Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

As ever, the monstrous nature of the sitters did not repel but rather intrigued Jobo. He was sure that there was a clue in their appearance, some insinuation of violence in the features. But although he had looked at his exhibits for many years the explanation continued to elude him. Every image was well known, studied minutely, the dealer’s obsession increasing with every purchase, every image of a killer. But in among the photographs, pictures and drawings he knew something vital was missing for a notable collection. Skill.

His collection might display the skills of the killer, but not those of the artist.

The photographs Jobo had collected were press fodder – nothing remarkable, and certainly nothing to rival Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci. He stared at the images intently. It was true that his collection was impressive, but it lacked the definitive piece – a portrait of a famous killer, painted by a famous artist. He ached for the Titian. Staring at the display, Jobo mentally moved the resident images to make space for the Vespucci portrait. Owning a masterpiece would make his collection respectable; no longer to be sneered at but admired. After all, who could belittle a Titian?

Unfortunately the unknown caller had not got back in touch. Jobo had waited for a week for further contact, but there had been none, and he was getting impatient. Obviously the man had gone elsewhere and unless Jobo was careful he would find himself sidelined. He had two choices – he could either take a risk and wait for further developments, or set his own personal cat to put a flurry in the dovecotes.

Once decided, Jobo moved into the office at the back of the gallery and tapped out a number on the phone. His desire for the Titian had made him unusually reckless, determined to force action.

‘Hello?’

Jobo’s voice was all sweet concern. ‘Triumph, is that you?’

‘Jobo?’ the American replied, drawing out the name like a piece of ribbon. ‘What are you calling me for? It must be the middle of the night in Tokyo.’

‘I couldn’t sleep. And neither could you – if you knew what I do,’ Jobo said enigmatically. ‘I’ve just seen the Titian.’

There was a silence on the other end. ‘Where?’

‘Well, I’ve not actually seen it, I’ve just seen a photograph.’ Jobo was making it up as he went along, trying to draw Triumph out and discover what he knew. ‘Someone sent me a note in the mail.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. But it said that they’d also approached you about the portrait …’ He paused, sly to a fault. When Triumph didn’t respond, he threw the dice again … ‘and Farina Ahmadi.’

‘No one’s been in touch with me, Jobo.’

Jobo didn’t believe that for an instant. ‘What about Farina?’

‘She hasn’t mentioned it.’

Jobo sighed expansively. ‘Oh, that’s all right then. I’m so glad I talked to you, Triumph. You know what I think, don’t you? The painting’s a hoax – someone’s just trying to scam the dealers. Well, I’m not going to be taken in,’ he said, his tone light. ‘Sorry I disturbed you.’

For several minutes after they had concluded the call, Jobo sat in his office with the door open, gazing at his private gallery, his own personal assembly of freaks. He might have found out nothing, but he knew that his call would have immense repercussions. The American would realise that the news was out, and that it had travelled as far as Japan. There was no doubt that Triumph Jones had earned his sobriquet and his impressive cunning would ensure that he investigated any trail, even a false one.

What would happen next was anybody’s guess, but the Titian was up for grabs and at least three dealers were after it. With such a coterie of egos nothing – not even Angelico Vespucci’s portrait – could remain hidden for long.

18

At one time there had been some sort of order to Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes, but as time went by the precise jottings had been replaced with slips of paper and reminders etched on the back of serviettes and empty cigarette packages. Old, barely decipherable newspaper cuttings were shuffled in among reproductions of Angelico Vespucci’s portrait, along with contemporary engravings. In every one of them the same bulbous, heavy-lidded eyes gazed out, the eyes Nino remembered seeing the night Seraphina brought the portrait to Kensington. The eyes which had been covered by a blanket when the painting had been lodged, temporarily, in the eaves above the convent gallery.

Concerned for Gaspare’s safety, Nino was pleased that the dealer had to stay in hospital for further tests. Nothing serious, the doctor reassured him – ‘just to be on the safe side’. He didn’t know how true the words were. Back at the Kensington gallery, Nino discovered where the thief had broken in and had the window repaired, changing the door locks as an added precaution.

But when he visited Gaspare in hospital that afternoon, Nino was unprepared for the dealer’s refusal to involve the police.

‘Keep them out of it!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want anyone to know about the painting. No one knows about the break-in – and no one will.’

‘You were attacked—’

‘ For the painting! ’ Gaspare remonstrated. ‘Now they’ve got it, why would they bother to come back? There’s no danger for us.’ He pointed to the newspaper which reported Sally Egan’s death. ‘We have other things to think about. That girl, for instance. Why was she killed in that way? Not another coincidence, surely. She must have some connection to the Titian portrait or Vespucci himself.’

Nino shrugged. ‘Why? It’s rare, but victims have been skinned before—’

Gaspare cut him off.

‘But why would it happen now ? Just when the painting of The Skin Hunter ’s come to light? No. There’s a connection, there has to be.’ He looked around the private room, grateful that no one could overhear them. ‘Did you talk to the Raven-scourt man?’

‘Yes, I did, and he gave me his research, all his notes, everything he’d ever found out about Vespucci.’

‘Really?’ Gaspare replied, wary. ‘What’s in them?’

‘I dunno, I haven’t had a chance to read them yet. I’m going to look at them when I get back to the gallery.’

Picking up the newspaper, Gaspare read the headline again.

‘First Seraphina, now this woman … You think they had something in common? I do. I’m sure something connects them.’

‘Like Vespucci?’

Gaspare nodded thoughtfully. ‘We need to go back to where it all began – in Venice. We need to know about Vespucci’s victims. See if they had any connection to each other. Then we can see if they have any connection to Seraphina and Sally Egan.’

Nino paused, thinking back.

‘You told me that Vespucci got away with the murders because there was another suspect—’

‘But I don’t know who. No one does.’

‘Unless he’s named in Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes,’ Nino suggested.

The old man leaned forward in his hospital bed, suddenly alert. ‘Read them!’ he said urgently. ‘Read them!’

‘And what do we do about the painting?’

‘Forget about that for now! It’s gone. It could well have been stolen to order – that’s not unknown in the art world. It might be on its way to New York or Berlin as we speak. God knows how many dealers went after it—’

‘But how would they know about it?’

‘Seraphina?’

‘She only told Johnny Ravenscourt.’

‘And how many people did he tell?’ Gaspare asked perceptively. ‘What kind of a man is he?’

‘Scared. He was very close to Seraphina.’

‘D’you think he could have stolen the Titian?’