Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

And meanwhile Titian paints on.

  22

  The last person Nino expected to see as he entered Gaspare’s hospital room was a tall, elegant black man, his expensive clothes marking him out immediately as wealthy. Impatiently, Gaspare beckoned for Nino to approach.

  ‘This is Triumph Jones,’ he said, turning back to the American. ‘And this is my surrogate son, Nino Bergstrom. You can say anything in front of him – we’ve no secrets.’

  Taken aback, Triumph regarded the handsome white-haired man, then glanced back at Gaspare.

  ‘This is private.’

  ‘Then you can bugger off!’ Gaspare snapped. ‘Talk in front of Nino, or go.’

  Reluctantly, Triumph pulled one of the plastic chairs towards him and sat down, ignoring Nino as he stood at the foot of the old man’s bed. Twice he cleared his throat, then ran his hand over his smooth, bald head. He voice was, as ever, languorously slow.

  ‘I came to talk to you about the Titian painting. And before you say a word, Gaspare,’ he admonished him, ‘I know you didn’t destroy it. It was stolen.’

  Nino raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you steal it?’

  ‘Do I look like a thief?’

  ‘I don’t know what a thief looks like,’ Nino replied, not in the least cowed by the American’s imperious manner. ‘But if you didn’t steal the painting, how d’you know it was taken?’

  ‘I had someone watching Gaspare’s gallery.’

  Irritated, the old man threw back the bed clothes and sat up, tugging on his dressing gown. Walking over to the window, he opened it and stared out. ‘I need some fresh air.’ His tone was contemptuous as he looked back at Triumph. ‘How dare you come here and tell me that you were watching my home!’

  ‘It was for your own good—’

  ‘My own good! You spied on me for my own good?’ Gaspare echoed mockingly. ‘So – did you see who took the Titian? Or is that too much to ask?’

  ‘We were too late.’

  ‘To see him? Or stop him?’ Nino asked, moving closer to the American.

  ‘We were too late to see him. I was told that an ambulance had taken you to hospital and that there was a broken window at the gallery. It was obvious what had happened. But I don’t know who took the painting, or I’d tell you.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Nino replied, as Gaspare slammed the window shut and leaned against the sill.

  ‘Were you going to steal the Titian from me, Triumph?’

  ‘No, I was going to buy it.’

  Puzzled, Gaspare caught Nino’s eye, then sat down at the foot of the bed.

  ‘So what have you come here for? I don’t have the painting any longer. And I don’t see how I can help you. I’m a has-been, an old dealer with no clout. I understand why you contacted me after the Titian emerged, but why take the trouble to come to London to talk to me now?’ Reaching for his glasses, he put them on, peering at the American. ‘What are you up to? Or, more precisely, what have you done?’

  ‘I need to talk to you alone,’ Triumph repeated, glancing over at Nino. ‘What I want to say is for your ears only.’

  Gaspare shook his head. ‘No, I want a witness to everything you say, Mr Jones. Because I don’t trust you.’ He looked the elegant American up and down. ‘Why did the Titian suddenly turn up? It was missing for centuries – why did it just pop up out of thin air?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Gaspare said, folding his arms, defiant in a dressing gown. ‘You’re famous, one of the biggest hitters in the art world. Notorious for your contacts. It didn’t surprise me that you discovered I had the portrait, but now I’m wondering how I came to have it. I mean, it was very convenient that the picture was found. Very lucky, that. Or did you plan it?’ He glanced over at his visitor. ‘You look stressed, Triumph, like a man with something on his conscience.’

  Playing for time, the American hesitated. If he had been alone with Gaspare Reni he would have confessed, sought some kind of absolution from the old man. But they weren’t alone and he wasn’t going to say anything which would implicate him.

  It was Nino who broke the deadlock. Turning to Gaspare, he said, ‘I’ll leave you to it—’

  ‘No, I want you to stay.’

  ‘You won’t find anything out if I stay here,’ Nino replied, walking out.

  It was several seconds before Triumph Jones spoke again. Several seconds in which he struggled with his conscience, wondering how much to conceal and how much to reveal. Should he confess to everything? Or try to minimise his deceit? But when he glanced over at Gaspare and saw the look of disdain on the old man’s face, he was shamed into a full confession.

  ‘I never meant for any of this to happen,’ Triumph began, his head bowed. ‘Someone came to me with the Titian portrait. I paid a reasonable sum – the man was no dealer and glad of what he got. I should have stopped then, but my ego didn’t let me.’ He wouldn’t look up, didn’t dare. ‘I thought it would be amusing to hold back on it for a while, work up some real publicity for the painting. So I resurrected the story, the so-called legend – “When the portrait emerges, so will the man.”’ It was bound to catch on.’

  Gaspare’s face was expressionless. ‘And all this publicity would drive up the value of the work.’

  Triumph paused, his voice catching. ‘I didn’t know Seraphina di Fattori would find it. I didn’t know she would take it to you. You of all people! What was the chance of that?’

  Gaspare shrugged. ‘You said yourself, whoever found it would take it to a gallery or a dealer. Why’s that so surprising? Anyway, the painting’s gone. Stolen. You’ve lost. Is that what’s eating away at you?’

  ‘It’s not that!’ Triumph replied. ‘Seraphina was killed in Venice. And now another woman’s been killed in London. In exactly the same way as Vespucci killed his victims.’

  ‘In the sixteenth century! You’re not believing your own publicity now, are you? Dear me, Mr Jones, I wouldn’t have thought you were the gullible type.’ Gaspare’s voice had a hard edge. ‘I admit that I fell for it. But then again, I’m Italian – superstitious. I believe in legends. I was even a little afraid. You fooled me – well done. For a moment I thought that the Titian could summon up something, or someone, from the grave. It was a stroke of genius, Triumph, and you deserve your success. Your imagination and flair for publicity is second to none.’ He clapped his hands sardonically, then paused. ‘Unfortunately it’s backfired, and it’s going to cost you. Worse than that, it’s already cost two women their lives.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that—’

  ‘You know I’m right,’ Gaspare replied, cutting him off. ‘There are some unstable people in this world. People who admire killers. People who read about them, write about them. Some even emulate them.’

  Taking in a breath, Triumph looked at the dealer. Someone’s copying Vespucci, aren’t they?’

  ‘How would I know? You created your own Frankenstein’s monster – how can I predict what it will do? Maybe your greed made you meddle with a dangerous ghost. Maybe it just brought the memory of a killer back to life. But it tripped someone into action.’

  The elegant American was sweating, his hands pressed together. ‘How do we stop it?’

  ‘It? Or him?’ Gaspare queried. ‘Why ask me? You started something. You did it. You live with it.’

  And as Triumph Jones rose to his feet the news broke over the Internet that a woman had been killed in the lavatory of Tokyo Airport. She had been stripped, stabbed, and partially flayed.

  BOOK THREE

  … I am so fond of brothels, that the large amount of time I don’t spend in them almost kills me …

  Pietro Aretino

  What really makes me marvel is that … [Titian] … fondles them, makes a to-do of kissing them, and entertains with a thousand juvenile pranks. Yet he never takes it further …

  Pietro Aretino

  23

  Pausing as she applied her lipstick, Farina Ahmadi lost pat
ience and threw it to one side. She couldn’t remember where she had heard it – apart from on the news – but the name Sally Egan seemed familiar to her. She ran it over on her tongue … Egan, Sally Egan … but nothing came to her. Surely this murder victim – this care-home worker – hadn’t been a client of hers? Farina paused, pressing her memory into service as she reached for the lipstick again. Had Sally Egan worked for her? No, Farina thought – she didn’t even know the names of the cleaners, she left that to the housekeeper, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe she had worked in the London gallery?

  But the thought didn’t gel. Farina filled in her lips with the coral gloss. Satisfied, she smiled at her own reflection, but the name wouldn’t budge. How could she have known Sally Egan? A woman who worked in a care home wouldn’t be working in an art gallery. After smoothing her eyebrows and fastening on her earrings, Farina finally remembered.

  It had been several years earlier when she had been trying to mount an exhibition of famous portraits. Angelico Vespucci’s image was at the top of her list, but Farina had only been able to get hold of engravings, and photographs of an old copy. A chance encounter with another dealer had brought Sally Egan into her sphere.

  To all intents and purposes the Egan woman had been a talented artist, forced into menial work to pay the bills. So she had been more than pleased to do a competent oil copy of Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci. It wasn’t supposed to deceive anyone, merely to be exhibited to show what the original had been like. Sally Egan had taken several months to complete it and when she had delivered it to the gallery, Farina had been impressed and paid her well, even promising that she might send other work her way … Farina’s smile dimmed, her pleasure at having remembered the woman overturned by the circumstances of Sally Egan’s death.

  Christ! Farina thought. She was the woman who’d been murdered and skinned. Like the woman in Venice before her … For several moments Farina toyed with the idea that there might be some connection, jumping when the phone rang.

  ‘Farina! a familiar voice greeted her. ‘How are you?’

  She rolled her eyes at Jobo’s cloying tone. ‘Well. And you?’

  ‘Thriving. I take it your husband and sons are well also?’

  ‘The whole fucking family is just peachy,’ she replied. ‘Get to the point.’

  He was used to her manner, and carried on.

  ‘Something incredible has just happened. Over here, in Tokyo,’ he said, pausing to create the maximum effect. ‘There’s been a murder at the airport. Hardly that shocking usually, but there’s something very odd about this one. The victim was stabbed and partially skinned.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it’s the third, isn’t it?’

  ‘The third?’

  ‘The third victim,’ he said chillingly. ‘First there was Seraphina di Fattori, then Sally Egan—’

  Farina cut across him immediately. ‘I was just thinking about what happened to her. How did you hear about her murder in Japan?’

  ‘The internet. And besides, we have a bloodthirsty interest in such things.’

  ‘You mean you do,’ she retorted. ‘I bet you’ve got a Google Alert out on violent murders. I wouldn’t put it past you. God knows, you spend long enough drooling over those sick pictures of yours.’ She doodled the women’s names on a piece of paper, then paused. ‘What’s the name of the last victim? The one in the airport?’

  ‘Harriet Forbes.’

  Farina shrugged. ‘Means nothing to me, but then again, why should it?’

  ‘Well, we all knew – or knew of – Seraphina di Fattori, because her parents were collectors. I was just wondering if you knew the other victims.’

  Hesitating, Farina took a moment to consider if it was in her best interests to admit that she had known Sally Egan. Was it worth mentioning to the Japanese dealer? But then again, perhaps some shared confidence might strengthen their relationship? Make it more likely Jobo Kido could share information about the missing Titian?

  ‘Oddly enough,’ she began, ‘I did know Sally Egan. Well, I didn’t know her, I commissioned her. And you’ll never guess what she did for me – she copied the Vespucci portrait.’

  Her tone was light, but it rankled Jobo. ‘She did what?’

  ‘Copied the Titian.’

  ‘And now she’s been murdered and skinned.’

  Farina paused, uncomfortable. ‘It could be a coincidence—’

  ‘That she painted The Skin Hunter and was killed like that?’ His voice rose. ‘Don’t be stupid, Farina, this is more than any coincidence. So, does the name Harriet Forbes ring any bells?’

  ‘No! Why should it?’

  ‘She didn’t paint any Titian copies for you?’

  Farina’s tone was biting. ‘No, she didn’t. I’ve never heard of the woman.’

  ‘The killer tried to skin her too—’

  ‘In Tokyo!’ she snapped. ‘Seraphina di Fattori was killed in Venice, Sally Egan died in London, and your woman’s been murdered in Tokyo. If it’s the same killer, I hope he’s collecting air miles.’

  He ignored the sarcasm, deciding on his next tactic. Perhaps it was the ploy he should have used from the beginning, but now fate had played into his hands – and Jobo Kido was never a man to ignore good fortune.

  ‘There have been three murders since the painting re-emerged. My God, it makes you think. I mean, I’ve always had a fascination with the dark side, but this is way beyond anything I’ve ever come across before. Perhaps the picture’s really got some kind of power.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Maybe it is bad luck.’

  She had already seen through the ruse.

  ‘Bullshit, Jobo! You can’t put me off it so easily. If the killings are connected, it’s just some fucking lunatic copying Vespucci’s methods. Could be they heard about the painting coming to light—’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Look on the internet, stupid. Since last night there’s been a whole website devoted to Angelico Vespucci, the infamous Skin Hunter.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it!’

  She carried on blithely. ‘Anybody that interested would have heard about the painting. I bet some nutter’s devoted their life to Vespucci and the re-discovery of the portrait’s triggered him off.’

  ‘To murder?’

  ‘Why not?’ she countered.

  ‘But why?’ Jobo persisted. ‘What would be the reason? How would he pick his victims? And why them?’

  ‘Goodness, Jobo,’ she said snidely. ‘I’d have thought that you of all people would have a theory. Of course you could always ask your friends in your private gallery.’ She laughed, knowing she was making him cringe. ‘Have a word with them, why don’t you? Or are you still hoping the Angelico Vespucci will end up side by side with all your other freaks?’

  Breathing in, Jobo steadied himself before he spoke. ‘You can laugh now, Farina, but I’ll get that painting! It might take me a while, but I’ll get it.’

  ‘Really?’ she countered, her tone amused. ‘You’ll have to kill me first.’

  24

  Within minutes of Triumph’s departure, Gaspare had told Nino everything that had transpired. He listened expressionless, then whistled softly between his teeth.

  ‘Mr Jones is too clever by half.’

  Nodding, Gaspare climbed back into the hospital bed, pulling the blanket over him. He seemed chilled, taking off his glasses and laying them on the bedside table. To Nino’s surprise there was a rosary he had never seen before, lying beside Gaspare’s newspaper. The beads were spread out, the silver cross dangling over the edge of the table, swinging gently and throwing a sombre shadow on the wall behind.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The dealer nodded. ‘Just tired. Triumph Jones exhausted me. All that plotting, all that trouble, just to make himself even more important. And look what it cost him. He’s now responsible for two murders.’

  ‘Three.’

  Expressionless, Gaspare stared at Nino
. It was almost as though he had expected the words. That he had already heard them and absorbed the shock.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Narita International airport, Tokyo,’ Nino explained. ‘A woman called Harriet Forbes was stabbed and partially skinned. It’s all over the internet, and of course the police will start wondering if it’s connected to Sally Egan over here. After all, Harriet Forbes was an Englishwoman – it’s more than a little suspicious.’ He paused, folding his arms. ‘I think Triumph Jones is right about one thing – someone’s copying The Skin Hunter.’

  Reaching for his rosary, Gaspare fingered the beads. ‘How far have you got with Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes?’

  ‘About halfway through.’

  ‘Any help?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re giving me background information. But I’ll know more when I’ve finished them.’

  ‘Come across the scapegoat? The man who took the suspicion off Vespucci?’

  ‘No, nothing on him,’ Nino replied. ‘Even Johnny Ravens-court didn’t uncover who he was.’

  Not for the first time Nino wondered about Ravenscourt. If someone was copying The Skin Hunter, was it him? He had seemed benign – but was that an act? He certainly had the physical size to overpower and mutilate his victims. And the money and means to do so in private. Was he actually abetting and paying Nino in order to keep close to him? Having put him on a retainer, Johnny Ravenscourt would want – expect – him to report back and fill him in with everything he knew. What if, instead of wanting to distance himself from the Vespucci business, Ravenscourt actually wanted to get closer?

  ‘Talk to me.’

  Nino looked up. ‘Sorry, I was thinking. I want to find out everything about the victims, the three women who’ve been killed. I know about Seraphina, but nothing about the other two. I should talk to their families, their friends.’

  ‘But not the police.’

  ‘No,’ Nino agreed. ‘Not the police. They can do their own inquiries, and I’ll do mine.’

  Gaspare was reaching into his locker, rummaging for something. ‘You’ll need money. I’ll write you a cheque.’