Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

Reaching for his rosary, Gaspare fingered the beads. ‘How far have you got with Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes?’

‘About halfway through.’

‘Any help?’

‘Yeah, they’re giving me background information. But I’ll know more when I’ve finished them.’

‘Come across the scapegoat? The man who took the suspicion off Vespucci?’

‘No, nothing on him,’ Nino replied. ‘Even Johnny Ravens-court didn’t uncover who he was.’

Not for the first time Nino wondered about Ravenscourt. If someone was copying The Skin Hunter, was it him? He had seemed benign – but was that an act? He certainly had the physical size to overpower and mutilate his victims. And the money and means to do so in private. Was he actually abetting and paying Nino in order to keep close to him ? Having put him on a retainer, Johnny Ravenscourt would want – expect – him to report back and fill him in with everything he knew. What if, instead of wanting to distance himself from the Vespucci business, Ravenscourt actually wanted to get closer?

‘Talk to me.’

Nino looked up. ‘Sorry, I was thinking. I want to find out everything about the victims, the three women who’ve been killed. I know about Seraphina, but nothing about the other two. I should talk to their families, their friends.’

‘But not the police.’

‘No,’ Nino agreed. ‘Not the police. They can do their own inquiries, and I’ll do mine.’

Gaspare was reaching into his locker, rummaging for something. ‘You’ll need money. I’ll write you a cheque.’

‘I’m OK—’

‘You can’t be – you’re broke. Let me help – you’re doing this for me.’ The old man paused, alerted as he saw the expression on Nino’s face. ‘What is it?’

‘Johnny Ravenscourt’s paid me a retainer—’

‘ And you took it? ’

‘Of course I took it!’ Nino exclaimed. ‘You haven’t got money to throw around, Gaspare. I need travel money, expenses—’

‘Not from him! You’ve just said he could be involved in the murders.’

‘I know I did, but think about it. If I pull out now, refuse to take his money and work for him, it will look suspicious. If Ravenscourt is guilty, I need him to trust me, not suspect me.’

Gaspare looked away, his tone edgy.

‘I shouldn’t have involved you in this. It was selfish of me – I didn’t think it through. I just wanted to know what happened to Seraphina and I was pleased that you wanted to help.’ He glanced back at Nino, his expression anxious. ‘But it’s getting too dangerous now. Three women are dead. And you’re involved with Ravenscourt.’

‘What about Tom Morgan?’ Nino teased him, trying to break the tension. ‘You haven’t forgotten about him, have you?’

‘Nino—’

‘I called Morgan this morning. Strange man, hyped up, always on the defensive. Apparently he was questioned by the Venetian police again yesterday, but not held or charged. Interpol are involved, and the British police, but they couldn’t hold Morgan.’

Despite himself, Gaspare’s attention was caught. ‘So he could have killed the women?’

‘He’s not supposed to leave the city, but as the police haven’t taken his passport, yes, he could have killed them,’ Nino said. ‘But I’ve no idea where Johnny Ravenscourt was when Sally Egan and Harriet Forbes were murdered. He calls himself a spoilt old queen, and acts like one. But I’ve been thinking about that. What a perfect cover to fool everyone! He acts fearful, pets his dogs, talks in that high voice. No one would suspect him of violence – and remember, he has the money to travel as often, and as far, as he likes.’

‘But why would he give you his research?’

‘Maybe he wants an audience. The story’s all over the news – maybe he’s getting a vicarious pleasure from it. Maybe he wants to tempt fate, see if I can work it out.’ Nino thought for a moment. ‘Now I think about it, he came out of the blue and asked to talk to me. He said that he’d heard someone had hired me to investigate Seraphina’s death, but he never explained how he knew about me. I didn’t think about it at the time, but it’s strange. After all, it’s not my usual line of work, is it?’

‘All the more reason why you should stop now,’ Gaspare said, his thumb and forefinger closing over the crucifix. ‘Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe the police should sort it out—’

‘How can they?’ Nino snapped. ‘They don’t know as much as we do. They certainly won’t connect the painting with the women’s deaths. Why should they?’

‘But if they ask around—’

‘You know the art world, Gaspare. They’ll close ranks if they’re questioned. No business on earth can hide a secret better, especially when there’s money at stake. And who else would talk? Triumph Jones? Never – he’s not going to admit his part in this publicly.’

Taking a breath, Gaspare watched him. He wondered fleetingly how different everything would have been if Nino Bergstrom had collapsed in France or New York. Wondered if the chance which had cemented their friendship might turn out to break them apart.

‘Believe me,’ Nino continued, ‘the police will only ever get half the story. Let them carry on, but let me carry on too. I liked Seraphina and I want to pay you back for what you did for me.’ He smiled, tapping his temple. ‘My brain’s active again, I feel fit. I can solve this, I know I can. Someone has to. Don’t take this opportunity away from me, Gaspare. I need it.’

25

It was past seven when Louisa Forbes arrived at her sister’s flat, standing in the doorway for a long moment before entering. She was pretending that Harriet was still alive, that at any moment her mobile would ring and she would start talking. But she knew this time was different, this time her sister wasn’t phoning, or returning. She had been stopped in Tokyo, outside a toilet cubicle – killed within reach of a thousand people, within sight of a dozen cafés and bureaux de change. Only metres from the admirable Japanese plumbing, Harriet Forbes had died. And worse, she had been disfigured. It hadn’t been enough that her clothes had been taken off her – the killer had wanted her skin too.

The thought made the hair stand up on the back of Louisa’s neck. Who could have killed Harriet? That was the question the family were asking, the police were asking, and she was asking. Her sister had been a PR agent specialising in health and beauty, a freelancer dealing in nothing more provocative than lipgloss.

Walking into the flat, Louisa turned on the light and glanced around. The place was familiar, although she hadn’t visited for several weeks after they had an argument about their parents. Louisa had loved her sister, but Harriet had been difficult to like at times, brusque, with a habit of dismissing other people’s problems. Had she been a little callous with someone outside the family? Someone who took offence? A man perhaps? God knows, Harriet could attract any man – not that she was interested.

Many times over the years Louisa had expected her sister to confide in her about being gay. She had waited, not wanting to push the issue, but it had never been raised. Perhaps Harriet thought she had fooled her sister? Conned her into believing that she genuinely wasn’t interested in getting married and having children, while all the time Louisa had known there had never been any chance of that. Why hadn’t she talked to her? Hadn’t she trusted her sister? Why live with a secret like that, as though it was something shameful?

Moving further into the flat, Louisa stared at the mess. Always running late, Harriet had left her home in a hurry and the kitchen still showed signs of her last breakfast, the cushions on the sofa in the sitting room scattered. She had drawn the blinds, but there was still a half-finished cup of coffee near the window where she had stood, waiting for her cab to arrive. Turning, Louisa remembered their last meeting in a wine bar. Harriet had been complaining about all the travelling she had to do, and Louisa had felt a flicker of jealousy. She was a bank manager – no exotic locations for her. Only a flat in Highgate and a husband working in IT.