Even though it was bitterly cold, Carel Honthorst was sweating as he heaved himself up the steps to Philip Preston’s office and walked in unannounced. Feigning nonchalance, Philip looked up from his desk.
‘What do you want?’
‘Mr der Keyser wants to see you.’
‘When did the accident happen?’
Honthorst frowned. ‘What accident?’
‘The one that took away the use of his legs,’ Philip replied smartly. ‘If Gerrit wants to talk to me, he knows where I am.’ He rose to his feet, pausing beside the Dutchman and staring at his shiny face. The sweat was affecting his concealer and his pores gaped like craters. ‘Why don’t you use fake tan? It would be more convincing.’
Honthorst blinked slowly. ‘Mr der Keyser wants you to come to his office.’
‘Like I said—’ Philip stopped abruptly as Honthorst caught hold of his arm and twisted it up behind his back. The pain made him gasp, Honthorst jerking his wrist with every word he spoke. ‘Mr der Keyser wants to talk to you. Now.’
*
When they arrived at the gallery, der Keyser was standing outside, admiring his window display: three paintings by a follower of Van Dyke, one of a child with a dog. Maudlin. As he spotted Philip, Gerrit smiled and walked in. A moment later Philip followed, shoved inside by Honthorst who then stood on guard at the door.
Straightening his tie, Philip’s expression was outraged. ‘I don’t like—’
‘Being fucked about?’ Gerrit said. ‘Me neither. But there you go, people fuck you about the whole time. Only the other day we were talking about some chain and some ex-priest, and all along you knew where it was. My chain.’
‘Sabine Monette’s actually,’ Philip replied, watching as Gerrit began tending a potted palm. ‘And before that it was stolen from Raoul Devereux’s gallery years ago.’
‘I bought it in good faith! If it was stolen, I didn’t know about it.’
‘Come off it – you wouldn’t have cared,’ Philip replied, pointing to the Dutchman outside. ‘Call him off. I have to get back to the office, I’ve got a big auction coming up—’
‘With my fucking chain in it!’
Playing for time, Philip sat down and crossed his legs.
Surprised by the show of nonchalance, Gerrit kept tweaking at his plant, clipping off the brown, dry edges of the leaves with a pair of nail scissors. ‘I want it back.’
‘I’m not fucking buying it, you smarmy prick!’ Gerrit roared. ‘It’s mine.’
‘No, it belonged to Sabine Monette. You sold it to her with the Bosch painting—’
‘She stole it. I have the bitch on tape.’
‘You have her taking the chain off the painting you had just sold to her,’ Philip replied, his tone oily. ‘I’ve had it checked out. Any court in the land will tell you that possession is nine tenths of the law. The fact that you missed out on something because you were too slow doesn’t count.’
‘You smug bastard, I should kick you in the bollocks,’ Gerrit replied, slamming down the scissors he was holding.
‘If you want the chain back you can bid for it at the auction. Oh, come off it, Gerrit – you can’t start going around saying that you were cheated, not without everyone starting to look at where the painting came from. How it was stolen from Raoul Devereux’s gallery all those years ago, then turned up in the Cotswolds, and then found its way to you.’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t afford to have people questioning how you obtained the picture and its scandalous chain—’
‘That chain is mine by rights!’
‘That’s debatable. Like I say, if you want it, bid for it. Of course, I can’t rely on your being successful – there might be a few other interested parties.’ Philip continued, feeling his way along, wondering just how much Gerrit der Keyser knew. ‘But then again, it is only a chain. Even if it belonged to Hieronymus Bosch, it is only a chain—’
‘So perhaps you and I could have a private sale.’
‘Perhaps I could have your head nailed to the door.’
Philip shrugged. ‘You lost, Gerrit. It’s snakes and ladders and this time you failed. Next time you’ll be luckier. By the way, I could have you done for breaking and entering.’ He jerked his head to where Honthorst was standing. ‘Tiny Tim out there burgled my office.’
‘What he does in his spare time has nothing to do with me.’
‘He works for you – you’re responsible.’
Gerrit pulled a face. ‘If it rains outside my gallery is it my fault you get pissed on when you walk out?’
Smiling, Philip walked to the door. ‘After all, Gerrit, it’s only a chain. You’ve never been interested in gold before.’
A moment fluttered between them, buoyed up by their combined malice.
‘A chain’s a chain,’ Gerrit agreed. ‘Paper’s paper. Words are words. But if you put all three together, you could make quite a fucking story out of it.’ He put his head to one side like a scrawny crow, cupping his hand around his left ear. ‘Hear that? That click?’
Philip frowned. ‘What?’
‘I think that’s the sound of your number coming up.’
And here I am again, between the yew trees.
Nicholas turns over in bed, straining to lift eyelids that won’t open, that won’t let his body admit he is dreaming. His arms shift like broken windmill sails against the sheets. He is walking in his sleep and now it is dark again. Here I go, here I go …
The outhouse is covered in ivy; Nicholas doesn’t remember that; but knows that nature will have moved on, his own past ageing. He calls out, waits for Patrick Gerin and his friend to appear, to leave the back door of the church and move to the outhouse where the ivy grows.
But no one comes. And in the dream the ivy slinks over the broken roof and through the windows of the outhouse. As he watches, it slithers under the padlocked cupboard door and then stops. A moon, white as cut paper, grins like an imbecile through the grappling yews.
I know this part, he thinks. I know this – it’s always the same … Nicholas reaches out, grasps the handle, feels the door open and then sees the boy. He is mewling, on his last, damp breath, under the dust, puffy from beatings, naked as a lamb, ivy twisting and curling around his cold limbs.