Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  Not a moment before.

  69

  31 December

  ‘Just a minute! Just a minute!’ Rachel called out, running down the stairs a little after eight o’clock in the morning. Opening the front door of the cottage she looked dishevelled – and surprised. ‘Oh, hi …’

  ‘Rachel Pitt …?’

  She nodded.

  Can I come in?’

  Pausing, she looked Nino up and down. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Can we talk inside, please? It’s very important.’

  She let him in, walking into the tiny sitting room and stoking up the fire. The snow had made the temperatures plunge and although she was warmly dressed she had also wrapped a scarf around her neck. It was dark red, fringed, making her skin translucent, her hands in mittens. Unlike Seraphina, she was tall and athletic, with striking good looks.

  As her visitor sat down she watched him, standing by the fireplace to put distance between them.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Nino Bergstrom. You don’t know me, but I’m here to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t need help.’

  ‘You do,’ Nino replied, keeping his voice calm. ‘I’ve been trying to find you for days. Your friend Vicky told me where you were—’

  She looked blank, almost irritated. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I don’t want to scare you—’

  Her eyes widened. ‘But you are.’

  ‘Just hear me out, please. You know about the murders that have been happening lately? The man who’s imitating Angelico Vespucci?’

  Now she was listening.

  ‘I’ve written a play about him.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m here. There have been three murders, and all the women killed had some connection to Vespucci.’ He could see her turn pale, and hurried on. ‘One was connected by a relative, another by copying Vespucci’s portrait, another by writing an article about The Skin Hunter—’

  ‘What?’ she said hoarsely.

  ‘And you’ve written a play about him.’

  Incredulous, she snapped.

  ‘So what? I can’t be the only person on earth who’s done that. There must be dozens of people writing about Vespucci, especially now. I don’t see why you had to come up here and frighten the hell out of me—’

  ‘It’s you that he’s picked.’

  The words shook her.

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘You’re wrong!’ she replied, but her voice caught on the words.

  ‘I wish I was. But I’m not. He’s after you.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, trying to compose herself. ‘Have you got any evidence?’

  ‘I’ve seen photographs of you in his possession. I’ve seen your name on a list.’

  She flinched. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been after this man for weeks. Police in Italy, Japan and London are after him too, but every time he’s got away. I’ve only just found out who he is—’

  ‘So catch him!’

  ‘I’m trying to,’ Nino assured her. ‘He’s got a website about Vespucci and he’s trailing the next killing on the first of January.’

  He could see her grip the mantelpiece. ‘Jesus … why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘I have to warn you.’

  She was fighting panic. ‘But it’s the thirty-first now!’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m going to stop him. I swear, he won’t get to you …’

  Bewildered, she turned away. The fire was crackling – she could feel its warmth – but it was making no impact on the cold inside her.

  ‘… I think you know him.’

  Turning, she stared at Nino. ‘What?’

  ‘Have you any enemies? Someone you had an argument with? A man you rejected?’

  ‘But you said he was coming after me because of Vespucci—’

  ‘He is. But he must know of you, or what you were doing, because your play hasn’t been performed yet.’ Nino paused, then continued. ‘I was thinking about it all the time I was driving up here last night. The killer could have found out about the first victim’s connection through a relative – that would be easy. He could have found out about the portrait copy. It was for an exhibition, after all. Likewise, the article. That was published on the internet. But your play? Hardly anyone knows about that – apart from the people at the theatre.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not even them. Only Enright knows about it there, and he’s no killer.’

  ‘You must have told someone else,’ Nino persisted. ‘Think, Rachel. Who did you talk to?’

  ‘Michael, the man in my life …’ She trailed off, thinking of her lover. ‘No, it wouldn’t be him. I’ve known him for years. Not him.’

  ‘So, who else? What about friends? You must have told a friend about it?’

  ‘Not really. I was superstitious. I thought it was bad luck to talk about the play until it was going to be performed. So I kept quiet about it.’ She shivered, rubbing her mittened hands together. Her nails were bloodless.

  ‘How long have you been working on it?’

  ‘I had the idea about four years ago. I heard about Angelico Vespucci and thought it would be a good subject.’

  ‘Where did you hear about him?’

  She was getting agitated, her mind wandering. Fear, cold and encroaching, was making its presence felt.

  ‘I … I … don’t remember … maybe at … I can’t remember!’

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘I don’t have much of that, do I?’ she snapped back, her eyes filling. ‘D’you know why I came up here for the holidays? To get away from London, to get away and clear my head. I made a resolution to end my relationship and move on. Make a new life. And now you’ve come here and told me I don’t have a bloody life left—’

  ‘You do,’ Nino assured her, ‘if you help me. Come on, Rachel, think. When and where did you first hear about Angelico Vespucci?’

  She tossed back her head and focused. ‘I went to university, where I read English. I learned Italian when I worked in Rome for a while. I was a nanny … Then I came back to London and entered the theatre. The Hamlet Theatre …’ She was getting desperate. ‘I can’t remember! I can’t remember how I heard about The Skin Hunter—’

  ‘A book?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A film?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did you hear about him at a party? At a dinner?’ Nino pressed her. ‘On a holiday?’

  ‘A holiday …’

  ‘What about a holiday?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said, glancing away and forcing herself to remember. ‘I took a trip five years ago. It was when I was in Italy, and it was a cultural tour of Venice. Some passengers had dropped out and the tickets were really cheap, so I said we’d go.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘I took the kids I was nanny for. They weren’t babies, and I thought it would do them good. Actually, to be honest, I had second thoughts about it as soon as I’d got the tickets. I thought it was going to be a lousy trip, hauling the kids along. But it was a mixed group, and there were some people of my own age. I suppose they grabbed the chance, like I did.’

  ‘Were they Italian?’

  ‘Most of them,’ she sighed, trying to remember. ‘We didn’t get close. I was busy with the kids and it was only two days. But there was a group of Italian girls who were flirting all the time and an Englishman who was very reserved.’

  Nino heard the word Englishman.

  ‘Did you get on with him?’

  ‘No, not really. He asked me out and I said no. He was pissed off about it, but he wasn’t my type.’ She paused, remembering. ‘Oh God …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘… I remember now. We’d been talking. That’s how it started. It was him that told me about The Skin Hunter. We chatted, then one of the kids was sick and I had to leave …’ She turn
ed to Nino, ashen. ‘Oh God, was it him?’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall, attractive, well-spoken, easy to talk to. All the girls were trying to get his attention … Was it him?’

  ‘Maybe. Can you remember anything else?’

  She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I asked what his name was and he said Jex. I remembered it because I’d never heard it before and I thought he was making it up.’

  Jex. The name of the creator of the Vespucci website. Jex. Aka Edward Ketch. Aka Edward Hillstone …

  Badly shaken, Rachel held Nino’s gaze. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name’s Edward Hillstone.’

  She nodded, holding on. ‘So you know who he is – but you don’t know where he is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ Rachel said suddenly. ‘I want to go back to London. It’s where my flat is, where my things are. If I’m going to die, I want to die there.’

  ‘You’re not going to die—’

  ‘How d’you know? You said there had been three other murders. You didn’t save those women, so what makes you think you’re going save me?’ She paused, clenching her fists, losing control. ‘What do I do? Oh, Jesus, what do I do?’

  ‘I’ll stay with you—’

  She brushed him off.

  ‘I don’t want you! I want Michael. I want the man I love. I want him.’ Panic was making her frantic. ‘Get out!’

  ‘I’m not leaving you,’ Nino said firmly. ‘If you want to go back home, fine, I’ll go back to London with you. But you can’t be on your own—’

  ‘I won’t be alone! I’ll call Michael …’

  She trailed off. Who was she kidding? He would be busy, or out. Leave a message, I’ll call back. He’d be with his wife and kids. He’d not be there for her, even if she was going to die. Not available. Sorry … Slowly she looked at Nino. He was a stranger, but he was trying to save her. He had driven all the way from London to the Lakes to help … Jesus, what the hell was she thinking?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘Sorry for what I said.’

  He nodded. ‘D’you still want to go home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, go and pack – I’ll drive you back.’

  ‘I hired a car,’ she said, frowning. ‘I can’t just leave it here.’

  He didn’t like to say that the car was the least of her worries.

  ‘I’ll sort that out for you. Just get yourself ready and we’ll leave.’

  Making for the stairs, Rachel turned and looked back at him.

  ‘Why does he want to kill me?’

  ‘He’s copying Angelico Vespucci. You have a connection because of the play you’ve written.’

  ‘That’s it?’ she asked, incredulous. ‘That’s all there is to it? I don’t believe you.’ She shook her head. ‘There must be another reason he picked me.’

  A moment shimmered between them.

  ‘The Skin Hunter killed women he thought were immoral. His imitator is doing the same.’

  It took her a moment to process the words. To remember Michael. To remember that she was a man’s mistress. To realise why she had been singled out for murder.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, turning away. ‘I see.’

  Snow made the journey slow and hazardous. At times the motorway traffic slowed down to thirty miles an hour, the landscape a blurred furring of white. In the passenger seat beside Nino, her bag on the back seat behind them, Rachel sat motionless. The seat belt was fastened across her chest, an inky band against the red of her jacket, her hair tied back, the scarlet scarf still around her neck. She looked like Christmas, all rosy warmth, all wool and softness, and yet her skin was icy. Deathly cold.

  At times she would speak, but most of the journey she was silent, staring ahead. Sitting beside her, Nino wanted to talk, to say something to distract her but there was a terrible distance between them. She was longing for another man, afraid of her future, of the death prophesied on the internet – the death she now knew as her own. And meanwhile Nino was trying desperately to convince himself that he would save her.

  Without knowing if, or how, he could.

  70

  Gaspare glanced back at the newspaper and reread the small piece at the bottom of the third column on page five. He had got a message from Nino to say that he had found Rachel and was returning to the capital with her. He wasn’t going to tell Nino what he had just seen. In fact, he had almost overlooked it, but the name had caught his attention.

  It read:

  Mr Patrick Dewick, 59, a psychiatric nurse at Green-field’s Hospital, Ealing, was found murdered yesterday. He had been missing for several days and his body was found in woodland, partially buried. He leaves a widow and two sons.

  Gaspare threw down the paper. Patrick Dewick, the man who had put Nino on to Eddie Ketch, was dead.

  Nino was wrong – the killer did kill men. He must have realised that Dewick had tipped Nino off and murdered him to prevent him saying any more. Gaspare shivered, unnerved. If the killer had been watching Rachel Pitt, he must have seen Nino up in the Lakes. Must have known that he was going to try and stop him. And that was the last thing he wanted.

  Gaspare glanced over at the clock – twelve thirty already. The morning gone, the afternoon hot on its heels. Only thirty-six hours until the New Year – the first of January that everyone was waiting for … He sat down at the table, watching the traffic outside. Kensington Church Street was busy, the Christmas lights due to come on when the daylight faded, the statue of Christ alone and forgotten in His urban shrine.

  Thinking of Seraphina, Gaspare remembered. She was back in his sitting room again, her coat and feet wet from scrabbling in the shingle, handing him the Titian painting. Then later, afraid, asking him to destroy it. And then he remembered the news from Venice, recording her death. She had been the first.

  God only knew who would be the last.

  71

  The flat was chilly because the heating had been switched off, and although there had been no snow in London it had been raining heavily. At the doorway, Rachel hesitated, Nino walking in before her and looking around. Reassured, she had followed him but now stood, aimless, in the sitting room. Her hands were restless, moving from her face to her hair, her gaze moving round the room as though she hardly knew the place.

  ‘D’you want me to get the police?’

  ‘No!’ she said shortly. ‘I want you to be here. I trust you. You catch him, OK? You catch him. You can – I know you can. I don’t want the police.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What would they do? Take me to the station and interview me, then let me go … then what? Don’t tell me they’ll be able to stop the killer. Don’t say they’ll be able to protect me – they didn’t protect the other girls. You found me. They didn’t.’ She started pacing, five steps one way, five steps the other. ‘Even if the police kept me in overnight, he’d still get me when I came out. And he’d be mad then, because I’d messed up his plan.’ Still pacing, her voice was staccato. ‘No, I want to be here. I want you to stay with me … When he comes, you can stop him.’

  Nino touched her shoulder. For a moment she looked as though she might cry, then rallied.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she reassured him. ‘I’m OK …’

  ‘Good. I’m going to look round the flat, check the windows and doors. Get to know the place.’

  He didn’t add that he was worried about the layout. The flat was old and on two floors – ground floor and basement – with a landing in between. A landing with a window. Beginning in the basement, Nino checked that the front door was locked and bolted and saw – to his relief – that the windows were barred. No chance of anyone getting in there.

  On the landing Nino checked the window and glanced out into a small communal garden beyond, where the back gate swung in a sulky breeze. Hurrying outside, he locked the gate, then turned, looking into the flat. There was a clear view into the sitting room from all sides. The killer would
have been able to watch Rachel for some time, would have seen her in the kitchen and also in the sitting room. Had he watched her talking on the phone? Or working on her computer? Nino paused, looking around. Yes, there it was – the computer on a work table under the far window. The killer would have seen Rachel there, her back to him, not knowing she was being hand-picked for a kill.

  Thoughtful, Nino returned to the flat, bolting the door after him. The first floor was the next to get his scrutiny – Rachel’s bedroom and a guest room opposite. He tried the windows of the guest room, relieved that they had been painted over and were resistant to opening, then walked into the master bedroom. It was untidy, but the windows were closed and locked. Likewise the bathroom. To all intents and purposes – unless the killer had a key – he couldn’t get in.

  Returning to the kitchen, he found Rachel making tea. In silence, she passed him a mug and a cheese sandwich.

  ‘Sorry, it was all I had.’

  Looks good. Thanks. Aren’t you eating?

  ‘No, no appetite … Are all the doors locked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the windows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s going so fast.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The time.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s two o’clock now. Before long it will be dark again, day over. Year over … Jesus, what a mess … Will he come tomorrow? Tomorrow’s the first … But he could come just after midnight, couldn’t he? He could – it would be the first then, wouldn’t it?’ She bit down on her lip, fighting panic. ‘All those people in Piccadilly Square celebrating, counting down the seconds to the New Year …’ She was shaking uncontrollably. ‘He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?’