Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  ‘So?’

  ‘I heard about Triumph Jones being involved and about his being in London when I was. In fact, I was going to talk to him about the Titian, but when I arrived at his hotel they said he was out. That was bad manners.’ Her tone was curt, offended. ‘I knew he was there, so when he left, I followed him. He has a sly reputation, does Mr Jones. His actions had piqued my interest. I followed him in a taxi and he got out on Grosvenor Bridge, with a parcel. About the right shape and size for a painting … You are following all this, aren’t you?’

  ‘Every word.’

  ‘He was looking around to see that no one was watching. He didn’t see me, obviously, and then he threw it into the river!’ She shook her head, incredulous. ‘It came up on the bank pretty quickly and I picked it up … I don’t know if he saw me … I looked at it and knew what it was … Then of course I asked myself, what should I do?’ She put her head on one side. ‘It was the portrait of Angelico Vespucci. The rumours had been right, but I’d never expected to be the one who found it.’

  ‘So why did you come to Gaspare Reni’s gallery?’

  ‘I needed somewhere to hide it in London. With someone respectable. I knew the old man would never destroy it, but he would look after it until I worked out how to get it home.’

  ‘But you were so frightened that night,’ Nino said, remembering. ‘You were afraid of the painting when Gaspare told you the story about Vespucci.’

  ‘Just acting,’ she replied deftly. ‘I knew the story already. How could I not know? I just wanted to make it all look believable. And it did. When I left the gallery I contacted Eddie. He was hardly able to talk he was so excited, and when I told him about the rumour Triumph Jones had set in motion he went frantic. “When the portrait emerges, so will the man.” She smiled, cold eyes. ‘That was his excuse to kill. That’s what set Eddie off.’

  ‘And you didn’t stop him?’

  ‘Why should I? I wanted the Titian. But more than that, I wanted out. Wanted to leave my old life, leave my husband in particular – the lazy American oaf. But how could I? It was the painting that gave me the idea … I could die. Without actually dying.’

  Incredulous, Nino stared at her. He was trying to match this Seraphina with the young woman he had first met in the Kensington gallery, but could find no trace of the original.

  ‘You let everyone think you’d been murdered. Your family, your husband—’

  ‘Oh, don’t waste your pity on Tom,’ she countered. ‘When he knew there was a Titian in the mix he was more than willing to go along with it. For a while I even let him think I was going to work with him. And Johnny Ravenscourt. He’d been involved in smuggling so it seemed logical to suggest we could hire him and split the proceeds.’

  Nino nodded. ‘I get it … Then you plan your own death, so you don’t have to share with anyone. Except Hillstone.’

  ‘But I didn’t mind sharing with Eddie – he was doing most of the work, after all. It was everyone else I wanted to get away from.’

  ‘So the woman who was found murdered, the woman everyone thought was you – who was she?’

  Her expression was composed, with an undercurrent of triumph.

  ‘A suicide. I’m a scientist, I work at the hospital in Venice. I knew someone who’d help me out and turn a blind eye to what was going on in the morgue one night. You can bribe pretty much everyone if you offer them enough. He identified me by the necklace ‘I’ was wearing. A sentimental present he had given to me when we first married.’ She shrugged again. ‘We took her body—’

  ‘And Hillstone mutilated it?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t!’ she replied, angered for the first time. ‘Killing was his dream, not mine. And besides, I never really believed he’d go through with it. People say all kinds of things—’

  ‘Not usually about killing people.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘So then what happened?’ Nino pushed her. ‘You’d disappeared, so you were out of the picture.’

  ‘And Eddie stole the Titian from Gaspare Reni’s gallery—’

  ‘He attacked an old man in the process.’

  ‘He didn’t kill him,’ she responded. ‘It could have been worse.’

  He was finding it difficult to look at her. ‘Then Hillstone hid the painting here?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, in this house, which he bought in the name of William Jex. Eddie loves to change his name. In the past he’d had to, to keep one step ahead, but he enjoys it too. And of course it made him a lot harder to track.’ She took in a slow breath, as though she was tired. ‘You found him though. That was clever. Maybe I should have thrown my lot in with you, Mr Bergstrom?’

  He ignored the remark.

  ‘You haven’t explained the most important part – why Hillstone started killing.’

  ‘I told you, he’d always wanted to imitate Vespucci. When Triumph Jones put out that bloody painting, he had carte blanche,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He said The Skin Hunter went for whores, so he’d have no shortage of victims. Then we came up with the idea of a link.’

  ‘A link between the women and Vespucci?’

  She nodded.

  ‘It was inspired, wasn’t it? I remembered Rachel Pitt on that Italy trip, how she’d been talking to Eddie about The Skin Hunter. She even made a throwaway comment that she’d like to write a play about him. That set us thinking, I can tell you. Then we started looking for other women who had some connection to Vespucci … Eddie was red hot on that – he’d worked in Greyly’s library and had already found out about Claudia Moroni.’ She paused, her tone peevish. ‘I can’t believe my husband sold that painting to Johnny Ravenscourt! And now Johnny’s gloating, talking about it on the internet … I liked that picture.’

  ‘Any particular reason why?’

  ‘You mean the incest between Claudia Moroni and her brother?’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  Seraphina paused, alert. Her intelligence was tipping her off, her cunning suspecting something more. ‘What else?’

  ‘Should there be something else?’

  ‘There is, isn’t there? Tell me!’

  ‘You never examined the picture, did you?’ Nino said. ‘What a shame, Seraphina. You missed out there. Angelico Vespucci hid his trophies behind the panel on the back.’

  The shock almost winded her. ‘What?’

  ‘The skins were in your possession all the time you lived in that apartment with Tom Morgan. You lived with the picture, looked at the painting every day – and never knew what it held.’ He taunted her. ‘Just think what Eddie Hill-stone would have made of that—’

  ‘Shut up!’ The colour had left her face. ‘I don’t believe it! Ravenscourt’s not put it up on his website. He hasn’t said a thing about it.’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t. He’ll wait until Hillstone comes to trial and then make a killing with the publicity. To have hides from The Skin Hunter’s victims – it’ll make him famous. And to think you were sleeping under them, night after night, without even knowing—’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘Oh, don’t take it badly, Seraphina. You can’t win every time,’ Nino continued, provoking her. ‘Anyway, you haven’t finished your story. I know you want to tell me what you did. I know you want to brag. So go on, tell me – who found out about Sally Egan?’

  She paused, but couldn’t resist.

  ‘Eddie did … But I found out about Harriet Forbes.’

  ‘You knew he was going to kill those women, and you didn’t tell the police?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘You didn’t think to warn them? What had Sally Egan, Harriet Forbes and Rachel Pitt done to you?’

  ‘You saved Rachel Pitt!’

  ‘But the other two are dead. And you could have saved them.’ He stared at her. ‘Why, Seraphina?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Why d’you think?’

  ‘It was all about sex,
wasn’t it? The ultimate kick for you and Hillstone?’ He paused. ‘But I don’t understand why he punished the others but didn’t judge you.’

  She smiled slyly. ‘Because I was clever – and he loved me.’

  ‘Did you come up with the idea of your own murder?’

  ‘You don’t think Eddie did, do you?’

  Nino smiled. ‘It was a clever move. By thinking you were the first victim it made the legend all the more real. Vespucci had killed your ancestor, so of course his imitator would kill you.’ He was trying to weigh her up, his voice wary. ‘But if you knew Hillstone had been caught, why did you come back here? Why not make a run for it?’

  ‘And go where? I’m dead, remember.’ Her voice shifted, taking on a gentler tone, suddenly vulnerable. ‘I was confused. I wanted to stay here to clear my name, to give my side of the story. Eddie Hillstone made me do these terrible things—’

  ‘No, he didn’t. You chose to do them,’ Nino insisted, knowing where she was leading.

  ‘But I didn’t think he’d kill them! I never really thought he’d kill them … When he murdered Sally Egan, I was so afraid, I didn’t dare say anything. If he could do that to them, he could do it to me.’

  She was sliding into another performance. Snaking towards an escape route.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Nino replied. ‘You took a dead girl and mutilated her—’

  ‘Not me!’

  ‘You organised it! You’re as guilty as Hillstone. You knew when he carved up her body, when he mutilated her face to pass her corpse off as yours, that he was capable of anything. You relied on that. You could play him along, let him get his fantasies out of his system. After all, what did it matter to you? You’d got rid of a husband you despised and had a Titian you could sell for six million, at least.’ He paused. ‘You have no defence—’

  She thought otherwise.

  ‘He forced me to go along with him! I lied! It was his idea to fake my death, it was Eddie all along.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Not me – I had to do what he said. I had to.’

  ‘I don’t believe you—’

  Irritated, she dropped the vulnerable act and went on the defensive.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you think. In the end, it’s Edward Hillstone’s word against mine. And who d’you think people will believe? My family will be so glad to get me back, they won’t ask too many questions—’

  ‘Maybe not, but the police will.’

  ‘There’s no proof I colluded with Eddie,’ she went on, her tone confident. ‘I made sure of that. Nothing in writing, nothing anyone saw or could have overheard. We were lovers once, that’s true, but he used my feelings for him and turned them against me.’ She swivelled round in her seat, her dark eyes holding his stare, her voice plaintive again. ‘Eddie Hill-stone used me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It won’t work, Seraphina. No one will believe you. You’ll be jailed. Locked up, just like you should be.’

  ‘Will I?’ she said, standing.

  He saw her rise and took a moment to react. She was very erect, her head high, her back straight. So straight that it made her pregnancy even more obvious, the swelling of a baby growing fast.

  ‘Of course … Your husband told me you were pregnant.’

  ‘But it’s not his,’ she said, touching her stomach. ‘It’s Eddie Hillstone’s. You see, he raped me … But I want to keep the baby. That why I did what I did, Mr Bergstrom. I had to do everything he asked to save my child. That’s why I had to go along with him.’ She paused, her tone helpless, faking desperation. ‘You can’t punish me. I’m as much a victim as the other women.’

  77

  Edward Hillstone was arrested and charged with two counts of murder and one of attempted murder. He was also charged with the mutilation of a corpse, fraud and theft. After the investigations had continued for another three days he was charged with the murders of Hester Greyly and Patrick Dewick. The lawyer for Seraphina Watson – Seraphina di Fattori as she was be known from then onwards – put forward a charge for the rape and abduction of his client.

  In all the newspaper articles, and on television, Seraphina di Fattori made a perfect witness. Vulnerable, articulate – and pregnant. With all the power of her family’s name and the help of a respected team of lawyers, she was assured that she would never spend a day in prison. After all, she had done nothing. Had she?

  And Eddie Hillstone stayed quiet. He never spoke out against the charges, or offered details or excuses. And he never turned against Seraphina. Instead he allowed her to become the Joan of Arc of all martyrs, watching from his cell, his computer banned, his medication monitored. A social psychopath was the verdict of the psychiatrist. A man without empathy or feelings, but inherently responsible for his crimes; a man knowing the difference between right and wrong. A man capable of planning, and waiting.

  All Eddie Hillstone wanted to know was if the Titian had been found. And where, and who now had it. It seemed that, in the end, his murders were secondary to his greed. But to Nino he seemed too composed, oddly admiring of the man who had caught him, even asking Nino to visit him in prison.

  Curious, Nino agreed, watching as Edward Hillstone entered, flanked by two guards. After they seated the prisoner, the men stepped back and stood by the wall as Nino faced Hillstone across the table.

  ‘How are you?’

  Surprised, Nino smiled. ‘I think I was supposed to ask you that … You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, leaning slightly forward. ‘What are they saying about me in the papers? The bastards won’t let me see any, or watch television, and the internet’s off limits.’ He smiled – the first time Nino had ever seen him smile. The effect was unexpectedly warming. ‘What are they saying about me?’

  ‘That you’re a murderer.’

  ‘Who’s got the most publicity?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me, or Angelico Vespucci?’

  ‘I think you win by a short head.’

  Hillstone leaned back in his seat, nodding. ‘Liar … I didn’t finish the last murder. I failed.’

  ‘You killed four people. Equalled his score.’

  ‘I killed two men, and two women. Vespucci killed four women.’ He shook his head, as though they were talking about the football.

  ‘What did you do with the skins?’

  ‘I sent half of one to Jobo Kido in Tokyo,’ Hillstone admitted, then shook his head. ‘The rest … it may be better you don’t know. I’ll tell you something, though – I underestimated you, that was my mistake. I knew I could fool the art world and the police. If I kept the murders in different countries, I knew it would keep them all guessing. Knew I’d have time to finish before they’d even worked out what the hell I was doing … But I never made allowances for you.’ He put the tips of his fingers together, pressing them until the skin was white. ‘They won’t tell me who got the Titian.’

  ‘The police,’ Nino replied. ‘They got it from your old house when I let them in.’ He paused. ‘It’s been impounded as evidence.

  ‘Pity,’ Hillstone said simply, sighing.

  ‘Why didn’t you give her up?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Seraphina. Why didn’t you turn on her?’ Nino asked. ‘She’s turned on you, letting you take all the blame, saying you forced her into it. Pretending to be a victim. Even saying you raped her.’ Hillstone was listening but said nothing, forcing Nino to continue. ‘Why let her off? She’s guilty – you know that and so do I.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Nino replied, frowning. ‘You shouldn’t take all the punishment.’

  ‘I’m the guilty party.’

  ‘You’re both guilty.’

  Hillstone’s expression shifted momentarily. From resignation to – fleetingly – amusement.

  ‘Seraphina’s as responsible as you are,’ Nino continued. ‘She worked with you, she organised things for you. She found Rachel Pitt. She picked out victims for you …
How can you let her get away with it?’

  ‘You think she will?’ Hillstone asked. ‘You think she’s that smart?’ Rising to his feet, he shuffled over the guards. ‘I’m done,’ he said simply.

  And he didn’t look back.

  78

  It was 17 January, cold with a wind chill, when Nino called in at The Hamlet Theatre, asking for Rachel Pitt. After a few moments she came out to see him. She was smiling, her hair tied up haphazardly, her nails painted dark red.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi you,’ he said, returning the smile. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Good.’

  She had thanked him repeatedly, until he was embarrassed and the word was worn thin. A couple of times they had even talked about that last night, Rachel remembering the wig she’d borrowed. The bad wig which had saved her life.

  ‘But it wasn’t really the wig, was it? It was you.’

  It took her ten days to stop flinching when people passed her on the street, eleven days to stop checking behind the bathroom door, and it would probably take more than a lifetime to stop remembering.

  ‘I finished with Michael,’ she said, smiling and pulling a face. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘My heart? Shattered. My self-esteem? Triumphant.’

  Smiling, Nino consoled her. ‘Hearts recover.’

  ‘Do they?’

  A moment shimmered between them. It caught them out, unexpected but not unwelcome.

  ‘Perhaps we could go for a drink sometime?’ Nino asked tentatively.

  ‘Perhaps we could. But you know what they say, don’t you?’

  ‘No, what do they say?’

  ‘Never date a hero.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Nino replied, smiling. ‘It was getting to be a burden anyway.’

  *

  In New York, Triumph Jones heard the news of the Titian being impounded as evidence. It would be held by the Art Squad of the British police until the trial of Edward Hillstone was over. After that, other arrangements would be made. Triumph Jones wasn’t interested, because he never wanted to see the Titian again. It had cost four lives, ruined a dozen others, and his devotion to the noble art of painting seemed suddenly absurd. That any picture could be valued above a life was madness. Even a Titian. Even that Titian.