Isle of the Dead (18 page)

‘I think everything we find out about Vespucci's important. Did the victims have anything in common?'

‘Vespucci killed Larissa because she was unfaithful, but Claudia Moroni was a respectable married woman.'

Nino thought back over his conversation with Harold Greyly, repeating his words.

“My relative was very excitable … She eloped, thank God. Saved us a lot of gossip.”
He glanced over at Gaspare. ‘Perhaps she wasn't quite the innocent she appeared?'

‘And the Contessa di Fattori was a whore.'

‘Yes, everyone agrees on that. And the website said that Lena Arranti was a courtesan, working from the Jewish Quarter in Venice.' Nino paused. ‘There
is
a link between the women – sex. Larissa Vespucci was an adulteress. Lena Arranti was a prostitute. The Contessa di Fattori was promiscuous. Perhaps there was some sexual secret about Claudia Moroni? Perhaps
that
was why her descendant said that her elopement saved them from scandal?' Nino got to
his feet. ‘If the theme
is
sexual – if Vespucci set out to punish these women – is that why women are being killed now? Does our killer want to punish women too?' He walked to the door, then turned. ‘I'm going back to the gallery to finish Ravenscourt's notes. Then I'll talk to him—'

Gaspare flinched. ‘Don't be stupid! We've just agreed that Ravenscourt could be the killer—'

‘And if he is,' Nino said simply, ‘someone has to stop him.'

New York

The news had only been out for an hour when it came to Farina Ahmadi's ears. Good God! she thought, hurrying back to her gallery on 45th Street. Who had ever heard anything like it? A top dealer virtually advertising for help in finding a famous work of art. Why didn't Triumph just put a fucking sign up in Times Square? she thought angrily, slamming the door of the gallery behind her and moving into her office. Once there, she made a call on her mobile and stood by the window waiting for someone to answer.

‘What the bloody hell are you playing at?' she snapped, infuriated to find herself talking to Triumph Jones' recorded message. Severing the connection, she then dialled Tokyo, knowing she would wake Jobo Kido in the middle of the night and hopefully catch him off guard.

‘
What!!!
' a voice answered, and Farina smiled to herself. He
had
been asleep. Good.

‘Jobo, it's Farina.'

‘It's one in the morning. What d'you want?'

‘Triumph's drumming up help to find the Titian.' She could hear the dealer take in a breath and could imagine him sitting up in bed, shocked out of sleep. ‘You know what that means, don't you, Jobo? Every fucking lunatic will come out of the woodwork. And now everyone will know about the Titian portrait. I mean
everyone
.' Her voice plunged. ‘Are you listening to me?'

‘Every word,' Jobo said, getting to his feet, his wife grumbling as she turned over in bed. Walking downstairs, he made for the kitchen, closing the door behind him. ‘You woke my wife—'

‘
I woke your wife!
' Farina snapped. ‘Jesus! You moron, this is more important than your wife's beauty sleep!'

‘Farina, calm down,' Jobo said, tying the dressing-gown cord round his waist and getting himself some water. ‘Why did he do it? It doesn't seem like Triumph to advertise something like that. He's crazy—'

‘Oh, he's crazy like a snake!' she snorted. ‘He wants that bloody painting so much he's going to stoop to any depths to get it. And you know what that means, don't you? We lose.'

‘
We
lose?' Jobo repeated. ‘Why exactly are you letting me in on this, Farina?'

‘The Titian's out there, hanging its arse in the wind. We
have
to get hold of it before it disappears again. Or worse, Triumph gets it. He can't win, not this time.' She thought of his steely confidence and cringed. ‘I refuse to let him add one more scalp to his belt – particularly
that
Titian. I want it. And
I know you want it. But the way I see it, our joining forces would double our chances. We could share it.'

‘
Share it?
'

‘Stop repeating everything I fucking say!' she roared. ‘Think about it. If we keep quiet, then who's to know that we're sharing it? We have to act! Triumph's calling on all sorts – thieves, villains, and all the loser dealers out to make a buck. He'll be up to his knees in fakes within a week. And even if he does manage to flush out the Titian, he'll lose it when we offer a better deal.'

‘If
we hear of it.'

‘Let it be known that we're willing to top his offer and we'll hear of it.' She paused, confident. ‘Come on, Jobo, it's a good idea. You could have the Titian half the time and I could have it the other half. East meet West – it would be a cultural gesture.'

‘It would be a two-fingered gesture to Triumph,' Jobo replied, amused. ‘But I want the painting for my collection.'

‘And I want the painting for my husband. So what? We both want it, but Triumph wants it more.' She paused, her tone softening. ‘He's rich, but I'm richer. And you're no pauper, Jobo. Together we could match – and top – any amount Triumph can offer. Naturally we would have to draw up a contract.'

‘But to share the painting—'

‘It's your choice, Jobo,' she said succinctly. ‘Go halves, or get sod all.'

It was nearly eleven at the Kensington gallery as Nino finished reading the last of Ravenscourt's notes. There was no mention of the scapegoat, the man who had been the alternative suspect to Vespucci. And although the notes were detailed, most of the information was now available on the internet site, the creator of which was uploading new data continuously. Facts which had been long suppressed were now emblazoned for the world to read about. Only an hour earlier another copy of the portrait had been added, but this time there was an engraving of Vespucci's house in the background.

Nino knew that the house had long since been destroyed, that no evidence of the piazza remained. A hotel had been built on the site instead, The Skin Hunter's legend buried under four floors of bedrooms and power showers. Looking back at Ravenscourt's notes, Nino came across a later entry for Lena Arranti, matching it to the website. The date was the same: 8 December 1555.

Thoughtfully he jotted down the names of the victims, placing the dates of their death next to them.

Surprised, he stared at the dates, then reached for his own notes and compared them.

His heart raced. The killer
was
copying Angelico Vespucci, using his methods,
on the anniversaries of the Venetian murders
. There was only one date left unfilled – 1 January. On that day another woman would be killed and mutilated, another tribute offered up to The Skin Hunter. Someone would die. But who? And where?

It could be in London, Tokyo or Venice. It could be any woman, anywhere. And until Nino worked out
how
the women were connected, he had no way of finding the next victim.

Or saving her.

Suddenly the phone rang, an unfamiliar, friendly voice greeting him. ‘Is that Nino Bergstrom?'

‘Yes.'

‘This is Jean Netherton. You left me a message and asked me to get in touch. It's about Sally. Sally Egan.'

Relieved, Nino nodded. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. I'm investigating Sally's death—'

‘Are you the police?'

‘No, this is a private investigation.' He thought of Gaspare Reni. ‘I can give you a name if you want to check me out.'

She hurried on. ‘No, it's all right. I
want
you to look into Sally's death. The police don't seem to have anything and it's been two weeks since she died.' Her voice picked up. ‘I rowed with her that night. I'll never forgive myself.'

‘What did you argue about?'

‘I used to help look after Sally's father when she had a night out. Dear God, she deserved a break, but she was drunk when she got home and I overreacted.' She paused, struggling with her conscience. ‘Sally liked to have a good time.'

‘Sorry to be blunt, but was she promiscuous?'

‘Yes,' Jean agreed. ‘She liked men, liked sex. Well, I don't know about that. Maybe she just wanted to feel loved. Poor Sally had no one but her dad and lately even he didn't recognise her.'

‘Did she ever tell you she was being followed? That she'd had any strange visitors? Any odd phone calls?'

‘No, nothing. She just got on with her life. Looking after her dad was hard work and she had a job at a care home in the daytime. I don't suppose it was what she expected with all her talent—'

‘She was talented? How?'

‘Sally could paint, Mr Bergstrom. I don't mean dabble – she could really paint. She'd wanted to go to art school when she was younger, but what with her dad being ill, and her being his only relative, she had to give it up.' Jean paused, remembering. ‘She showed me a photograph once of a picture she'd done for someone. It was a copy of one of the Old Masters.'

‘D'you remember which one?'

‘No.'

‘D'you remember the painting?'

‘Oh yes,' Jean said eagerly. ‘It was a portrait of a man. Not a good-looking man – big, rather puffy eyes, wearing black clothes. It was old-fashioned. You know what I mean. The original must have been done centuries ago. Sally told me she'd been commissioned by a London dealer.'

Nino kept his voice calm. ‘You don't remember who the dealer was, do you?'

‘No,' Jean said regretfully, then brightened. ‘But I think I might still have the photograph of that painting. Sally was very angry one day, said she'd missed her chance and threw out all her drawings, everything she'd ever done, and all the photographs she'd taken of her work. I didn't tell her, but when she went to work I got them out of the bin.'

‘
You kept them?
'

‘Yes. I thought one day she might want them back …' Her voice caught. ‘She won't now though, will she?'

Nino paused before continuing. ‘Can I see what you saved?'

‘If it'll help find out who killed her, of course you can,' Jean said, giving Nino her address and arranging to meet him the following night. Then she paused, regretful. ‘She had a big heart, did Sally. But there was never anyone there to stand her corner or help her out. Not even me in the end.'

The house was a semi-detached in the suburbs of London, the mistress of the house nervous but welcoming. Shown into the sitting room, Nino took a seat on the red Dralon sofa and accepted a cup of tea. With biscuits. He could tell that Jean Netherton was uneasy, staring at him and taking a seat as far away as she could. He couldn't work out if it was because of who he was, or what she was about to show him.

‘Here they are,' she said, putting a box on the coffee table in front of Nino. ‘All Sally's drawings and photos.' She paused, unable to resist the question any longer. ‘Your hair – is it natural?'

Smiling, Nino shook his head. ‘No, I was ill. I recovered, but my hair turned white.'

‘Ah, I see,' she said, relieved. ‘I suppose it must help you a lot in your business?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Well, you look tough. I suppose that's important for a detective. You look like a man who can handle himself. I
mean, no one would take you seriously if you were a wimp, would they?'

Smiling again, Nino pulled the box towards him, taking off the lid and beginning to rifle through the remnants of Sally Egan's talent. He was startled by her ability. The drawings were impressive, even her sketches clever, and when he came to an envelope containing photographs he could feel his hands shake with anticipation. Scattering them on the table, he looked along the row of images. Jean pointed to the last one.

‘There it is!'

She didn't need to tell him – Angelico Vespucci's face was immediately recognisable. Picking up the photograph, Nino studied it intently.

‘She was good,' he said at last. ‘Titian wouldn't have been ashamed of that.'

‘I told you Sally had talent.'

‘And she did this for a London dealer?' he asked, turning over the photograph and trying to read some writing. It was faint, written in pencil, and it took him a moment to work it out. ‘Something Ahmadi … The first name begins with F and I think it's an A.' He glanced at Jean. ‘Ring any bells? Did Sally talk about a dealer called Ahmadi?'

Regretfully she shook her head. ‘No. She just said it was a dealer in London.'

‘Well, there won't be that many London dealers called Ahmadi.'

‘Oh, now wait a minute!' Jean said, remembering some-thing.
‘Sally said the painting was going abroad, somewhere exotic. She did tell me …' Irritated, she sighed. ‘It's no good, I can't remember.'

‘D'you know
when
Sally painted this?'

‘About three or four years ago. Long before I knew her.'

He pointed to the photograph. ‘Can I take it?'

‘Of course.'

‘You've been a big help,' Nino said, smiling and slipping it into his pocket.

‘D'you want to take the rest?'

He frowned, baffled. ‘What?'

‘Everything else. D'you want to take it?' Jean said, passing him the box. ‘Please, take it. Look at what she did, how clever she was. I know you're only really interested in that photograph, but I want someone to see Sally for what she really was. She wasn't like they say in the papers – she was unlucky, that was all. Look at her work, Mr Bergstrom. Don't judge Sally Egan by what she was when she died, judge her for what she
could
have been. If you do, somehow her death won't be such a waste.'