Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

But the thought didn’t gel. Farina filled in her lips with the coral gloss. Satisfied, she smiled at her own reflection, but the name wouldn’t budge. How could she have known Sally Egan? A woman who worked in a care home wouldn’t be working in an art gallery. After smoothing her eyebrows and fastening on her earrings, Farina finally remembered.

It had been several years earlier when she had been trying to mount an exhibition of famous portraits. Angelico Vespucci’s image was at the top of her list, but Farina had only been able to get hold of engravings, and photographs of an old copy. A chance encounter with another dealer had brought Sally Egan into her sphere.

To all intents and purposes the Egan woman had been a talented artist, forced into menial work to pay the bills. So she had been more than pleased to do a competent oil copy of Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci. It wasn’t supposed to deceive anyone, merely to be exhibited to show what the original had been like. Sally Egan had taken several months to complete it and when she had delivered it to the gallery, Farina had been impressed and paid her well, even promising that she might send other work her way … Farina’s smile dimmed, her pleasure at having remembered the woman overturned by the circumstances of Sally Egan’s death.

Christ! Farina thought. She was the woman who’d been murdered and skinned. Like the woman in Venice before her … For several moments Farina toyed with the idea that there might be some connection, jumping when the phone rang.

‘Farina! a familiar voice greeted her. ‘How are you?’

She rolled her eyes at Jobo’s cloying tone. ‘Well. And you?’

‘Thriving. I take it your husband and sons are well also?’

‘The whole fucking family is just peachy,’ she replied. ‘Get to the point.’

He was used to her manner, and carried on.

‘Something incredible has just happened. Over here, in Tokyo,’ he said, pausing to create the maximum effect. ‘There’s been a murder at the airport. Hardly that shocking usually, but there’s something very odd about this one. The victim was stabbed and partially skinned.’

‘So?’

‘Well, it’s the third, isn’t it?’

‘ The third? ’

‘The third victim,’ he said chillingly. ‘First there was Seraphina di Fattori, then Sally Egan—’

Farina cut across him immediately. ‘I was just thinking about what happened to her. How did you hear about her murder in Japan?’

‘The internet. And besides, we have a bloodthirsty interest in such things.’

‘You mean you do,’ she retorted. ‘I bet you’ve got a Google Alert out on violent murders. I wouldn’t put it past you. God knows, you spend long enough drooling over those sick pictures of yours.’ She doodled the women’s names on a piece of paper, then paused. ‘What’s the name of the last victim? The one in the airport?’

‘Harriet Forbes.’

Farina shrugged. ‘Means nothing to me, but then again, why should it?’

‘Well, we all knew – or knew of – Seraphina di Fattori, because her parents were collectors. I was just wondering if you knew the other victims.’

Hesitating, Farina took a moment to consider if it was in her best interests to admit that she had known Sally Egan. Was it worth mentioning to the Japanese dealer? But then again, perhaps some shared confidence might strengthen their relationship? Make it more likely Jobo Kido could share information about the missing Titian?

‘Oddly enough,’ she began, ‘I did know Sally Egan. Well, I didn’t know her, I commissioned her. And you’ll never guess what she did for me – she copied the Vespucci portrait.’

Her tone was light, but it rankled Jobo. ‘ She did what? ’

‘Copied the Titian.’

‘And now she’s been murdered and skinned.’

Farina paused, uncomfortable. ‘It could be a coincidence—’

‘That she painted The Skin Hunter and was killed like that?’ His voice rose. ‘Don’t be stupid, Farina, this is more than any coincidence. So, does the name Harriet Forbes ring any bells?’

‘No! Why should it?’

‘She didn’t paint any Titian copies for you?’

Farina’s tone was biting. ‘No, she didn’t. I’ve never heard of the woman.’

‘The killer tried to skin her too—’

‘ In Tokyo! ’ she snapped. ‘Seraphina di Fattori was killed in Venice, Sally Egan died in London, and your woman’s been murdered in Tokyo. If it’s the same killer, I hope he’s collecting air miles.’

He ignored the sarcasm, deciding on his next tactic. Perhaps it was the ploy he should have used from the beginning, but now fate had played into his hands – and Jobo Kido was never a man to ignore good fortune.

‘There have been three murders since the painting re-emerged. My God, it makes you think. I mean, I’ve always had a fascination with the dark side, but this is way beyond anything I’ve ever come across before. Perhaps the picture’s really got some kind of power.’

‘You think?’

‘Maybe it is bad luck.’

She had already seen through the ruse.

‘Bullshit, Jobo! You can’t put me off it so easily. If the killings are connected, it’s just some fucking lunatic copying Vespucci’s methods. Could be they heard about the painting coming to light—’

‘How?’

‘Look on the internet, stupid. Since last night there’s been a whole website devoted to Angelico Vespucci, the infamous Skin Hunter.’

‘I haven’t seen it!’

She carried on blithely. ‘Anybody that interested would have heard about the painting. I bet some nutter’s devoted their life to Vespucci and the re-discovery of the portrait’s triggered him off.’

‘To murder?’

‘Why not?’ she countered.

‘But why?’ Jobo persisted. ‘What would be the reason? How would he pick his victims? And why them?’

‘Goodness, Jobo,’ she said snidely. ‘I’d have thought that you of all people would have a theory. Of course you could always ask your friends in your private gallery.’ She laughed, knowing she was making him cringe. ‘Have a word with them, why don’t you? Or are you still hoping the Angelico Vespucci will end up side by side with all your other freaks?’

Breathing in, Jobo steadied himself before he spoke. ‘You can laugh now, Farina, but I’ll get that painting! It might take me a while, but I’ll get it.’

‘Really?’ she countered, her tone amused. ‘You’ll have to kill me first.’

24

Within minutes of Triumph’s departure, Gaspare had told Nino everything that had transpired. He listened expressionless, then whistled softly between his teeth.

‘Mr Jones is too clever by half.’

Nodding, Gaspare climbed back into the hospital bed, pulling the blanket over him. He seemed chilled, taking off his glasses and laying them on the bedside table. To Nino’s surprise there was a rosary he had never seen before, lying beside Gaspare’s newspaper. The beads were spread out, the silver cross dangling over the edge of the table, swinging gently and throwing a sombre shadow on the wall behind.

‘Are you all right?’

The dealer nodded. ‘Just tired. Triumph Jones exhausted me. All that plotting, all that trouble, just to make himself even more important. And look what it cost him. He’s now responsible for two murders.’

‘ Three .’

Expressionless, Gaspare stared at Nino. It was almost as though he had expected the words. That he had already heard them and absorbed the shock.

‘Where?’

‘Narita International airport, Tokyo,’ Nino explained. ‘A woman called Harriet Forbes was stabbed and partially skinned. It’s all over the internet, and of course the police will start wondering if it’s connected to Sally Egan over here. After all, Harriet Forbes was an Englishwoman – it’s more than a little suspicious.’ He paused, folding his arms. ‘I think Triumph Jones is right about one thing – someone’s copying The Skin Hunter.’