of her dog.
Which he had run over outside her flat.
*
Finishing his coffee, Honthorst walked into the cafe, pausing beside Madame Monette’s table. She was reading the newspaper and took a moment to look up, surprised.
‘I have a message for you.’
Her expression was curious, nothing more. ‘Really? From whom?’
Without being invited, Honthorst slid into the seat opposite her. ‘You were very wrong to do what you did, Madame.’
Even though his French was good, she placed the underlying accent immediately. Dutch. Leaning back in her seat, Sabine Monette said simply, ‘Please leave my table or I’ll have you removed.’
‘You stole the chain which once belonged to Hieronymus Bosch.’ He pronounced the name perfectly. ‘I have been charged with its return.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Sabine said imperiously. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You bought a small Bosch painting from Gerrit der Keyser. It was hung with a chain—’
‘Who are you?’ she asked coldly. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘I work for Mr der Keyser.’
‘In the gallery?’
‘As a consultant.’
She eyed him sniffily. ‘Consultant of what?’
He ignored the question. ‘The painting you bought was hung with a chain—’
‘Which I purchased together with the painting.’
Honthorst moved his position slightly to avoid the sunlight. ‘I’m not referring to the gold chain you put on the picture. I’m referring to the one which was on there originally.’ When she didn’t reply, he continued. ‘It was a clever trick, Madame, but the chain wasn’t part of the deal.’
She folded her arms defiantly. ‘Are you accusing me of theft?’
‘Not if you return the original chain. Mr der Keyser is more than willing to forget this little incident. Especially as you’ve been a valued client of his for some while – and an old friend.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ Sabine snorted. ‘If the chain was so valuable, why leave it on the painting? Why wasn’t it removed earlier?’
‘My employer did not realise what the chain was.’
‘And now he does? That’s convenient. How?’
‘We have proof from the original owner. He also didn’t realise its value until he found the papers with which the painting had been originally stored. His solicitor had kept them for safe-keeping. When he read them, he contacted us and we checked the chain on the picture.’
‘How could you?’ Sabine said triumphantly. ‘The Bosch is in my house.’
He was unperturbed. ‘Photographs were taken before it left the gallery, Madame. Photographs of the picture, the frame and its backing. Which included the chain. It’s done for every item sold, for the gallery’s records.’ Honthorst paused. ‘So we compared our photographs of the Bosch when it arrived and when it left the gallery. The chains were different.’
Needled, Sabine stood her ground. ‘So you say.’
‘I can show you the photographs if you wish.’
‘Which could have been digitally altered,’ she retorted, unnerved but damned if she was going to show it. ‘I think you’re bluffing—’
‘We have you on tape.’
‘What?’
‘We have you on tape, Madame. On video tape. And we can show that to the police.’ Honthorst replied. ‘We can prove that you removed one chain and replaced it with another. Your own.’
‘Which is probably worth hundreds more than that filthy chain I took,’ Sabine retorted loftily, knowing she had been caught out.
Irritated, she pushed her coffee aside. If she had left it on the painting and waited until the Bosch had been delivered she would have been home free. Yes, Gerrit der Keyser would have been told about the evidence from the previous owner, but by then the painting and the chain would have been in her possession legally. But instead she had given in to a moment of greed.
Keeping her hands steady, Sabine Monette sipped her coffee. She had spotted the chain at once, almost in the instant she had first viewed the painting. Gerrit der Keyser had been ill recently, was not on top form and was eager to make a sale. Unusually careless, he hadn’t noticed the chain by which the small painting had been hung, and had left Madame Monette for a few minutes to study the picture alone. While he was gone, she had examined the chain and rubbed a little of the dirt off the middle link, finding the faint initial H, and a possible B.
Her heart rate had accelerated, but Sabine Monette had regained her composure quickly. Years of being cosseted had not made her soft. Her early life had been traumatic and her natural guile came back fourfold. Unfastening the chain from the back of the painting and slipping it into her pocket, she replaced it with the long antique gold chain necklace around her neck and called for Gerrit der Keyser.
And it was all on tape.
‘Even at your age, the police don’t look kindly on theft.’
Sabine’s eyes narrowed as she faced at the Dutchman. ‘I don’t have it any longer.’
‘What?’
‘The chain. C-H-A-I-N.’ She spelt it out for him. ‘It’s not in my possession any longer.’
And he shook his head.
‘Oh dear, Madame,’ Honthorst said quietly. ‘You shouldn’t have told me that.’