Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  The bedroom was cramped and extended a long way, half of its floor space under the sloping eaves. All the available wall surface was covered with bookshelves and a copy of the Vespucci painting loomed above the narrow bed.

  The room was Spartan, neat, without character apart from the books and portrait. In the wardrobe were a few pairs of jeans and some T-shirts, a couple of fleeces neatly folded. On the bedside table was a copy of The Book Collector and an alarm clock set to eight a.m. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing unlike a thousand other bedrooms occupied by single men.

  Frowning, Nino glanced around, opening some of the books and shaking them to see if there were any loose pages. Nothing. He continued his search, looking behind the books and under the shelves. Again, nothing. Wondering if he was suspecting the wrong man, he turned back to the wardrobe and opened it again. A long mirror on the back of the door caught his attention, a tiny edge of paper poking out at the corner. Pulling the mirror off the door, Nino stared at the collage in front of him.

  The photographs told him he was on to the right man. There were some of Edward Hillstone, others of a young woman – a slim woman, dressed casually. But in every one her face had been blacked out with a felt-tipped pen. He thought of Patrick Dewick’s message. Was this the woman who had broken the killer’s heart? Or was this the next victim? Was this Rachel?

  One thing was certain: Edward Hillstone had picked his lair with skill. Courtford Hall was the perfect place from which to operate. It was remote, with a pompous employer unlikely to fraternise with the staff. Hillstone would have been a faultless employee – quiet, efficient, determined not to draw attention to himself. And all the time he was working as Harold Greyly’s assistant, he would have had access to the prodigious and arcane library.

  Had Hillstone already known about Claudia Moroni when he first came to Courtford Hall? Or did he find out later, when his fascination with Vespucci grew? For an experienced researcher, it wouldn’t have been difficult to discover that Claudia Moroni had once been a member of the Greyly family. And in researching Claudia, Edward would have researched the three other victims. Stoking up his obsession, probably enjoying the added frisson of living in a family who had experienced The Skin Hunter’s deviation first hand.

  Nino could feel his heart pulsing as he flung back the mattress on the bed, hoping to find another selection of photographs. But that would have been too obvious for Hillstone. Hurriedly, he looked around, then tapped the floorboards. Nothing loose. He walked to the window, pulled back the shutters – but there was nothing to be found. There were more photographs, Nino knew it – but where? Then another idea came to him and he moved over to the door. It had been repanelled and he levered apart the space between the original and the façade. The photographs fell at his feet. Some were of Venice, horribly familiar – the exact place where the body of Seraphina had been discovered. Other prints were of a woman he recognised as Sally Egan. Some had been taken through her kitchen window, others were snaps of her walking home, a solitary figure under the dismal street light. And then there were the photographs of her skinned body.

  He had taken the shots from all angles, her flayed corpse laid out on a plastic sheet, her skin placed neatly beside her like a lover. Repelled, Nino hurried through the other photographs, hesitating when he came to a shot of the airport in Tokyo and another image, of Harriet Forbes, sitting alone at a café window. The last prints were of Greenfield’s Hospital, where Eddie Ketch had worked. Only it wasn’t Eddie Ketch any more, it was Edward Hillstone.

  Moving over to the desk, Nino looked for a computer, but there wasn’t one. Hillstone wasn’t that stupid. He had taken the most incriminating evidence with him. He might have been rushed, but he had made sure he took the laptop and the notes. As for the photographs he had left behind, perhaps he thought he would be able to explain them away. Or maybe he didn’t care any more. Maybe being recognised as the killer was what he wanted.

  But Nino knew one thing: Edward Hillstone wasn’t going to let himself be caught yet. Not until after the last murder. Then he might even give himself up, surrender to the notoriety which would be his by rights. When Rachel was dead – when he had mutiliated and killed her – then he would stop. In the meantime he was deliberately raising the price on his head. Putting up the Titian as a reward for his capture. Tainting the world with his promise of the bloodletting to come.

  Of course there was no sign of the Titian portrait. Edward Hillstone would hardly risk having that in his possession. The painting was somewhere else entirely. Glancing around the bedroom, Nino looked at the upheaval he had caused – the overturned bed, the photographs scattered over the floorboards – and then he leaned forward, taking a closer look.

  His gaze fixed on one of the pictures in which the face of the young woman had been blacked out. But across her chest was written one word:

  JEX

  He recognised the name at once. It was the name used by the creator of the Vespucci website. But it wasn’t the name that caught Nino’s eye, it was the background of the photograph. The image was grainy, hard to make out, but he could decipher a few letters on what seemed to be a hoarding. The last word was THEATRE. The first word was half blocked by the woman’s figure, only the first syllable visible – HA.

  Nino held his breath. He was certain that the woman in the picture was Rachel, and that he was now looking at a part of the name of the very theatre where she worked. HA … THEATRE. How many theatres had names which began with HA? Not that many. Nino’s hopes lifted for the first time in days. He had a lead, a chance to find the last victim.

  He had a week.

  A week to save her.

  A week to stop Hillstone.

  60

  Ginza, Tokyo, 27 December

  That morning there had been a new entry on the website angelicovespucci.1555.com. It read:

  Angelico Vespucci’s triumph is close. Only five days left. Only one victim remains.

  As he had done repeatedly over the previous nine days, Jobo Kido entered the chat room of the site, trying vainly to conjure up a reply.

  Jobo: Why don’t you respond?

  There was no answer, just the taunting message, making the killer’s intention clear to everyone who visited the site. And his work wasn’t confined to the internet any longer. Newspapers, magazines and television had picked up on the story and were running with it. It made the police look foolish. There were so many officers in so many different countries, but they couldn’t find one man.

  The lack of forensic evidence didn’t help. The killer had left some DNA, but he wasn’t on file in Italy, USA, Japan or the UK. His blood group was O, the most common, and as he had had no sexual relations with the victims, there was no sperm. He had committed the murders, taken the skins, and – to all intents and purposes – disappeared.

  In five days the last victim would be dead, and Jobo still hadn’t worked out the connection which would ensure that the Titian became his … The killer’s silence chided him. Obviously his failure merited no communication. Jobo Kido had had his chance, and failed. He would never hang the Titian in his Rogues’ Gallery, never use it make his gory collection respectable. Instead it would go to someone who didn’t understand and appreciate it.

  His only consolation was the agony of his rivals. Triumph Jones was melting like an ice cream in July, his composure soggy. As for the foul-mouthed Farina Ahmadi, she was sulking in Turkey, cheated out of her victory. She might have twisted and coiled herself into a variety of modes and moods, but all her machinations had got her precisely nowhere.

  The killer had the Titian, and apparently he was keeping it … Jobo wondered about that, feeling a momentary shiver of hope. What would happen when the murderer was caught? Who would get the painting then? The answer was unpalatable – it would be impounded as evidence. Locked away with DNA samples and carpet fibres.

  Desperate, he turned back to the computer.

  Jobo: Are you there?

  Silence.

>   Jobo: Why don’t you talk to me?

  To his amazement, he finally got a response.

  Answer: Welcome, Mr Kido. Have you solved the puzzle yet?

  Jobo: I thought you’d gone.

  Answer: Gone where? I told you, I’m everywhere. So tell me, have you solved my little riddle? Have you made the connection?

  Jobo: How long have I got?

  Answer: I think that’s a no, isn’t it? What if I were to say that I’d give you as long as my last victim has to live? Solve the puzzle by the 1st January and the painting’s yours.

  Jobo: Do I have your word on that?

  Answer: Don’t be tiresome, Mr Kido. Solve it, or lose it.

  61

  Edward Hillstone felt so powerful he had an erection. Every newspaper he had seen over the past two days had borne some reference to him. On the television news he was discussed, and there was even a debate about him on Newsnight. He’d enjoyed that, even laughed, which wasn’t something that came easily to him.

  As for Nino Bergstrom, his intervention had been aggravating. Hillstone had been so close to getting everything out of Courtford Hall, the sodden Harold Greyly letting him and then realising that his obedient minion wasn’t quite what he had seemed. Hillstone hadn’t been threatened by his employer’s bluster. Harold Greyly might think of himself as an Army man, but he was an ice soldier. A little heat and he was finished … Of course Hillstone knew that Nino Bergstrom would have found his room, and his belongings. And the photographs. In fact, he was relying on that, laying down a mosaic of clues which would develop into a shrine to his ingenuity.

  Hillstone might admire, even worship, Angelico Vespucci, but as time went by he had found ways to enhance his devotion. Simple imitation wasn’t going to be enough – he was developing his own embellishments. Hillstone would never deny that the Italian had been his inspiration, but his appetite for violence had increased along with his desire for recognition. If he stuck to The Skin Hunter’s brief, he would merely be regarded as a copycat, always playing second fiddle to the hero.

  Hillstone didn’t like the idea. Didn’t like to think that the last four years of dedication and research would result in Vespucci becoming famous, and him overshadowed. An imitator, nothing more. He wanted his own stab at notoriety, his own turn on the media merry-go-round. The Venetian had prompted him to murder, but Edward Hillstone was expanding its possibilities.

  Like what he would do with the skins.

  Musing, he wondered if Nino Bergstrom would uncover their hiding place and realised that he had misjudged the man. Dismissed him as an amateur sleuth, easy to dupe. His attention had been too focused on the dealers, in an effort to impress the people he despised. But Bergstrom had surprised him, gradually slotting together the disparate pieces – like Jobo Kido and Harold Greyly. But he would never find the next victim. Nino Bergstrom had only four days left, and the unsuspecting Rachel Pitt was lined up, ready for the kill. It didn’t worry him that his cache of photographs might have been found – it would only underline to whoever found it what they were up against.

  Hillstone breathed in, imagining the sleek feel of her skin, the intricate peeling away from the red muscle underneath, the sticky blood flowing from all the nicked vessels as he took away her hide. He would do as he had done before, following Vespucci’s lead. First he would rinse the skin and hang it over a basin, then let it dry until it was stiffened. Only then would he take it down and knead some flexibility back into it, gently working the skin until it became pliable and easy to fold.

  He liked that part the best: the folding of the hide, the careful arranging of it. Then he would secrete it, along with the other three skins … Thoughtful, Hillstone remembered the package he had sent to Jobo Kido. That had been a sensational move but reckless in hindsight, as it had left his collection incomplete. He had, once or twice, even thought of asking Kido to return it, but suspected that the dealer had either handed it over to the police or destroyed it.

  No, Hillstone thought dismissively, Kido would never have gone to the police, because that would have meant questions, interference, the whole story of the Titian exposed. And then the painting impounded, lost to the courts. Not that Hillstone was going to let Jobo Kido have the portrait. He was just playing with him, teasing him, drawing the dealer into a combat which had only one winner: Hillstone. But it amused him to think of the Japanese connoisseur’s panicked outpourings in the chat room. He had been so frightened the night Hillstone had visited his gallery, pressing himself against the wall as he peered into the window. And later, almost wetting himself when Hillstone had rattled the door handle.

  It had pleased him to see the aesthetic Jobo Kido squeal like a girl. So much for learning, for artistic excellence – so much for all his pompous posturing. He had been scared. Just like Triumph Jones … Rolling his head to loosen his neck muscles, Hillstone thought of the American. Of the ease with which he had been fooled. Of how, nudged in the required direction, he had followed like a farm dog working sheep. And how glamorous those sheep had been – Jobo Kido, Farina Ahmadi. Brilliant and wealthy and respected. And manipulated.

  Hillstone enjoyed that, loved knowing that in London, New York and Tokyo his victims were panicking, with no idea what they were doing. So much for education, money and power – they were all chasing the same thing, mistrusting each other, and outsmarted by an amateur.

  But in four days it would all be over. Rachel Pitt would round off the victims, his imitation of Vespucci complete. After that, he would disappear. Emulate the Venetian utterly. Dissolve into thin air as he had done. No one – not even Hillstone – knew where Vespucci had gone. If he had lived, or been murdered. Or if he had died of natural causes, old and silent, at ninety. All his painstaking research had failed on two counts. He had failed to discover how Angelico Vespucci died, or where The Skin Hunter had hidden his trophies.

  Hillstone reached for the photographs in front of him, his gaze idling over the woman’s features for a moment before he gathered up his knives and scalpels and put the kettle on the hob. Rachel Pitt was curvaceous, sensual, attractive, he thought as he waited for the water to boil and then poured it over the metal instruments. He wanted them to be very clean, very sharp, so they wouldn’t tear her flesh. They had to cut evenly, so he could make a perfect job of her skinning.

  She was pretty, Hillstone thought again. Perhaps, if he was particularly dextrous, he could peel off her face in one piece. He had always had so much trouble before, could never avoid tearing the flesh of the cheek or nose. But this was to be his last act, and it would have to be immaculate. He would take his time. Prepare himself and relax, to avoid any shaking hands. Give himself time to set up the table and lamps. Time to get the plastic sheeting on the floor. Time for everything to be perfect.

  It was such a pity. He would have liked to pick someone else, but Rachel Pitt was corrupt. She was the mistress of another woman’s husband. Supported financially like so many other whores. Stealing another woman’s man, another family’s father. It was wrong, inexcusable, immoral – anyone could see that.

  In fact, Edward Hillstone wondered how she could live with herself. Even if it wouldn’t be for much longer.

  BOOK SIX

  Venice, 1556

  Aretino keeps to his house. Takes the passage from the back entrance across his private bridge to enter the city. He puffs with exertion, for worry has made him even more gross; he sweats with the weight of his sins and sends presents to Titian’s studio, pleading for forgiveness.

  Pomponio is innocent, Aretino says, I was wrong. So misguided, so duped by the merchant.

  And what of the merchant, Vespucci? Aretino fears no exposure now. His championing of the killer is done with; and he will tell anyone with a mind to hear that Vespucci is no more. The mob which bayed outside the merchant’s house is told of a disappearance. Vespucci has cheated the judge, the prison, the rope. The Skin Hunter has gone, and taken his prizes with him.

  I was wrong, says Aretino,
deceived as we all were.

  But Titian will have none of it. Pomponio, still smarting from the accusations, plans to leave, but not before he rails against his father for being the writer’s dupe. It does no good for Titian to respond; each word is taken as a blow, one more sliver of malice driven into the priest’s tight heart.

  Titian has lost his son. Again. And his friend. His closest ally levered from his side by treachery.

  Vespucci gone, they showed the portrait in the church, Titian ordering where it should be placed. They suspended the merchant’s likeness as they would have hanged the man himself. I heard some talk that the artist was offering it for penance. For payment of Vespucci’s sins. That Titian’s genius might atone for all the winter’s butchery. Yet the night after it was exhibited, a fire started in the vestry. It burned the rafters, tore through half the roof, and every pew was rendered black as an imp’s hand.

  Only the painting was untouched.

  On Titian’s orders a notice was hung up in St Mark’s Square, saying the portrait would be destroyed. Someone sent news to Aretino, who came to beg for it. He mourns his loss of influence with the painter, he fears his loss of revenue from Titian, as once he feared exposure from the merchant.

  But Vespucci will not speak against him. For Vespucci will not speak again … He has gone, disappeared, leaving no trace. There is no body. None has come up from the water, surfacing, bloated on a late tide. There is no carcass left flayed for the birds to peck at, no music coming across the water, no sounds of a hundred lurid couplings, no grumblings from misers, gluttons, deviants and their whores.

  The fogs of Venice lifted when the portrait disappeared. When it was gone the winds dispersed, and clouds as wide as continents gave way to the sun’s return.