Isle of the Dead (31 page)

After finishing his cigarette, Patrick was just about to re-enter the hospital and go back to work, when he paused. On a whim, he phoned the number Nino had given him, leaving a message on the answerphone.

Clicking off his mobile, Patrick ground out his cigarette stub under his foot and went back to work. He
would
remember the woman's name.

But before he had time to pass it on, Eddie Ketch would have caught up with him.

24 December

In New York, Triumph Jones was watching the television news, dumbstruck. Meanwhile, in London, Farina Ahmadi had been about to catch a plane for Turkey to meet up with her husband and sons, but was staring, incredulous, at her iPad. In Tokyo, Jobo Kido was hunched over his computer, ignoring his wife's phone calls and staring at the screen.

All three dealers were reacting to the new entry on the Vespucci site, an entry which had now become breaking news worldwide, the police caught off guard in the USA, Italy and Japan –

‘Look at this!' Gaspare shouted, calling for Nino. ‘God, you won't believe it.'

Staring at the TV screen, Nino blew out his cheeks. ‘He's upped the bloody ante. The bastard thinks he's untouchable. You know what he's doing, don't you? He's got bored with just copying Vespucci – he wants to outdo him.'

‘But he's putting the reward on his own head!' Gaspare replied, his tone baffled. ‘Everyone will be after it.'

‘Yeah, but he's got the Titian, so he figures that no one can find it.' Nino moved over to the computer and typed in angelicovespucci.1555.com. Immediately the press release came up, followed by a banner headline.

Turning the computer towards Gaspare, he pointed to the screen. ‘Look at that. He's advertising. He's tipping everyone off, telling them he's going to kill again. And
when
he's going to kill again. No one's going to miss this now. Not with that press release. It'll go worldwide.'

‘And someone will connect the murders.'

‘I'm amazed they haven't already,' Nino remarked. ‘It was only because they were committed in different countries that the connection wasn't made before. But they'll join up the dots now.'

‘It might help,' Gaspare said hopefully. ‘It might put women on their guard.'

‘Every woman on earth?' Nino queried. ‘It might have worked if it had just been London but the murder could
take place anywhere. It could be Italy, Tokyo, London. It could be one of the places he's hit before, or somewhere new. The woman he's got in mind could be working, travelling, or asleep in bed.
She could be anyone.
' Exasperated, he ran his hands through his hair. ‘One week to go, and I'm no nearer to knowing who she is. Someone must be able to tell me
something.
'

‘Forget Vespucci for a moment,' Gaspare said calmly. ‘Think of what else they have in common.'

‘The victims were all young and white. They all had jobs.'

‘Go on.'

‘Go on?' Nino snapped. ‘That's it! That's all I know.'

‘So think about the ways they
differed.
'

‘
What?
'

‘Just do it!'

Nino closed his eyes to concentrate. ‘Seraphina was married, and pregnant—'

‘With a child that wasn't her husband's.'

‘Yeah. Sally Egan was single, childless and promiscuous. Harriet Forbes was single, childless and gay.' He opened his eyes and turned to Gaspare, thinking aloud. ‘What if our killer's judging them like Vespucci would have done?'

‘Go on.'

‘Then he'd see them as adulteress, whore, deviant.'

‘What's missing?'

‘Happily married?'

Gaspare shook his head impatiently. ‘No, that wouldn't be immoral! He's copying the Italian, he thinks the victims
are all whores, so what else would he consider immoral? Don't think about it as we do now, think about it as it was in the past. What would have been judged immoral then?'

Sitting down, Nino thought back over everything he'd discovered, then nodded.

‘
She's a mistress.
A woman who sleeps with another woman's husband—'

‘Yes, that would make sense!'

‘Our next victim's a kept woman, Gaspare. Bought and paid for.' His excitement rose. ‘She's young, she has a job, she's white, and she's someone's mistress. And unless I find her, she's only got seven days left to live.'

Norfolk, 25 December

It was uncharitably cold as Nino arrived in Norfolk and headed for Courtford Hall, parking the car outside the gates and walking up to the house. Ice crackled under his feet and the imposing front door was bleached with frost as he lifted the knocker and rapped loudly.

It was Christmas Day, but there was no sign of it – no festive wreath, no tree, no decorations or lights, and when a lamp went on inside it shone disconsolately through the glass bullseye in the door. Finally there was a shuffle of feet, then the sound of the bolt being drawn back, and suddenly Nino was face to face with Sir Harold Greyly.

‘What?' he asked, his tone slurred, his usual composure giving way to the demeanour of a drunk. ‘What d'you want?' He blinked, standing up straight and staring at Nino as he pointed to his head. ‘I know you. You're the man with all that white hair. You came here before …' He was holding
a glass in his hand, tilting it so that some of the whisky dripped on to the flagstone floor.

‘Can I come in?'

‘Sure, sure,' Greyly said, too drunk to remember their previous acrimony.

Nudging Nino's back, he pushed him towards the sitting room, a fire banked high in the grate, fruitwood logs smelling of summer. But the walls were bare of cards or any other ornament and several dirty plates lay by the fire. Sir Harold Greyly had eaten, obviously, but not cleared up, the same fork pressed into service for every meal.

‘Happy Christmas. It
is
Christmas Day, isn't it?'

‘Yeah, it's Christmas Day.'

‘You got nowhere to go?' he asked, his speech haphazard as he gestured to the drinks cupboard. ‘Fancy a tipple?'

Surprised, Nino shook his head. Was Harold Greyly really so drunk that he couldn't remember what had happened when they last met?

‘Are you on your own?'

‘All on my own,' Greyly snorted. ‘Christmas and all on my own. My wife and I – we had a fight you see …'

‘No staff here either?'

‘I gave them Christmas off,' Greyly replied, smiling at his own largesse. ‘I didn't need them anyway.'

He poured himself another drink and flopped into an armchair. At his feet, the springer spaniels shuffled about for room, finally curling up again closer to the fire. The wood crackled, sparks shooting up the chimney, the logs piled precariously high.

‘My wife left me. Said she hated me … Up and went. Kids all grown up, so now there's no one left. 'Cept me,' Greyly droned on, narrowing his eyes at Nino. ‘What did you come for?'

‘Now?'

‘Now, and back then. I know you've been here before, but I can't remember why.'

Sighing, he slopped some of the booze on to his shirt and brushed it away. Despite the fire, the temperature in the room was chill, due to a draught coming from under the doorway which led into another room. A draught which suggested an open door beyond. Wary, Nino glanced around him, his gaze coming to rest on the drinks trolley. There were five bottles of whisky, three empty – and beside them was another glass which had been used recently.

‘You've had company?'

Greyly belched, patting his stomach, and pointed to a photograph of his wife and two sons. ‘They've gone—'

‘When?'

‘A week ago.'

‘Why did they go?'

‘Apparently I'm a pig. Come from a long line of pigs. Pig family. Only I'm a titled pig … A swine with a gong …' Greyly replied insanely, slurring his words. But although he was drunk there was something else about him. Drugged? Nino wondered. Was he on drugs?

‘Are you ill?'

‘Pissed.'

‘Apart from that,' Nino pressed him. ‘Have you been ill?'

Galvanised, Greyly leant forward in his chair, staring at Nino. ‘You came to the house with Hester – I remember now! She was a nosy old bat, but kind. She brought you here—'

‘That's right.'

Greyly slumped back in his seat. ‘Hester's dead now.'

‘I know – she fell.'

To Nino's surprise, Greyly put his index finger to his lips, jerking his head towards the closed door.

Following has gaze, Nino glanced over. The draught still snaked from underneath. It was too cold, he realised – too cold for the temperature of a house.
Someone had left the back door open.
Someone who had left in a hurry. Someone who had watched him arrive and didn't want to be seen.

‘Who's been here?'

‘No one …' Harold replied, picking at the corner of his left eye.

By his feet the dogs snuffled and shifted around in their sleep, the room morose and unwelcoming as Greyly carried on drinking. Nino could feel the cold slithering around him. Silently, he moved towards the door.

But as he reached it, Greyly shook his head.

‘
No!
'

Nino paused, turning back to him. ‘Who's in there?'

‘No one.'

‘There are two used glasses, so you must have had company. You might
still
have company. Who is it?'

Teetering to his feet, Greyly grabbed Nino's arm. His expression was fearful – even his drunkenness couldn't disguise that.

‘There's no one here. Sit down and have a drink with me.' His grip increased on Nino's arm. Even inebriated, he was very strong. ‘Sit with me! I've no one else. Fuck them all! I've no one left and it's Christmas. I don't like fucking Christmas anyway, all that posturing about. All that lord of the manor stuff.' He burped acidly. ‘My wife's wrecked everything, you know. All families have secrets –
all
families. But no, she couldn't live with it. Cow …' He dragged Nino away from the door, pushing him into the seat next to his. His condition was deteriorating rapidly, his attention wavering. It wasn't just alcohol – there was something else. ‘You came to the house with Hester.'

‘Yes, I did,' Nino agreed, leaning towards him. ‘And she wrote a letter to me, about Claudia. Claudia Moroni.'

Greyly's eyes were half closed, the glass tilted, whisky dribbling on to the front of his trousers.

Taking the glass from him, Nino shook his shoulder. ‘Listen to me! I want to talk about Claudia Moroni.'

‘She's dead too …'

‘I know,' Nino replied, ‘but you remember her story, don't you? Hester wrote and told me about her. About what happened to Claudia, why she had to leave England.' He shook Greyly again, trying to regain his attention. ‘She was an ancestor of yours, and she was killed in Venice.'

His eyes widened, fixed on Nino, suddenly alert. ‘
Venice?
'

‘Yes, Venice. She was killed by Angelico Vespucci.'

Nino could see some semblance of coherence returning, but as it did so, he could feel a heightening of the draught coming from under the door, and he had the sudden and unpleasant sensation of someone having entered; someone who was now listening to their conversation.

‘Did someone come to see you today?'

‘I don't know.'

Nino dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Did someone come to see you?'

‘No. No …'

‘Who was it?'

‘No one,' Greyly blathered. ‘There was no one … no one … There's no one left. No one …' His voice slid off, his head sinking on to his chest as he passed out.

Uneasy, Nino stood up, looking around for anything he could use as a weapon. Picking up a poker from the grate, he moved silently towards the door and opened it, standing back in case anyone rushed out at him. But there was no one there, only the draught, coming stronger and stronger. Stealthily he passed through the library, moving into the kitchen beyond. The room was in semi-darkness, but there was enough light to see a door swinging open.

A door which led out into the yard beyond.

Rachel Pitt knew it wasn't ideal, that he would probably never leave his wife. All married men said they loved you. That one day, when the time was right, they would tell their wives about you. Of course there never was a right time. If they ever did pick a day then one of the children would be ill, or the wife would be having a bad time at work, and he
couldn't
, just couldn't tell her now. He would, in time. But not this time.

It wasn't as though Rachel hadn't set deadlines over the previous two years.
If he hasn't left his wife by June
, she swore,
I'll finish the relationship
. But June always slid into July, then tripped the light fantastic down to Christmas. Which she always spent alone. A few times she had gone home, but her mother was divorced and Rachel could hardly see herself confiding. The grim reality of her mother's life – of her hatred of men and her increasing isolation – served as a mirror to her own existence. Was this to be her lot? If her lover didn't leave his wife, would she find herself too old and too bitter to find someone else?