Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

But now the flat and the husband seemed precious. Louisa moved into her sister’s bedroom and noticed the unmade bed and the laundry on a chair by the door. The family had been informed that the body would be held in Tokyo for forensic examination, after Harriet’s father had flown over to identify her. It would be allowed home, but they didn’t know when. And suddenly the thought of Harriet lying in some morgue, bloodless and mutilated, was too much for Louisa.

She sat down heavily, her hands trembling as she noticed her sister’s laptop in the corner. Surprised that Harriet would have left it behind, she moved over and switched it on, waiting for the Microsoft welcome. And then the home page came up, with a photograph of her and her sister, arms around each other, smiling as though they had all the time in the world …

In that instant Louisa knew that she had misjudged her sister, and failed her. Had been too jealous to make allowances, to see another point of view. Perhaps Harriet had envied her. After all, she was married and secure, able to express herself, not hiding any part of her character. It was obvious that their parents would never have been able to cope with Harriet being a lesbian, but Louisa could have. It wouldn’t have made any difference to her. The shared confidence might even have brought them closer.

It was no use blaming Harriet for being secretive and dismissive. Perhaps she hadn’t felt secure enough to confide? And now it was too late. Their parents were ageing, and Louisa felt a sudden and terrible grief for a sister who wouldn’t be around when they were gone. For the loss of her, the shutting down of a shared past. For the companion she would never have again. For the blood link which some maniac had severed in a toilet in the middle of Tokyo airport.

Shaken, Louisa made a decision. She might have failed her sister in life, but she wouldn’t repeat the mistake in death.

26

Staring at his computer screen, Jobo Kido remembered what Farina, the bitch, had told him and typed into Google search Angelico Vespucci – The Skin Hunter. Outside his office, he could hear the new exhibition being arranged: a series of Japanese lithographs. Not to his taste, but popular and always good sellers. He jabbed his fingers on the SEARCH button impatiently, then watched as a website listing came up.

The Skin Hunter – Vespucci, 16th century, Venice

Good God, he thought, she was right. Pressing the entry, he watched as an image of the glorious Grand Canal in Venice came on to the screen.

It was like a normal picture postcard, until, suddenly, a crude image of a body fell from the grand architecture and plummeted into the water below, to the accompaniment of Sting’s ‘Murder by Numbers’. Disgusted but curious, Jobo pressed the ENTRY TO SITE sign and then watched as the Venetian panorama closed down into a narrow, dark tunnel. At the far end was an exit, a figure standing there. But just as Jobo saw it the figure rushed towards him, the screen filling with a splash of artificial blood.

‘God!’ he snapped, jumping in his seat.

Looking round to check that no one had been watching him, Jobo glanced back at the screen. What kind of a lunatic would build a site like this? he wondered, with a grudging admiration for its shock tactics. He scrolled down the table on the home page, clicking CONTACT, and waiting for a moment before the details were flashed on the screen.

You want to know about The Skin Hunter?

Join the Angelico Vespucci Admiration Society today – only $100.

As if! Jobo thought, returning to Google and checking if there were any other entries. There was just one, entitled angelicovespucci.1555.com

This site was altogether different. No cheap visuals, no crass music, just a very professional-looking biography of Vespucci, and a copy of an engraving of him. But, most importantly, across the top was written in copperplate:

ANGELICO VESPUCCI NEWS –

TITIAN’S FAMOUS PORTRAIT OF THE

KILLER HAS RE-EMERGED IN LONDON.

Immediately Jobo looked to see who had created the site. But there was no name, only an email address – avespucci-Venice.1555.

He typed a note:

I am interested in knowing more about this person. Can we compare notes?

Then he sent the message.

Jobo waited. No reply. Five minutes later there was still no reply. But when he came back into the office after an hour, having attended to business in the gallery, there was an email waiting for him.

Answer: What do you want to know?

Jobo wrote back: What can you tell me?

Answer: You want to know about Vespucci? Or his victims?

Jobo: Both.

Answer: Who are you?

Jobo: A fan.

Answer: Where are you based?

Jobo: Tokyo. You?

Answer: I’m everywhere.

Jobo: Can we talk?

Answer: We are talking.

Jobo: How did you hear about the painting coming to light?

Answer: Contacts.

Jobo: Who has it?

Answer: Wouldn’t you like to know.

Jobo: Do you know?

Answer: I know everything about Angelico Vespucci. You’ve heard of the legend ‘When the portrait emerges, so will the man’ – well, he’s back.

Nonplussed, Jobo paused for a moment before continuing to type.

Jobo: Who were Vespucci’s victims? I know about Larissa Vespucci and Claudia Moroni. Who were the others?

Answer: Vespucci chose his victims with care. He picked them for a reason.

Jobo: Don’t you know who his other victims were? Rumour has it that he killed four women.

Answer: Of course I know! After Claudia Moroni he killed Lena Arranti …

This was news to Jobo, the first time he had heard of her.

Then he murdered the Contessa di Fattori.

Surprised, Jobo considered the name, then remembered the woman who had been killed in Venice weeks earlier – Seraphina Morgan, previously Seraphina di Fattori. A relative? Was the newly murdered woman a descendant of the Contessa? If so, there might be a genuine connection between the 16th and 21st centuries. Between two murderers five hundred years apart.

The realisation made him uncomfortable and he typed out his next words carefully.

Jobo: You said Vespucci chose the women for a reason. Why did he choose them? I know he killed his wife because she was unfaithful, but why the others?

Answer: Why do you want to know so much?

Jobo: I’ve told you, I’m a fan. You must be too, or you wouldn’t have set up a website for Vespucci.

There was a long pause before the answer came back.

Answer: I worship at the shrine of Angelico Vespucci. He was a rare man, his reputation has been abused. What he did he did for a reason, which will be made clear in time. His acts were deeds of great beauty. He made murder into an art form, poetic, brutal, sensual.

Groaning, Jobo read the words and leaned back in his seat. The man was a lunatic. Some anonymous moron who had found his niche on the internet glorifying someone like Vespucci. A sick fantasist, getting a thrill from revelling in a murderer’s grotesque actions. He could imagine some sweaty nobody in a sleazy flat, endlessly crouched over a computer, building up a fan base for a dead killer.

Irritated, Jobo wrote back: No one should glorify murder.

Answer: So why are you asking all these questions? Or are you only interested in the painting?

Jobo: Have you seen it?

Answer: Of course.

Alerted, Jobo leaned towards his computer screen, typing hurriedly.

Jobo: Where is it?

Answer: I can’t tell you that. But it’s safe. He’s safe.

Jobo: Who’s safe?