by Alex Connor
‘Who the hell’s that?’ he said, moving over to the intercom, his voice brusque as he spoke. ‘Who’s there?’
In the street outside, Seraphina paused, momentarily taken aback. ‘Mr Reni? It’s Seraphina Morgan.’ Knowing that her married name would mean nothing to him, she added, ‘I used to be Seraphina di Fattori—’
‘Di Fattori?’
‘You knew my parents in Venice.’
Smiling, Gaspare buzzed her in, moving out into the hallway to greet her. Under the sullen gaze of a low-wattage light she seemed surprisingly young, holding a package tightly in her arms. Unused to the dim candlelight, Seraphina allowed herself to be guided into the sitting room and led over to a round table, Gaspare reluctantly turning on the chandelier suspended above them.
As it blazed into life, Seraphina blinked, laying her package down and turning to the dealer.
‘So you remember me?’
He nodded, studying her. ‘I do. You were always pretty.’
‘You were always charming,’ she countered, her Italian accent pronounced. ‘My mother used to say you could flatter a saint into an indiscretion.’
‘How is she?’
‘Older, but well enough … My father had a stroke. He’s making progress, but it’s slow.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Gaspare said, his tone genuine. ‘Give them my regards and tell them I think of them often. And how are you?’
‘Married. To an American. I came to London to do some research on gene therapy—’
‘A scientist in the family?’
‘Not all of us are cultured,’ she said in a mocking tone.
Gaspare gestured for Nino to approach. The introduction was light-hearted. ‘This is my closest friend, my borrowed son, Nino Bergstrom.’ He grimaced. ‘Italian mother, Swedish father, hence the name. What can you do? Nino’s a location finder—’
‘A what?’
‘I find locations for movies. Or rather I used to.’ Uncomfortable, Nino moved the conversation away from himself and gestured to the package on the table. ‘What’s that?’
‘A painting—’
‘A painting?’ Gaspare echoed, curious.
Smiling, Seraphina looked at each of the men in turn. ‘Can I take off my coat? It’s a bit wet,’ she explained, draping it over the back of a chair and glancing at Gaspare. ‘You see, I’ve been splashing about in the river.’
Amused, Gaspare teased her.
‘I haven’t seen you for years, and that was in Venice. And now you just arrive out of the blue with a picture. A wet picture.’
Intrigued, he unwrapped the package and then caught his breath. What he was looking at was notorious – and priceless.
3
Ginza, Tokyo
For years afterwards Jobo Kido would remember the moment when the call came through. Having just lost out at an auction in New York, he had returned home to a disagreeable wife and a problem with the alarm system at his gallery. An unexpected heatwave had added to his discomfort and, exasperated, he had retired to his office and locked the door. When the phone rang he had been tempted to ignore it, but then snatched it up before his secretary could answer.
The man’s voice that came over the line was elegant, verging on cultured. For a moment Jobo had thought he was English, then realised that the caller was, in fact, an American with a Boston accent.
‘Mr Kido, I have something of interest to tell you.’
The same old line, Jobo thought; always the same few words intended to elicit curiosity and hopefully a sale. Disgruntled, he turned up the air conditioning in the office, his voice impatient.
‘What are you trying to sell me?’
‘I have nothing to sell,’ the man replied coolly. ‘I’m merely passing on information which I think will be of value to you. Are you still interested in adding to your private pieces?’
Hesitating, Jobo thought about his personal collection. The collection which was not shown in the gallery or at his private abode, but housed in an undisclosed location, several miles away. The pieces in this ‘unique’ collection had been acquired over the years from many – and disparate – sources, and while their existence was not a secret it was not generally known outside the art world.
It had begun when he was a child, taken by his school on a trip to London. But the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and even Madame Tussauds had not cast their usual spell and instead Jobo had been fascinated by the exhibits in the Hunterian Museum. His curiosity had been caught by the images collected there. Mementos of cruelty had become mixed in his mind with Japanese legends of the samurai and Ronin. Jobo wasn’t interested in torture so much as the depictions of the criminals themselves. Some obsession with their physiognomy captivated him and led to a lifetime fascination with the essence of evil. His question was always the same: could evil be read in a face? It was the same question Shakespeare had asked. The same question phrenologists and reconstructors had pursued for years.
The same unanswered, elusive question.
‘Mr Kido, are you still there?’
‘Who am I talking to?’
‘My name’s irrelevant. My information is all that matters,’ the man replied. ‘Have you heard of Angelico Vespucci?’
The name fired its malignant arrow down the phone line. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. He was known as The Skin Hunter.’
‘And Titian painted his portrait.’
‘He did,’ Jobo replied cautiously, ‘but the painting went missing soon after it was completed—’
‘What if I were to tell you that it’s just surfaced …’
Jobo could feel his skin prickle with excitement.
‘… and that the infamous portrait of a killer is now in London?’ The man paused to let the information work its magic. ‘There will be dealers who won’t handle it. The piece has a dark reputation, after all, but it would be a wonderful addition to your personal collection.’
Jobo tried to swallow. ‘Do you have it?’
‘No, but I know where it is.’
‘Is it coming up in a sale?’
‘Who knows?’
‘London?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is it a private seller?’ Jobo pressed the man hurriedly. ‘Are you working as a broker?’
‘All I can tell you is that the portrait of Angelico Vespucci has re-emerged. And if you want it, I would suggest you start putting out some feelers now, before another collector beats you to it.’
Before Jobo Kido could answer, the line went dead.
Light-headed, he put down the phone and slumped into the chair behind his desk. Outside he could see the unnatural blue of the Japanese sky, the hustle of buildings yammering upwards to the risen sun. The painting was in London, the caller had said. London, Jobo thought to himself. Was it worth a trip to England? Perhaps not until he knew more. But how could he find out more? The caller had left no contact details; perhaps he wouldn’t ring again. Perhaps another dealer would get the prize … No, Jobo thought, calming himself, the man knew he had a ready buyer in Jobo Kido. Knew he would pay handsomely for the portrait.
An unsettling thought followed. What if the caller had contacted another dealer? Or several other dealers? Perhaps he was trying to drum up interest and, by extension, value? Everyone in the art world knew that competition dictated the price paid. Perhaps the planting of interest in several ears, and several countries, would ensure a more lucrative sale. To his surprise Jobo found himself sweating, even though the air conditioning was turned on full. He felt a morbid sense of anxiety, a panicky fear that he might lose. That something he would prize more than any other man might elude him.
Only five minutes earlier Angelico Vespucci had been little more than a footnote in Jobo Kido’s mind. An intangible mirage, a half-remembered story he had heard many years earlier. But now this remarkable, feared work, this image of evil, had re-emerged. Melodramatically, mysteriously. Like a vampire it had come back to life and, like a vampire, it had the capacity to hau
nt him.
Thoughtful, Jobo unlocked his safe and picked up a creased leather pouch. He gazed at it for a moment and then shook out a key. It was the only one in his possession. There was a copy, but that was in his bank, to prevent his wife, son or business colleagues gaining access. Holding the key against his cheek, Jobo thought of his private collection.
Outside, Tokyo might be unreal, greasy with heat, leaves falling from autumnal trees even as the temperature hit ninety degrees. At home, his wife might sulk, and at the gallery the burglar alarm might trip again at dawn – but what did it matter to him? All he could focus on was the thought of the Vespucci portrait.
Found again.
In London.
For now.
Soon in Japan. Soon his.
Smiling to himself, Jobo imagined where he would place the painting in his collection. He had no fear of its reputation. Superstition was only for the gullible. What interested him was not the crimes, but the sitter. He longed to see what The Skin Hunter had really looked like. Yearned to own Titian’s magnificent portrait of the man who had murdered and mutilated four women. Ached to study the features of Angelico Vespucci and test them against other, later killers. To see if there was some likeness in evil, some repetition of feature or expression.
Jobo Kido had no fear of Angelico Vespucci. That would come later.
4
Kensington, London
‘I found it in the Thames,’ Seraphina said, glancing back at the painting. ‘Well, not quite found. Actually, it was washed up by the Embankment – and I took it.’ She shrugged, looking at Gaspare. ‘I suppose it was a terrible thing to do, almost like stealing – but I thought I should bring it to you. After all, you’re a dealer. You, of all people, would know what to do with it.’ She winked mischievously. ‘Besides, it might be valuable and make you a fortune.’
In the burning overhead light the portrait, released from its covering, glowed malignantly, the man’s face arresting, his eyes as brilliant and merciless as a water snake’s.
‘It is a Titian,’ Gaspare said quietly. ‘I know this painting. Or rather, I know of it.’
‘It is valuable?’ Seraphina asked.
‘Invaluable.’
As Gaspare turned to examine the wrapping, Nino stared at the portrait. His left hand moved towards the brass plate underneath and he wiped away the grime, revealing the name Angelico Vespucci.
‘It says the sitter was Angelico—’
‘Vespucci,’ Gaspare finished.
Seraphina’s eyebrows rose. ‘You know who he was?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid I do,’ Gaspare replied, turning back to her. ‘Did you see someone drop the painting in the river?’
‘No. As I said, it washed up on the bank.’
‘There’s no writing on the wrappings,’ Gaspare continued irritably, tossing the brown paper aside. ‘No name, no address – nothing. So it wasn’t sent from anywhere. Or delivered. Which means that it must have been dumped deliberately. And anonymously.’ He studied the picture for several minutes, then turned to Nino. ‘It’s by Titian all right. Even without his signature, you can tell. The brushstroke, the flesh tones, the glazes, and that red colouring in Vespucci’s cloak. Magnificent.’ He touched the back of the canvas. ‘And this painting wasn’t in the Thames for long. There’s no real, lasting damage, nothing that won’t dry out gradually over a few hours … Someone expected it to be found.’
‘Expected it?’ Seraphina echoed. ‘How?’
‘They relied on the tide.’ Nino turned to her. ‘Someone who knows the city and the river would know the ebb and flow of the Thames – that it would soon be washed up.’
‘But how could they know I’d pick it up?’
‘Oh, they didn’t know that,’ Nino continued. ‘But they knew there would be plenty of people about. Tourists, office workers. And if one of those didn’t pick it up, there are scavengers along the Thames on the lookout for booty every time the tide goes out. Whoever threw this in the river knew it wouldn’t be there for long. The question is, why…’ He glanced over at Gaspare, but the dealer said nothing. ‘Why wouldn’t they just take it to Bond Street? Or an auction house? It’s not complicated – you can just walk in off the street and get a valuation or a sale.’ He kept staring at Gaspare. ‘You said it was valuable.’
‘Invaluable,’ the old man corrected him.
‘So a lot of dealers would want it?’
‘Some would. Some would do anything to be rid of it.’
Surprised, Nino stared at the dealer. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘During his life, the sitter – Angelico Vespucci – was known as The Skin Hunter.’
Seraphina took in a breath. ‘What?’
‘It was never proved, but it was believed that he killed his wife. And then three other women in Venice. He murdered them, then flayed them and took their skins. Which were never found.’ He shrugged. ‘If you’re someone with a taste for the macabre – and let’s face it, people buy Nazi memorabilia all the time – then you’d want this portrait. It’s unique, in its own twisted way. Some people would long to own the likeness of a killer. It’s scandalous, sensational, corrupt.’ He voice was bitter. ‘Who wouldn’t want the equivalent of Jack the Ripper on their wall?’
‘I’m sorry …’ Seraphina stammered. ‘… I should never have brought it here.’
Clicking his tongue, Gaspare touched the back of her hand. He could feel the coolness of her skin and a faint tremor. ‘Are you cold?’
She nodded and the old man reached for a throw and placed it around her shoulders.
‘Perhaps,’ Seraphina whispered, ‘we should get rid of it. After all, who would know? Only the three of us have seen it. If we say nothing, no one else will find out. Perhaps it would be better to throw back into the Thames?’
Taken aback, Nino glanced at her, then looked at Gaspare. He could see that the old man was trying to cover his agitation, but his face had taken on a sickly pallor.
‘It’s too late, Seraphina. It’s been found now. And we can’t destroy it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it was painted by Titian. One of the world’s greatest artists. The painting is famous – infamous. It’s been written about, studied through engravings, dreamed about, feared for centuries. Despite the character of the sitter I couldn’t destroy it – or condone such an action.’ Gaspare turned back to the portrait, thinking aloud. ‘It was Titian’s closest friend, Pietro Aretino, who organised the commission in October 1555. At that time Angelico Vespucci was a wealthy merchant with a beautiful wife, an ambitious man who had made a fortune from trade. With his enormous wealth he could afford to hire Titian.’
‘And Titian agreed to do it?’
Gaspare glanced back at Nino, shrugging.
‘Why not? When the portrait was begun, Angelico Vespucci was just one more wealthy patron. The painting took months to complete, throughout the bitter Venetian winter of 1555. In November, Vespucci’s wife was found murdered, so badly disfigured that she was unrecognisable. He was suspected of being her killer.’
‘Why would he kill her?’ Seraphina interrupted. ‘For what reason?’
‘She was unfaithful,’ Gaspare replied, ‘and he couldn’t bear it.’
‘So why wasn’t he punished?’
‘Suspicion fell on someone else and Vespucci was allowed to continue with his normal life. He had always been a close friend of Aretino’s and his notoriety deepened their bond. Then, over the period of November, December and January, three other women were killed and skinned – all during the time the portrait was being painted.’
Blowing out his cheeks, Nino looked at the old man.
‘Three other women killed in the same way? How could they not think Vespucci was guilty?’
‘Like I say, they had another suspect.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. That’s the part of the story no one knows.’
‘What about the skins?’ Nino pressed him. ‘Yo
u said Vespucci was called The Skin Hunter, so what did he do with them? Anyone going to enough trouble to flay his victims would have a reason.’
Seraphina’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. ‘Don’t killers keep trophies?’
‘Some do. Serial killers anyway … Perhaps Vespucci held on to the skins. Maybe he would have wanted to enjoy them, relive the killings.’ Nino turned back to Gaspare. ‘Were the skins ever found?’
The old man shook his head.
‘No. If Vespucci kept them, he hid them so carefully they were never discovered … They say that after the fourth murder he went insane. But he was sane enough to go about his business, and sane enough to escape capture. Sane enough to let another man take the blame. When the portrait was finished it was exhibited in the church where Vespucci had always worshipped. Two days later the church was destroyed by fire, but the painting survived.’
Silent, the three of them stared at the portrait on the table, Seraphina pulling the throw around her body as though to protect herself, Nino’s eyes fixed on the unreadable gaze of the sitter. The collection of artefacts and curios which surrounded them seemed suddenly to shrink into insignificance, the caramel cherubs lifting their painted feet higher from the image below. The picture’s malevolence curled around the bookshelves, slid under chairs and tables, smeared the flyblown mirrors, and hung its cobweb malice on the chandelier above.
After a pause, Gaspare continued. ‘Absurd stories started to circulate. That the portrait could turn bass metal into gold; that it could take a woman’s virtue and make men sterile. That a rival could pray to the image to have his competitor die and it would happen. The evil worshipped the portrait; the virtuous feared it. It was said that one woman looked on it and gave birth to a deformed child.’
Shivering, Seraphina moved over to the fire. ‘What happened to Angelico Vespucci?’
‘He disappeared. Nothing was ever found of him. No body. Nothing … The portrait was all that was left of him.’
Fascinated, Nino stared at the painted face: the long nose with its narrow nostrils, the breadth of forehead, the unremarkable mouth. And then he gazed at the eyes: slightly bulbous, watchful, gazing intently into the London room as once they had gazed into Titian’s studio.