by Alex Connor
‘I’m OK—’
‘You can’t be – you’re broke. Let me help – you’re doing this for me.’ The old man paused, alerted as he saw the expression on Nino’s face. ‘What is it?’
‘Johnny Ravenscourt’s paid me a retainer—’
‘And you took it?’
‘Of course I took it!’ Nino exclaimed. ‘You haven’t got money to throw around, Gaspare. I need travel money, expenses—’
‘Not from him! You’ve just said he could be involved in the murders.’
‘I know I did, but think about it. If I pull out now, refuse to take his money and work for him, it will look suspicious. If Ravenscourt is guilty, I need him to trust me, not suspect me.’
Gaspare looked away, his tone edgy.
‘I shouldn’t have involved you in this. It was selfish of me – I didn’t think it through. I just wanted to know what happened to Seraphina and I was pleased that you wanted to help.’ He glanced back at Nino, his expression anxious. ‘But it’s getting too dangerous now. Three women are dead. And you’re involved with Ravenscourt.’
‘What about Tom Morgan?’ Nino teased him, trying to break the tension. ‘You haven’t forgotten about him, have you?’
‘Nino—’
‘I called Morgan this morning. Strange man, hyped up, always on the defensive. Apparently he was questioned by the Venetian police again yesterday, but not held or charged. Interpol are involved, and the British police, but they couldn’t hold Morgan.’
Despite himself, Gaspare’s attention was caught. ‘So he could have killed the women?’
‘He’s not supposed to leave the city, but as the police haven’t taken his passport, yes, he could have killed them,’ Nino said. ‘But I’ve no idea where Johnny Ravenscourt was when Sally Egan and Harriet Forbes were murdered. He calls himself a spoilt old queen, and acts like one. But I’ve been thinking about that. What a perfect cover to fool everyone! He acts fearful, pets his dogs, talks in that high voice. No one would suspect him of violence – and remember, he has the money to travel as often, and as far, as he likes.’
‘But why would he give you his research?’
‘Maybe he wants an audience. The story’s all over the news – maybe he’s getting a vicarious pleasure from it. Maybe he wants to tempt fate, see if I can work it out.’ Nino thought for a moment. ‘Now I think about it, he came out of the blue and asked to talk to me. He said that he’d heard someone had hired me to investigate Seraphina’s death, but he never explained how he knew about me. I didn’t think about it at the time, but it’s strange. After all, it’s not my usual line of work, is it?’
‘All the more reason why you should stop now,’ Gaspare said, his thumb and forefinger closing over the crucifix. ‘Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe the police should sort it out—’
‘How can they?’ Nino snapped. ‘They don’t know as much as we do. They certainly won’t connect the painting with the women’s deaths. Why should they?’
‘But if they ask around—’
‘You know the art world, Gaspare. They’ll close ranks if they’re questioned. No business on earth can hide a secret better, especially when there’s money at stake. And who else would talk? Triumph Jones? Never – he’s not going to admit his part in this publicly.’
Taking a breath, Gaspare watched him. He wondered fleetingly how different everything would have been if Nino Bergstrom had collapsed in France or New York. Wondered if the chance which had cemented their friendship might turn out to break them apart.
‘Believe me,’ Nino continued, ‘the police will only ever get half the story. Let them carry on, but let me carry on too. I liked Seraphina and I want to pay you back for what you did for me.’ He smiled, tapping his temple. ‘My brain’s active again, I feel fit. I can solve this, I know I can. Someone has to. Don’t take this opportunity away from me, Gaspare. I need it.’
25
It was past seven when Louisa Forbes arrived at her sister’s flat, standing in the doorway for a long moment before entering. She was pretending that Harriet was still alive, that at any moment her mobile would ring and she would start talking. But she knew this time was different, this time her sister wasn’t phoning, or returning. She had been stopped in Tokyo, outside a toilet cubicle – killed within reach of a thousand people, within sight of a dozen cafés and bureaux de change. Only metres from the admirable Japanese plumbing, Harriet Forbes had died. And worse, she had been disfigured. It hadn’t been enough that her clothes had been taken off her – the killer had wanted her skin too.
The thought made the hair stand up on the back of Louisa’s neck. Who could have killed Harriet? That was the question the family were asking, the police were asking, and she was asking. Her sister had been a PR agent specialising in health and beauty, a freelancer dealing in nothing more provocative than lipgloss.
Walking into the flat, Louisa turned on the light and glanced around. The place was familiar, although she hadn’t visited for several weeks after they had an argument about their parents. Louisa had loved her sister, but Harriet had been difficult to like at times, brusque, with a habit of dismissing other people’s problems. Had she been a little callous with someone outside the family? Someone who took offence? A man perhaps? God knows, Harriet could attract any man – not that she was interested.
Many times over the years Louisa had expected her sister to confide in her about being gay. She had waited, not wanting to push the issue, but it had never been raised. Perhaps Harriet thought she had fooled her sister? Conned her into believing that she genuinely wasn’t interested in getting married and having children, while all the time Louisa had known there had never been any chance of that. Why hadn’t she talked to her? Hadn’t she trusted her sister? Why live with a secret like that, as though it was something shameful?
Moving further into the flat, Louisa stared at the mess. Always running late, Harriet had left her home in a hurry and the kitchen still showed signs of her last breakfast, the cushions on the sofa in the sitting room scattered. She had drawn the blinds, but there was still a half-finished cup of coffee near the window where she had stood, waiting for her cab to arrive. Turning, Louisa remembered their last meeting in a wine bar. Harriet had been complaining about all the travelling she had to do, and Louisa had felt a flicker of jealousy. She was a bank manager – no exotic locations for her. Only a flat in Highgate and a husband working in IT.
But now the flat and the husband seemed precious. Louisa moved into her sister’s bedroom and noticed the unmade bed and the laundry on a chair by the door. The family had been informed that the body would be held in Tokyo for forensic examination, after Harriet’s father had flown over to identify her. It would be allowed home, but they didn’t know when. And suddenly the thought of Harriet lying in some morgue, bloodless and mutilated, was too much for Louisa.
She sat down heavily, her hands trembling as she noticed her sister’s laptop in the corner. Surprised that Harriet would have left it behind, she moved over and switched it on, waiting for the Microsoft welcome. And then the home page came up, with a photograph of her and her sister, arms around each other, smiling as though they had all the time in the world …
In that instant Louisa knew that she had misjudged her sister, and failed her. Had been too jealous to make allowances, to see another point of view. Perhaps Harriet had envied her. After all, she was married and secure, able to express herself, not hiding any part of her character. It was obvious that their parents would never have been able to cope with Harriet being a lesbian, but Louisa could have. It wouldn’t have made any difference to her. The shared confidence might even have brought them closer.
It was no use blaming Harriet for being secretive and dismissive. Perhaps she hadn’t felt secure enough to confide? And now it was too late. Their parents were ageing, and Louisa felt a sudden and terrible grief for a sister who wouldn’t be around when they were gone. For the loss of her, the shutting down of a shared past. For the companion she wo
uld never have again. For the blood link which some maniac had severed in a toilet in the middle of Tokyo airport.
Shaken, Louisa made a decision. She might have failed her sister in life, but she wouldn’t repeat the mistake in death.
26
Staring at his computer screen, Jobo Kido remembered what Farina, the bitch, had told him and typed into Google search Angelico Vespucci – The Skin Hunter. Outside his office, he could hear the new exhibition being arranged: a series of Japanese lithographs. Not to his taste, but popular and always good sellers. He jabbed his fingers on the SEARCH button impatiently, then watched as a website listing came up.
The Skin Hunter – Vespucci, 16th century, Venice
Good God, he thought, she was right. Pressing the entry, he watched as an image of the glorious Grand Canal in Venice came on to the screen.
It was like a normal picture postcard, until, suddenly, a crude image of a body fell from the grand architecture and plummeted into the water below, to the accompaniment of Sting’s ‘Murder by Numbers’. Disgusted but curious, Jobo pressed the ENTRY TO SITE sign and then watched as the Venetian panorama closed down into a narrow, dark tunnel. At the far end was an exit, a figure standing there. But just as Jobo saw it the figure rushed towards him, the screen filling with a splash of artificial blood.
‘God!’ he snapped, jumping in his seat.
Looking round to check that no one had been watching him, Jobo glanced back at the screen. What kind of a lunatic would build a site like this? he wondered, with a grudging admiration for its shock tactics. He scrolled down the table on the home page, clicking CONTACT, and waiting for a moment before the details were flashed on the screen.
You want to know about The Skin Hunter?
Join the Angelico Vespucci Admiration Society today – only $100.
As if! Jobo thought, returning to Google and checking if there were any other entries. There was just one, entitled angelicovespucci.1555.com
This site was altogether different. No cheap visuals, no crass music, just a very professional-looking biography of Vespucci, and a copy of an engraving of him. But, most importantly, across the top was written in copperplate:
ANGELICO VESPUCCI NEWS –
TITIAN’S FAMOUS PORTRAIT OF THE
KILLER HAS RE-EMERGED IN LONDON.
Immediately Jobo looked to see who had created the site. But there was no name, only an email address – avespucci-Venice.1555.
He typed a note:
I am interested in knowing more about this person. Can we compare notes?
Then he sent the message.
Jobo waited. No reply. Five minutes later there was still no reply. But when he came back into the office after an hour, having attended to business in the gallery, there was an email waiting for him.
Answer: What do you want to know?
Jobo wrote back: What can you tell me?
Answer: You want to know about Vespucci? Or his victims?
Jobo: Both.
Answer: Who are you?
Jobo: A fan.
Answer: Where are you based?
Jobo: Tokyo. You?
Answer: I’m everywhere.
Jobo: Can we talk?
Answer: We are talking.
Jobo: How did you hear about the painting coming to light?
Answer: Contacts.
Jobo: Who has it?
Answer: Wouldn’t you like to know.
Jobo: Do you know?
Answer: I know everything about Angelico Vespucci. You’ve heard of the legend ‘When the portrait emerges, so will the man’ – well, he’s back.
Nonplussed, Jobo paused for a moment before continuing to type.
Jobo: Who were Vespucci’s victims? I know about Larissa Vespucci and Claudia Moroni. Who were the others?
Answer: Vespucci chose his victims with care. He picked them for a reason.
Jobo: Don’t you know who his other victims were? Rumour has it that he killed four women.
Answer: Of course I know! After Claudia Moroni he killed Lena Arranti …
This was news to Jobo, the first time he had heard of her.
Then he murdered the Contessa di Fattori.
Surprised, Jobo considered the name, then remembered the woman who had been killed in Venice weeks earlier – Seraphina Morgan, previously Seraphina di Fattori. A relative? Was the newly murdered woman a descendant of the Contessa? If so, there might be a genuine connection between the 16th and 21st centuries. Between two murderers five hundred years apart.
The realisation made him uncomfortable and he typed out his next words carefully.
Jobo: You said Vespucci chose the women for a reason. Why did he choose them? I know he killed his wife because she was unfaithful, but why the others?
Answer: Why do you want to know so much?
Jobo: I’ve told you, I’m a fan. You must be too, or you wouldn’t have set up a website for Vespucci.
There was a long pause before the answer came back.
Answer: I worship at the shrine of Angelico Vespucci. He was a rare man, his reputation has been abused. What he did he did for a reason, which will be made clear in time. His acts were deeds of great beauty. He made murder into an art form, poetic, brutal, sensual.
Groaning, Jobo read the words and leaned back in his seat. The man was a lunatic. Some anonymous moron who had found his niche on the internet glorifying someone like Vespucci. A sick fantasist, getting a thrill from revelling in a murderer’s grotesque actions. He could imagine some sweaty nobody in a sleazy flat, endlessly crouched over a computer, building up a fan base for a dead killer.
Irritated, Jobo wrote back: No one should glorify murder.
Answer: So why are you asking all these questions? Or are you only interested in the painting?
Jobo: Have you seen it?
Answer: Of course.
Alerted, Jobo leaned towards his computer screen, typing hurriedly.
Jobo: Where is it?
Answer: I can’t tell you that. But it’s safe. He’s safe.
Jobo: Who’s safe?
Answer: Vespucci. I’ve told you, he’s back – and he’s killing again.
The dealer held his breath, his hands shaking as he typed out the next words.
Jobo: What are you talking about?
Answer: I’m talking about Seraphina di Fattori, Sally Egan and Harriet Forbes. Shall we chat again tomorrow, Mr Kido?
And with that, he broke the connection.
Sweating, Jobo wiped his forehead. The stranger had used his name! But how the hell did he know who he was? Had he given himself away? Or was the man enough of a computer geek to track his email address? Jesus, Jobo thought, alarmed, he was really out of his depth … Unnerved, he walked over to the window. Opening it, he breathed in the humid Tokyo air, but it seemed thick and tasted of tar. The absurd heatwave was glowering over the autumn trees, making their branches calligraphic symbols against the burning sky. And as he wiped his palms the first few drops of rain began outside. Then they stopped, drying on the bleached pavement below.
In the past, Jobo Kido’s fascination with murderers had only ever gone so far. It was true he wanted the Titian, but his admiration for evil had always been from a distance. At close quarters, it was terrifying. How did the man on the website know about the killings? And how had he connected them to Angelico Vespucci?
Jobo tried to calm himself. The murders had been in the news, on the internet – anyone could have found out about them. A fanatic could easily have made a connection with Vespucci. The present-day killer had skinned his victims, so had Vespucci. Some unbalanced mind could easily have paired the acts.
Some unbalanced mind could just as easily have committed them.
Uneasy, Jobo moved back to his seat. He thought fleetingly of Farina Ahmadi and wondered if he should call her, but dismissed the notion. She would just mock him. And if she didn’t, would the news tip her off, help her find the portrait? Likewise Triumph Jones … Jobo flicked over the pa
ges in his diary, trying to engage his thoughts on anything that wasn’t Vespucci. But it didn’t work. He had no interest in lithographs any more – all his concentration was on the exchange he had just had over the internet.
Did the man really know where the Titian was? And if so, could Jobo somehow bypass his rivals to get it? The thought excited him. What risk wasn’t worth the chance of securing the portrait? He paced the room restlessly, knowing that, like last night, he wouldn’t sleep. Instead he would be waiting for his next website conversation.
A conversation with a freak. Or a killer.
27
St Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
Having developed a chest infection, Gaspare Reni was kept in hospital, and Nino stayed at the convent gallery. He had tried to contact Sally Egan’s family, but had been told that her only living relative – her father – had Alzheimer’s and had been admitted to a nursing home. Further enquiries led him to Jean Netherton, who had helped to care for Mr Egan, and Nino had left her a message to get in touch with him.
In the meantime, he continued reading through the Ravenscourt notes. His research had been meticulous, thorough, dozens of little additions in the margin giving away his contacts.
Visit the Victoria and Albert, for painting … Check British Library for Joseph Hardone’s book, Diary of The Grand Tour, Volume 2.
And on page 56 of the second notebook, he had written –Sir Harold Greyly, Courtford Hall, Little Havensham, Norfolk. (Check him out for more information on Claudia Moroni.)
Apparently the lead had not been followed up, because there was no further reference to Harold Greyly. Instead, Johnny Ravenscourt had looked into the life and times of the Contessa di Fattori.
When they were not directly referring to Vespucci, his notes had resumed their usual jaunty tone: