The Bosch Deception Read Online Free Page A

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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I can show you the photographs if you wish.’
    â€˜Which could have been digitally altered,’ she retorted, unnerved but damned if she was going to show it. ‘I think you’re bluffing—’
    â€˜We have you on tape.’
    â€˜
What?
’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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 picturealone. 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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Oh dear, Madame,’ Honthorst said quietly. ‘You shouldn’t have told me that.’

Six
    Morgue, Hospital of St Francis, London
    Illness terrified her, and the thought of death had worked on her senses ever since she was a child. The horrific death of her parents had affected the young Honor deeply, but the early demise of her brother Henry – in a fire – had shattered her. It had made the presence of death a real thing, not something she could ignore. Not for her the luxury of ignorance. She had seen the coffins and buried the ones she loved. Her family had been depleted ruthlessly and the brother she had loved most was estranged from her.
    To others her actions would have seemed irrational, but Honor believed there was a distinct possibility that the man murdered outside the church might be Nicholas. And she had to know. Had to prepare herself for burying another member of the ill-fated Laverne family.
    Walking up the