Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

Mistrustful, Nino chose his next words with care. ‘So the portrait’s common knowledge now?’

‘It’s on the net, so everyone will know.’

‘Give me the website address again, will you?’ Nino asked, jotting it down then returning to his previous theme. ‘The Contessa di Fattori was an exhibitionist.’

‘The Contessa was a one-off. After she died, the family became reserved, kept away from society. They were ashamed of her life and her death. But Seraphina admired her beauty.’ He changed tack. ‘Have you spoken to her husband lately?’

‘Yeah, I talked to Tom Morgan yesterday. He’s not been arrested. The police have questioned him again, but they let him go.’

‘The Italian police couldn’t find a dog in a tin can,’ Johnny replied dismissively.

‘Have they got any other suspects?’

‘Not that I know of.’

Nino rifled through the pages in front of him until he found the piece of paper he was looking for. ‘You made a note of a name – hang on, it’s here somewhere – yes, that’s it. Someone called Sir Harold Greyly, in Norfolk.’

‘What about him?’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘I was going to, but he was travelling overseas every time I got in touch. In the end, I moved on.’

It was a lie, and Nino sensed it. ‘You wanted to talk to him about Claudia Moroni. Why?’

‘I can’t remember,’

‘But it must have been important. Claudia was one of Vespucci’s victims.’

‘Like I say, I can’t remember.’

In the background Nino could just catch a faint noise. A ping from Johnny Ravenscourt’s computer to say that he had an email.

‘I have to go, I’ve got a message!’ he said, obviously excited. ‘It’s from the website. Somebody’s finally answered me.’

With that, Johnny Ravenscourt clicked off the phone.

Thoughtful, Nino went back to his notes. Unable to concentrate, he turned to the computer and brought up the Vespucci website. On the last page, under CONTACTS, it read WEBSITE CREATED BY JEX. Jex, Nino thought, frowning as he made a note of the name.

He turned back to the paper on Vespucci. Johnny Ravens-court had been lying, not in what he had said but in what he hadn’t said. If Nino wasn’t mistaken he had deliberately ignited his interest, then encouraged it by feigning indifference. Ravenscourt might act like a dolt, but Nino suspected that he was more devious than he appeared.

Reaching for the notes, Nino checked the name he had noticed earlier – Sir Harold Greyly, Courtford Hall, Little Havensham, Norfolk.

The address which would change his life.

28

New York

The body count was now up to three. Three women, all killed in the same way Vespucci’s victims had met their end. The new Skin Hunter was active, inspired by the legend Triumph Jones had created. Had he never set his plan in action he could simply have bought the Titian portrait for himself. That would – should – have been enough for any dealer. His peers would have admired and envied him, his nickname gaining a platinum lustre. The prestige of owning a Titian should have been sufficient for even a mammoth ego.

But not for Triumph.

The same ambition which had cost him his marriage would now cost him his peace of mind. Sleep had deserted him, the lure of his business turned off. Even the pleasure of dining out had somehow become little more than a chilly formality. His friends might still gather about him, still engage him in conversation and gossip, but Triumph’s mind never stayed with them for long. Instead it fixed on the names of the murdered women. It threw up images of their corpses, not seen but imagined in every terrible detail.

It seemed that every few days there was a report in the paper of another murder. In Venice, London, Tokyo. Perhaps only a ghost could travel so easily and so unnoticed? But this was no ghost, no legend that he had callously drawn up. This was reality. A man was killing women. Inspired by the original Skin Hunter someone was seeking to emulate – God forbid, exceed – his murders. It was as though a lunatic was now recreating what Vespucci had done four centuries previously.

Triumph suspected the police were likely to have connected the killings already. The publicity had ensured intense activity, the media demanding answers. What would happen next was inevitable: the news of a woman being skinned would travel quickly from Tokyo and they would remember Sally Egan in London, then, after a while, Seraphina. The police were bound to make the connection because there were too many similarities for the killings not to have been committed by the same man. And although Triumph had not engaged in the act of killing, he was indirectly responsible for the murders. It had been his PR which had drawn a lunatic out. His ego which had brought The Skin Hunter back to life.

He was responsible – and he knew it.

It would not be his buying and selling, his collecting, his numerous coups in the art world by which he would be judged. Triumph Jones would be victorious in something altogether more heinous. Only Gaspare Reni knew the truth – but that didn’t matter to the American. He knew what he had done and every waking moment scorched him with guilt. Overwrought, he became obsessed, developing a fantasy, a means of absolution. He would find the Titian and destroy it. He would send it back to the water. Back into the dark, the deep.

He had no idea if such a deed would stop the killings, but in his confusion Triumph convinced himself that it would prove miraculous. That somehow, if he could destroy the means by which the killer had been inspired, he could also destroy the man.

Having decided on his next course of action, Triumph sent out another message, knowing it would travel around the knotted vines of the art world within hours. Whoever brought him the painting would be rewarded. The man who brought the Titian back would be publicly recompensed, while privately becoming his saviour.

It never occurred to him that he might be summoning up the Devil instead.

29

Norfolk

Only two weeks until Christmas. Nino drove into the village of Little Havensham, parking his car outside a butcher’s shop. Suspended from a row of steel hooks outside were the carcasses of turkeys and geese, inviting early purchase and orders. Next door a traditional greengrocer piled up his window with baskets of clementines, avocados, oranges, lychees and lozenge-shaped packets of dates, the whole presentation surrounded by a kitsch frosting of artificial snow. Walking in, Nino took his place behind a man waiting to be served, then asked for directions to Courtford Hall. Thanking the shopkeeper for his assistance, he made his way back to the car, only to be stopped by an elderly woman carrying a shopping basket.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing – you were asking for Court-ford Hall, weren’t you?’

He smiled. ‘That’s right.’

‘Well, I used to live there. Until the 1990s, when I was widowed and had to move to a flat. One of those modern places by the end of the green.’ She seemed keen to tell her story. ‘My nephew took over – Sir Harold Greyly. I suppose it’s him you want to see?’

Having learnt quickly that listening was more profitable than talking, and that even the most unlikely people had good information, Nino encouraged her.

‘Yeah, I’d like to talk to him. Unfortunately I haven’t got an appointment, because I’ve no phone number for him to call ahead. I’m just dropping by on the off-chance he’ll see me.’

‘I’m Hester Greyly,’ the woman said, putting out her hand. Willing, he took it.

‘I’m Nino Bergstrom.’

‘Unusual name,’ she said, gesturing to his hair. ‘Your appearance is unusual too. So much white hair on a young man.’ She hurried on. ‘I married into the Greyly family, so I was easier to put out to grass. Does that sound bitter? It wasn’t meant to. Are you curious about the house or the family?’