Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘ Old serial killers?’

‘From past times. Like Vespucci,’ Johnny replied. ‘I did the usual suspects – Vlad the Impaler, Genghis Khan, even the more modern ones like Son of Sam, but then they were so boring, the stories so well known. And then I heard about Vespucci—’

‘How’d you hear about him?’

‘Goodness,’ he replied, his tone amusingly camp. ‘You are suspicious!’

‘I’m just careful. You leave a message for me and I don’t know anything about you. I don’t even know how you heard about me.’

‘People gossip,’ Johnny replied. ‘Venice gets very boring in the winter and strangers are always good copy. You came, apparently with a dashing head of white hair, and everyone noticed. Then you started asking questions about one of the city’s least popular residents and it was reported back to me.’

‘Why?’

‘People know I used to be a dealer and that I’m interested in Vespucci, so naturally they told me about you.’ He paused, affecting a hurt tone. ‘We don’t have to talk. I just thought—’

‘No, I’d like to talk.’

‘Good. Come and see me.’

‘I can’t. I’m back in London.’

‘I’m back in London too,’ Johnny replied, ‘staying at my flat off South Molton Street. Number 234 – you’ll see my name on the door. Shall we say around seven?’

‘Fine,’ Nino replied, glancing down the corridor and noticing a doctor approaching him. ‘I have to go now—’

‘When we meet, remind me to tell you about the Contessa di Fattori, will you?’ Johnny went on, his tone unreadable. ‘Now, there was a dangerous woman.’

16

After Nino had talked to Gaspare’s doctor and been reassured that his ‘father’ would recover, he headed for South Molton Street. The evening was frenzied with the first of the early Christmas shoppers, traffic listless and heading for the West End, or Claridges in the next block. Buzzing the intercom marked Johnny Ravenscourt , Nino heard the door click open and climbed the stairs. As he approached Flat 3 he was greeted by two pug dogs barking shrilly at the door.

‘Oh, do stop it!’ Johnny said, shooing them to one side and waving for Nino to enter. ‘Ignore them, they’re just being silly.’

The effeminate voice that Nino had heard on the phone did not in any way prepare him for the strapping appearance of Johnny Ravenscourt. Tall and bulky, he had heavy Germanic features, dyed black hair and a slack mouth. As he busied himself chivvying his dogs, his colossal hands flapped like wounded birds.

Finally, he sat down on a Regency settee and looked over at Nino. ‘So?’

‘So,’ Nino replied, bemused.

‘You came to talk?’ Johnny said, jumping to his feet again and pouring them both a gin and tonic. Smiling, he passed one to Nino and regained his seat. His nerves were obvious and surprising. ‘How do we start?’

‘ You wanted to talk to me .’

‘Oh yes,’ Johnny replied, crossing his weighty legs and smoothing the crease on his trousers. ‘About murder.’

‘About Angelico Vespucci.’

Johnny sipped his drink, pausing for effect. ‘Yes, Vespucci.’

‘I couldn’t find out much about him,’ Nino went on. The room felt overheated and stuffy, the towering Italian furniture dwarfing its modest proportions. ‘Is there anything I can read? Any books?’

‘Mostly hearsay.’

‘But?’

‘You’ve guessed, haven’t you?’ Johnny said, getting up again and placing a thick sheaf of papers on the table in front of his guest. ‘Those’ he said, jabbing at them with a stubby forefinger, ‘are all about The Skin Hunter.’

Wary, Nino looked at the notes. ‘I’m very grateful – but why are you helping me?’

‘I heard that you’d been hired to look into the death of Seraphina di Fattori. That’s why. Are you being paid well?’

Hesitating, Nino paused. He had used up the last of his savings on the Venice trip and was beginning to wonder how he could continue his investigation without financial support. He could approach Gaspare, but the dealer had already done more than enough for him. Asking for a fee seemed like insulting Gaspare, who was mourning Seraphina and himself a victim of an attack.

‘I could use some cash,’ Nino admitted at last.

‘Then it’s yours,’ Ravenscourt said, his tone indifferent, as befitted a wealthy man. ‘I’ll give you a retainer now and you let me know how much you need as you go along. Oh, and keep this between us, will you? I’d rather people didn’t know of my interest.’ He shifted in his seat, his figure bulky on the elegant sofa. ‘Seraphina was my friend. She was very kind to me when I had a little … upset … with a gentleman in a bar. I mean, I’m gay.’ He regarded Nino for a moment as though daring him to challenge the words. When he didn’t, Johnny continued. ‘Seraphina was a rare creature who didn’t judge people. I find that a remarkable quality, don’t you?’ Before Nino had time to answer, Johnny hurried on. ‘But I don’t like her husband. I think Tom Morgan’s a bad lot.’

‘You think he had something to do with her death?’

‘No, but I think he had a lot to do with her life,’ Johnny replied enigmatically.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Seraphina went to London to get away from him. She loved him, but she needed a break. She was pregnant, you see, and worried about it.’

Nino made no show of having already known. ‘Didn’t she want the baby?’

‘She did. Tom didn’t.’

‘Did they argue about it?’

‘Constantly. Seraphina had been pregnant before, in their old apartment. She was never happy there, hated the place, but Tom wanted to stay there. Said it was impressive – but when Seraphina lost the baby she insisted they move. A little while later, she asked me to find out about the history of the old building.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. It had once belonged to the Moroni family. And – would you believe it? – Claudia Moroni was murdered. And partially skinned.’ He waited for a response, but when Nino didn’t give him one, he continued. ‘I told Seraphina what I’d found out – and now I can’t stop wondering about what happened to her . To die in the same way … It can’t be a coincidence. It just can’t. And then you came to Venice and started asking questions and I knew that if I went to the police, they would brush me off. Laugh at any connection with the house, or Vespucci.’

‘But you think there’s one?’

‘Mr Bergstrom, I’m not a fool,’ Johnny replied curtly. ‘Seraphina came back from her trip to London and she was upset. Really upset. I thought it was because of her hormones. You know, pregnant women get tearful about the slightest thing—’

‘She didn’t strike me as the tearful kind.’

‘She wasn’t usually, but she was scared.’ He paused, looking back and remembering. ‘Eventually she told me about the painting …’

Nino blew out his cheeks.

‘… I haven’t told anyone else! ’ Johnny said hurriedly. ‘Seraphina made me promise and I’ve kept that promise. I know you met up in London. I know she found the Titian. And I know she’s dead and I want to understand why.’ He pushed the notes closer to Nino. ‘Go on, read about him, about Vespucci. It’s taken me nearly fourteen years to get all that information together. Cost me a lot of money too. I found out who and what he was, what he did, and what he tried to do to avoid punishment. I read about his cronies, his murders, and about the folklore which grew up around him.’

‘Which was?’

‘ When the portrait emerges, so will the man, ’ Johnny laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, it’s fantastic, of course! That’s what I thought anyway. Until Seraphina, my friend, came back from London and told me that the portrait had turned up. And then I started to worry …’ He stroked one of his dogs, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Somehow she had found out about her ancestor, the Contessa di Fattori. And the fact that she’d been murdered by Vespucci.’