Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  Claudia Moroni’s love of her brother was the link between her and The Skin Hunter. Incest would have made her a target, her immorality only temporarily hidden under the guise of being a respectable merchant’s wife. Somehow Vespucci had uncovered her weakness, a sin which would have damned her in the eyes of society and of God. The perfect victim.

  But if the links were obvious between the women in the past, what of the women in the present? It was true that Sally Egan had been promiscuous, and that Harriet Forbes had been gay, but Seraphina? She was happily married, pregnant. Was her connection with Vespucci merely a familial one? Or because she had found the portrait?

  Walking back to the table, Nino looked over his earlier notes. He had spent the previous hour tracking down London dealers called Ahmadi. There were four in total, in various districts. He had duly called them all, discovering that the first three dealt in Turkish, Islamic, Dutch and American art, but the fourth dealt in Italian Renaissance painting. Ms Farina Ahmadi.

  Putting in a call to her, Nino was met with the supercilious tones of her male secretary.

  ‘What is this concerning?’

  ‘My name’s Nino Bergstrom and it’s a private matter.’

  He was condescending, arrogant. ‘I’m afraid I can’t connect you to Ms Ahmadi without knowing who you are.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell her that unless she comes on the phone I’ll make a call to the press about Angelico Vespucci,’ Nino said calmly. ‘I think that should get me through.’

  Seconds later, Farina came on the phone.

  ‘What is it? Want d’you want? I should tell you that I’m not used to being threatened.’

  ‘Who threatened you?’

  ‘You did, Mr Bergstrom!’ she snapped. ‘We don’t do business this way.’

  ‘What kind of a way do you do business, Ms Ahmadi?’ he replied coolly. ‘Or perhaps I should talk to Triumph Jones instead?’

  ‘All right! What d’you want? You mentioned Angelico Vespucci. Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

  ‘You, and quite a few others in the art world.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve heard of him. You commissioned a woman called Sally Egan to do a copy of his portrait. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Nino Bergstrom. I’m privately employed. Undertaking an investigation for Mr Gaspare Reni.’

  She snorted. ‘Hah! Investigating what?’

  ‘The death of Seraphina Morgan, who used to be Seraphina di Fattori.’

  There was a long silence, Nino waiting for a response that didn’t come. Finally, he spoke again. ‘She was murdered in Venice—’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Oh, good. That’ll save time. I suppose you’ve also heard that Sally Egan was killed? Well, I was wondering why you hired her to copy the Vespucci portrait?’

  ‘I wanted it for an exhibition we were doing – Lost Old Master Portraits. Obviously, because they were lost, we had to get copies done.’

  ‘And after the exhibition, what happened to the painting?’

  Her voice was impatient. ‘I don’t know! It’s probably in store somewhere.’

  He took a shot in the dark.

  ‘So the painting that’s suddenly turned up in London might not be Titian after all. In fact, it could be your copy.’ He paused. ‘Don’t say you haven’t heard about the Titian re-emerging.’

  ‘How d’you know about it?’

  ‘I saw it.’

  ‘You saw it?’ She was breathless. ‘Christ, have you got it?’

  ‘No. It was stolen from Gaspare Reni. I don’t know where it is now, but I know Triumph Jones is after it, and others.’

  ‘Jobo Kido,’ she said under her breath, Nino smiling to himself as she continued. ‘The painting you saw – did Reni see it too? Because if he said it was genuine, it was. Reni’s no mug – he knows his stuff.’

  ‘But the copy was very good.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘I saw a photograph,’ Nino replied. ‘It looked like a Titian to me—’

  ‘Not to an expert!’ she retorted, nettled. ‘And, like I said, I don’t know where it is now. It might be in storage, or we might have got rid of it. If the copy’s what you wanted to know about, I can’t help you. It was worthless.’

  ‘It cost Sally Egan her life.’

  She ignored the comment.

  ‘I suppose Gaspare Reni wants you to get the Titian back for him?’

  There was silence down the line.

  ‘OK, Mr Bergstrom, whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it. Work for me instead.’

  ‘I think,’ Nino replied smoothly, ‘that there isn’t enough money on earth to make that sound attractive.’

  40

  Ginza, Tokyo

  Jobo Kido was shocked to hear about Triumph being mugged in Central Park. He made some trite comment about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was anxious. What had possessed his old adversary? Triumph Jones’ behaviour was totally out of character. He was taking ridiculous chances. He must have known that his reward would have drawn out every runner and gofer in the art world. Petty criminals, forgers and failed artists would leap at the chance of relieving Triumph of some of his wealth. Why invite such lunacy? And why, thought Jobo for the hundredth time, would he be walking in Central Park after dark?

  Perhaps his rival had a death wish? His actions were certainly provocative, courting danger … Jobo looked over to the window. The heatwave had finally broken, the temperature falling, the rain at its curdling best … Was it all to do with the Titian? he wondered. After all, Triumph’s change in behaviour had started after the Vespucci portrait had been found. Was there some connection? Some reckless impetus which was driving him?

  Giving the computer a sidelong glance, Jobo wondered if the American had also been in touch with angelicovespucci.1555.com. Had Triumph been communicating with the site’s creator too? Was that the reason for the sudden and brutal attack? Unnerved, he stared at the dead screen. Was he taking a terrible risk? Was he walking into something he might come to regret? Perhaps Triumph’s mugging should act as a warning?

  But as he thought it, Jobo knew he wouldn’t – couldn’t – stop. The contact had promised him the Titian. All he had to do was to discover how the victims were connected to Vespucci. After that, the painting would belong to him. Not Triumph Jones or Farina Ahmadi, not even Gaspare Reni. He would have it. The pride of his collection.

  After all, Jobo consoled himself, high achievers always took risks. He had to prove that he was special enough to own the work. This was no time to be timid. He glanced back at the screen, swallowing drily. It was late – he should have left for home an hour ago. The walls seemed oppressive, the car park outside aggressively silent. Then, suddenly, he heard footsteps.

  But the gallery was closed, he thought, panicked. It should be empty.

  Hurriedly Jobo locked the doors, flicking the lamps off. The footsteps crunched on the gravel outside, near the window, as Jobo held his breath and pressed himself against the wall. Reflected in the mirror opposite, he could see the outline of someone looking in, the dark shape hovering for a moment, then moving on.

  Hardly breathing, Jobo waited. Immobile, he listened.

  Then he heard the entrance door open and saw the handle of his office door rattling hard against the lock.

  41

  London, December

  ‘I’m going to Tokyo to talk to Jobo Kido and see where Harriet Forbes was killed,’ Nino said, waiting for Gaspare to protest.

  But he just stared at him. ‘You need money?’

  ‘I’ve still got plenty left over from Ravenscourt, the bastard. He owes me.’

  ‘No news from him?’

  ‘Nothing. And the police haven’t been in touch again. Much as I’d like it, I don’t think anything’s happened to Ravenscourt – I think he’s just backed off.’ Nino paused. ‘Well, go on. Aren’t you going to a
sk me?’

  ‘About going to Japan? No, I know why you’re going.’ The dealer shrugged. ‘I can’t say don’t go, Nino – you will anyway. But I can tell you to be careful.’

  ‘I know it’s a long shot, but what else can I do? Farina Ahmadi’s a dead end, Triumph Jones is in hospital in New York—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was mugged yesterday,’ Nino explained. ‘But what did he expect, putting out a reward for the Titian? I don’t know why he just didn’t paint a target on his forehead – it would have been quicker.’

  ‘Who mugged him?’

  ‘Take your pick. It could have been anyone out of a cast of thousands. Or it could have been the killer.’

  Gaspare frowned. ‘In New York?’

  ‘He’s been in Venice and Tokyo already, why not New York? Triumph Jones was never going to find the portrait that way. He must have been desperate.’

  ‘He was lucky he wasn’t killed.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what he wanted. Apparently he expected the police to swallow some story about falling down a flight of stairs.’ Nino changed the subject. ‘I’ve only got two weeks left to find the last victim. Some woman’s being stalked now. At this very moment she’s being watched. Hand-picked to be murdered on the first of January … I can’t let him kill her.’

  ‘But you don’t know who she is.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Nino,’ Gaspare said carefully, ‘how can you possibly track her down?’

  ‘I can’t, unless I find out her connection to The Skin Hunter. There is one. Every victim has had some connection to Vespucci. This woman will be the same.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Seraphina’s relative knew him, and she found the portrait; Sally Egan copied it; Harriet Forbes wrote an article on The Skin Hunter.’ Nino was emphatic. ‘The next woman he picks will have a connection too. I just have to find it.’

  ‘And you think you’ll find it in Tokyo?’

  ‘Maybe. Harriet Forbes was killed there. Jobo Kido lives and works there.’

  ‘Yes, and he might be a suspect.’

  Nino shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. He’s too obvious, Gaspare. He’d be the first person everyone would suspect. It’s not Kido. But he might know something. Or there might be something about the place where Harriet was killed. I have to go.’

  ‘What you’re trying to do is impossible. You can’t prevent a death when you don’t know who the victim is—’

  ‘She knows Vespucci,’ Nino snapped. ‘She’s heard of him, read about him, painted him or studied him. But there is a link. And I do have one clue to her identity.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the killer’s eyes, she’ll be immoral. Sexually reprehensible. Just like Vespucci’s victims. And she’ll also be young and good-looking, like the others.’ He paused, catching Gaspare’s expression. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re chasing a phantom.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Nino corrected him. ‘The killer admires Angelico Vespucci. He worships him, otherwise why would he want to be him? Why would he copy everything he did? The killer didn’t just pick his victims out of thin air, he chose them because of their link to Vespucci. It makes sense to him. A twisted logic. Like it’s meant to be, a sign for him to pick that particular woman.’

  Gaspare sighed.

  ‘All right, say all of that’s true. But how did he find out about them? How did he know about the copy of the portrait and the article? He could easily discover Seraphina’s link to Vespucci. Her ancestor was his mistress, after all. But the other two – that’s more difficult.’

  ‘Not if you’d studied him for years,’ Nino said, sitting down and leaning towards the old man. ‘You’re an art dealer, Gaspare. You’ve spent decades reading, researching details most people could never discover. Or even know how to find. Look at that Bellini portrait, what you uncovered about that.’

  ‘But I read books that had been written on Bellini,’ Gaspare replied practically. ‘Where’s the killer getting his information on Angelico Vespucci?’

  ‘He was famous in his time. I know that all the evidence about him was supposed to have been destroyed and forgotten, but I don’t believe that. He’s part of Venetian folklore – whether people talk about him or not, he existed. Somewhere there will be records about Vespucci. There must be—’

  ‘Because the killer keeps putting up information on the website?’

  Nino nodded. ‘Yeah. Every day there’s something new. Which means that the killer’s got a source. Maybe he’s been collating his material for years while he was planning this, making the whole scenario perfect. The way he kills, the women, the dates – he’s not leaving anything to chance. It’s an offering to his idol, The Skin Hunter. A perfect replica of his deeds, the ultimate accolade. And you know something else? The killer might be mad, but he’s clever. He wants someone to come after him—’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, I’m not. He wants his audience. He’s no fool. He knows someone will have worked out the dates, and knows that his next murder will be anticipated for the first of January. It’ll add to the thrill for him. Give him that extra buzz to prove he can tip us all off – and still get away with murder.’ Nino paused, thinking. ‘I sent an email to the Vespucci website, but got no answer. I thought he’d reply, but he didn’t take the bait. Maybe I wasn’t right for him.’

  Baffled, Gaspare stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m not cultured. I’m from the film business, I’m not a member of the art world. I wouldn’t be educated enough to appreciate Titian, or a genius like Angelico Vespucci.’ Nino smiled wryly. ‘Not in the killer’s eyes, anyway. No, our man wants to impress the professionals. He wants to be their equal in status. As smart, as respected. Not just by emulating Vespucci, but by copying a man so powerful he was painted by Titian. He’s a snob.’

  Gaspare looked at Nino blankly. ‘A snob?’

  ‘Yes, because not only is he impressed by Vespucci’s violence, but because the Venetian was so powerful. He had influence, money, status. I doubt the killer would have copied Rosemary and Fred West. They’d have been considered vulgar, working class. This man admires the life of Vespucci. And that’s why I think the killer is someone who’s had to educate himself.’

  Impressed, Gaspare listened. He had been surprised when Nino had offered to help him solve Seraphina’s death, but as the weeks had passed the dealer had watched his progress with admiration. Fully recovered, Nino Bergstrom was no longer the sick man who had convalesced at his gallery. He was tough; the task had re-energised him, and his thinking was incisive. A man who had never investigated anything before, he was determined to succeed. Prepared to run any lead to ground, to talk to anyone. Even ready to go after a murderer.

  ‘Why d’you think the killer’s badly educated?’

  ‘Not badly educated, self-educated,’ Nino replied. ‘He’s meticulous, pedantic, obsessive – all traits of someone with a chip on their shoulder. He wants to be the equal of the dealers, because they impress him. But if he was their equal, it would never have occurred to him to seek their approval. He admires and fears them. He feels inferior, he hasn’t the imagination to be an original, so he copies.’ Nino paused, before adding: ‘I think the killer’s solitary, bookish. I’d be surprised if he was married, or had a family.’

  ‘Violent men have families.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re usually opportunistic killers, men who act spontaneously. Not men who plan murders. That takes time, and skinning the victims takes time and space. You couldn’t do that in a modern semi with kids running a round.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Gaspare said quietly. ‘But what happens when it’s over? After he kills the four women, what then?’

  ‘He won’t kill four women,’ Nino replied. ‘He won’t succeed in copying Vespucci, because he’ll be stopped. I’ll stop him. And you know why? Because the killer’s fixed his attention on the elite, the dealers. He’s not lookin
g in my direction. To him, I’m a no-account, an amateur, a hick. And that’s my protection.’

  Venice, 1555

  It was nearing midday when the priest came by, trailing a wary look. He came with a notepad under his arm, pausing outside the studio of Titian. His manner was hesitant, his black robes sodden about the hem where he had crossed St Mark’s. The rain had added to the sitting water, and now no one traversed the piazza and stayed dry.

  He was still standing outside when the rain began again, his face baffled, with the look of someone pressed to a duty they dreaded. I felt little pity for him, for the Church has stayed remote, Venetians resenting its distance. It was meant to give succour, people said, but the victims were never mentioned in prayers, and the killer has kept the city clean of priests.

  But now another rumour has sprung up. As the victims increase and Vespucci shirks from his guilt, Aretino comes forth to shield the beast again. He has put it aboard that there is another suspect. That The Skin Hunter is not, nor ever has been, Angelico Vespucci. We heard this news just after dawn, when the death of Lena Arranti was still fresh, the little Jewish girl cut down but still hanging in memory, forever hanging, from the rope which had held her corpse.

  Her body has long gone, but men shudder when they walk under the lamp which held her, and someone has thrown flowers on the bridge, and ivy in remembrance. There was talk of her skin being found, but no one would say where. Or maybe no one knew. Finally one of the Doge’s confidants pinned a paper to the doors of St Mark’s proclaiming that her skin was found, and would be blessed and buried. The note satisfied no one, and later messages cursed Vespucci and foretold that Venice would be damned until his punishment came.