Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

Taken aback, Triumph regarded the handsome white-haired man, then glanced back at Gaspare.

‘This is private.’

‘Then you can bugger off!’ Gaspare snapped. ‘Talk in front of Nino, or go.’

Reluctantly, Triumph pulled one of the plastic chairs towards him and sat down, ignoring Nino as he stood at the foot of the old man’s bed. Twice he cleared his throat, then ran his hand over his smooth, bald head. He voice was, as ever, languorously slow.

‘I came to talk to you about the Titian painting. And before you say a word, Gaspare,’ he admonished him, ‘I know you didn’t destroy it. It was stolen.’

Nino raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you steal it?’

‘Do I look like a thief?’

‘I don’t know what a thief looks like,’ Nino replied, not in the least cowed by the American’s imperious manner. ‘But if you didn’t steal the painting, how d’you know it was taken?’

‘I had someone watching Gaspare’s gallery.’

Irritated, the old man threw back the bed clothes and sat up, tugging on his dressing gown. Walking over to the window, he opened it and stared out. ‘I need some fresh air.’ His tone was contemptuous as he looked back at Triumph. ‘How dare you come here and tell me that you were watching my home!’

‘It was for your own good—’

‘ My own good! You spied on me for my own good?’ Gaspare echoed mockingly. ‘So – did you see who took the Titian? Or is that too much to ask?’

‘We were too late.’

‘To see him? Or stop him?’ Nino asked, moving closer to the American.

‘We were too late to see him. I was told that an ambulance had taken you to hospital and that there was a broken window at the gallery. It was obvious what had happened. But I don’t know who took the painting, or I’d tell you.’

‘I doubt that,’ Nino replied, as Gaspare slammed the window shut and leaned against the sill.

‘Were you going to steal the Titian from me, Triumph?’

‘No, I was going to buy it.’

Puzzled, Gaspare caught Nino’s eye, then sat down at the foot of the bed.

‘So what have you come here for? I don’t have the painting any longer. And I don’t see how I can help you. I’m a has-been, an old dealer with no clout. I understand why you contacted me after the Titian emerged, but why take the trouble to come to London to talk to me now?’ Reaching for his glasses, he put them on, peering at the American. ‘What are you up to? Or, more precisely, what have you done?’

‘I need to talk to you alone,’ Triumph repeated, glancing over at Nino. ‘What I want to say is for your ears only.’

Gaspare shook his head. ‘No, I want a witness to everything you say, Mr Jones. Because I don’t trust you.’ He looked the elegant American up and down. ‘Why did the Titian suddenly turn up? It was missing for centuries – why did it just pop up out of thin air?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Gaspare said, folding his arms, defiant in a dressing gown. ‘You’re famous, one of the biggest hitters in the art world. Notorious for your contacts. It didn’t surprise me that you discovered I had the portrait, but now I’m wondering how I came to have it. I mean, it was very convenient that the picture was found. Very lucky, that. Or did you plan it?’ He glanced over at his visitor. ‘You look stressed, Triumph, like a man with something on his conscience.’

Playing for time, the American hesitated. If he had been alone with Gaspare Reni he would have confessed, sought some kind of absolution from the old man. But they weren’t alone and he wasn’t going to say anything which would implicate him.

It was Nino who broke the deadlock. Turning to Gaspare, he said, ‘I’ll leave you to it—’

‘No, I want you to stay.’

‘You won’t find anything out if I stay here,’ Nino replied, walking out.

It was several seconds before Triumph Jones spoke again. Several seconds in which he struggled with his conscience, wondering how much to conceal and how much to reveal. Should he confess to everything? Or try to minimise his deceit? But when he glanced over at Gaspare and saw the look of disdain on the old man’s face, he was shamed into a full confession.

‘I never meant for any of this to happen,’ Triumph began, his head bowed. ‘Someone came to me with the Titian portrait. I paid a reasonable sum – the man was no dealer and glad of what he got. I should have stopped then, but my ego didn’t let me.’ He wouldn’t look up, didn’t dare. ‘I thought it would be amusing to hold back on it for a while, work up some real publicity for the painting. So I resurrected the story, the so-called legend – “ When the portrait emerges, so will the man. ”’ It was bound to catch on.’

Gaspare’s face was expressionless. ‘And all this publicity would drive up the value of the work.’

Triumph paused, his voice catching. ‘I didn’t know Seraphina di Fattori would find it. I didn’t know she would take it to you. You of all people! What was the chance of that?’

Gaspare shrugged. ‘You said yourself, whoever found it would take it to a gallery or a dealer. Why’s that so surprising? Anyway, the painting’s gone. Stolen. You’ve lost. Is that what’s eating away at you?’

‘It’s not that!’ Triumph replied. ‘Seraphina was killed in Venice. And now another woman’s been killed in London. In exactly the same way as Vespucci killed his victims.’

‘In the sixteenth century! You’re not believing your own publicity now, are you? Dear me, Mr Jones, I wouldn’t have thought you were the gullible type.’ Gaspare’s voice had a hard edge. ‘I admit that I fell for it. But then again, I’m Italian – superstitious. I believe in legends. I was even a little afraid. You fooled me – well done. For a moment I thought that the Titian could summon up something, or someone, from the grave. It was a stroke of genius, Triumph, and you deserve your success. Your imagination and flair for publicity is second to none.’ He clapped his hands sardonically, then paused. ‘Unfortunately it’s backfired, and it’s going to cost you. Worse than that, it’s already cost two women their lives.’

‘You can’t be sure of that—’

‘You know I’m right,’ Gaspare replied, cutting him off. ‘There are some unstable people in this world. People who admire killers. People who read about them, write about them. Some even emulate them.’

Taking in a breath, Triumph looked at the dealer. Someone’s copying Vespucci, aren’t they?’

‘How would I know? You created your own Frankenstein’s monster – how can I predict what it will do? Maybe your greed made you meddle with a dangerous ghost. Maybe it just brought the memory of a killer back to life. But it tripped someone into action.’

The elegant American was sweating, his hands pressed together. ‘How do we stop it?’

‘It? Or him?’ Gaspare queried. ‘Why ask me? You started something. You did it. You live with it.’

And as Triumph Jones rose to his feet the news broke over the Internet that a woman had been killed in the lavatory of Tokyo Airport. She had been stripped, stabbed, and partially flayed.

BOOK THREE

… I am so fond of brothels, that the large amount of time I don’t spend in them almost kills me …

Pietro Aretino

What really makes me marvel is that … [Titian] … fondles them, makes a to-do of kissing them, and entertains with a thousand juvenile pranks. Yet he never takes it further …

Pietro Aretino

23

Pausing as she applied her lipstick, Farina Ahmadi lost patience and threw it to one side. She couldn’t remember where she had heard it – apart from on the news – but the name Sally Egan seemed familiar to her. She ran it over on her tongue … Egan, Sally Egan … but nothing came to her. Surely this murder victim – this care-home worker – hadn’t been a client of hers? Farina paused, pressing her memory into service as she reached for the lipstick again. Had Sally Egan worked for her? No, Farina thought – she didn’t even know the names of the cleaners, she left that to the housekeeper, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe she had worked in the London gallery?