Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘How’s your business doing?’ Nino asked suddenly.

‘Fine. How’s yours?’

‘This place,’ Nino said, looking around, ‘must cost a lot to maintain. Do you rent it or own it?’

‘Rent it. We still own the other apartment.’

‘You owned the one you moved from?’

‘Yeah.’

Nino didn’t know why he asked the question, it just came out. ‘Why did you move from the other flat?’

‘It had bad vibes …’ Tom said, laughing and regaining his seat. He rummaged around in the ashtray for the stub of his joint and relit what was left. ‘Seraphina found out there’d been a murder there. It was supposed to have happened centuries ago. But then, I reckon every apartment in this city has a past. The place is so old, it must be littered with murders.’ He paused, remembering his dead wife. ‘Seraphina’s just one more, isn’t she? Just one more victim.’ His left hand waved idly in the air. ‘The police tell me that I can’t leave Venice. But I didn’t have anything to do with my wife’s death. I loved Seraphina, I couldn’t have hurt her. Her parents know that. They must know that.’ He turned to Nino anxiously. ‘Do they suspect me?’

‘No.’

‘Do you?’

‘Should I?’ Nino countered. ‘I mean, if what you’ve told me is true, you were both happy. In love, in a new apartment. Why would you kill her? And in such a brutal way?’

‘I couldn’t!’ he snapped. ‘I couldn’t do that to anyone … Only a madman could have done that.’

‘Just one more thing,’ Nino said, following a hunch. ‘Did you ever find out the name of the person who was killed in your old apartment?’

‘Some woman,’ Tom said dismissively. ‘Is it important?’

‘Maybe.’

Sighing, he concentrated, then glanced back at Nino. ‘Claudia Moroni. I remembered it because of the painter Moroni.’

The name meant nothing to Nino, but he made a mental note of it anyway. He had hoped to draw out more information from Tom Morgan, and was disappointed. He had longed for a slip-up, a giveaway word, but it seemed that Morgan had nothing to give away. Or nothing to hide.

‘Why would you do it?’

‘ What? ’

‘Kill your wife.’

‘ I didn’t! ’ he snapped. ‘I loved Seraphina – I love her even more now.’

‘Now?’

‘She was pregnant,’ he said sadly. ‘Seraphina was going to have my child.’

12

It was two thirty the following afternoon when Gaspare Reni heard the knocking coming from below. The gallery was closed, but apparently the visitor was either unable to read the sign or unable to take no for an answer. Puzzled, he waited for the knocking to end, but it continued, persistent and unsettling. He had always insisted that customers or dealers make appointments in advance, so that he would know who to expect. After all, he was getting old and the gallery was crammed with expensive pieces. Who knew who might walk in off the street?

Irritated, Gaspare moved to the window and looked down to the pavement below. From his vantage point, he could see the top of a man’s head illuminated in the winter lamplight and ducked back when the figure looked up. But it was too late, he had been spotted. And the knocking began again.

Reluctantly, he moved down the stairs. Then, checking that the chain was on, Gaspare opened the front door.

‘We’re closed!’

‘Mr Reni,’ the figure said, trying to push against the door as Gaspare pushed back, ‘perhaps we could talk?’

Anxious, the dealer put all his weight against the door and slammed it shut. Relocking it, he leaned against the wood, breathing heavily. But the man outside wasn’t going anywhere.

‘That’s hardly polite,’ he said. ‘I only want to talk to you. About the painting.’

‘Go away!’ Gaspare snapped, unsettled. ‘Or you can ring me for an appointment—’

‘Where did you put it, Mr Reni?’ the voice continued. ‘In a bank? In safe storage? No, you’re old school, aren’t you? I think it’s still with you in your gallery …’

Gaspare could feel his heart pounding as the man continued to talk.

‘Hidden where? In the cellar? There are windows down there, Mr Reni, easy enough to break in. Or is the Titian in the attic?’ A soft laugh. ‘Simple to enter from the roof, wouldn’t you say? Anyone could do it. Could creep in and surprise you. You wouldn’t like that. To come across a thief. Why, they might attack you. Even kill you.’ He paused, taunting the old man. ‘You have such a big gallery, haven’t you? So many rooms, so many windows, so many ways to get in.’

‘ Go away! ’

‘Why risk yourself for a picture, Mr Reni? Even a Titian?’

Stumbling away from the door, Gaspare hurried into the nearest room and grabbed the phone, dialling 999. He could hear it ring out, then there was silence. The line had been cut. Alarmed, he dropped the phone, backing against the wall as he heard footsteps outside the front door. Someone was rattling the handle, shaking it vigorously, the brass knocker vibrating madly against the wood.

His heart seemed to be filling his chest, blood fizzing in his ears, as he thought of the hidden painting. His hands groped at his collar, loosening it as he gulped at the air. The voice called out to him again.

‘You’re on your own, Mr Reni. No one else there, is there? You’re on your own. One old man. You haven’t a chance. Just hand the painting over and I’ll go away. Just give it up, before things get nasty … I know you can hear me, so let’s get this sorted out.’

There was a pause.

‘Mr Reni, don’t be stupid …’

Another pause.

‘Think about it.’

Again, a pause.

‘This isn’t over. I’ll come back.’

Then there was silence.

Tensing, Gaspare listened as the footsteps walked away. Barely breathing, he heard them fade, then relaxed, slumping on to the sofa. Sweat was running down his face, his hands shaking as he leaned back against the cushions. How did anyone know that he had the Titian? How had anyone found out that it was in his possession? Had Seraphina talked before her death? Had Triumph? No, Gaspare thought desperately, he had told the American that the portrait had been destroyed. So who else knew? Had Nino given him away?

No, not Nino. He would never have put him in danger.

Still trying to slow down his breathing, Gaspare realised the danger he was in. The man had been right: he was alone and defenceless, and the capacious gallery was an easy target. If his tormenter had cut the phone line, he would certainly have disabled the burglar alarm … Gaspare listened, but there wasn’t a sound coming from outside the door. The man had gone. He had delivered his threat and gone.

In the semi-darkness Gaspare felt his heart rate finally settle, and a few minutes later he was recovered enough to move. Getting to his feet, the dealer moved into the back kitchen and locked the doors, turning to the stairs and then stopping dead.

There were footsteps overhead.

Whoever had been outside was now inside.

13

It took all of Gaspare’s courage to mount the stairs. His heart hammering, he looked up the stairwell towards the noise above. Where was it coming from? The bedrooms? The attics? His hand gripping the banister rail, Gaspare Reni – seventy-eight years old, born in Milan, art dealer and historian – climbed the stairs. Composure replaced the earlier panic. Now he was enraged at being made to feel a victim in his own home. And determined that no one would get hold of the Titian.

Before Seraphina’s death he might have tried to shrug off his fear, but her murder had confirmed it. The painting was dangerous. He couldn’t allow it to leave his possession. People might mock the legend of Angelico Vespucci, but Gaspare believed it. He was old enough to be able to imagine possibilities he would have sneered at in his youth. Experienced and humble enough to fear what he didn’t understand.