Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  ‘Am I that transparent?’

  ‘You’re a dealer. I’m a dealer. So yes, to me you’re that transparent,’ Gaspare replied, as he moved away and began to prepare some coffee.

  His instinct told him not to throw Johnny Ravenscourt out. He had every right to suspect him – and his motives. But there had to be a reason why Ravenscourt had come back to London. And Gaspare wanted to know what it was.

  Passing him a cup of coffee, Gaspare poured himself another and took a seat at the kitchen table. Surprised, Ravenscourt followed his lead, loading two spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee and stirring it idly.

  ‘So the police aren’t after you any more?’

  ‘I’ve satisfied them.’

  ‘Lucky boy,’ Gaspare said drily, regarding Ravenscourt over the rim of his cup. ‘Did someone attack you?’ He gestured to his clothes. ‘You can’t have got that dirty walking in the rain.’

  ‘I fell over,’ Ravenscourt replied shortly.

  ‘Fell or pushed?’

  He smiled, sighing. ‘I had a ridiculous idea … er … I thought that if I went back to where the Titian was originally found …’ He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I’m not light-footed and I fell over on the shingle—’

  ‘You went back to where Seraphina found the Titian? What for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ravenscourt admitted. ‘Returning to the scene of the crime – something like that. Maybe I wanted to play amateur sleuth. Maybe I wanted to see what she saw. Be where she’d been. We were very close. Seraphina confided everything to me …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Didn’t it ever strike you as odd that she was so conveniently there? Just when the Titian washed up?’ He sighed, frowning at the mud on his trousers. ‘If only someone else had found it, she’d still be alive. If only it had been some other person, some other woman.’

  Thoughtful, Gaspare stared at him. ‘It was just a fluke that Seraphina found it—’

  ‘A fluke that killed her. A fluke that took away my best friend,’ Ravenscourt replied pettishly, sipping his coffee. ‘Have you seen the papers today? Angelico Vespucci’s becoming the piatta del giorno.’ Gaspare smiled at the remark, but said nothing and let Ravenscourt continue. ‘You know, I made a very interesting purchase lately. I bought a portrait of Claudia Moroni—’

  ‘The second victim?’

  Ravenscourt nodded. ‘Yes, it’s of her and her brother. A testimony to their incest – quite sensational. I’ve had several dealers already asking to buy it. Anything connected to Vespucci is much sought after. I expect a call from Jobo Kido any time now.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Have you seen the Vespucci website today?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘The killer’s crowing again. Such an ego! If they catch him no doubt he’ll make another fortune—’

  Gaspare wasn’t giving anything away. He and Nino might know the identity of the killer, but he wasn’t about to tell Johnny Ravenscourt. He didn’t trust him. Suspected he was, in some way, complicit. Did he know who the killer was? Or was he trying to find out if anyone else did?

  ‘What d’you mean, another fortune?’

  ‘Well, the killer has the Titian, hasn’t he?’ Ravenscourt continued. ‘Put it up as a reward for his capture. It’s very Mission Impossible. I imagine they’ll make a film of it – The Skin Hunter II. I mean, Vespucci was the original, but the new man’s modern, available for interview. If he pleads not guilty it will go to court, all the revolting details will come out—’

  ‘And you’ll be able to sell your book.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been talking to an agent already,’ Ravenscourt agreed, moving on. ‘But of course there has to be a good ending. In the book – and in life.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That there are only two days left. Today and tomorrow.’ He paused, holding Gaspare’s gaze. ‘Two days before he kills the last victim. Now, be honest, Mr Reni, what are the chances of Nino Bergstrom finding the last victim in two days? No one knows who she is. And even if he did find her, how could he stop the murder?’

  Ravenscourt stood up, rinsed out his coffee cup and put on his coat. His heavy face was pink from the kitchen warmth, the mud drying on his trousers and shoes.

  Turning round in his seat, Gaspare looked up at him, puzzled. ‘You said you wanted to help. How?’

  ‘I’ve found the skins, Mr Reni—’

  The words had all the force of a bullet.

  ‘You’ve done what?’

  ‘I told you, I bought the painting of Claudia Moroni. It looked very dirty and heavy when I got it home. Being an oil painting, I was surprised to find there was a wooden back nailed on to the canvas. As you know, they normally only do that with panel paintings. When I removed it there were four folded skins inside. Dried up, quite brown, like wrinkled old apples …’ Stunned, Gaspare watched him as he rubbed his hands together. ‘Each was labelled: Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti and Melania, Contessa di Fattori. They were tied with ribbon into tight little bundles – so tiny for human skins. I bought the painting on a whim – I never realised that it hid The Skin Hunter’s victims.’ He drew on his gloves languidly. ‘It was very lucky – and I wondered if they might not make a useful bargaining tool.’

  Gaspare was scarcely breathing. ‘For what?’

  ‘I was the first person to research Angelico Vespucci. I spent years on it. Only to be cheated by some murderer and any halfwit with a computer who calls themselves an expert. I am the expert on Angelico Vespucci!’ His high voice dropped, cunning replacing outrage. ‘I want to know who killed my friend, who murdered Seraphina … But I also want to profit from the situation.’

  Contemptuous, Gaspare stared at him. ‘Are you in your right mind? What kind of person would suggest—’

  Ravenscourt put up his hands to stop him continuing.

  ‘Don’t lecture me, I’ve no morals – you’d be wasting your breath. I’m merely offering assistance for Mr Bergstrom, something which might come in useful. The killer’s obsessed by Vespucci – don’t tell me he wouldn’t long to get hold of the skins of his victims. Who knows, he might put them with his own collection and make a real show of it.’ Ravenscourt walked to the door and paused. ‘Berg-strom has two days to save the last woman – he might need something to bargain with, a way to make the killer stay his hand.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘My inclusion in the whole fanfare which will follow – as the paramount expert on The Skin Hunter. I want involvement in press interviews, TV, books – and the money all that will bring.’

  ‘You’d make money from corpses?’

  ‘Why not? The dead don’t need it.’

  Gaspare was so shocked that it took him a moment to reply.

  ‘And what if Nino fails? If he doesn’t find the victim and stop the murder?’ His voice was barely audible. ‘Or worse, what if Nino’s killed and the murderer escapes?’

  ‘Then I keep the skins,’ Ravenscourt said, opening the door. ‘Come on, Mr Reni, you know as well as I do that no one can afford to be sentimental in business.’

  66

  Only an hour after Nino had talked to Rachel Pitt’s neighbours, his mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  A small, embarrassed voice came down the line. ‘I’m Vicky, a friend of Rachel’s … I just picked up your message. Look, I know I shouldn’t have listened to her calls, but Rachel’s got some secret man stashed away and I wanted to find out who he was, so I listened to her answerphone. But he didn’t leave a message – you did. And you don’t sound like a boyfriend. You sounded really worried, and I had to ring you back—’

  Nino interrupted the flow. ‘Are you in Rachel’s flat now?’

  ‘Yeah, I come to water the plants. She does mine and I do hers when she’s away—’

  ‘D’you know where she is?’

  ‘A place called Crook, up in the South Lakes. It’s a hamlet between Windermere and Kendal. Her dad came from there originally, and she said she was going back for—’

 
‘Have you got her mobile number?’

  ‘Nah, she left the phone here. Would you believe it?’ Vicky replied, obviously amazed. ‘It’s on the table in the bedroom.’

  ‘What about the Lakes? D’you have a telephone number up there?’

  ‘Nothing, sorry. What’s it all about? Is she in trouble?’

  He skirted the question. ‘If Rachel rings you, give her my message and number. Tell her to call me. Fast—’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go up to Crook and find her,’ Nino replied, about to ring off.

  She caught him just in time.

  ‘Hey, Mr Bergstrom! Do me a favour when you talk to Rachel, will you? Don’t tell I listened to her messages. I mean, she might think I’m nosy or something.’

  Walking to his car, Nino checked his phone and returned a message from Gaspare. The old man took a while to answer; Nino could picture him making his way downstairs from the sitting room to the telephone in the hall. It was no good telling him to get an extension or a hands-free phone – Gaspare liked things just the way they were.

  ‘Hello!’ He was out of breath, Nino could hear it.

  ‘Why don’t you get another phone?’

  ‘I like this one,’ the dealer replied, smiling to himself. ‘You got my message then? That bastard Johnny Ravenscourt was here this afternoon—’

  Nino stopped walking. ‘What the hell did he want?’

  ‘To deal. He’s found the skins of Vespucci’s victims.’

  ‘God Almighty … where?’

  ‘In the back of the painting of Claudia Moroni, in a panel. They were dried up, folded into parcels, and labelled.’ Gaspare paused. ‘This is deep water, Nino. You should get the police on your side.’

  ‘And then what? They’d haul me in, interview me, and before I knew it another day would have passed.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done what I can – I’ve left an anonymous message, giving them the name of Edward Hillstone.’

  ‘If he’s still using that name.’

  ‘It’s the best I can do …’ Nino hurried on. ‘I’ve found out where Rachel went. She’s up in the Lake District. I’m going—’

  ‘It’ll take hours to get there!’ Gaspare replied, anxious and trying to warn him off. ‘You’ve done enough. Let someone else take over.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Nino replied, arriving at his car and getting into the driver’s seat. ‘Don’t worry about me—’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! How can I not worry about you? I should never have let you get involved in the first place. I know why you wanted to – but stop thinking you owe me. You don’t. The only thing you owe me is your safety, your life.’

  Turning on the engine, Nino tried to reassure him. ‘Relax. Eddie Hillstone kills women, not men.’

  ‘Perhaps he’d make an exception for you. He’s fixed on his purpose. He won’t let anything, or anyone, stop him now. How can he? He’s all over the internet, the news. He’ll have changed his name again. He’s been Eddie Ketch and Edward Hillstone – by now he could be someone else entirely.’

  ‘I can find him—’

  Gaspare doubted it.

  ‘Can you? He’s clever. Remember, he’s been plotting this for a long time … You don’t know what you’re up against. He has to kill this last time, to prove himself. He has to, because he’s been advertising the killing. Getting the media revved up and the police looking like fools. He’s running on adrenalin and the whole world’s watching. How can he let anyone steal his thunder?’ Gaspare’s voice wavered. ‘Please stop. While you still can—’

  ‘I can’t let him kill her.’

  ‘Kill who?’ Gaspare countered, his tone desperate. ‘Rachel Pitt is a stranger. I’m sorry for her, believe me. I don’t want her to die. But I don’t want you to die either. Don’t risk your life for someone you don’t even know. She’s not your responsibility—’

  ‘If not mine, whose?’

  67

  Leaving London in the rush-hour traffic, it took Nino over five hours to drive to the South Lakes, and another half an hour to find Crook. It had started to snow as he entered the road to the hamlet and the cottages were in darkness, the only light coming from the pub. Parking, Nino got out of the car and stretched, moving towards the pub entrance. It said CLOSED but he could hear voices inside and walked in. A couple of men were seated round a fireplace, the landlord leaning against the bar and smiling a welcome.

  ‘Hello. You’re new round here.’

  ‘I’ve just driven up from London,’ Nino said, nodding to the customers who were looking at him curiously. ‘Could I get a drink?’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘It’s cold outside – make it a brandy,’ Nino replied, turning to the nearest man. ‘I don’t suppose you get many strangers around here?’

  ‘Not many, no. Less around this time of year. You come up to see someone?’

  ‘Rachel Pitt,’ Nino replied, glancing back at the landlord. ‘She’s taken a cottage here.’

  The landlord looked at his customers then back at Nino. ‘She expecting you?’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ he lied. ‘We had a quarrel and I’ve come up here to make up. It was my fault – but you know women, she wouldn’t let me explain. She just ran off.’ Nino could see that he had the men’s sympathy and carried on. ‘She left without even giving me the address or the phone number.’

  ‘She’s just across the road, lad,’ the landlord said, moving around the bar and walking to the window. He pointed to a small cottage with two worn steps up to the door. ‘That’s where your girl’s staying. No lights on though. Might be better to wait till morning, in case she doesn’t let you in. You can stay here – I’ve guest rooms upstairs—’

  ‘You didn’t let that other bloke stay,’ one of his customers said, laughing.

  The landlord shrugged. ‘I didn’t take to him.’ Nino frowned.

  ‘What was the matter with him?’

  ‘I dunno. Just sent him to the next village.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘So, you want a room or not?’

  So Hillstone was here already, was he? Nino thought. Outside, watching, waiting. For a moment he was afraid that he might strike early, the attack brought forward. But then he realised Hillstone wouldn’t deviate from the plan he had made; from his homage to Vespucci. The last killing was set for the first of January. Not an instant before.

  The room in question turned out to be larger than expected, but cold. Nino locked the door behind him and moved to the window. Across the road he could see the cottage where Rachel was staying, and he rubbed his forehead, realising how tired he was. Kicking off his shoes, he lay down on the bed, pulling a rug over him and checking the time. It was 11.30 p.m. and he needed to sleep. He would just rest for an hour or so, he told himself – just a couple of hours.

  Having checked up on her, Nino knew that Rachel was safe, only yards away from him, and he could relax a little. Tomorrow was 31 December. He had found her in time. Nothing would happen to her until 1 January. Which could, of course, be just a moment after midnight on the thirty-first. But not before. Edward Hillstone was trailing the event, like a movie blockbuster, building up the tension until the final moments. But he wouldn’t strike early – that would ruin the climax.

  So for now Nino could relax a little. Just a little. In the morning he would talk to Rachel, explain what was happening and get her to safety. Whatever Eddie Hillstone said, whatever he bragged on his website, he wasn’t going to get her. He wasn’t going to emulate The Skin Hunter. He was going to fail and the world was going to see what a craven bastard he really was. Taking in a slow breath, Nino imagined Eddie Hillstone in jail, reading the headlines which mocked his failure. No fanfare for him, no misplaced glamour of the serial killer. He had failed, fallen short. Lost out to a sixteenth-century Venetian.

  His eyes closed, his body heavy with exhaustion, his breathing slowing down, Nino slid into sleep.

  68

  Edward Hillstone was finding the whole experience even m
ore thrilling than he had hoped. To see Nino Bergstrom up in the Lakes, watching over Rachel Pitt like a guardian angel, was a revelation. What on earth was he doing? Bergstrom didn’t even know the woman. If he had been a sentimental man, it would have been touching. But then again, Edward wasn’t a sentimental man, and he decided that Nino was not so much interested in saving the victim as catching the killer.

  Shifting his position, Edward looked down on the village from inside his parked vehicle, a nondescript white van with no markings. Even more nondescript under the first falling of snow. He clapped his hands to warm them, then drank some stewed tea from his thermos flask. He had to admit that he not been expecting his victim to run off to the Lakes. That had been an unexpected development, especially as he had worked out precisely how he would break into her Battersea flat.

  But Edward liked to think of himself as adaptable. Reaching for his laptop he went online. The BBC news was talking about him, but not as its top story. Fuck it, Edward thought. Come January the first they’d have him on top. He’d be front-page news then all right.

  He sighed, entered his website and typed an update:

  Tomorrow is 31st of December – which leaves one day to go until the last victim is killed on the 1st January.

  Beneath this, a timer counted down to that glorious day.

  In a way it would be sad when it was all over, Edward thought, trying to conjure up some feeling of regret. But he couldn’t manage it. His feelings extended only to Vespucci and killing, nothing else. And even that was waning a little … He stretched his arms in the cramped van, and stared out into the village beyond. Movement, Edward thought. There he was – the hero, Mr Bergstrom. As if he would let that white-headed bastard steal his thunder. He was the hero. He was The Skin Hunter. Bergstrom was just an amateur.

  But a persistent amateur, Edward thought, watching as Nino walked across the narrow road towards the cottage where Rachel was staying. He looked anxious, knocking at the door and waiting, waiting for an answer. Of course, Edward thought, he could have killed her already. Had thought about it – for a nanosecond – the previous night. The idea of Nino Bergstrom running up to the Lakes just to find a body was enticing. But not that enticing. No meddler was going to upset Edward’s plan. The death was planned for the first of January.