Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘But to share the painting—’

‘It’s your choice, Jobo,’ she said succinctly. ‘Go halves, or get sod all.’

32

It was nearly eleven at the Kensington gallery as Nino finished reading the last of Ravenscourt’s notes. There was no mention of the scapegoat, the man who had been the alternative suspect to Vespucci. And although the notes were detailed, most of the information was now available on the internet site, the creator of which was uploading new data continuously. Facts which had been long suppressed were now emblazoned for the world to read about. Only an hour earlier another copy of the portrait had been added, but this time there was an engraving of Vespucci’s house in the background.

Nino knew that the house had long since been destroyed, that no evidence of the piazza remained. A hotel had been built on the site instead, The Skin Hunter’s legend buried under four floors of bedrooms and power showers. Looking back at Ravenscourt’s notes, Nino came across a later entry for Lena Arranti, matching it to the website. The date was the same: 8 December 1555.

Thoughtfully he jotted down the names of the victims, placing the dates of their death next to them.

Larissa Vespucci

4 November, 1555

Claudia Moroni

26 November, 1555

Lena Arranti

8 December, 1555

Contessa di Fattori

1 January, 1556

Surprised, he stared at the dates, then reached for his own notes and compared them.

Seraphina Morgan

4 November

Sally Egan

26 November

Harriet Forbes

8 December

His heart raced. The killer was copying Angelico Vespucci, using his methods, on the anniversaries of the Venetian murders . There was only one date left unfilled – 1 January. On that day another woman would be killed and mutilated, another tribute offered up to The Skin Hunter. Someone would die. But who? And where?

It could be in London, Tokyo or Venice. It could be any woman, anywhere. And until Nino worked out how the women were connected, he had no way of finding the next victim.

Or saving her.

Suddenly the phone rang, an unfamiliar, friendly voice greeting him. ‘Is that Nino Bergstrom?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Jean Netherton. You left me a message and asked me to get in touch. It’s about Sally. Sally Egan.’

Relieved, Nino nodded. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. I’m investigating Sally’s death—’

‘Are you the police?’

‘No, this is a private investigation.’ He thought of Gaspare Reni. ‘I can give you a name if you want to check me out.’

She hurried on. ‘No, it’s all right. I want you to look into Sally’s death. The police don’t seem to have anything and it’s been two weeks since she died.’ Her voice picked up. ‘I rowed with her that night. I’ll never forgive myself.’

‘What did you argue about?’

‘I used to help look after Sally’s father when she had a night out. Dear God, she deserved a break, but she was drunk when she got home and I overreacted.’ She paused, struggling with her conscience. ‘Sally liked to have a good time.’

‘Sorry to be blunt, but was she promiscuous?’

‘Yes,’ Jean agreed. ‘She liked men, liked sex. Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe she just wanted to feel loved. Poor Sally had no one but her dad and lately even he didn’t recognise her.’

‘Did she ever tell you she was being followed? That she’d had any strange visitors? Any odd phone calls?’

‘No, nothing. She just got on with her life. Looking after her dad was hard work and she had a job at a care home in the daytime. I don’t suppose it was what she expected with all her talent—’

‘She was talented? How?’

‘Sally could paint, Mr Bergstrom. I don’t mean dabble – she could really paint. She’d wanted to go to art school when she was younger, but what with her dad being ill, and her being his only relative, she had to give it up.’ Jean paused, remembering. ‘She showed me a photograph once of a picture she’d done for someone. It was a copy of one of the Old Masters.’

‘D’you remember which one?’

‘No.’

‘D’you remember the painting?’

‘Oh yes,’ Jean said eagerly. ‘It was a portrait of a man. Not a good-looking man – big, rather puffy eyes, wearing black clothes. It was old-fashioned. You know what I mean. The original must have been done centuries ago. Sally told me she’d been commissioned by a London dealer.’

Nino kept his voice calm. ‘You don’t remember who the dealer was, do you?’

‘No,’ Jean said regretfully, then brightened. ‘But I think I might still have the photograph of that painting. Sally was very angry one day, said she’d missed her chance and threw out all her drawings, everything she’d ever done, and all the photographs she’d taken of her work. I didn’t tell her, but when she went to work I got them out of the bin.’

‘ You kept them? ’

‘Yes. I thought one day she might want them back …’ Her voice caught. ‘She won’t now though, will she?’

Nino paused before continuing. ‘Can I see what you saved?’

‘If it’ll help find out who killed her, of course you can,’ Jean said, giving Nino her address and arranging to meet him the following night. Then she paused, regretful. ‘She had a big heart, did Sally. But there was never anyone there to stand her corner or help her out. Not even me in the end.’

33

The house was a semi-detached in the suburbs of London, the mistress of the house nervous but welcoming. Shown into the sitting room, Nino took a seat on the red Dralon sofa and accepted a cup of tea. With biscuits. He could tell that Jean Netherton was uneasy, staring at him and taking a seat as far away as she could. He couldn’t work out if it was because of who he was, or what she was about to show him.

‘Here they are,’ she said, putting a box on the coffee table in front of Nino. ‘All Sally’s drawings and photos.’ She paused, unable to resist the question any longer. ‘Your hair – is it natural?’

Smiling, Nino shook his head. ‘No, I was ill. I recovered, but my hair turned white.’

‘Ah, I see,’ she said, relieved. ‘I suppose it must help you a lot in your business?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, you look tough. I suppose that’s important for a detective. You look like a man who can handle himself. I mean, no one would take you seriously if you were a wimp, would they?’

Smiling again, Nino pulled the box towards him, taking off the lid and beginning to rifle through the remnants of Sally Egan’s talent. He was startled by her ability. The drawings were impressive, even her sketches clever, and when he came to an envelope containing photographs he could feel his hands shake with anticipation. Scattering them on the table, he looked along the row of images. Jean pointed to the last one.

‘There it is!’

She didn’t need to tell him – Angelico Vespucci’s face was immediately recognisable. Picking up the photograph, Nino studied it intently.

‘She was good,’ he said at last. ‘Titian wouldn’t have been ashamed of that.’

‘I told you Sally had talent.’

‘And she did this for a London dealer?’ he asked, turning over the photograph and trying to read some writing. It was faint, written in pencil, and it took him a moment to work it out. ‘Something Ahmadi … The first name begins with F and I think it’s an A.’ He glanced at Jean. ‘Ring any bells? Did Sally talk about a dealer called Ahmadi?’

Regretfully she shook her head. ‘No. She just said it was a dealer in London.’

‘Well, there won’t be that many London dealers called Ahmadi.’