Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

And while they drove past the green and away from the Egan house, while Sally fell on to her bed and slid into a stupor, while poor Mr Egan dozed in his sedated sleep … someone watched the house. The same someone who had been watching it for days. The someone who was now crossing the green and climbing over the fence, trying the back door.

Sally Egan was right about one thing. She died single. She died childless. And she died that night.

BOOK TWO

… Titian seemed to us a most reasonable person, pleasant and obliging … if you should acknowledge his talents and labours by the promotion of his son ….

Gian Francesco Leoni, writing to Alessandro Farnese

15

St Bartholomew’s Hospital, London

Running as fast as he could, Nino hurried across the road and entered the hospital. At Reception he was told that Mr Gaspare Reni had been admitted the previous night and that his condition was now stable. Relieved, Nino made his way up the back stairs to the fourth floor, moving on to the ward and spotting Gaspare.

The old dealer was lying on his back asleep, a bruise the size of a fist on his left temple.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ a nurse said, approaching Nino, ‘you’ll have to wait until visiting time.’

Ignoring the comment, Nino turned to her. ‘How is he?’

‘Who are you?’

‘His son,’ Nino lied. ‘How is he?’

‘Doing well. He had a lucky escape,’ she replied. ‘Your father had a bad fall – it could have been much more serious.’

So he wasn’t the only one who was lying, Nino thought. Obviously Gaspare had given a sanitised version of events to the hospital, one that had no bearing on what he had told Nino over the phone.

Walking closer to the dealer’s bedside, Nino stared at the old man. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘You’ll have to ask the doctor—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Nino snapped. ‘Just tell me.’

‘Your father should recover fully.’

Leaving them alone, the nurse walked off and Nino sat down beside Gaspare’s bed. He ached to touch him but was afraid of waking the old man, and so he waited in silence, his hand lying half an inch from Gaspare’s. Seeing him so vulnerable, Nino felt pity and an affection for his surrogate parent. When he had been ill, Gaspare had cared for him. Now it was Nino’s turn.

‘You look tired.’

Surprised, Nino saw that the old man’s eyes had opened and he was looking directly at him.

‘You told the hospital you had a fall—’

‘Better that way,’ Gaspare replied, smiling at his visitor. ‘Thanks for coming back to London so quickly.’

‘What the hell were you doing?’

‘I thought I’d won,’ Gaspare said wryly. ‘I had an intruder and I went for him. I should have hit him harder. The poker only stunned him and he took it off me – and laid me out instead.’ Touching the bruise on his face, he tried to shrug. ‘I couldn’t stop him.’

‘Who was it?’

‘I dunno. A man threatened me, then broke into the gallery.’ There was a long pause. ‘He got the Titian.’

‘So what?’ Nino said bluntly. ‘He didn’t get you. Why didn’t you make a run for it? You should have got out of there.’

‘ He got the painting! ’ Gaspare repeated heatedly. ‘That was the last thing I wanted to happen. I never wanted that picture out of my hands.’ Wincing, he touched his temple. ‘Seraphina was right – I should have destroyed it. I’ll never forgive myself for that. What made me think I could protect it? Or keep it hidden? I should have burnt it.’

Trying to calm him, Nino took his hand. ‘Forget it. It’s gone. All that matters is that you’re going to be OK.’

He nodded, unconvinced. ‘What happened in Venice?’

‘We can talk about that when you’re better—’

‘Dear God, Nino, I’m not a child! Tell me what happened. Did you find anything out?’

‘I spoke to Tom Morgan, Seraphina’s husband.’

‘And? What was he like?’

‘Jumpy. But then any man would be after what had happened. He said they’d been very happy. He said …’ Nino paused, then went on, ‘Seraphina was pregnant when she died.’

Gaspare closed his eyes for an instant, then reopened them, staring at the ceiling. Nino could see he was fighting back tears.

‘D’you think he had anything to do with her death?’

‘Honestly? I’m not sure. But I doubt it. He didn’t seem very stable, but a killer? I wouldn’t think so.’ Nino paused, thinking back. ‘And he didn’t know about the painting. Or at least he wasn’t about to admit it if he did.’

‘So it was a wasted trip?’

‘Not entirely. Tom Morgan did say something that stuck in my mind. Apparently Seraphina had insisted that they move from their previous apartment. When I asked why, he told me that a woman had been killed there a long time ago. She was called Claudia Moroni.’

Gaspare shrugged. ‘The name means nothing to me.’

Pulling out a notebook, Nino balanced it on his knee and began to read. ‘I went to look up the records and finally discovered that the house had been owned by her husband – Ludovico Moroni – back in the 1550s. It took some doing, but I then found out that Claudia Moroni had been killed and mutilated … It happened weeks after Larissa Vespucci had been murdered. You remember what you told me?’

Gaspare took in a slow breath. ‘That four murders happened in the winter of 1555 to 1556, during the time that Titian was painting that bloody portrait. Did you find out who the other two victims were?’

‘No. After that, I hit a brick wall. Suddenly no one wanted to talk to me, or even show me any old records.’ He smiled grimly. ‘It could just be that they didn’t want some nosy foreigner poking around, but it seemed strange. Then I heard what had happened to you, and as I was leaving Venice I got message from a man called Johnny Ravenscourt. He said he’d like to talk to me.’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll call him later.’ Nino leaned back in his chair. ‘Shouldn’t you rest?’

‘I am tired,’ Gaspare admitted, closing his eyes. ‘Perhaps I’ll doze for a few minutes.’

When the dealer had fallen asleep, Nino left the ward and moved into the corridor outside, where he asked to see the doctor. On being told that he would have to wait, he sat down and opened the evening paper someone had left on the seat next to him. On the front page was the headline:

CARE WORKER SKINNED

He stared at the words, rereading them, certain he was mistaken. But the article made it clear :

Sally Egan, 34, a care worker who lived with her father, was stabbed and partially flayed last night. Her body was found by a paper boy this morning, displayed on the green of a London suburb.

It could have been any of a dozen murders, had it not been for the mention of the victim being skinned. Nino stared at the paper. Seraphina in Venice, Sally Egan in London. Two women killed in the same way, in the same week, after the Vespucci portrait had surfaced … There must be a connection, he thought, but what was it? What could the two women have in common?

Disturbed, he glanced down the corridor. The afternoon was failing, the great white orbs over his head giving off a sickly light. Finally, unable to wait another second, Nino moved out of the hospital into the car park. Hurriedly, he punched in Johnny Ravenscourt’s mobile number. A moment later, a high-pitched voice came on the line.

‘Hello?’

‘Johnny Ravenscourt? This is Nino Bergstrom—’

‘Oh, good, you called. Can we talk? I think we should, I really think we should. I heard that you’d been asking about The Skin Hunter, Angelico Vespucci. Well, I’m a criminolo-gist writing a book about serial killers.’ He laughed. ‘I know what you’re thinking – who isn’t writing about serial killers? I should have got on with it a long time ago. I’ve been writing it for years. But you see, my book’s about old serial killers. You know, not Ted Bundy and the like—’