Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  Nino shook his head.

  ‘No. He’s not going to kill you, Rachel. You’re going to have a long, happy life. You’re going to see in at least another fifty New Years. And one day, when you’re old, you’ll tell your grandchildren all about it. They won’t believe you, of course, but you’ll tell them anyway. It’s not the end, Rachel.’

  She stared at him intently. ‘You can’t be sure of that.’

  ‘Oh yes I can,’ Nino replied. ‘In fact, I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.’

  72

  The traffic was the one thing Edward Hillstone hadn’t made allowances for. For the first hour it had been easy to follow Bergstrom’s car. Enjoyable, in fact. The van was anonymous, with nothing to give it away – he could have followed Bergstrom for days without drawing suspicion to himself. But then some idiot had pulled out without signalling, making him swerve on to the hard shoulder. It had taken Edward almost four minutes to get back onto the road, four minutes in which he had lost track of Bergstrom and Rachel Pitt.

  He suspected that they were going to Bergstrom’s temporary home at the Kensington gallery, or Rachel’s flat in Battersea, Bergstrom playing the hero and making it easy for Edward to fall into his trap. He smiled at the idea, at Bergstrom’s arrogance. Either place would suit him, Edward thought. Both places were familiar to him. After all, he had stolen the Titian from Gaspare Reni’s gallery, and he knew Rachel’s flat almost as well as his own. But it still irked him that he had lost contact with them, and he felt a sullen annoyance as he drove the remaining hours alone.

  It wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

  But then again, everything else had gone so smoothly, it was just a blip. Tonight was the real climax. Let Rachel Pitt think she might have another full day to live. Let her long to see another morning, afternoon and evening. Let her think she had twenty-four hours, another one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes – when, in reality, what she had was a second.

  On the last chime of Big Ben, when TV, radio and internet connections everywhere welcomed the New Year, he would kill her.

  And after that, he would be famous.

  73

  11.20 p.m.

  Standing outside Rachel’s flat, Edward savoured the murder to come. He would kill her, then take her back to his home in Spitalfields. There he would make an announcement of her death on the website, proclaim his success – The Skin Hunter brought back to life. A 21st-century Vespucci to be celebrated. Anonymous, but triumphant … Edward breathed in to steady himself. After he had killed Rachel Pitt, he would take his time, relish the New Year’s Day spent removing her skin from her body. Then he would take photographs – of the flayed Rachel, and the skin of Rachel. Two Rachels for the price of one. The images would be over the internet in seconds, the world seeing what he had achieved. From continent to continent he would be famous. And feared.

  It wasn’t difficult to image the reactions of the dealers. Jobo Kido would despair, realising he was never going to get the Titian; Farina Ahmadi would burn at being outclassed; and Triumph Jones – not so Triumphant now – would slip into a guilty old age. Bested. Beaten. All his machinations coming to nothing. And the pompous dealers who had belittled Edward Hillstone in the past would be seen for what they were – fools.

  His journey was almost over, Edward thought, looking back. He had been dedicated – no one could deny that. From his first interest in Angelico Vespucci to his growing obsession, he had never veered from his route. Even if it had taken him off-course occasionally. Poor Susan Coates. Clever, but quite mad. It had been worth volunteering at Greenfield’s Hospital just to talk to her. What she knew about Vespucci was second to none. Edward had even begun to like her – before he was moved on. And then he remembered Sir Harold Greyly. So rich, so lazy, so full of his own importance that he had jumped at the chance of help.

  Put the library in order, he had demanded, passing it over to the amiable, well-spoken Edward.

  Greyly had been stupid too – not like his aunt. Hester Greyly was anything but stupid. She had been Edward’s first real deviation. But he had had to stop her talking to Nino Bergstrom about Claudia Moroni. The old woman might well have said something which could lead to him. Her death had been inevitable and had succeeded in throwing Bergstrom off his scent – at least for a while. Until Bergstrom had revisited Courtford Hall to talk to Harold Greyly. The squire was out of it by then. Edward’s anonymous letter to his wife explaining how their family was going to be exposed in the media had done the trick. The taboo of incest and the red tops had beached the marriage and, once alone, Harold Greyly turned a hobby into a career. Within a month he was sodden with booze.

  Edward leaned against the wall, staring at Rachel’s flat. Angelico Vespucci might have had some limited reputation in Venice, but he, Edward Hillstone, would go global.

  It was so close now. So very close … When he had finally got back to London, Edward had shaved, taken a shower and changed his clothes, then eaten a light meal, but drunk no wine. After a short sleep, a little music had filled the rest of the time and it was ten p.m. when he finally left Spital-fields in search of Rachel Pitt. He had checked out the Kensington gallery first, but the place had been deserted and in darkness, not even the old man around. When he looked in the window, Edward could see the red light flickering on the alarm. No one was there, which meant that Bergstrom had taken Rachel to her place.

  Of course he could have hidden her somewhere else, but Edward didn’t think so. Not for a minute. He was getting to know his pursuer now, even getting to admire him a little. And he suspected Nino of having an ego – a desire to win. Having found himself drawn into the whole business by accident, Bergstrom wasn’t a man to shy from a challenge. He had been ill, Edward knew – as always, he had done his research. Perhaps Bergstrom was trying to prove something, especially to himself? A man who had been weakened and made vulnerable would want his power back.

  Edward Hillstone did not underestimate Nino Bergstrom. Not any more.

  Suddenly a light came on and Edward checked the time – 11.44 p.m. It was in the sitting room in the basement of the flat, a small side lamp on the computer table. So Rachel Pitt had thought she was safe, had she? Had locked her doors and windows and drawn her blinds. He knew there were no police in there, but Bergstrom was there, maybe. Likely, in fact.

  Smiling, Edward watched as Rachel sat down in front of the computer. She had obviously just bathed – she had a thick bathrobe on and a towel wrapped round her hair, her head and shoulders silhouetted against the queasy glow of the computer screen. Excited, Edward wriggled his fingers, feeling the itch in his palms. There were only a few minutes to go and he was hot with arousal … He leaned forward, peering through the blind. It blocked out some of his view, but he could see Rachel’s silhouette, imagine how she would scream when he grabbed her, how the knife would slide into her neck and severe the jugular vein. How the blood would run over his gloves and how she would jerk uncontrollably. They all did that.

  In that instant another thought occurred to Edward. Perhaps Bergstrom hadn’t told Rachel Pitt that she was a victim. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to scare her. Perhaps he was now hiding somewhere. Waiting for the killer to make his move … Uneasy, Edward looked around. But there was no sign of Bergstrom. And then he spotted something through the wrought iron gate which led to the street – Bergstrom’s car. It was a little way off, but he recognised it immediately and could just make out the familiar, unmistakable white head of hair. Bergstrom! Where the hell was he going?

  Edward didn’t hesitate. Wherever he was going, Nino Bergstrom wasn’t in the flat with Rachel Pitt. This was his chance … Noiselessly, he ran down the alleyway between the houses, jumped the gate, and then paused by the back door. Like so many other people, Rachel had hidden a second key in case she locked herself out. It had taken Edward a while to find, but in the end he had discovered it tucked in among the dying plants in the window box. He had then copied it, so she would never
know.

  It was the copy he slid in the back door now, turning the lock, pushing it slightly ajar. Silently he walked in. He could hear faint music, and see the light from the computer coming through the partly opened door of the sitting room.

  His breath caught in his throat as he reached into his pocket and brought out the hunting knife. It felt familiar and heavy in his hand as he gripped it and moved further into the room. For one second he relished the thought of the kill – then he rushed her. He rushed towards the computer and the seated figure, lunging at Rachel, the impact throwing her off the seat and on to the floor.

  The last thing Edward Hillstone expected was the punch to his throat, his head exploding as he struggled for breath. Gasping, he rolled over, crawling on all fours, wrenching at his collar in an effort to breathe. The first kick hit him full in the ribs, sending him backwards, the second landed in his solar plexus, rendering him helpless. Caught by surprise, winded, struggling for air, Edward Hillstone stared up at his attacker in disbelief.

  In the struggle the head towel had come off – and instead of Rachel Pitt standing there, it was Nino Bergstrom.

  74

  Securely tied to a chair, Edward Hillstone was still gasping for breath, trying to form his words, spittle drooling from the left side of his mouth. Nino had taken off the towelling robe and was standing in his jeans and shirt, facing the killer. Despite Hillstone’s temporary dishevelment, it was obvious why he had been so successful. He was personable, almost refined, a man who could have easily blended into the art world or worked at a country gentleman’s retreat.

  The knife that he had dropped was now on the sideboard, out of reach, and Nino had phoned the police. Watching him, Edward shook his head to try to clear his thoughts, his hands working against the rope which held him.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In my car.’

  He nodded, almost amused. ‘It was a wig?’

  ‘Rachel works in a theatre,’ Nino replied. ‘It was easy for her to get hold of a prop. I knew you’d be fooled by the white hair – it’s what everyone notices. You were no different.’ He checked the rope, winding some more around Hillstone’s neck before finally knotting it at the back of the chair. ‘If you struggle, you’ll strangle yourself. If I were you, I’d keep still and plead insanity.’

  Reaching into Edward’s pocket, he took out his keys and wallet, checking the address on his driver’s licence. Then he walked over to the window, waiting. Only minutes later a police car pulled up outside.

  And as the police entered by the front, Nino left by the back.

  75

  ‘Make your way to the gallery now,’ Nino said, leaning down to talk to Rachel in the driver’s seat. ‘Gaspare’s expecting you.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He ignored the question, tapping the top of the car. ‘Go on, go now. I’ll be over later.’

  Waiting until he saw the car disappear down the street, Nino hailed a cab, arriving outside Edward Hillstone’s home twenty minutes later. It was one of the Georgian silk merchant’s houses, narrow, on four storeys, its paintwork freshly done. Glancing up, Nino looked for any lights turned on, but there were none and he opened the door, moving into an unlit hallway. The walls were painted dark green, the cornice picked out in gold, the effect luxurious and oppressive at the same time.

  First he checked the front room, which was empty and well furnished. Next he moved into a snug, again empty, and then went further into a modernised, galley-style kitchen. Everything was lavish, the fridge stocked with food, wine in a pantry beyond. But what caught Nino’s eye was a woman’s handbag on the table. He wondered fleetingly if it had belonged to one of Edward Hillstone’s victims, but his attention was distracted when he turned and spotted a slatted wooden door beside the main exit.

  Opening it, Nino flicked on the light. At once he could see a number of stone steps leading down to a cellar beyond. Wary, he moved downwards, turning on another light as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The space surprised him: it extended to half the length of the house. At the far end was a sink, a table in the centre, and beside it what looked like an operating trolley. But this – unlike the house – was decrepit, the surgical instruments well used and filthy.

  Everywhere was the sight of fresh, and dried, blood. Gore caked the scalpels and the plastic sheeting on the floor and across the table. The smell was there too, the stink of blood catching on the back of Nino’s throat as he moved further into the private slaughterhouse of Edward Hillstone. Unnerved, he glanced around, spotting a pair of surgical gloves thrown on the floor, used and bloodied; a waste bin piled high with swabs; and patches of torn clothing, stained with faecal matter. Along the sides of the table were grooves like those on a morgue slab, where the blood could run and be filtered into a bucket at the end. And the bucket was still there, the blood congealed, dark red, turning to brown.

  Fighting a gag reflex, Nino moved away, catching sight of an imposing, ebonised cupboard. It was like a kitchen cupboard, but locked, without door handles. Using one of the knives from the table, he levered the lock open. And there, inside an old cupboard lined with floral wallpaper from the 1950s, was Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci.

  Nino was about to reach for it but stopped when he heard a sound overhead. Flicking off the main light, he hurried to the bottom of the cellar steps and turned off that light too. In the darkness he could hear someone moving around, ascending the stairs from the hallway to the first landing. Pressing himself further under the steps, Nino listened in the dark. Could Edward Hillstone have escaped? And if it wasn’t Hillstone, did he have an accomplice?

  Were there two killers? Did one kill and the other mutilate the bodies? Stepping on to the bottom stair, Nino moved upwards. After every step he took, he paused, listening, before taking another one. He could see a faint glow at the top of the steps coming from under the cellar door. Someone had turned on the hall light … Silently, Nino continued to climb, finally reaching the top of the steps and moving out into the hall.

  He glanced towards the front door, but it was still bolted. Then he looked into the kitchen, staring at the table. The handbag had gone.

  Gripping the banister rail, Nino mounted the stairs. He still had the knife he had picked up in the cellar, and was holding it in his hand, ready to strike. But no one jumped him. No one came out from any of the upstairs rooms. No one confronted him on the landing. It was only when he reached the top of the staircase that he saw a light coming from a bedroom at the end of the corridor.

  Tightening his grip on the knife, Nino walked towards the room, reaching the door and slamming it backwards against the wall.

  He had wanted to startle the intruder.

  But she wasn’t startled at all.

  Seraphina Morgan, formerly Seraphina di Fattori, looked into the mirror and smiled at him.

  76

  ‘Eddie’s been caught,’ she said simply. ‘But then you know that, don’t you?’

  Transfixed, Nino stared at her. ‘You’re dead. You were murdered in Venice—’

  ‘Was I?’ she replied, swivelling round in her seat, lush and bronzed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  He remembered her coming to Gaspare’s studio with the painting. Remembered the old man’s grief at her murder. Remembered his own dedication to find out who had killed her.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Have you found the Titian?’ she asked, ignoring his question. ‘I heard you downstairs, so I suppose you have.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, approaching her. ‘What are you playing at? Why would you let everyone think you were dead? Why would you do that?’ He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Were you working with him? With Hillstone?’ She said nothing and Nino continued. ‘You planned all this?’

  ‘The night we met you seemed very unsure of yourself. I put that down to your having been so ill. I must say, I never thought it would be you that caught us.’ She put down the hairbru
sh in her hand, smiling. ‘You’re trying to work it out, aren’t you? Thinking really hard … I can see that in your face.’

  ‘So why don’t you explain it? Or shall we just wait for the police to come and you can talk to them?’

  ‘But then you’d never find out the truth, because I’d hardly tell them, would I?’ she countered. ‘Shall I start? I met Edward Hillstone a few years ago—’

  ‘On the Italy trip?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said happily. ‘The same trip that Rachel Pitt was on. I know you’ve found out about that – you must have done. Anyway, where was I? They do this in films, don’t they, Mr Bergstrom? Always confess at the end, tell the audience how it was done. You would know, you being in the movie industry—’

  ‘So how did you do it?’

  ‘Eddie and I had a fling. He wanted me more than I wanted him, and he was obsessed with Angelico Vespucci. It turned him on to think that I was a descendant of one of The Skin Hunter’s victims. He’s a very good lover, you know. But then men that don’t really feel too much always are. They can lose themselves in the moment. A very cold fish, is Eddie. It’s what makes him so attractive.’

  ‘He’s a killer.’

  ‘Not then – that came later, although he was always fantasising about killing women. He’d talk about it in bed, describe what he’d do, how he’d mutilate them. I thought it was just sex talk …’ Her tone was light. ‘We met up quite often and he talked more and more about Vespucci, and then something strange happened.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My family are into the arts. Well, you know that from Gaspare Reni. I knew about the art world, and I heard the gossip—’

  ‘But you’re a scientist—’

  ‘With a wide circle of friends,’ she said mockingly. ‘Offspring of the rich and well-connected. They hear things and someone heard about the Titian painting re-emerging. You can’t keep that kind of thing a secret in art circles, Mr Bergstrom. It’s a business that feeds off gossip.’