The Bosch Deception Read Online Free

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 manusing 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.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜You stole the chain which once belonged to Hieronymus Bosch.’ He pronounced the name perfectly. ‘I have been charged with its return.’
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous!’ Sabine said imperiously. ‘What
are
you talking about?’
    â€˜You bought a small Bosch painting from Gerrit der Keyser. It was hung with a chain—’
    â€˜Who are you?’ she asked coldly. ‘I don’t know you.’
    â€˜I work for Mr der Keyser.’
    â€˜In the gallery?’
    â€˜As a consultant.’
    She eyed him sniffily. ‘Consultant of what?’
    He ignored the question. ‘The painting you bought was hung with a chain—’
    â€˜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 thepicture. 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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜
This is ridiculous!
’ Sabine snorted. ‘If the chain was so valuable, why leave it on the painting? Why wasn’t it removed earlier?’
    â€˜My employer did not realise what the chain was.’
    â€˜And now he does? That’s convenient. How?’
    â€˜We have proof from the original owner. He also didn’t realise its value until he found the papers with which