Philip Preston’s Auction House, Chelsea, London
Standing in front of his cloakroom mirror, Philip held a second mirror up to look at the back of his head, at what he thought was a bald spot. He had always been vain about his hair and the innocent chance remark Gayle had made that morning had irked him. Bloody woman, he thought, comforted that he could see no thinning of his pate. Bloody stupid woman.
His vanity restored, Philip moved back into his office and studied the auction brochures that had just arrived. On the front cover was the Bosch chain and inside a description:
Extraordinary and rare object, believed to have belonged to the most important artist of the Late Middle Ages, Hieronymus Bosch. Papers claiming this provenance offered with the sale. The initials H and B are inscribed on the first links of the chain, closest to the clasp. The H is prominent, the B less so.
Philip liked the last line best, hoping that a relatively low estimate might encourage more bidders. After all, there were collectors who would think nothing of paying so much for a piece of such prominence. For a moment he thought of the papers and felt a pang of regret. He should have put them up for sale with the chain. They would have raised a fortune … But his greed had been overshadowed by his cowardice. Let Nicholas Laverne reek havoc with the Church, Philip would settle for the chain.
And although it had been difficult, Philip had managed to say silent on the subject of Bosch’s Tree Man, a portrait of the artist himself. The temptation to brag had been almost too much to resist, but he had managed it. This was a little nugget to expose at the auction. A thunderbolt for the art world, and healthy exposure for his auction rooms. Every Arts correspondent would publicise the news and, by default, Philip Preston.
It was all going to work out perfectly. And his hired security had managed to calm his anxieties. No one could get to him with them around, not even the formidable Honthorst. In fact, he thought, perhaps the whole business had been blown out of all proportion. And then he remembered the murders …
Reaching into his desk drawer, Philip picked up the two plane tickets. One way. It was all organised; he had his flight booked. Immediately after the sale he was going to take Kim to his new home outside Milan, a place no one knew about apart from his lawyer. All the arrangements for Gayle’s welfare, his business concerns and his divorce could be handled long distance. He wanted out of London. Permanently.
Outside, the clock struck three and Philip was surprised when the door opened and security informed him that a Mr Gerrit der Keyser wanted to talk to him.
‘OK, send him in.’
He came in flushed and out of breath, luminous with fury. ‘You bastard,’ he began, flinging a heavy object across the desk towards Philip. ‘If you’re auctioning the real Bosch chain then what the fuck is this?’