Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  ‘Are you accusing me?’

  ‘Of the murders?’ Tom shook his head. ‘I thought you might have killed Seraphina, but not the others. Why would you? There was no money in it. Anyway, I can’t imagine you getting involved in anything so butch.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I don’t know really. You could say I’m just feeling my way around.’ He winked, taunting Ravenscourt. ‘But you were always obsessed by Angelico Vespucci. You used to talk to Seraphina about it.’

  ‘She was born and raised in Venice, with artistic parents, and her ancestor was the Contessa di Fattori – it would have been unusual not to talk about him.’

  ‘But Seraphina finding the Titian – that was incredible.’

  ‘Paintings turn up in the most unlikely places, in all manner of ways,’ Ravenscourt replied, unfazed. ‘But she should never have left it with Gaspare Reni. God knows why she didn’t bring it home—’

  ‘You know why. We had to find a way to smuggle it back to Venice. She could hardly bring it back in her fucking hand luggage, could she? You were going to help us get it back – but then she got killed … God knows where the Titian is now.’

  Ravenscourt shrugged.

  ‘Who knows? Everyone’s looking for it, in Japan, New York, London, but it’s disappeared—’

  ‘D’you think the killer has it?’

  Frowning, Ravenscourt turned in his seat to look over his shoulder. ‘How would he get it?’

  ‘Steal it off Gaspare Reni. Someone did. Why not the murderer?’

  ‘But how did he know it was with Reni? There were only two people who knew that – Seraphina and you.’

  Tom smiled at the lie.

  ‘Don’t count yourself out, Johnny – you knew too. You can deny it all you like, but I’ll never believe my wife didn’t tell you about the Titian—’

  Bristling, Ravenscourt threw down his magazine. ‘You can fling accusations around all you like, but it doesn’t make them true.’

  ‘When’s it coming back?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Barmantino painting that’s being restored. The one you bought off me.’

  Standing up, Ravenscourt moved over to him.

  ‘You’re right there – I bought it. It’s mine now. So what I do with it has nothing to do with you.’

  52

  Infuriated, Ravenscourt watched the American walk out, listened as he heard his footsteps echo down the stairs and on to the piazza beyond. Curious, he then moved to the window in time to see Tom Morgan crossing the bridge which connected the houses on one side of the canal with the other. When he was certain the American had gone, Ravenscourt dismissed the servant and then closed the drawing room doors.

  Anger had taken its toll on him. Anger that he had been cheated out of the Titian when he had been so close. That Seraphina’s death had occurred before she had included him in a plan which would have netted all three of them a fortune. Why hadn’t she confided in him sooner? Ravenscourt asked himself, surprised that Seraphina had been so sly. But maybe it had taken a while to connect the plan, and she had been killed before she could approach him. Or maybe it had taken time for her to be persuaded.

  Smuggling the Titian out of the country would have been relatively easy for Johnny Ravenscourt. He had contacts from the old days and could press anyone into committing a minor crime for a major reward. Seraphina’s deception had surprised him, but then again, he had only Tom Morgan’s account of what she had said. Seraphina could hardly speak for herself.

  He had always suspected Tom Morgan. Maybe he had pressurised his wife against her will, knowing how easy it would be for her to get her old friend on board. Everyone knew that Johnny Ravenscourt was immoral, greedy. Everyone knew he liked to mix with a rough crowd, the criminal element adding a frisson to his sex life. There had been more than a few thieves invited into Johnny Ravenscourt’s bed over the years.

  But to have lost out on the Titian portrait of Angelico Vespucci, his obsession! It was almost too much to bear … He thought of Tom Morgan, uncertain of the American’s motives and curious as to why he had taken such a sudden interest in the Barmantino painting. God knows it had been hanging in the Morgan apartment the whole time they had lived there, and he never even remarked on it before. Except to say that Claudia Moroni had been a plain woman.

  Of course Seraphina had always liked the picture. She thought Claudia Moroni had had a fascinating face, a look which almost prophesied her death. She had often commented that she would make sure to keep the painting in the family, and talked of moving it into the new flat. And she wasn’t blind to the fact that it was also a pretty good investment … Ravenscourt frowned. If Seraphina was alive now she wouldn’t have approved of her husband selling the apartment, or the painting.

  Restlessly, he fiddled with the beaded chain on his reading glasses, uncertain of what to do next. He wasn’t intending to return to England for a while – the police would be only too interested in his re-appearance – but in Venice he had no way of discovering what was going on in London. He was out of the loop and afraid that he might suffer for it.

  Taking a breath, Ravenscourt realised that there was only one course of action open to him, and put in a phone call.

  Nino answered on the third ring. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Johnny Ravenscourt—’

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Hear me out!’ he pleaded, his tone plaintive. ‘I had to get the police off my back—’

  ‘And on to mine?’

  ‘They let you go,’ Ravenscourt said dismissively. ‘What are you complaining about? Gaspare pulled in an old favour and I retracted my statement. Besides, you must have done well out of this. And I haven’t asked for my retainer back. Have you spent all of it?’

  At the other end of the line Nino shook his head in disbelief, and lied. ‘Yes. All of it.’

  ‘Whatever did you do with it?’

  ‘I went to Japan on a wild goose chase. Which pretty much sums up everything about you and your story.’

  ‘You saw Jobo Kido in Japan?’

  ‘I saw him, but I’m none the wiser,’ Nino lied again, mistrusting Ravenscourt and determined that he would give him no information. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘I want you to carry on working for me—’

  ‘Like hell.’

  ‘Mr Bergstrom, I’ll pay you whatever you want. You can go to Japan, New York – wherever you like. I just need to know what’s going on – and I can’t do that stuck here in Venice.’

  ‘Go on the internet.’

  ‘I don’t see why you’re so defensive,’ Ravenscourt replied, his tone honeyed…. ‘You should snatch my hand off. I’ve money to burn, so why not relieve me of some of it? I brought you in on this—’

  ‘No, you didn’t. I got involved because of Gaspare Reni’s friendship with Seraphina.’

  ‘I was much closer to her!’ Ravenscourt snapped. ‘And I gave you all my notes on The Skin Hunter. I gave you a head start, and now I want some feedback. I want to know who killed Seraphina—’

  ‘And you want to know where the Titian is.’

  ‘I’m a dealer – what’s wrong with that?’ he replied, then softened his tone. ‘I admit, I’d like the painting. But so would a number of other dealers – that doesn’t make me a suspect.’

  ‘It doesn’t clear you either.’

  ‘You can’t believe that I killed Seraphina, or the other women!’

  ‘I don’t know who killed them.’

  ‘But you’re still trying to find out?’

  Nino paused, deciding to string Ravenscourt along. The dealer was stuck in Venice, so he could tell him anything and he had no way of knowing if it was true or not. And besides, if he carried on talking to Johnny Ravenscourt, the dealer might let something slip.

  ‘Have you seen Tom Morgan lately?’

  Ravenscourt relaxed, sure that Nino was back on board. Sure that he could deceive him again. He was tired of the skittish To
m Morgan and wanted him corralled.

  ‘Actually, I saw Morgan today …’ Ravenscourt began, thinking of all the American’s vicious jibes and his nosy interest in the Barmantino. ‘He was acting very strangely.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Jumpy, on the defensive.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Well, I hate to be the one to say it,’ the dealer paused, then took aim, ‘but I think he might have something to do with his wife’s death after all.’

  53

  Greenfield’s Hospital, London

  In between shifts, Patrick Dewick lit up a cigarette at the back of the hospital, drawing in the tobacco smoke and relishing the sensation. Then he started coughing, finally spitting out a gob of phlegm which landed in the puddle at his feet. Sniffing, he leaned against the wall and stared upwards into the sky. It was going to snow again. Bugger it, he would have a hell of a time getting home. The car was unreliable and whatever his wife had said, Patrick wasn’t convinced that she had put in antifreeze. He should leave her to it, see how she liked it when the bloody car wouldn’t start at the supermarket. It would be another matter then – she wouldn’t forget the sodding antifreeze next time.

  His thoughts drifted, suddenly alighting on Nino Bergstrom. It had been peculiar talking about Eddie Ketch after so long – the man had always left a sour taste in his mouth – but oddly enough, once reminded, he couldn’t stop thinking about him. The upset with Susan Coates had been uppermost in his mind, but there had been something else about Ketch which eluded him.

  Inhaling again, Patrick screwed up his eyes against the cigarette smoke and peered into the falling snow. Under the overhang of the porch leading to the car park, he was sheltered from the worst of it, snow landing morosely on the concrete at his feet. Nino Bergstrom had asked him about Ketch’s family. And he’d said that he never talked about them. But that wasn’t true, Patrick remembered – there had been one instance when Ketch had slipped up, and mentioned a woman. A beautiful woman.

  But Patrick was damned if he could remember her name.

  Ketch had been angry that day, unusually emotional. He had left the ward and slammed into the men’s toilet, where Patrick had found him, his face flushed, his hands flat against the wall, repeating a woman’s name over and over again. His attractive face had been distorted with rage, but as soon as he spotted Patrick, Ketch had controlled himself. A moment later he looked normal – so normal Patrick had wondered if he’d imagined the whole incident. But he knew he hadn’t. And he knew Ketch’s rage had been directed at a woman. A woman he had known well. A woman he had obviously cared about.

  After finishing his cigarette, Patrick was just about to re-enter the hospital and go back to work, when he paused. On a whim, he phoned the number Nino had given him, leaving a message on the answerphone.

  ‘’Lo there. This is Patrick Dewick, at Greenfield’s Hospital. We spoke the other day, about Eddie Ketch. Well, I just remembered something about him. He had a girlfriend, a woman he was keen on. I can’t remember her name – but I will, and then I’ll call you again. I just wondered if it was important, that’s all. Cheers.’

  Clicking off his mobile, Patrick ground out his cigarette stub under his foot and went back to work. He would remember the woman’s name.

  But before he had time to pass it on, Eddie Ketch would have caught up with him.

  54

  24 December

  In New York, Triumph Jones was watching the television news, dumbstruck. Meanwhile, in London, Farina Ahmadi had been about to catch a plane for Turkey to meet up with her husband and sons, but was staring, incredulous, at her iPad. In Tokyo, Jobo Kido was hunched over his computer, ignoring his wife’s phone calls and staring at the screen.

  All three dealers were reacting to the new entry on the Vespucci site, an entry which had now become breaking news worldwide, the police caught off guard in the USA, Italy and Japan –

  PRICELESS TITIAN PAINTING OF ANGELICO

  VESPUCCI OFFERED AS REWARD FOR

  IDENTITY OF SERIAL KILLER …

  ‘Look at this!’ Gaspare shouted, calling for Nino. ‘God, you won’t believe it.’

  Staring at the TV screen, Nino blew out his cheeks. ‘He’s upped the bloody ante. The bastard thinks he’s untouchable. You know what he’s doing, don’t you? He’s got bored with just copying Vespucci – he wants to outdo him.’

  ‘But he’s putting the reward on his own head!’ Gaspare replied, his tone baffled. ‘Everyone will be after it.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s got the Titian, so he figures that no one can find it.’ Nino moved over to the computer and typed in angelicovespucci.1555.com. Immediately the press release came up, followed by a banner headline.

  The last murder committed by Angelico Vespucci was on the 1st January 1556

  Turning the computer towards Gaspare, he pointed to the screen. ‘Look at that. He’s advertising. He’s tipping everyone off, telling them he’s going to kill again. And when he’s going to kill again. No one’s going to miss this now. Not with that press release. It’ll go worldwide.’

  ‘And someone will connect the murders.’

  ‘I’m amazed they haven’t already,’ Nino remarked. ‘It was only because they were committed in different countries that the connection wasn’t made before. But they’ll join up the dots now.’

  ‘It might help,’ Gaspare said hopefully. ‘It might put women on their guard.’

  ‘Every woman on earth?’ Nino queried. ‘It might have worked if it had just been London but the murder could take place anywhere. It could be Italy, Tokyo, London. It could be one of the places he’s hit before, or somewhere new. The woman he’s got in mind could be working, travelling, or asleep in bed. She could be anyone.’ Exasperated, he ran his hands through his hair. ‘One week to go, and I’m no nearer to knowing who she is. Someone must be able to tell me something.’

  ‘Forget Vespucci for a moment,’ Gaspare said calmly. ‘Think of what else they have in common.’

  ‘The victims were all young and white. They all had jobs.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Go on?’ Nino snapped. ‘That’s it! That’s all I know.’

  ‘So think about the ways they differed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it!’

  Nino closed his eyes to concentrate. ‘Seraphina was married, and pregnant—’

  ‘With a child that wasn’t her husband’s.’

  ‘Yeah. Sally Egan was single, childless and promiscuous. Harriet Forbes was single, childless and gay.’ He opened his eyes and turned to Gaspare, thinking aloud. ‘What if our killer’s judging them like Vespucci would have done?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Then he’d see them as adulteress, whore, deviant.’

  ‘What’s missing?’

  ‘Happily married?’

  Gaspare shook his head impatiently. ‘No, that wouldn’t be immoral! He’s copying the Italian, he thinks the victims are all whores, so what else would he consider immoral? Don’t think about it as we do now, think about it as it was in the past. What would have been judged immoral then?’

  Sitting down, Nino thought back over everything he’d discovered, then nodded.

  ‘She’s a mistress. A woman who sleeps with another woman’s husband—’

  ‘Yes, that would make sense!’

  ‘Our next victim’s a kept woman, Gaspare. Bought and paid for.’ His excitement rose. ‘She’s young, she has a job, she’s white, and she’s someone’s mistress. And unless I find her, she’s only got seven days left to live.’

  55

  Norfolk, 25 December

  It was uncharitably cold as Nino arrived in Norfolk and headed for Courtford Hall, parking the car outside the gates and walking up to the house. Ice crackled under his feet and the imposing front door was bleached with frost as he lifted the knocker and rapped loudly.

  It was Christmas Day, but there was no sign of it – no festive wreath, no tree, no decorations or lights
, and when a lamp went on inside it shone disconsolately through the glass bullseye in the door. Finally there was a shuffle of feet, then the sound of the bolt being drawn back, and suddenly Nino was face to face with Sir Harold Greyly.

  ‘What?’ he asked, his tone slurred, his usual composure giving way to the demeanour of a drunk. ‘What d’you want?’ He blinked, standing up straight and staring at Nino as he pointed to his head. ‘I know you. You’re the man with all that white hair. You came here before …’ He was holding a glass in his hand, tilting it so that some of the whisky dripped on to the flagstone floor.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Greyly said, too drunk to remember their previous acrimony.

  Nudging Nino’s back, he pushed him towards the sitting room, a fire banked high in the grate, fruitwood logs smelling of summer. But the walls were bare of cards or any other ornament and several dirty plates lay by the fire. Sir Harold Greyly had eaten, obviously, but not cleared up, the same fork pressed into service for every meal.

  ‘Happy Christmas. It is Christmas Day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s Christmas Day.’

  ‘You got nowhere to go?’ he asked, his speech haphazard as he gestured to the drinks cupboard. ‘Fancy a tipple?’

  Surprised, Nino shook his head. Was Harold Greyly really so drunk that he couldn’t remember what had happened when they last met?

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘All on my own,’ Greyly snorted. ‘Christmas and all on my own. My wife and I – we had a fight you see …’

  ‘No staff here either?’

  ‘I gave them Christmas off,’ Greyly replied, smiling at his own largesse. ‘I didn’t need them anyway.’

  He poured himself another drink and flopped into an armchair. At his feet, the springer spaniels shuffled about for room, finally curling up again closer to the fire. The wood crackled, sparks shooting up the chimney, the logs piled precariously high.