The Bosch Deception by Alex Connor

before.’
    â€˜Did he give a name?’
    â€˜Why d’you want to know?’ Philip asked, then, exasperated, called his secretary on the extension. ‘Did that manleave a name?’ Nicholas watched as Philip listened to the reply and put down the phone. ‘Carel Honthorst.’
    â€˜Dutch.’
    â€˜Sounds like it,’ Philip replied. ‘You were saying—’
    â€˜Has he been here before?’
    â€˜Christ!’ the auctioneer snapped. ‘No, I’ve never seen him before today. Why is it important?’
    â€˜Because he knows about the chain.’ Nicholas replied, watching for any reaction in Philip’s face. But there was none. ‘He’s been hired by Gerrit der Keyser to retrieve it. Which makes me wonder why he came here. Unless you know him. Or you already knew about the chain.’ Nicholas leaned forward in his seat. ‘Has the gossip begun? Has der Keyser already talked to you?’
    â€˜No, he hasn’t! All this is new to me.’ Philip crossed his legs, feigning nonchalance. ‘When did
you
get hold of the chain?’
    â€˜Four days ago,’ Nicholas replied. ‘And four days in the art world is like a month in real life. A rumour could have gone round twice already.’
    â€˜Not one I’ve heard,’ Philip replied coolly. ‘Of course there is another explanation – that you were followed here.’
    A moment nosedived between them and Nicholas fell silent. Had he been followed? They knew Sabine Monette had taken the chain, and they would have known Nicholas was close to her. Had they watched him with her? And watched him visit the old priest at St Stephen’s church?
    Spooked, he rose to his feet. ‘I have to go—’
    â€˜We were talking!’ Philip said incredulously, watching as Nicholas grabbed the chain and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘What the hell is going on?’
    â€˜I’ll come back. But in the meantime, keep your wits about you,’ Nicholas said firmly. ‘And don’t talk to the Dutchman. Don’t tell him anything.’

Twelve
    Honor was sitting by the window of her office with a file on her lap. When anyone passed in the corridor outside she glanced down, as though absorbed with her client’s case. But as soon as she heard the footsteps retreat she stared out of the window again. It
wasn’t
her brother, she told herself. It wasn’t Nicholas. The DNA test had finally confirmed it: the murder victim was not related to her. Related to someone, but not her.
    Which meant that Nicholas was still alive, out there somewhere, and it meant that she was still waiting for contact from him. Suddenly the waiting seemed unbearable. Their uncle was old, irritable, slinking back into his Derbyshire home like a tortoise drawing in its head for winter. He had enjoyed his previous secluded lifestyle and was not prepared to let it be disturbed again. Even at Christmas.
    So Honor had stopped visiting David Laverne, because she realised that he didn’t want to see her. Phone calls were fine – remote affection but nothing more. Once hand-some, David Laverne had shrunk into a grisly recluse, neverrevealing any hints about his past although Honor had once found photographs of him with a stunning woman. He had been holding her the way only lovers do, his face pressed against hers as though their skins were melting into each other. She recalled some vague memory of his being engaged – or was it married? – but nothing concrete. And she certainly didn’t ask him.
    No one asked David Laverne anything, because he wouldn’t answer. Or he would tell them what he wanted them to know and nothing more. Irritation with the family that had been dumped on him led to David’s withdrawal. When Nicholas ran off to London in his teens, it was Honor who rang the police and Henry who talked to them. David Laverne was listening to music somewhere in