Isle of the Dead (13 page)

Empty, Harriet stared at the tiled floor of the washroom, unable to find the energy to move. She despised herself. Despised turning her back on the woman she had been, to become an automaton circling the globe and chattering endlessly about mascara. In her twenties she would have cringed to see herself now, would never have believed that someone erudite enough to write about art would sell themselves out for cash.

But maybe it wasn't too late, she thought hopefully. She had put quite a bit of money aside. She could give up the beauty business and nurture her intelligence instead. It would be difficult – and financially tough – to make the switch, but anything was better than sitting in a Japanese toilet, trying to work up enough energy to get a cab to another dreary Hilton hotel.

Rising to her feet, Harriet lifted her case and slung her handbag over her right shoulder. She was tired, drained, but ready to step off the goodie train, stop the antidepressants, sleeping pills and amphetamines and get her mind clear. It wasn't too late, she told herself as she moved to leave the toilet cubicle.

But it was.

As the door opened Harriet felt a blow to her face which was so violent it knocked her backwards, splitting her nose
and sending blood down her throat. Choking, she fell on to the tiled floor, cracking her head and falling into semiconsciousness. But she was still aware. Harriet Forbes lived long enough to see her attacker lock the door. Lived long enough to feel the knife tearing through her flesh and ripping into her organs. Lived long enough to feel – in her dying moments – her skin being severed, then torn from her breasts.

 

Venice, 1555

A banquet was held last evening in one of the palaces on Grand Canal, a little way from the Rialto and opposite the fish market. Pietro Aretino, defying the cold and the elements, invited the elite of Venice to attend, his pack of cohorts ready to greet the hardy who ventured out into the bitter night. As before, I watched him. As before, he saw nothing of me. Yet he seemed more callous than usual, his hair dyed black, his girth hardly encased in cloth of gold.

Beside him at the table sat Titian. Elegantly reserved, good-humoured and attentive to the ladies present, he wore his brilliance lightly and was all the more admirable for his humility. In a blatant effort to impress, a feast was served on solid silver plates, and when the diners finished, Aretino ordered the servants not to clear the plates but to throw them out of the window. Such is his wealth. His vulgarity amused those present, yet later, outside and beyond sight of the company, I saw the servants pulling in nets from the water, saving the silver dishes from the clutch of the outgoing tide.

Reserved, Titian remained in his seat while the bawdy Aretino
danced with some of the most celebrated women in the city. Once or twice I saw the artist sketching in a little notepad he always carries with him, then applauding as the Contessa di Fattori rose to dance. The clock was striking the half hour after midnight when she excused herself from Aretino's grip and took another dancing partner, Angelico Vespucci.

He dances with perfection, but his vices tell on him, the dark lidded eyes puffy, his mouth a little slack as he moves in time to the music. His hands open and close like the mouths of drowning men, his palms unnaturally white. And as he moves in step with di Fattori the candles about them shuffle and belch their smoke.

And meanwhile Titian paints on.

The last person Nino expected to see as he entered Gaspare's hospital room was a tall, elegant black man, his expensive clothes marking him out immediately as wealthy. Impatiently, Gaspare beckoned for Nino to approach.

‘This is Triumph Jones,' he said, turning back to the American. ‘And this is my surrogate son, Nino Bergstrom. You can say anything in front of him – we've no secrets.'

Taken aback, Triumph regarded the handsome white-haired man, then glanced back at Gaspare.

‘This is private.'

‘Then you can bugger off!' Gaspare snapped. ‘Talk in front of Nino, or go.'

Reluctantly, Triumph pulled one of the plastic chairs towards him and sat down, ignoring Nino as he stood at the foot of the old man's bed. Twice he cleared his throat, then ran his hand over his smooth, bald head. He voice was, as ever, languorously slow.

‘I came to talk to you about the Titian painting. And
before you say a word, Gaspare,' he admonished him, ‘I know you didn't destroy it. It was stolen.'

Nino raised his eyebrows. ‘Did
you
steal it?'

‘Do I look like a thief?'

‘I don't know what a thief looks like,' Nino replied, not in the least cowed by the American's imperious manner. ‘But if you didn't steal the painting, how d'you know it was taken?'

‘I had someone watching Gaspare's gallery.'

Irritated, the old man threw back the bed clothes and sat up, tugging on his dressing gown. Walking over to the window, he opened it and stared out. ‘I need some fresh air.' His tone was contemptuous as he looked back at Triumph. ‘How dare you come here and tell me that you were watching my home!'

‘It was for your own good—'

‘
My own good!
You spied on me for my own good?' Gaspare echoed mockingly. ‘So – did you see who took the Titian? Or is that too much to ask?'

‘We were too late.'

‘To see him? Or stop him?' Nino asked, moving closer to the American.

‘We were too late to see him. I was told that an ambulance had taken you to hospital and that there was a broken window at the gallery. It was obvious what had happened. But I don't know who took the painting, or I'd tell you.'

‘I doubt that,' Nino replied, as Gaspare slammed the window shut and leaned against the sill.

‘Were you going to steal the Titian from me, Triumph?'

‘No, I was going to buy it.'

Puzzled, Gaspare caught Nino's eye, then sat down at the foot of the bed.

‘So what have you come here for? I don't have the painting any longer. And I don't see how I can help you. I'm a has-been, an old dealer with no clout. I understand why you contacted me after the Titian emerged, but why take the trouble to come to London to talk to me now?' Reaching for his glasses, he put them on, peering at the American. ‘What are you up to? Or, more precisely, what have you done?'

‘I need to talk to you alone,' Triumph repeated, glancing over at Nino. ‘What I want to say is for your ears only.'

Gaspare shook his head. ‘No, I want a witness to everything you say, Mr Jones. Because I don't trust you.' He looked the elegant American up and down. ‘Why did the Titian suddenly turn up? It was missing for centuries – why did it just pop up out of thin air?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You'll have to do better than that,' Gaspare said, folding his arms, defiant in a dressing gown. ‘You're famous, one of the biggest hitters in the art world. Notorious for your contacts. It didn't surprise me that you discovered I had the portrait, but now I'm wondering
how
I came to have it. I mean, it was very convenient that the picture was found. Very lucky, that. Or did you plan it?' He glanced over at his visitor. ‘You look stressed, Triumph, like a man with something on his conscience.'

Playing for time, the American hesitated. If he had been alone with Gaspare Reni he would have confessed, sought some kind of absolution from the old man. But they weren't alone and he wasn't going to say anything which would implicate him.

It was Nino who broke the deadlock. Turning to Gaspare, he said, ‘I'll leave you to it—'

‘No, I want you to stay.'

‘You won't find anything out if I stay here,' Nino replied, walking out.

It was several seconds before Triumph Jones spoke again. Several seconds in which he struggled with his conscience, wondering how much to conceal and how much to reveal. Should he confess to everything? Or try to minimise his deceit? But when he glanced over at Gaspare and saw the look of disdain on the old man's face, he was shamed into a full confession.

‘I never meant for any of this to happen,' Triumph began, his head bowed. ‘Someone came to me with the Titian portrait. I paid a reasonable sum – the man was no dealer and glad of what he got. I should have stopped then, but my ego didn't let me.' He wouldn't look up, didn't dare. ‘I thought it would be amusing to hold back on it for a while, work up some real publicity for the painting. So I resurrected the story, the so-called legend – “
When the portrait emerges, so will the man.
”' It was bound to catch on.'

Gaspare's face was expressionless. ‘And all this publicity would drive up the value of the work.'

Triumph paused, his voice catching. ‘I didn't know Seraphina di Fattori would find it. I didn't know she would take it to you.
You
of all people! What was the chance of that?'

Gaspare shrugged. ‘You said yourself, whoever found it would take it to a gallery or a dealer. Why's that so surprising? Anyway, the painting's gone. Stolen. You've lost. Is that what's eating away at you?'

‘It's not that!' Triumph replied. ‘Seraphina was killed in Venice. And now another woman's been killed in London. In
exactly
the same way as Vespucci killed his victims.'

‘In the sixteenth century! You're not believing your own publicity now, are you? Dear me, Mr Jones, I wouldn't have thought you were the gullible type.' Gaspare's voice had a hard edge. ‘I admit that I fell for it. But then again, I'm Italian – superstitious. I believe in legends. I was even a little afraid. You fooled me – well done. For a moment I thought that the Titian
could
summon up something, or someone, from the grave. It was a stroke of genius, Triumph, and you deserve your success. Your imagination and flair for publicity is second to none.' He clapped his hands sardonically, then paused. ‘Unfortunately it's backfired, and it's going to cost you. Worse than that, it's already cost two women their lives.'

‘You can't be sure of that—'

‘You know I'm right,' Gaspare replied, cutting him off. ‘There are some unstable people in this world. People who admire killers. People who read about them, write about them. Some even emulate them.'

Taking in a breath, Triumph looked at the dealer. Someone's copying Vespucci, aren't they?'

‘How would I know? You created your own Frankenstein's monster – how can I predict what it will do? Maybe your greed made you meddle with a dangerous ghost. Maybe it just brought the
memory
of a killer back to life. But it tripped someone into action.'

The elegant American was sweating, his hands pressed together. ‘How do we stop it?'

‘It? Or him?' Gaspare queried. ‘Why ask me? You started something.
You
did it.
You
live with it.'

And as Triumph Jones rose to his feet the news broke over the Internet that a woman had been killed in the lavatory of Tokyo Airport. She had been stripped, stabbed, and partially flayed.

Pietro Aretino

Pietro Aretino

Pausing as she applied her lipstick, Farina Ahmadi lost patience and threw it to one side. She couldn't remember where she had heard it – apart from on the news – but the name Sally Egan seemed familiar to her. She ran it over on her tongue … Egan, Sally Egan … but nothing came to her. Surely this murder victim – this care-home worker – hadn't been a client of hers? Farina paused, pressing her memory into service as she reached for the lipstick again. Had Sally Egan worked for her? No, Farina thought – she didn't even know the names of the cleaners, she left that to the housekeeper, so that couldn't be it. Maybe she had worked in the London gallery?

But the thought didn't gel. Farina filled in her lips with the coral gloss. Satisfied, she smiled at her own reflection, but the name wouldn't budge. How could she have known Sally Egan? A woman who worked in a care home wouldn't be working in an art gallery. After smoothing her eyebrows and fastening on her earrings, Farina finally remembered.

It had been several years earlier when she had been trying to mount an exhibition of famous portraits. Angelico Vespucci's image was at the top of her list, but Farina had only been able to get hold of engravings, and photographs of an old copy. A chance encounter with another dealer had brought Sally Egan into her sphere.

To all intents and purposes the Egan woman had been a talented artist, forced into menial work to pay the bills. So she had been more than pleased to do a competent oil copy of Titian's portrait of Angelico Vespucci. It wasn't supposed to deceive anyone, merely to be exhibited to show what the original had been like. Sally Egan had taken several months to complete it and when she had delivered it to the gallery, Farina had been impressed and paid her well, even promising that she might send other work her way … Farina's smile dimmed, her pleasure at having remembered the woman overturned by the circumstances of Sally Egan's death.

Christ! Farina thought. She
was
the woman who'd been murdered and skinned. Like the woman in Venice before her … For several moments Farina toyed with the idea that there might be some connection, jumping when the phone rang.

‘Farina! a familiar voice greeted her. ‘How are you?'

She rolled her eyes at Jobo's cloying tone. ‘Well. And you?'

‘Thriving. I take it your husband and sons are well also?'

‘The whole fucking family is just peachy,' she replied. ‘Get to the point.'