Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

‘For a patient?’

  ‘Yeah, she was a very troubled woman. Really sick. She came from … I can’t remember now, but I could look it up.’ He inhaled again. ‘She’d been a teacher, I think, some kind of tutor, and then she’d gone into history and was writing a book about the Italian Renaissance.’ He said the word and laughed, rolling it on his tongue. ‘I said I’d help her. We do that sort of thing – it keeps them quiet, and it breaks the monotony for us.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  Dewick blew out his cheeks. ‘You’ve got me there. She came in after she’d had a breakdown. Pretty woman, very smart but scared.’

  ‘What was she scared of?’

  ‘Her family, the world, herself.’ He shrugged. ‘What are most people scared of? Everything … Anyway, I did some looking up for her, and spoke to Professor Lombardo—’

  ‘He speaks English?’

  ‘Well, I don’t speak Italian,’ Dewick replied, laughing, ‘and then I passed on what he told me to her. Susan Coates! That was her name. I knew I’d remember it.’

  Nino made a mental note. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She was discharged and I haven’t heard from her since. She was depressed, but you felt she could find her way round it. I think she had a good chance to get well, but who knows? You can never tell, you just hope for them.’

  ‘And what about Vespucci?’

  He stared at Nino, baffled. ‘Who?’

  ‘Angelico Vespucci, The Skin Hunter, the man you were researching for her. What d’you remember about him?’

  ‘You are joking? I don’t remember a bit of it. He was some nutter in the past, but it goes in one ear and out the other. I’ve got enough to cope with – I don’t need to fill my head with any more crazy stuff.’

  Disappointed, Nino turned to go, but Dewick called him back. ‘You should have spoken to the volunteer—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now, he was a weirdo, that one,’ Dewick continued. ‘He and Susan got very thick, and he cut me out – said he’d help her with her writing. He was in her room day in, day out. I told the Sister about it. Didn’t like the guy—’

  ‘Can you remember what he was called?

  ‘Eddie Ketch.’

  ‘D’you know where he is now?’

  Dewick shook his head. ‘He was sacked, chucked out for behaving in “an unsuitable manner” with the female patients.’

  Nino could feel his heart rate pick up. ‘Would Personnel have a record?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Dewick replied, almost apologetically. ‘Ketch was a volunteer, like I said. They can be a bit half-hearted about checking up on volunteers – or they used to be. It was only when he starting acting odd that they chucked him out. Ketch might not even be his real name.’

  Certain he was on to something, Nino pressed him. ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Because there was something funny about Ketch. I’ve got a bit of a sixth sense for it. And he was odd, unemotional. Not like any other volunteer I’ve ever met. He could pretend, could Ketch, but he didn’t feel anything. I could see it in the way he talked to the patients. He was listening, but not caring. I asked him why he volunteered once and he said that he was “between careers”. Stupid prick. Between careers – what kind of a comment was that?’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Late twenties. He’d be thirty-one, thirty-two now. Slim, good-looking in a whey-faced way. Very well-spoken, I remember that – he sounded posh.’

  ‘Did he talk about his family, friends?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Dewick replied, shaking his head. ‘He came here like a lost soul, but it was like he found something.’

  ‘In the patients?’

  ‘No, in what Susan Coates was working on. Some Italian killer. I don’t know much about it, but Ketch was fascinated, asking her all sorts of questions. I thought it was just the usual – you know, people like murders and stuff, but Ketch was taking it seriously. Like he was going to give a bloody talk. Not that it was new to him—’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘It was obvious he’d heard about the killer before – he said so. He used to swap stories with Susan Coates. She knew more than he did and he drew her out. It was like she wanted to please him.’ Dewick paused, thinking back. ‘Strange thing was that women liked him, I remember that. It was unusual, you see – vulnerable female patients can be jumpy around men, but all the women liked Ketch. The men didn’t – you’d be hard put to find any man with a good word to say for him, but women – they took to him, trusted him, which surprised me because frankly I wouldn’t have trusted that fucker as far as I could have thrown him.’

  Personnel had the file on Susan Coates, but were unable to tell Nino anything about her whereabouts. It was illegal to give out patient information, the woman said. Perhaps you should talk to her doctor? But the doctor was even less forthcoming. As Nino walked past Personnel Reception again he caught the eye of the clerk. Aware that he had hit a brick wall, she said nothing, but lifted Susan Coates’ file up quickly to show him the word DECEASED printed across it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he mouthed, walking over. Dropping his voice so that he wouldn’t be overheard, he said, ‘You don’t remember a volunteer called Eddie Ketch, do you? Good-looking, well-spoken—’

  ‘He was fired,’ she whispered back, looking around to check no one was listening. ‘What about him?’

  ‘D’you know where he is now?’

  ‘No … But hang on a minute,’ she said, moving into the storage backroom and returning with an old photograph. It was a picture of a group of people sitting outside a pub, obviously hospital staff. Jabbing her finger on the left-hand side, she glanced at Nino. ‘That’s Eddie Ketch.’

  Ketch was in the background, the only person not holding a glass. He was standing full on to the camera, his expression composed, emotionless … Smiling gratefully, Nino took the photograph and walked out.

  He had his man. He knew it, could feel it: some shudder of recognition. This was the killer. Eddie Ketch – or whatever he was called – knew about The Skin Hunter. Had been fascinated, had grown close to Susan Coates, even became intimate with his tutor. And women liked Ketch, they trusted him. He was a man women would relax with. A man women would find attractive. A man who could be anything for anyone. Composed enough to calculate. Composed enough to kill.

  He had murdered three women so far. Three down, one to go. And Nino had no idea who, or where, she was.

  50

  22 December

  Snow seemed to be falling around most of the northern half of the world. It stopped the traffic on the A1 and M5, it grounded the planes at Heathrow and Kennedy Airport, and stamped its feet over a million suburban homes in France. In Venice the fog returned, and the snow spread further afield, trailing continents in its smothering grip. Soon the city of Tokyo winced under ice showers. From the side of buildings icicles dangled like malignant Christmas decorations, the water from burst pipes freezing in mid-air, and in the quiet back room of a flat in London a man sat in front of a computer screen.

  He had made his choice.

  Picked his last victim.

  Only nine days to go before he would kill her.

  The thought intoxicated him, made him wonder if Angelico Vespucci had felt the same sense of expectation and arousal. If he had also planned the murder ahead of time. Chosen di Fattori and then waited for the inevitable conclusion. Did Vespucci revel in watching his victim live out her last days, knowing that he would be the one to end her life? Did he see fear in her eyes, or mock her ignorance?

  He didn’t know, but dismissed the rumours of Vespucci’s madness. The Italian had been inspired, not insane. He did wonder about the skins though, had thought about them a great deal, because he loved the skins he had hunted. Surely Vespucci wouldn’t have destroyed his own collection? Surely the hides were still out there somewhere? Hidden, as poignant as the desiccated mummies from the past. Perhaps they had been wrapped in cloth? Or placed in metal vess
els? Maybe secreted under floorboards, maybe between bookshelves? Or in some chilly Italian vault no living person visited? Maybe.

  But they were somewhere.

  It was the only loose end, and having no guidance from Vespucci on the matter he didn’t know what to do with his skins. He had followed the Venetian faithfully, but after every murder he was left with the question of what to do with the hide. Where to hide the trophy.

  Getting to his feet, he walked over to the wardrobe and opened the doors, gazing in at the portrait of The Skin Hunter. His head tilted to one side, his thoughts sliding. When the last murder was completed, he would decide what to do with the painting and the skins. It would be his choice, his decision – something in which Vespucci would have no part. The realisation thrilled him, left him short of breath. Perhaps he would – in the final analysis – outdo The Skin Hunter? Improve on his acts, even embellish them?

  The thought was like cream on his tongue.

  Moving back to the computer, he entered the chat room of the Vespucci website, expecting to find an entry from Jobo Kido. Of course there was one; the Japanese dealer was practically salivating at the thought of getting the Titian. He moved down the other entries, ignoring another approach from Johnny Ravenscourt, and fixing on the message from Nino Bergstrom.

  He had always known who the white-haired man was; it had simply amused him to push Jobo Kido, to discover just how far he would go to get the portrait. Apparently Kido would betray anyone. Which was just what he had expected.

  Although he had no intention of replying to Nino Bergstrom, he was interested to see a new message from him. But a flutter of rage went through him as he read it.

  Nino: I’ve been following your website for some time. I’m also an admirer of Angelico Vespucci and his crimes. But he was mad, and I’m not. In fact, I’m responsible for the deaths of three women already, and will commit a fourth. On 1 January.

  Answer: You don’t know what you’re talking about!

  Nino: Of course I do. Your site’s good, but the real thing’s better.

  He was incensed. Surely this Bergstrom man couldn’t think he was going to take credit for the murders? Bergstrom was a joke, a Hollywood lapdog. What the hell would he know, or care, about Angelico Vespucci?

  Answer: You’re lying.

  Nino: I’m Vespucci’s true follower. You’re just a copyist. Everyone knows that I killed those women.

  Answer: It wasn’t you!

  Nino: Prove it.

  The man paused, staring at the words on the screen, suddenly realising that he was being played. Bergstrom wanted to get him to confess.

  Clever, but not clever enough …

  Slowly, he typed his reply.

  Answer: If you’re the killer, who’s the next victim?

  Nino: You know who it is.

  Answer: Tell me her name.

  Nino: On the internet? Are you kidding?

  Answer: You don’t know.

  Nino: Oh, but I do. And I’m going to stop you, Mr Ketch. Is it Ketch?

  The man jumped, startled by the words.

  Nino: Or are you someone else now? Should I call you Mr Vespucci? After all, you’ve copied his work, it seems only right you should take his name too.

  Answer: You’re crazy!

  Nino: So tell me your name. Who are you? Deny you’re the killer of these women. At the moment it seems that the only crazy one is you.

  Answer: You don’t know who I am. Where I am. Or who the next victim is. And if you’re thinking of trying to trace this connection, don’t bother, it’s been rigged.

  Nino: All right, we’ll try another tack. Why are you killing these women?

  Answer: Are you trying to understand me now? Trying to create a rapport? You can’t see me, Mr Bergstrom, but I’m laughing.

  Nino: Maybe I can see you. I’m closer than you think.

  Answer: You’re bluffing. If the police in the UK, Italy and Japan can’t find me, what makes you think you can?

  Nino: I’m supposed to find you.

  Answer: I don’t think so.

  Nino: I do. I’m not going to let you kill another woman.

  Answer: You’ve no choice. In fact, you’ve only got nine days left, Mr Bergstrom, nine days to run around trying to find a woman you have no hope of saving. She’ll die. She has to … I hope you’re a good loser.

  Nino: Why don’t you stop? Stop now and save her. The authorities would look on that as co-operation, even a show of remorse.

  There was a pause before the man replied.

  Answer: You think I should stop now? And ruin the whole plan?

  Nino: You made the plan, you can change it.

  Answer: You think the police would take it into consideration?

  Nino: Yes, I think they would. It would help you.

  Answer: And if I told them where the skins were? You think that would help too?

  Nino: Yes, I do. I think that if you stop now, you can redeem yourself.

  Answer: Redeem myself? Be forgiven?

  Nino: If you save this woman and stop the killing, yes. Let her have her life.

  Answer: But what if she doesn’t deserve it?

  Nino: Who made you God?

  Answer: There was a vacancy.

  Nino: You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to kill this woman.

  The man paused on the end of the connection, smiling, then typed:

  But I want to.

  51

  Venice

  It had been playing on Tom Morgan’s mind how much Johnny Ravenscourt had wanted the painting from the old flat. For once sober as a magistrate, Tom realised that he might have missed a trick, and that the portrait had been worth more than he had at first thought. Admittedly, he had helped himself to a couple of thousand out of Ravenscourt’s wallet, but the fat bastard hadn’t protested, had even believed himself – unless Tom was imagining it – to have got off lightly.

  Having sold the old flat, and now settled in the rented apartment he had shared with Seraphina, Tom had relaxed into a state that only people with money in the bank can enjoy. Able to indulge himself, he spent a couple of days in a fug of highest quality marijuana and drank several bottles of champagne, but his thoughts kept turning to Ravenscourt and he wondered what Seraphina would have done.

  If only their plan had worked. They would have been millionaires. Not just comfortable, fucking cushy … The high-ceilinged apartment was cold and Tom shivered and turned up the heating, the pipes juddering as it stirred into life. His life had not turned out the way he had anticipated; his existence had improved with the money made from the property sale, but his lack of interest at work guaranteed another plunge in profits.

  Perhaps he should leave Venice? The company was making allowances for his condition – as the widower of a murdered woman – but for how long? How long before his arse was pushed into action again? He wasn’t made for work, Tom realised – not really. It was all too brutal, too coarse for him … His mind went back to the painting and, irritated, he left the flat, making for the piazza where Ravenscourt lived.

  The sight of its magnificence inflamed his self-pity further. What had a shit like Ravenscourt done to deserve such luxury? By rights, if everything had gone to plan, he and Seraphina should have been enjoying the proceeds from the Titian sale.

  But instead Tom was being shown into the drawing room where Ravenscourt was sitting reading a magazine.

  He looked up. ‘Spent all the money already?’

  ‘I was thinking,’ Tom replied, helping himself to some wine and sitting down by the window. ‘Why did you want that painting so much?’

  ‘The Titian?’

  ‘Nah, the other one. The one with the couple in it. Who painted it anyway?’

  ‘Some minor artist.’

  Looking around, Tom turned back to Ravenscourt. ‘I don’t see it. Where have you put it?’

  ‘Being restored.’

  He nodded, thoughtful. ‘That’s expensive, or so Seraphina’s parents a
lways used to say. They said it wasn’t worth having any picture restored unless it was valuable.’ He paused, but Ravenscourt was still flicking through his magazine, forcing him to continue. ‘So, was it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Valuable.’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘So-so to you or so-so to me?’

  Ravenscourt laid the magazine down, his reading glasses swinging from a chain around his neck. ‘What d’you want to know?’

  ‘Who painted it?’

  ‘A man called Barmantino, a good artist but not a great one. It was one of his earlier works. And it was in bad condition—’

  ‘Looked OK to me.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t know much about art, do you? That was Seraphina’s strong suit.’ Ravenscourt leaned back in his seat. In the room beyond a uniformed Italian boy no more than eighteen was arranging some flowers. ‘What’s the matter anyway? You were happy enough to sell it.’

  ‘Yeah, and you were very keen to get it. Why?’

  ‘I’m an art dealer. It’s what I do.’

  ‘So why hadn’t you wanted it before? God knows, you’d seen it often enough.’ Tom paused, walking around, his gaze travelling to the canal outside. ‘Water, water everywhere … don’t you get sick of it?’

  ‘It’s Venice.’

  Tom ignored the comment.

  ‘The company sent me here, you know. I wouldn’t have chosen it.’

  Taking an orange from the fruit bowl, Tom began to peel it. He did so with dexterity, keeping the peel intact then dropping it, unbroken, into a large Murano vase.

  Exasperated, Ravenscourt stared at him. ‘What d’you want, Morgan? You and I aren’t friends, we have nothing in common—’

  ‘Not since Seraphina died.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking … Seraphina was afraid of water.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She never walked near the edge of pathways or bridges. Seems like a strange way to die, being chucked in the Lido.’ He paused, chewing a segment of orange. ‘And mutilated like that. Like Vespucci’s victims. It made me wonder about why it had all started up. The Titian portrait of Vespucci, then the skinning of Seraphina, then the other women being killed.’