Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There’s always a little slip-up here and there in the best of families.’

Pretending to line up a shot, Nino’s voice was casual. ‘Really? Some ancestor you hide away? Some old scandal?’

Pausing, Harold considered his reply.

‘There was an incident a long time ago. My relative was very excitable. She chose to marry a foreigner. She eloped, thank God. Saved us a lot of gossip.’

‘Didn’t the family approve of her choice?’

‘He was a Venetian merchant.’ Harold’s voice was pure scorn. ‘Called Moroni. My relative was christened Catherine, but changed her name to Claudia. To fit into Italy better, I imagine. Claudia Moroni – it would hardly suit Norfolk, would it?’

The name slapped down between them, as unsettling as a firecracker, and Harold’s voice suddenly took on an under-current of suspicion. ‘I thought you were interested in the house?’

‘I am, but it’s good to hear about the family too.’ Nino clicked away, avoiding Greyly’s stare. ‘So she married a Venetian in trade,’ he went on, refusing to acknowledge the insult and taking it as a joke instead. ‘That’s bad. Did she have children?’

‘A daughter.’

‘Hardly a threat to your lot, is it?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Nino could sense the enmity coming off the man.

‘I mean a daughter isn’t the same as a son who could claim some inheritance. Did your ancestor ever come back to England?’

‘No. She died in Venice.’ Harold replied curtly. ‘What exactly has she got to do with a film location?’

Nino shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. I just get bored looking at houses. Sometimes I like to know about the people who lived in them. It makes the place come to life.’ He paused after taking the last photograph. ‘I think I’ve got what I need now.’

‘Really? You do surprise me.’

The words caught Nino off guard. They were said with an unexpected malice Harold Greyly’s expression cold.

‘What exactly do you want, Mr Bergstrom?’

Nino didn’t miss a beat.

‘What do I want? What I got, Sir Harold. Some great shots of a great house.’ He opened the front door and stepped out on to the steps. ‘Will you say goodbye to your aunt for me, and thank her for her kindness? I’ll be in touch.’

Venice, 1555

The rumours have swollen, gross and unconfined. Three nights ago a mob collected outside Vespucci’s house. I counted over thirty men combined, carrying torches in the fog, their voices raised in a frenzy, their hands wrenching at the iron gates to gain admittance. But the gates held. Only later did Vespucci come to the window and look out. The candles illuminated his lean shape, the portrait of his murdered wife hanging on the wall behind him.

All Venice believes him guilty, for what other suspect is there?

At nine the wind picked up, frothing a sea so high it threatened to drown us all. Some spoke of wickedness, that God was meting out punishment where we would not. We had a killer in our number. Behind iron gates, Angelico Vespucci lived like an innocent. Whored, enjoyed the worst depravities. And kept his freedom. The priests spurred us to action: Vespucci was the reason for our suffering. The Skin Hunter was killing Venice herself.

The mob comes each night. They stand at Vespucci’s gates, they chant the names of Larissa and Claudia, summoning up the dead as though they believe the living cannot touch him. Vespucci has hired guards who patrol the railings and shadow the doors.

Later he stands at the balcony window, Aretino beside him. He stands like a martyr before God, demanding understanding, his lean hands pressed to his temples. Aretino might defend him, plead his innocence, Titian might suggest support, the portrait coming more and more to life as Vespucci moves closer and closer towards death.

All but a few of the old priests are refusing to come out at night. They fear the dark and the ghosts of drowned dogs, and although the poor body of Claudia Moroni was buried in a crypt on the Island of St Michael, the grave was desecrated and her corpse stolen. Two days later the body was returned. The undertakers had wrapped her in white silk, but when she came back she was flayed and bound in the darkest of crimson.

30

St Bartholomew’s Hospital, London

Bored, Gaspare stared at the television and then clicked it off. He had worked his way through all the books Nino had brought for him and dismissed the art magazines. His respiratory infection now under control, he was feeling more alert but aching to be home, back at the gallery. He knew that he would have to remain in hospital, but his enforced idleness had made him restless, keen for an update on Nino’s progress.

Having heard nothing from him since the previous day, Gaspare had spent an uneasy night making notes, drawing up a list of possible suspects. He dismissed the idea of a re-appearance of the original Skin Hunter. The killer was no supernatural force, so who was he? Someone copying Vespucci? Someone with a past record of violence? Someone who was known to be obsessed by the Venetian?

Jotting down two names, Gaspare considered them – Tom Morgan and Johnny Ravenscourt. Then he added the name Jobo Kido as an afterthought. Why not? The Japanese dealer was an oddity, his collection depraved. Could he have crossed over? Instead of collecting the memorabilia of killers, might he have started to collect his own? Harriet Forbes had been killed in Tokyo, where Jobo Kido lived. It was possible.

The door opened, interrupting his thoughts, and Nino walked in with a takeaway Italian meal. Putting it down on the bedside table, he split the food between the two of them and passed some to Gaspare.

Smiling, Gaspare looked at it. ‘Rubber pasta.’

‘But pasta nonetheless,’ Nino said, taking a mouthful and then pulling Gaspare’s notes towards him. ‘What’s this?’

‘Suspects.’

He read the names, shaking his head at the last. ‘Jobo Kido? Are you kidding?’

‘The man’s twisted,’ Gaspare said firmly. ‘Years ago I saw his private collection. He’s fascinated by killers. Don’t tell me that’s not relevant. Kido would do anything to get that Titian painting. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, is still out there somewhere.’

‘Unless the killer’s got it,’ Nino replied, pointing to the sheet of paper. ‘You can add another one to that list of suspects – Sir Harold Greyly.’ He wiped some tomato juice off his chin with a paper napkin. ‘His name came up in Ravens-court’s notes and I went to see him yesterday. One of the Greyly ancestors was The Skin Hunter’s second victim.’

Gaspare’s eyebrows rose. ‘Claudia Moroni?’

‘Yeah,’ Nino agreed, taking another mouthful.

‘Did he tell you about her murder?’

‘No. And he got very twitchy when I started asking questions.’

‘But why suspect him of being involved with the current murders?’

‘I dunno,’ Nino replied, putting down his food and staring at the old man. ‘Something about him. Something off-key. He’s travelled a lot, was in the Army and then made a killing with his contacts, arrogant bastard. He’s now inherited a country pile after turfing out his old aunt, and she seemed a bit miffed. She also said something about Harold being a keen hunter.’

‘He lives in the country – most of them hunt.’

‘She said he could skin anything.’

Gaspare paused, putting his fork down and pushing the food away from him. ‘Before you arrived, I was just thinking about the killer. I mean, three women, in three different countries. Who could do that?’

Nino was still eating. ‘How d’you mean?’