Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  ‘I need to see what he wrote on the site, Mr Kido. Everything he wrote to you.’

  Then, suddenly, there was a suspicion in the dealer’s eyes.

  ‘I don’t know who you are!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t know who sent you—’

  ‘I told you. Louisa Forbes and Gaspare Reni—’

  ‘So you say!’ Jobo cried, almost incoherent. ‘But you could be lying.’ He pointed to Nino’s pocket. ‘That letter could be a fake! It could all be fake. You might have been hired by Triumph Jones or Farina Ahmadi to find out what I know. You could be the man on the website—’

  ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘So you say!’ the dealer repeated. He was beginning to panic. ‘I don’t know who you are!’

  ‘So phone Gaspare Reni. You know him. He’ll vouch for me,’ Nino replied. ‘It’s not me you need to be afraid of, Mr Kido. I don’t want the Titian. I want to help.’

  Kido shook his head. ‘No one can help me.’

  ‘Show me what he wrote,’ Nino said again.

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Show me! I can’t help unless I know what’s been going on.’

  Nodding, Jobo turned on the computer, feeding in the name of the site and watching as it came up on screen. A portrait of Angelico Vespucci flashed up, followed by the words The Skin Hunter. A Tribute.

  ‘He’s mad,’ Jobo said, slumping into his seat.

  ‘He’s clever,’ Nino replied. ‘Now, go into the site. Get him online—’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’

  He watched as the dealer entered the forum, logging in. A moment later a message came up.

  Hello, Mr Kido. How are you today?

  Raising his eyebrows, Nino glanced at Jobo. ‘Satisfied? If it was me, how could I be talking to you online?’

  ‘You couldn’t …’ Jobo replied, relaxing slightly. ‘So, what d’you want me to reply?’

  ‘Tell him that you got the parcel—’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Tell him.’

  ‘No,’ Jobo repeated, pushing away from the computer. ‘You talk to him.’

  Sighing, Nino turned to the computer and typed in:

  I received the package.

  Answer: Did you like it?

  Nino: Was I supposed to like it?

  Answer: You appreciate beautiful things.

  Nino: Whose skin was it?

  Answer: You’re very direct today. Not like yourself. I do hope our conversations aren’t being shared. I asked you for secrecy, for your absolute discretion … Is this Mr Kido I’m talking to?

  Nino glanced over at Jobo. ‘That’s why you have to talk to him. If you don’t he’ll suss me out and that’ll be the end of it. The end of your Titian and God knows what else.’ He pointed at the computer. ‘Get on it with. And make it sound convincing.’

  Jobo: Sorry, I was just wanting to know more about what you were doing. I haven’t told anyone anything.

  Answer: Good. Are you any closer to finding out the link between the women?

  Nino shook his head to direct the dealer’s answer and Jobo typed the reply.

  Jobo: No.

  Answer: You’ll have to try harder. The link is there, you have all the information you need to find it.

  Jobo: Can’t you give me a clue?

  There was a long pause before the response came back.

  Answer: You have to prove that you’re worthy of owning the Titian. The answer is there if you’re clever enough.

  Confused, Nino tapped Jobo on the shoulder. ‘What he’s asking you to do?’

  ‘Guess the link between the recent murders.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why?’ Nino repeated impatiently.

  ‘If I solve the connection, he’ll give me the Titian.’

  Incredulous, Nino stared at the dealer. ‘And you think he’ll keep his word? He’s playing with you. He’ll get you running around and then he’ll pull the rug out from under your feet. The killer isn’t going to give you the Titian. He’s going to make a fool out of you, if you’re lucky. If you’re not, he might do something much worse.’

  ‘I want that portrait!’ Jobo said, nearly shouting.

  ‘You’ll never get it. He’s got it and he’s keeping it. Think about it: the killer’s hardly going to give up the likeness of his hero, is he? It’s a taster, that’s all. It’s to keep you on the hook. The man’s killed on every anniversary of Vespucci’s crimes. Three killings so far – you really want to see a fourth? We have to stop him.’ Nino shook his head disbelievingly. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you fucking crazy?’

  Breathing heavily, Jobo stared at the screen, his thoughts clearing. What was he doing? How could he think of going on with it? Even if he got the Titian, how could he look at it with anything other than distaste, knowing that it had cost three lives?

  Ashamed, he turned to Nino. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Answer him. Get back on the computer and talk to him. Draw him out.’

  Jobo: Are you still there?

  Answer: I’m always here. I thought you’d gone.

  Jobo: I’ve worked out some of it. The killings are on the same dates as Vespucci’s murders.

  Answer: Very good.

  Jobo: So there’s another one to come?

  Answer: You know there is. On the 1st of January.

  Anxious, Jobo turned to Nino again. ‘What do I say now?’

  ‘Ask him who the victim is.’

  ‘He won’t tell us that!’ Jobo replied. ‘He knows we’d stop it if he told us.’

  ‘Just keep him online. We have to get him to slip up, give us something.’ Nino pointed to the computer. ‘Go on, ask him the woman’s name.’

  Jobo: Who’s the victim going to be?

  Answer: You’re getting lazy, Mr Kido. You have to work for your reward. I do. The fourth victim is already chosen.

  Jobo: Is she in Tokyo?

  Answer: Maybe.

  Jobo: London?

  Answer: Or Venice?

  Jobo: What if I guess who she is?

  Answer: You don’t want to do that, Mr Kido. If you guess I’d have to kill you too.

  And with that he cut the connection.

  Badly shaken, Jobo wrenched out the lead from the back of the computer. The light flicked off, the white noise was silenced. The package was still on the desk in front of him. Nino gestured to it.

  ‘Have you called the police about that?’

  ‘No. I haven’t told them anything.’ He looked at Nino slyly. ‘You want to call them? Get them to examine the skin? Take fingerprints off the door handle? Or maybe you know some computer buff who can trace the website, see if the killer’s communicating with us from London or from around the corner?’ He paused, shaking. ‘How long does it take to do forensic tests?’

  ‘Too long,’ Nino replied. ‘We only have a week left. And if we call in the police they’ll impound everything, take possession of your computer – and our contact to the site will be broken. You think there’s a hope in hell of finding the next victim if we do that?’

  Jobo shook his head. ‘No. So what do we do?’

  ‘You keep in contact—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Listen to me. Keep in contact online and tell me everything he says.’

  ‘But how will you find out who he is?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the site might lead me to him. It’s all I’ve got.’ He stood up to leave. ‘I’ll stay in touch—’

  Panicked, Jobo swivelled round in his seat. ‘Where are you going!’

  ‘To find the next victim,’ Nino replied, composed. ‘Stop worrying. The killer isn’t after you, Mr Kido. You might think he is, but it’s not your skin he wants. He’s scared you enough to keep quiet and he thinks that you’re greedy enough to play along with him for the painting. Let him keep thinking that.’

  ‘But he broke into the gallery!’

  ‘And if he’d wanted to hurt you, he
would have done. He’s killed before and not got caught. It’s easy for him.’ Nino paused. ‘He doesn’t want to kill you. You’re not a big part of his plan. You’re a bit player. Vespucci’s the hero, the women are the stars. You represent the art world, the elite he despises. He just wants to get one over on you to prove how clever he is.’

  Jobo looked unconvinced. ‘How d’you know what he’s thinking? What if you’re wrong?’

  ‘I might be,’ Nino admitted. ‘But remember, my life’s on the line too. You think you’re under threat? Well, you’re not going after him, I am.’

  43

  Venice

  Tom Morgan was looking around the old apartment, where he and Seraphina had once lived, apartment for the last time. His argument with Johnny Ravenscourt had been enlightening. The Titian wasn’t with him, and judging by his reaction, Ravenscourt had no inkling where it was. Frowning, Tom glanced around the rooms, his gaze coming to rest on the painting of Claudia Moroni and her brother. It had never been of any real interest to him. But now it was. Although he had agreed to sell the apartment with all fittings, fixtures and furniture, he was damned if he was going to leave it behind. His knowledge of the art world wasn’t great – that had been his wife’s forte – but an old oil painting had to be worth money. And Tom needed money.

  Taking it down, he placed an old print over the empty space on the wall and took the painting out into the hallway of the flats as the burly figure of Ravenscourt loomed up from the floor below. He had a florid look about his jowls and was breathing heavily.

  ‘You look fucked,’ Tom said, watching him.

  ‘I heard you were leaving,’ Ravenscourt gasped. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Only to the other apartment. I’ve sold this one; I can’t stay here.’

  ‘You must have made a fortune.’

  ‘Not as much as I’d have made with the Titian,’ Tom replied, gripping the painting.

  Recognising it, Ravenscourt blustered. ‘You can’t take that—’

  ‘I can and I will,’ Tom snapped. ‘The buyer got a good deal on the sale. He won’t miss one painting.’

  ‘But that one?’

  ‘What?’ Tom asked, holding the picture at arm’s length and looking at it. ‘What’s so great about this one?’

  ‘It’s Claudia Moroni.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to mean something?’

  ‘Look,’ Ravenscourt said, his tone mollifying. ‘Let me buy it off you. I’ll give you a good price.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The Italian currency’s failing. If I was going to sell it, I’d want US dollars.’

  Ravenscourt nodded. ‘OK, OK.’

  ‘I said if I was going to sell it,’ Tom continued, staring at the painting intently. ‘Because you wanting it so badly makes me wonder why. Perhaps it’s valuable?’

  ‘Only to me. It’s important for my research.’

  ‘Into Angelico Vespucci?’ Tom countered, laughing. ‘You sad fag, where’s all that research got you? You could have had the Titian, but you fucked up. Killing Seraphina—’

  ‘I didn’t kill your wife!’

  ‘Someone did. And you were in Venice. And you wanted the painting. I wouldn’t put it past you to try and cut me out.’

  ‘Maybe it was you who cut me out. You were in trouble, banking on getting the Titian,’ Ravenscourt replied. ‘Don’t try and bluff me.’

  They stared at each other, neither man giving way, neither believing what the other said.

  ‘Anyway, why are you still in Venice?’ Tom asked. ‘You told Seraphina you were going to spend Christmas in London.’

  ‘I had to leave London for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had some trouble. I needed to get the police off my back.’

  ‘I suppose it wouldn’t have anything to do with Nino Bergstrom being back in Venice, would it?’ Tom could see Ravenscourt pale and laughed again. ‘Coming after you, is he?’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The Titian. About the plan you and Seraphina had.’

  ‘No!’ Tom replied, shrugging. ‘I haven’t seen Bergstrom for weeks. Anyway, why would I tell him what we were up to?’

  ‘You wouldn’t …’ Ravenscourt replied, his thoughts running on. ‘Bergstrom’s a nosy sod. I tried to get rid of him in London, but he’s cropped up again. I wonder why he’s back in Venice?’ His attention shifted back to his original topic. ‘We were talking about the painting. I’ll give you a good price for it – although, by rights, you should give it to me. Something to remember Seraphina by. I was her closest friend – she would have wanted me to have it.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have given a shit,’ Tom replied. ‘She used to laugh at you all the time, say what a sad case you were. She mocked your “intellectual pretensions” and all your Italian boys.’ He could see the colour leaving Ravenscourt’s face. ‘Seraphina thought you were a pig—’

  ‘She wasn’t like that!’

  ‘Oh, but she was. Seraphina was nothing like she appeared. So frankly, Johnny, if you killed her I wouldn’t let it keep you up at night.’

  He paused, then suddenly pushed the painting at Ravenscourt, the dealer’s big hands grabbing it to stop it falling, then reached into Ravenscourt’s back pocket and took out his wallet.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, putting the wallet back after taking out a wodge of notes.

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘What are you complaining about? You got the painting,’ Tom said, guiding Ravenscourt out of the apartment and slamming the door behind both of them. Finally, he slid the keys through the letterbox and dusted his hands off.

  ‘I’m glad to be leaving. Seraphina never liked this place. Said it was bad luck.’

  ‘It certainly was for her.’

  Shrugging, Tom moved past Ravenscourt. But halfway down the stairs, he hesitated and looked back at him. ‘I don’t buy it, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your big dumb act. Like Seraphina, you’re not what you seem to be. I don’t know whether I should laugh at you, or be afraid of you.’ He paused, as though he was considering his options, then walked on, whistling.

  44

  Apparently the di Fattori marriage had been a charade for over a decade. Or so the Contessa told Nino as they sat in the apartment overlooking the Grand Canal. The height of the room prevented any intimacy, the arched ceiling as impersonal as a church. And seated under all this grandeur was the sparse frame of Seraphina’s mother, the Contessa di Fattori. When she spoke the impression of fragility continued, her voice as brittle as her appearance.

  In the weeks since Nino had last seen her she had lost weight, the veins on her forehead pronounced under the skilful make-up, her tinted hair too dark for her pallor. Erect, she looked like a person who had been tied to her seat, rigid with unease.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said in Italian, then slid effortlessly into English. ‘I have matters of the utmost importance to discuss with you. And of course I ask for your complete confidence.’

  Nino nodded. ‘You have it.’

  She went on without a pause. ‘My husband and I are getting a divorce.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘Please don’t be. Seraphina’s death was too much for us. They say people either grow closer in adversity or break apart. We did the latter.’ Her lips closed firmly, as though she was relieved to have the words out of her system. ‘I have something to show you, Mr Bergstrom.’ Reaching over to the table beside her, she handed him a substantial envelope. ‘My husband was of the opinion that family matters should remain within the family. I, however, do not agree. But then again, I married into the di Fattori line, so perhaps I don’t have the same loyalty to the name. Or the dead.’

  Opening the package, Nino was struck by the age of the paper, a heavyweight embossed vellum.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘Those are jottings written by the infamous Melania, the Contessa di Fatto
ri. Painted by Titian, the lover of Pietro Aretino, the Harlot of Venice. Do you know what the name Melania means?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Dark,’ she said wistfully. ‘And she was. Not in colouring —she had red hair – but Melania di Fattori had a dark heart. Of course you know of her death, her murder? Very like Seraphina’s, wasn’t it?’ She paused, sighing, although there was barely a sound. ‘I’ve been thinking a great deal. About my daughter, about what happened to her. And I was speaking to Gaspare Reni this morning – he told me about the Titian portrait.’ She put up her hands to prevent Nino interrupting. ‘It was right that he did so. I couldn’t go on in ignorance, Mr Bergstrom. It makes sense that there was some connection between Seraphina and Melania … What Gaspare told me made me decide to show you these.’

  ‘You want me to read them?’ Nino said, gesturing at the papers.

  ‘Every word. They might help you.’

  ‘Have you read them?’

  ‘Read them first, Mr Bergstrom, then we’ll talk again,’ she replied. ‘My husband would never have released this information, and I ask you to keep it secret. I only give it to you because it might be of use. Melania was an extraordinary woman. Immoral, without conscience.’ She breathed in. Again, the action was hardly audible. A wraith in a silk dress. ‘We disguise so much, lie to ourselves, hide so many secrets. Melania did that. So did my daughter.’

  ‘What kind of secrets?’

  ‘The baby she was carrying … it wasn’t Tom Morgan’s.’

  The words were a body blow.

  ‘Did he know?’

  ‘No,’ the Contessa said firmly. ‘Seraphina only told me … and possibly Johnny Ravenscourt.’

  The name resonated unpleasantly. ‘I know Ravenscourt. He’s not the father, surely?’

  ‘I don’t know who the father was,’ the Contessa replied. ‘It’s amazing how easy it is once you start to talk. Hiding things becomes a habit. You tell a lie so long you believe it. Every word is considered for its impact. How much do I say? To whom? I suppose all ancient families are the same. Do you think so, Mr Bergstrom?’