Isle of the Dead
Page 7
‘Worry about him!’
‘Get some coffee down you – you can’t do anything the state you’re in,’ Jean replied, her tone disgusted. ‘What if your dad wakes up and needs some help?’
‘What about me?’ Sally roared. ‘Who worries about me?’ Drunkenly she pushed Jean towards the door, shoving her out of the house. ‘Go on, get out! Get out! This is my house! I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone!’
‘Sally—’
‘Get out!’ she repeated, slamming the door in Jean’s face.
Furious, Jean walked to the end of the road and rang her husband on her mobile, waiting in the cold for him to pick her up. When he arrived three minutes later, Jean got into the car and told him – word for word – what had happened. And she said that she would never work for Sally Egan again.
And while they drove past the green and away from the Egan house, while Sally fell on to her bed and slid into a stupor, while poor Mr Egan dozed in his sedated sleep … someone watched the house. The same someone who had been watching it for days. The someone who was now crossing the green and climbing over the fence, trying the back door.
Sally Egan was right about one thing. She died single. She died childless. And she died that night.
BOOK TWO
… Titian seemed to us a most reasonable person, pleasant and obliging … if you should acknowledge his talents and labours by the promotion of his son ….
Gian Francesco Leoni, writing to Alessandro Farnese
15
St Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
Running as fast as he could, Nino hurried across the road and entered the hospital. At Reception he was told that Mr Gaspare Reni had been admitted the previous night and that his condition was now stable. Relieved, Nino made his way up the back stairs to the fourth floor, moving on to the ward and spotting Gaspare.
The old dealer was lying on his back asleep, a bruise the size of a fist on his left temple.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ a nurse said, approaching Nino, ‘you’ll have to wait until visiting time.’
Ignoring the comment, Nino turned to her. ‘How is he?’
‘Who are you?’
‘His son,’ Nino lied. ‘How is he?’
‘Doing well. He had a lucky escape,’ she replied. ‘Your father had a bad fall – it could have been much more serious.’
So he wasn’t the only one who was lying, Nino thought. Obviously Gaspare had given a sanitised version of events to the hospital, one that had no bearing on what he had told Nino over the phone.
Walking closer to the dealer’s bedside, Nino stared at the old man. ‘Is he going to be all right?’
‘You’ll have to ask the doctor—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Nino snapped. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Your father should recover fully.’
Leaving them alone, the nurse walked off and Nino sat down beside Gaspare’s bed. He ached to touch him but was afraid of waking the old man, and so he waited in silence, his hand lying half an inch from Gaspare’s. Seeing him so vulnerable, Nino felt pity and an affection for his surrogate parent. When he had been ill, Gaspare had cared for him. Now it was Nino’s turn.
‘You look tired.’
Surprised, Nino saw that the old man’s eyes had opened and he was looking directly at him.
‘You told the hospital you had a fall—’
‘Better that way,’ Gaspare replied, smiling at his visitor. ‘Thanks for coming back to London so quickly.’
‘What the hell were you doing?’
‘I thought I’d won,’ Gaspare said wryly. ‘I had an intruder and I went for him. I should have hit him harder. The poker only stunned him and he took it off me – and laid me out instead.’ Touching the bruise on his face, he tried to shrug. ‘I couldn’t stop him.’
‘Who was it?’
‘I dunno. A man threatened me, then broke into the gallery.’ There was a long pause. ‘He got the Titian.’
‘So what?’ Nino said bluntly. ‘He didn’t get you. Why didn’t you make a run for it? You should have got out of there.’
‘He got the painting!’ Gaspare repeated heatedly. ‘That was the last thing I wanted to happen. I never wanted that picture out of my hands.’ Wincing, he touched his temple. ‘Seraphina was right – I should have destroyed it. I’ll never forgive myself for that. What made me think I could protect it? Or keep it hidden? I should have burnt it.’
Trying to calm him, Nino took his hand. ‘Forget it. It’s gone. All that matters is that you’re going to be OK.’
He nodded, unconvinced. ‘What happened in Venice?’
‘We can talk about that when you’re better—’
‘Dear God, Nino, I’m not a child! Tell me what happened. Did you find anything out?’
‘I spoke to Tom Morgan, Seraphina’s husband.’
‘And? What was he like?’
‘Jumpy. But then any man would be after what had happened. He said they’d been very happy. He said …’ Nino paused, then went on, ‘Seraphina was pregnant when she died.’
Gaspare closed his eyes for an instant, then reopened them, staring at the ceiling. Nino could see he was fighting back tears.
‘D’you think he had anything to do with her death?’
‘Honestly? I’m not sure. But I doubt it. He didn’t seem very stable, but a killer? I wouldn’t think so.’ Nino paused, thinking back. ‘And he didn’t know about the painting. Or at least he wasn’t about to admit it if he did.’
‘So it was a wasted trip?’
‘Not entirely. Tom Morgan did say something that stuck in my mind. Apparently Seraphina had insisted that they move from their previous apartment. When I asked why, he told me that a woman had been killed there a long time ago. She was called Claudia Moroni.’
Gaspare shrugged. ‘The name means nothing to me.’
Pulling out a notebook, Nino balanced it on his knee and began to read. ‘I went to look up the records and finally discovered that the house had been owned by her husband – Ludovico Moroni – back in the 1550s. It took some doing, but I then found out that Claudia Moroni had been killed and mutilated … It happened weeks after Larissa Vespucci had been murdered. You remember what you told me?’
Gaspare took in a slow breath. ‘That four murders happened in the winter of 1555 to 1556, during the time that Titian was painting that bloody portrait. Did you find out who the other two victims were?’
‘No. After that, I hit a brick wall. Suddenly no one wanted to talk to me, or even show me any old records.’ He smiled grimly. ‘It could just be that they didn’t want some nosy foreigner poking around, but it seemed strange. Then I heard what had happened to you, and as I was leaving Venice I got message from a man called Johnny Ravenscourt. He said he’d like to talk to me.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll call him later.’ Nino leaned back in his chair. ‘Shouldn’t you rest?’
‘I am tired,’ Gaspare admitted, closing his eyes. ‘Perhaps I’ll doze for a few minutes.’
When the dealer had fallen asleep, Nino left the ward and moved into the corridor outside, where he asked to see the doctor. On being told that he would have to wait, he sat down and opened the evening paper someone had left on the seat next to him. On the front page was the headline:
CARE WORKER SKINNED
He stared at the words, rereading them, certain he was mistaken. But the article made it clear :
Sally Egan, 34, a care worker who lived with her father, was stabbed and partially flayed last night. Her body was found by a paper boy this morning, displayed on the green of a London suburb.
It could have been any of a dozen murders, had it not been for the mention of the victim being skinned. Nino stared at the paper. Seraphina in Venice, Sally Egan in London. Two women killed in the same way, in the same week, after the Vespucci portrait had surfaced … There must be a connection, he thought, but what was it? What could the two women have in common?
‘Hello?’
‘Johnny Ravenscourt? This is Nino Bergstrom—’
‘Oh, good, you called. Can we talk? I think we should, I really think we should. I heard that you’d been asking about The Skin Hunter, Angelico Vespucci. Well, I’m a criminolo-gist writing a book about serial killers.’ He laughed. ‘I know what you’re thinking – who isn’t writing about serial killers? I should have got on with it a long time ago. I’ve been writing it for years. But you see, my book’s about old serial killers. You know, not Ted Bundy and the like—’
‘Old serial killers?’
‘From past times. Like Vespucci,’ Johnny replied. ‘I did the usual suspects – Vlad the Impaler, Genghis Khan, even the more modern ones like Son of Sam, but then they were so boring, the stories so well known. And then I heard about Vespucci—’
‘How’d you hear about him?’
‘Goodness,’ he replied, his tone amusingly camp. ‘You are suspicious!’
‘I’m just careful. You leave a message for me and I don’t know anything about you. I don’t even know how you heard about me.’
‘People gossip,’ Johnny replied. ‘Venice gets very boring in the winter and strangers are always good copy. You came, apparently with a dashing head of white hair, and everyone noticed. Then you started asking questions about one of the city’s least popular residents and it was reported back to me.’
‘Why?’
‘People know I used to be a dealer and that I’m interested in Vespucci, so naturally they told me about you.’ He paused, affecting a hurt tone. ‘We don’t have to talk. I just thought—’
‘No, I’d like to talk.’
‘Good. Come and see me.’
‘I can’t. I’m back in London.’
‘I’m back in London too,’ Johnny replied, ‘staying at my flat off South Molton Street. Number 234 – you’ll see my name on the door. Shall we say around seven?’
‘Fine,’ Nino replied, glancing down the corridor and noticing a doctor approaching him. ‘I have to go now—’
‘When we meet, remind me to tell you about the Contessa di Fattori, will you?’ Johnny went on, his tone unreadable. ‘Now, there was a dangerous woman.’
16
After Nino had talked to Gaspare’s doctor and been reassured that his ‘father’ would recover, he headed for South Molton Street. The evening was frenzied with the first of the early Christmas shoppers, traffic listless and heading for the West End, or Claridges in the next block. Buzzing the intercom marked Johnny Ravenscourt, Nino heard the door click open and climbed the stairs. As he approached Flat 3 he was greeted by two pug dogs barking shrilly at the door.
‘Oh, do stop it!’ Johnny said, shooing them to one side and waving for Nino to enter. ‘Ignore them, they’re just being silly.’
The effeminate voice that Nino had heard on the phone did not in any way prepare him for the strapping appearance of Johnny Ravenscourt. Tall and bulky, he had heavy Germanic features, dyed black hair and a slack mouth. As he busied himself chivvying his dogs, his colossal hands flapped like wounded birds.
Finally, he sat down on a Regency settee and looked over at Nino. ‘So?’
‘So,’ Nino replied, bemused.
‘You came to talk?’ Johnny said, jumping to his feet again and pouring them both a gin and tonic. Smiling, he passed one to Nino and regained his seat. His nerves were obvious and surprising. ‘How do we start?’
‘You wanted to talk to me.’
‘Oh yes,’ Johnny replied, crossing his weighty legs and smoothing the crease on his trousers. ‘About murder.’
‘About Angelico Vespucci.’
Johnny sipped his drink, pausing for effect. ‘Yes, Vespucci.’
‘I couldn’t find out much about him,’ Nino went on. The room felt overheated and stuffy, the towering Italian furniture dwarfing its modest proportions. ‘Is there anything I can read? Any books?’
‘Mostly hearsay.’
‘But?’
‘You’ve guessed, haven’t you?’ Johnny said, getting up again and placing a thick sheaf of papers on the table in front of his guest. ‘Those’ he said, jabbing at them with a stubby forefinger, ‘are all about The Skin Hunter.’
Wary, Nino looked at the notes. ‘I’m very grateful – but why are you helping me?’
‘I heard that you’d been hired to look into the death of Seraphina di Fattori. That’s why. Are you being paid well?’
Hesitating, Nino paused. He had used up the last of his savings on the Venice trip and was beginning to wonder how he could continue his investigation without financial support. He could approach Gaspare, but the dealer had already done more than enough for him. Asking for a fee seemed like insulting Gaspare, who was mourning Seraphina and himself a victim of an attack.
‘I could use some cash,’ Nino admitted at last.
‘Then it’s yours,’ Ravenscourt said, his tone indifferent, as befitted a wealthy man. ‘I’ll give you a retainer now and you let me know how much you need as you go along. Oh, and keep this between us, will you? I’d rather people didn’t know of my interest.’ He shifted in his seat, his figure bulky on the elegant sofa. ‘Seraphina was my friend. She was very kind to me when I had a little … upset … with a gentleman in a bar. I mean, I’m gay.’ He regarded Nino for a moment as though daring him to challenge the words. When he didn’t, Johnny continued. ‘Seraphina was a rare creature who didn’t judge people. I find that a remarkable quality, don’t you?’ Before Nino had time to answer, Johnny hurried on. ‘But I don’t like her husband. I think Tom Morgan’s a bad lot.’
‘You think he had something to do with her death?’
‘No, but I think he had a lot to do with her life,’ Johnny replied enigmatically.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Seraphina went to London to get away from him. She loved him, but she needed a break. She was pregnant, you see, and worried about it.’
Nino made no show of having already known. ‘Didn’t she want the baby?’
‘She did. Tom didn’t.’
‘Did they argue about it?’
‘Constantly. Seraphina had been pregnant before, in their old apartment. She was never happy there, hated the place, but Tom wanted to stay there. Said it was impressive – but when Seraphina lost the baby she insisted they move. A little while later, she asked me to find out about the history of the old building.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. It had once belonged to the Moroni family. And – would you believe it? – Claudia Moroni was murdered. And partially skinned.’ He waited for a response, but when Nino didn’t give him one, he continued. ‘I told Seraphina what I’d found out – and now I can’t stop wondering about what happened to her. To die in the same way … It can’t be a coincidence. It just can’t. And then you came to Venice and started asking questions and I knew that if I went to the police, they would brush me off. Laugh at any connection with the house, or Vespucci.’
‘But you think there’s one?’
‘Mr Bergstrom, I’m not a fool,’ Johnny replied curtly. ‘Seraphina came back from her trip to London and she was upset. Really upset. I thought it was because of her hormones. You know, pregnant women get tearful about the slightest thing—’
‘She didn’t strike me as the tearful kind.’
‘She wasn’t usually, but she was scared.’ He paused, looking back and remembering. ‘Eventually she told me about the painting …’
Nino blew out his cheeks.
‘… I haven’t told anyone else!’ Johnny said hurriedly. ‘Seraphina made me promise and I’ve kept that promise. I know you met up in London. I know she found the Titian. And I know
she’s dead and I want to understand why.’ He pushed the notes closer to Nino. ‘Go on, read about him, about Vespucci. It’s taken me nearly fourteen years to get all that information together. Cost me a lot of money too. I found out who and what he was, what he did, and what he tried to do to avoid punishment. I read about his cronies, his murders, and about the folklore which grew up around him.’
‘Which was?’
‘When the portrait emerges, so will the man,’ Johnny laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, it’s fantastic, of course! That’s what I thought anyway. Until Seraphina, my friend, came back from London and told me that the portrait had turned up. And then I started to worry …’ He stroked one of his dogs, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Somehow she had found out about her ancestor, the Contessa di Fattori. And the fact that she’d been murdered by Vespucci.’
‘How did she find out?’
‘I don’t know who told her. Her parents maybe.’
Nino frowned. ‘Why would they?’
‘Seraphina could have talked about the Titian she’d found and they could have offered up the family connection.’ He clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘How do I know who told her! She just knew, that was all. It scared me—’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Johnny replied. He looked at Nino, his gaze surprisingly intense, then glanced away. ‘For the next two days I phoned her continually. We met up, went shopping. Ate out together. You see, I wanted to be with her, to watch out for her. Then, on Wednesday morning, she was found dead.’ He paused, alert. ‘What is it?’
Without answering, Nino took the newspaper out of his pocket and handed it over. Frowning, Johnny Ravenscourt read the headlines. A moment passed, then he pointed to his notes, lying on the table between them.
‘I’m not a brave man, I think that’s obvious. I’m a rich, spoilt old queen, with no taste for danger. But I loved Seraphina and I want to know who killed her.’ He pushed the notes further towards Nino. ‘Please take the help I offer you, Mr Bergstrom. In those papers is everything I know about Angelico Vespucci. Everything I think there is to know about The Skin Hunter.’ His voice was insistent. ‘Take them. You don’t have to bring them back. I don’t want them back. Just read them – and remember Seraphina.’