The Bosch Deception Read Online Free Page B

hospital corridor, Honor caught sight of the pathologist in his white scrubs and green apron, hissurgical mask pushed up on to his forehead. He nodded to her as she approached.
    â€˜You came to identify the body?’
    Honor nodded. ‘I spoke to the police—’
    He grunted. ‘Right, yes. Right. I got a call. They said you thought it might be your missing brother … You sure you want to view it?’
    â€˜I don’t want to. I just have to … see if it’s him …’ She was unusually nervous.
    â€˜Have you ever identified a body before?’
    â€˜God, no!’ Honor replied, then dropped her voice. ‘It’s probably not him. My brother, I mean.’ Pushing her hands into her pockets she fought to keep herself calm. ‘I’m not sure. I just want to know …’
    â€˜The body’s badly burnt,’ the pathologist went on, scratching the side of his nose with a biro. ‘Not easy to identify.’
    â€˜His face …?’
    The pathologist shook his head. ‘Not much left there, I’m afraid.’ He glanced at the file in his hand. ‘Did your brother have any identifying marks?’
    â€˜No … no, nothing.’ She swallowed.
    â€˜There was no jewellery found on the body.’
    â€˜He didn’t wear jewellery.’ She looked at the pathologist. ‘What about his teeth? You can identify people from dental records, can’t you?’
    â€˜The victim doesn’t have any teeth.’
    There was a moment of shock, followed by relief.
    â€˜Then it can’t be my brother! He had great teeth. People always noticed them.’ Her hopes rose, the unease lifting. ‘It can’t be him. My brother had all his teeth.’
    â€˜So did the victim,’ the pathologist continued, ‘until someone knocked them out and set fire to him.’

Seven
    Old Bond Street, London
    Hiram Kaminski was setting his watch. Of course if he had any sense he would have bought a new timepiece, something expensive which was stylish and accurate, but he knew he could never part with the watch he had. It was the only thing he had left of his late father. Whom he had hated. Just as he hated the watch.
    All through Hiram’s childhood the watch had made its ghastly appearance. If he were late home, his father would tap the glass face to indicate his displeasure. If asked the time, his father would look hard at the watch and then make his son guess. Once in a while Hiram would be allowed the privilege of winding the watch, until one day he over-wound it and his father, furious, had to pay to have it repaired. It came back a few days later, its white face peaky, its thin black hands moving a little stiffly, like someone recuperating from two broken arms.
    Hiram’s father said that it never kept good time after hisson had over-wound it. It was, he said, ‘just another example of how clumsy the boy is.’
    So when his father died, Hiram was surprised to find the watch willed to him. For a while he had held it reverently in his hands, and then he had thrown it through the window of their first-floor apartment in Warsaw. The caretaker had found it and returned it to Hiram later, saying that it just went to prove ‘how expensive things were made to last.’
    Thirty years on and the bloody watch was still going.
    Walking to the door of his office, Hiram glanced out into the gallery beyond. Only two places on earth looked good with flock wallpaper – Indian restaurants and West End art galleries. He let his glance travel along the walls and then settle on a small picture of a peasant, created by
A Follower of Bruegel
. A follower! Hiram thought. The art world had more followers than Scientology. What he needed was an original Bruegel, or a Bosch. He smiled to himself as a stout woman came down the stairs from the offices above.
    â€˜Hiram, a word,’ she said, following him back into his