Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  There was talk of hanging him by the same lamp which had held the Jewish girl. Of stripping off his flesh and laying it under the paw of the Lion of St Mark’s. He became the Devil who had committed unspeakable acts and brought the city to its knees.

  And this unwholesome man, this font of pus, has all of Aretino’s great protection. While Titian continues the portrait which will become famous throughout the world, Aretino picks up his handful of shit and throws it in the face of all Venetians.

  He says:

  ‘There is another suspect. Another man has done these dreadful deeds.’

  He will reveal this person to us all, in time.

  ‘Look away from Vespucci!’ he says. ‘There is no villain there.’

  And now I am watching as the priest knocks at the door of Titian’s studio. I have heard rumours of what he is to say. Of words formed by Aretino, but spoken by this cleric. Words with which the artist’s friend will rip out his heart and make a scapegoat of an innocent man. He will name this man, this son, this blood tie, offer him up to take Vespucci’s place. He will do it to protect his interests, his wealth. Aretino, bribed into silence by so many in the past, will bribe another to quieten a tongue that otherwise will destroy him.

  Titian is occupied. See, he paints. He lights more candles, turns the canvas to them to extend his working hours. The effigy of Vespucci grows on the easel. He is coming to life in snatches, like a hanged man grabbing at the air. In the background of the portrait is an object no one can decipher. No one but me.

  For all the rouge redness of the colours, the ebony blackness of Vespucci’s clothes, the majesty of sleeping Venice behind, for all of this, there is some intimation in the pigment. A way the artist hints at what he knows. A token accusation in the paint. Behind the sitter’s bulbous eyes and venal mouth, behind Vespucci’s sloping back, is a shape defying interpretation.

  I saw the master paint this. This object, this limp spectacle, this mordant shape of nothingness. He caught me watching him, turned and held my gaze, then turned away. And I knew he understood the evil of the image, but was committed to its depiction, painting the dissolution of a man, a record of goodness soured.

  It was to be a masterpiece. A history of depravity, a warning. That others might look upon it and repent. Or so I thought.

  We did not know the scapegoat’s name. Not then, that came soon after. It came like the wind across Venice, cold and relentless, driving the damage home. It came from Aretino’s mouth into the ears of his friend. Words no man should suffer to hear.

  I am leaving now, taking one last look at the portrait of Angelico Vespucci. He is sleek, clever and terrifying, and in the candlelight the shape behind him makes more than a little sense. Titian has painted a hide.

  A skin, emptied of life.

  42

  Ginza, Tokyo

  The gallery had become a kind of prison. It wasn’t a place of business any more, but of dread. It had taken Jobo Kido almost an hour to leave the previous night. Whoever it was who had broken into the gallery had so unnerved him that he couldn’t stop shaking when he thought of it. He had watched the handle of his office door rattling, wondering if the intruder would get to him. Knowing – knowing – that it was the killer. The person he had been communicating with over the internet.

  And then the rattling of the door handle had stopped. There was nothing else. No knocking, no calling out. Just a horrible and prolonged silence. Still pressed against the office wall, Jobo had waited, finally hearing the footsteps moving off, and then a car engine starting up. It had taken him several moments to move, he had been so terrified, and then he groped his way towards his office chair and collapsed into it.

  In the semi-darkness he had stared blankly ahead, hardly able to gather his thoughts. This wasn’t some game over the internet. He had called up the killer as surely as sending him an invitation. Startled, Jobo had then thought of home and rang his wife, almost relieved to be shouted at. At least she was still alive. Questions as to the whereabouts of his son had been met with hostile accusations. Since when did he care about his son?

  Pulling on his coat as his wife kept haranguing him, Jobo had made for his car, arriving home fifteen minutes later to be told that it was dangerous to drive while he was talking on his mobile. He could have laughed, but he didn’t. And his insistence that his family should make sure they were safe – that the doors were locked and any approaches by strangers rejected – had only inflamed matters.

  ‘What have you done?’ his wife had asked, arms folded, fierce in a blue housecoat. ‘What have you done?’

  What had he done? It was a good question. One that had left him sleepless that night, and one that was still resounding in his head the following morning. What had he done? He had managed to endanger himself and his family. His plotting had been amateur in the face of a professional. Jobo Kido might collect the images of murderers and tingle at their crimes, but the reality was altogether different. And he had no stomach for it.

  The Japanese lithographs were selling well, the exhibition a success, as he walked into the gallery and nodded to a collector he knew. At any other time Jobo would have cornered the man, worked on him until a sale was assured, but not this morning. This morning it was taking Jobo Kido every inch of his control to function.

  So when his secretary arrived with the post, Jobo was agitated, impatient, his usual even temper suspended. Snatching the letters from her, he moved back to his desk, opening the first two and then tearing into a small package. His mind was preoccupied, his gaze constantly returning to the computer, the blank screen hostile. Ripping off the brown paper, Jobo lifted the lid of the narrow box.

  Then he screamed.

  He screamed and stepped back as the secretary hurried in.

  ‘Get out!’ he shouted to the anxious woman.

  Then he turned back to his desk and looked into the box again.

  The skin was folded neatly, a nipple placed centrally among the ghastly folds, the flesh darkening, almost mummified. He sobbed under his breath, pushing his fist into his mouth to stop himself. Then, taking hold of the paperknife he lifted the lid and dropped it back over the box, covering the object inside.

  Heaving, he struggled to stop himself vomiting, his throat burning with bile. His breathing was short, urgent, so panicked that he soon felt light-headed and walked to the window to lean out. It was five minutes before Jobo Kido could breathe regularly again and moved to the intercom to buzz his secretary outside.

  ‘Did you see who delivered the package?’

  ‘It was the usual mailman, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, adding, ‘Forgive me for my behaviour this morning. I’m a little unwell.’

  ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’

  ‘No, no, thank you,’ Kido said, clicking off the intercom and glancing back at the package.

  He wondered if he should look for a note, but realised he couldn’t even touch the box, and certainly not its contents. Events had escalated from there simply being an intruder in his gallery: now the killer was including him in his work, drawing Jobo further and further in. What had started as a desire to get the Titian had turned into a folie à deux. Jobo Kido, respected art dealer, was being made complicit in murder.

  The package was sitting on his desk, glowering at him. He felt like weeping, he was so afraid. And there was no one he could go to for help. Triumph Jones was still in hospital recovering, and Farina would relish a chance of getting the portrait off him. Dear God, Jobo thought impatiently, what was he talking about? This wasn’t just the Titian, this was more. Much, much more. He might long for the portrait, but at this cost?

  Still holding the paperknife, he jabbed at the box, then slid it along the desk, tipping it over the edge into the waste-paper basket. He then put the bin in his private washroom and locked the door. The idea of calling the police had already been dismissed. What ructions might be caused if Jobo brought them in on it? What chance of getting the Titian? And worse, what
if, by bringing the police in, he enraged the killer? It wasn’t just about him any more, Jobo realised – it was about his family too. The murderer had taken him under his wing, had adopted him, and any betrayal now might cost him more than he could imagine.

  For the rest of the morning the dealer avoided contact with anyone. He kept to his office, made a few half-hearted business calls, and repeatedly looked at the clock. Eleven thirty snaked into twelve noon and his secretary brought him a drink of tea. Jobo thanked her then slumped back into his stupor. He was insensible, transfixed, incapable of knowing what he should do. Incapable of action. Just waiting for what was going to come next.

  So when a white-haired man walked into the gallery off the street and began to look at the exhibits, Jobo remained in his office, watching him. The man was obviously European. He looked tough. And young, even though his hair was white. … Who was he? Jobo wondered, his imagination flaring into life. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  He stared through a glass partition disguised from the gallery, a means by which he could watch his customers without being seen, assess their clothes and manner and judge if they looked prosperous enough to warrant his attention. But this man didn’t look like an art lover, Jobo thought anxiously. He was Caucasian – maybe the killer was too? The first victim had been killed in Venice, the second in London, and even though the third had been murdered in Tokyo, she had been an English woman. So had this man been the person who had sent the disgusting package to him? The man who had terrorised him the other night? Was he the killer?

  And if he was, why was he here?

  There was a sudden knock on his door.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘You have a visitor, sir,’ the receptionist said, surprised by her employer’s renewed unease. ‘Mr Bergstrom.’

  Bergstrom, Jobo thought. That was Swedish or Danish, wasn’t it?

  He stared at the girl. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Shall I show him in, sir?’

  ‘No!’ Jobo shouted, then dropped his voice. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘Then find out!’ he snapped, watching her through the partition as she spoke to the white-haired man in the gallery outside.

  A moment later she returned. ‘He says he wants to talk to you about Angelico Vespucci, sir.’

  The colour left Jobo’s face. This was what he had been afraid of. The killer was here … Quickly ushering the receptionist out of the room, he made for the back exit, moving out on to the street beyond.

  But the receptionist had spotted the dealer leaving and pointed him out to Nino.

  ‘That’s Mr Kido!’ she said. Surprised, Nino followed him.

  Jobo Kido had the advantage of knowing Ginza, as well as being able to track the unmistakable white head of his pursuer over the shorter Japanese crowd. Moving swiftly, the dealer cut through an arcade, several burdened shoppers standing back as he hurried, almost running, towards the exit. When he arrived there he paused, relieved. No giveaway head above the black-haired Japanese crowd. Perhaps he had lost him?

  But he hadn’t.

  ‘Mr Kido.’

  Startled, he jumped when someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Who are you? What d’you want?’

  ‘My name’s Nino Bergstrom. I’ve come all the way from London to talk to you.’

  He flinched. ‘I’ve nothing to say!’

  ‘Are you afraid of me?’ Nino asked, surprised. ‘I’m not going to harm you. I’m trying to find out who killed Harriet Forbes, that’s all.’

  Taking in a breath, Jobo smoothed down his jacket, feeling foolish and embarrassed. His usual urbanity had deserted him, left him sweaty and confused in front of this imposing stranger.

  ‘Harriet Forbes? She was killed at the airport, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Could we talk back at your gallery?’ Nino asked, dropping into step with the dealer.

  Once or twice Jobo glanced at him, trying to judge if he was trustworthy or lying. Was he what he purported to be? Or was he the killer? Was he, Jobo, being duped? Reassured into dropping his guard? Once back at the gallery, he ignored the receptionist’s baffled expression and ushered Nino into his office beyond. The room was dressed with Japanese prints, anodyne images without impact, the furniture a bloodless European blend of steel and leather.

  ‘Miss Forbes’ sister has asked me to look into Harriet’s death,’ Nino began, taking out a letter. ‘She’s written this for you, to prove that I’m her representative.’

  Jobo took it gingerly, read it, and passed it back. Of course it could be genuine, the dealer thought, but then again, anyone could run off a letter on a computer. The thought of the computer made him clammy and he kept his eyes averted from the lifeless screen on his desk.

  ‘I didn’t know the victim.’

  ‘I understand,’ Nino replied, ‘but you know of Angelico Vespucci?’

  Jobo’s voice was a croak in his throat. ‘Who?’

  ‘Can I speak openly?’ Nino asked, surprised at Jobo’s nervousness. ‘I’m working for two people, investigating crimes which appear to be linked. You know Gaspare Reni?’

  ‘The dealer?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a friend of mine and because of that I got involved with the death of Seraphina Morgan.’ Nino paused. The air in the room was leaden. ‘It all comes down to the portrait, Mr Kido. You know the one I mean – the Titian.’

  Jobo tried to smile but couldn’t manage it.

  ‘Titian? This is news to me.’

  ‘But it isn’t, is it?’ Nino countered. ‘You’ve known about it since it surfaced. You, Triumph Jones and Farina Ahmadi are all after it. Gaspare Reni had it, but it was stolen from him. And it’s not been found since.’ He leaned towards the dealer and Kido automatically leant back. ‘Someone’s copying The Skin Hunter. But you know that too, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  Nino paused.

  ‘Yes, you do. The way you ran off like that proved it. You were spooked when I mentioned the name Vespucci to your receptionist. I dare say if I hadn’t known this area of Tokyo as well as I do, I’d have lost you. Which makes me wonder why you were spooked. Did you think I was coming for you?’ He studied the man’s face. ‘Have you been threatened?’

  ‘You have no right to ask me questions like this! I’m a respectable art dealer—’

  ‘With a not so respectable private gallery.’

  Jobo paused, staring at Nino furiously. ‘What I have in my personal collection is no business of yours —’

  ‘You collect images of killers. That’s means you’d be after the Vespucci portrait. As a dealer and as a collector. Any Titian would be a coup, but this one – Titian’s portrait of The Skin Hunter? Now, that would be the prize of your collection.’ He stared into the dealer’s face, trying to read him. ‘You are being threatened, aren’t you?’

  Glancing away, Jobo found himself torn between wanting to confide and wanting to have Nino thrown out. He knew that he couldn’t keep denying his interest, just as he knew he needed help. The incident the other night had terrified him, and he hadn’t dared to go online since. As for the package he had received earlier … He swallowed with effort.

  No one could remain in suspended animation. He had to do something. Back off? No, he’d gone too far. There was only one course of action Jobo Kido could take – get help. And sitting in front of him was Nino Bergstrom, hopefully ready to offer some.

  ‘How much do you know about the murders?’ Nino asked.

  ‘Which ones?’

  Jobo had given himself away and Nino was quick to react. ‘So you know about the recent murders? I mean, the other two, apart from the one in Tokyo.’

  ‘I might … have read about them.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘News travels,’ Jobo stammered. ‘It was on the internet. And I noticed the similarities. The women were skinned.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you noticed the website – angelicovespucci.1555.com?’
Nino asked. ‘I can see from your reaction that you did. Have you looked at it?’

  Transfixed, Jobo nodded dumbly.

  ‘I sent an email to the site,’ Nino continued, ‘but I got no reply.’ He was watching the dealer. ‘Of course the killer wouldn’t want to talk to someone like me. He’s aiming higher – for the top.’ Jobo said nothing and Nino continued. ‘Did you correspond with him?’

  The reaction was startling. Leaning forward in his seat, Jobo was almost pleading. ‘He answered me! He answered my questions!’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands. ‘I wanted to draw him out, find out more about the Titian. But I never expected him to …’ He stopped talking, jerking his head towards the computer. ‘He talks to me. Every time I go online, he responds.’

  ‘And you thought you could manipulate him?’

  ‘I was—’

  ‘Stupid,’ Nino said succinctly. ‘You let him in, Mr Kido. He was looking for someone just like you. Exactly like you. In fact, you were probably his number one choice.’

  ‘Oh God. Why?’

  ‘Your private collection. He thinks you’re soulmates.’

  Jobo put the handkerchief to his mouth. ‘That’s not all.’

  ‘Has he been in direct contact?’

  ‘Someone was at the gallery the other night. We were closed and everyone had gone home. And then I heard someone outside and I saw them look in at the window.’ He glanced over, almost as though he expected to see the man again. ‘He was rattling the door handle. I thought he’d get in!’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘No, he went away,’ Jobo replied, getting to his feet. Going into the washroom, he returned a moment later with the package. He was holding it in a towel, so that his hands didn’t come into direct contact with it. ‘This arrived earlier today.’ He put the box on the desk and stepped back from it.

  Curious, Nino took off the lid and stared at the object inside.

  ‘Was there a note?’

  Jobo shook his head. ‘I didn’t look for one.’

  Lifting the edge of the cloth on which the skin was lying, Nino glanced under it. Then he checked the lid. There was nothing written anywhere on the package.