Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘Let the police handle it—’

‘I’m not going to interfere with the Italian police. I just want to ask around a bit.’

‘You’ve been seriously ill—’

‘I’m fit now,’ Nino persisted.

‘It’s dangerous.’

‘Is it? Maybe so, maybe not. There might be no connection between Seraphina’s death and the portrait. But if there is, we need to find out what.’

‘Leave it to the experts—’

‘ There are no experts in this! It’s about Seraphina, her death, a painting and Angelico Vespucci.’ He put down his glass, turning to the dealer. ‘I’m fit again and I need to work. You won’t let me pay for my keep – or repay you for what you’ve done for me – so let me repay you this way.’ He pulled his chair closer to the old man. ‘I’m a quick learner, you know that. I’m used to dealing with people and I don’t scare easily. That picture came here. You can’t undo that. It came to you – and now Seraphina’s dead. I want to know why.’ He held the dealer’s gaze. ‘Tell me you don’t want the same.’

Venice, 1555

There was a rumour that the plague was returning to Venice, but this time we were spared, the merchants and the rich leaving their palaces and strutting about the piazzas like cockerels spared the knife. There is a fashion here for the men: at night the cloth covering their genitals is transparent, and some hang bells and tie ribbons on their appendages.

Meanwhile the industrious Titian is working on his latest portrait: a sitter known to Aretino, as licentious a man as any in Venice. Angelico Vespucci. When the contract was first signed Vespucci was respected, known to the Church, a giver of alms, a man loved by his servants for his kindness. They say he was gentle. They say he was generous. They say he loved his wife as no man had ever loved a woman before. Such was the noble merchant Aretino brought to the studio of Titian. Such was the sitter whose likeness was drawn out in red chalk.

The plague never came to Venice. Some other sickness came in its stead. On the night of November 11th the corpse I had seen dragged from the Lido was finally identified as Larissa Vespucci. When the news spilt over the city Venice talked of little else. And while her lover fled to Rome, she was buried in the Vespucci crypt on the Island of St Michael. Skinned like a fish, like a rabbit, a dog, like vermin. Skinned, relieved of the beauty she had over-used.

The following week I watched the loathsome Aretino passing by St Mark’s. This time he was walking with Angelico Vespucci.

Everyone suspects Vespucci of the murder of his wife. Everyone talks of it. But Vespucci is a wealthy man with clever friends. He slides into his pew on a Sunday at the Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, and clasps his hands together, looking upwards to the painting of the Assumption of the Virgin, his bulbous eyes catching the glance of no other.

Every week Vespucci slides himself and his wavering reputation to the studio of Titian. I have seen him enter, and wondered what the artist thinks of this sitter. Wondered if, as he draws in the line of brow or slant of cheek, he suspects that he is painting the likeness of a killer.

9

New York

Knowing that most of the important dealers would attend the auction in New York, it wasn’t a complete surprise when Farina spotted Jobo Kido in the lounge at the Four Seasons. Assuming her famous smile, she moved over to him, Jobo leaping to his feet and nodding as she approached.

‘Jobo! Lovely to see you.’

‘And you, Farina. I expect I will see many familiar faces at the auction,’ he replied, ushering her to a seat next to his. ‘Would you like some tea? Or a drink perhaps?’

She shook her head, eager to dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business. Important as the upcoming sale was, there was little of interest to Jobo Kido. So perhaps his trip to the USA had been for another reason? Perhaps he hoped that being among his peers he might hear the latest gossip? From the instant Farina had heard of the Titian she had suspected Jobo knew of it. It was too macabre, too peculiar to his taste, to pass unnoticed by the dealer. Jobo had many connections in London – surely one of them would have told him about the notorious find?

‘I was expecting to see you in New York,’ she said blithely. ‘Although it’s not a great sale. Not the kind of pieces you usually go for.’

‘Maybe it’s time to expand my interests.’

‘Or catch up?’

His eyes were steady. ‘On what, Farina?’

‘Any rumours, gossip.’

‘About what?’

She waved her hand around in the air. ‘Anything. Nothing. Who knows?’

You do, Jobo thought to himself. You’ve heard about the Titian, and you’re trying to pump me for information. His gaze rested for an instant on the table in front of them, then he looked back to her.

‘I think you’re having a little game with me, Farina.’

‘Never,’ she replied, smiling enigmatically.

‘So you’ve heard nothing of interest lately?’

‘About what?’

‘A painting?’

‘I didn’t think it would be about a second-hand Ford, Jobo,’ she replied smartly. ‘Why don’t you ask me straight out?’

‘Ask you what?’

‘What you want to know!’ she snapped impatiently.

He was too wily to be caught out. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Fine,’ she replied, rising to her feet. ‘Good to see you again, Jobo. No doubt we’ll bump into each other at the auction.’

No doubt we will, Jobo Kido thought, watching as she moved across the hotel lobby. His instincts told him what she wouldn’t – Farina Ahmadi knew about the Titian. Which meant that she would want it for her husband, using her money as a grappling hook to haul Angelico Vespucci to a new home in Turkey.

The hell she was, Jobo thought. If anyone was going to get the Titian, he was.

Leaning back in his seat, the dealer scanned the foyer, nodding to several people he knew and ordering some tea. From such a vantage point he could see who was arriving and should – by the end of the afternoon – know who was in New York for the sale. Of course there were easier, more discreet ways to find out, but Jobo wanted to be seen. Wanted everyone to know that he was in town. And in the running.

What he didn’t realise was that he too was being watched. By a tall African-American who was – at that moment – talking to Gaspare Reni on his mobile.

‘How are you?’ Triumph asked pleasantly. ‘Keeping well, I hope?’

Across the Atlantic Gaspare grimaced. So Triumph Jones was going to be the first, was he? And how many more dealers would be calling him in the days to come? How many people who had ignored him for a decade would suddenly remember his phone number? Gaspare had hoped that no one would have heard about the Titian. Had prayed it would stay a secret, hidden in his gallery’s eaves. But as soon as Gaspare heard from Triumph he knew the news was out.

‘I keep busy,’ Gaspare replied, answering the American’s question. ‘And you?’

‘Very busy. Look, Gaspare, I won’t lie to you – I’ve a reason for making this call.’ He tone was all lazy indifference. ‘I’ve heard about a painting. The Titian portrait of Angelico Vespucci.’

‘What about it?’

‘I heard that it’s in your possession.’

Some thought Gaspare Reni was past his best. In many ways, he was. Slower, certainly. Not as ruthless, as energetic as he had once been. But Gaspare had lost nothing of his basic cunning. And that, allied to the news of Seraphina’s murder, made him wily.

‘I admit I had the picture—’