Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘Oh, now wait a minute!’ Jean said, remembering some-thing. ‘Sally said the painting was going abroad, somewhere exotic. She did tell me …’ Irritated, she sighed. ‘It’s no good, I can’t remember.’

‘D’you know when Sally painted this?’

‘About three or four years ago. Long before I knew her.’

He pointed to the photograph. ‘Can I take it?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’ve been a big help,’ Nino said, smiling and slipping it into his pocket.

‘D’you want to take the rest?’

He frowned, baffled. ‘What?’

‘Everything else. D’you want to take it?’ Jean said, passing him the box. ‘Please, take it. Look at what she did, how clever she was. I know you’re only really interested in that photograph, but I want someone to see Sally for what she really was. She wasn’t like they say in the papers – she was unlucky, that was all. Look at her work, Mr Bergstrom. Don’t judge Sally Egan by what she was when she died, judge her for what she could have been. If you do, somehow her death won’t be such a waste.’

*

It was nearly seven thirty when Nino returned to Kensington. Letting himself into the gallery by the back door, he turned off the alarm and checked the answerphone. There were three messages: two from Gaspare, one from the police. The last recorded voice asked him, with cold civility, if he would call the station and ask for Detective Steiner. At his earliest convenience.

So when the doorbell rang thirty minutes later the name coming over the intercom was a familiar one – Detective William Steiner. Frowning, Nino buzzed him in, waiting for the policeman at the top of the stairs. Showing him an identity card, Steiner moved into the sitting room and Nino offered him a seat. He was slight in build with curly, dry hair, wearing a creased grey suit that didn’t fit and scuffed brown shoes.

‘I’d like to have a chat with you, Mr Bergstrom,’ he said, his voice surprisingly guttural.

Wary, Nino regarded him.

‘Can I have the number of your police station? I’d like to check that you are Detective Steiner,’ he said, taking down a number and making the call. When Steiner’s identity was verified, he shrugged. ‘Sorry about that. I just wanted to be sure who I was talking to. You can never be too careful these days.’

Steiner was unemotional, unreadable. ‘You work for Mr Jonathan Ravenscourt, I believe?’

‘Yeah, I work for him.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I’m looking into something for him.’

‘What?’

‘The death of a friend of his, in Venice. A woman called Seraphina Morgan.’ Nino paused. ‘What’s the problem?’

Steiner ignored the question. ‘Aren’t the Italian police dealing with the case?’

‘They are. But Mr Ravenscourt wanted me to look into the matter too.’

‘But you’re …’ There was a pause as Steiner flipped open his notepad and checked his facts, ‘a location finder for the film industry, I believe.’

‘I was.’

‘But now you’re a detective? Rather a change of career, isn’t it? Or did watching all the private eyes on screen inspire you?’

Keeping his patience, Nino answered him. ‘I’m just helping Mr Ravenscourt out.’

‘But he’s hired you. He’s paying you for this help ?’ Steiner pressed him. ‘There’s no point being evasive with me, Mr Bergstrom. I’m privy to all of Mr Ravenscourt’s affairs and he hired you on the twenty-seventh of November, and paid you a retainer of five thousand pounds. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ Nino said warily. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘What did he want to find out?’

‘Everything about Seraphina Morgan’s death,’ Nino repeated. ‘She was a close friend of his in Venice. He was upset, wanted to find out why she’d been killed. Who had killed her.’

‘And why would he think you could find this out?’

Feeling suddenly under threat, Nino wondered how much to tell, how much to withhold. He had to give the police something, but not too much. Nothing about the painting or Vespucci.

‘I knew Seraphina slightly – we met once. Actually we had a mutual friend.’

‘Mr Gaspare Reni.’

‘Why are you bringing him into this?’

‘Into what?’ Steiner replied. ‘You said you had a mutual friend. We know you’ve been staying with Mr Reni at his Kensington gallery; I was just coming to an obvious conclusion … You seem very jumpy, Mr Bergstrom. Is there a reason for that?’

‘What’s all this about?’ Nino asked, his voice calm again. ‘You’ve obviously been checking up on me – why? Tell me. You owe me that.’

‘Mr Ravenscourt’s back in Venice. He contacted us from there, told us about you. He said he was afraid of you—’

‘ What? ’

‘That you’d forced him to give you money in return for information—’

‘ Is this a joke? ’ Nino asked, dumbfounded.

‘He said that you had come to him about the death of Seraphina Morgan. That you knew things no one else did. Things no one could know – unless they’d been her killer. Mr Ravenscourt felt he had to leave London because he was afraid of what you might do. After all, if you’d killed once, you could kill again.’

Incredulous, Nino stared at the detective. ‘He’s lying! He hired me to—’

‘Mr Ravenscourt also said you had stolen some papers from him.’

‘He lent me those!’

Steiner was impervious. ‘He said you were trying to “steal a march on his book”. Apparently Mr Ravenscourt had been writing a book for some years and you had come along and stolen his ideas.’

‘He’s mad,’ Nino replied. ‘It’s all rubbish – the man’s lying. I’ve never killed anyone in my life. Jesus, look at my background! I’ve never even had a speeding ticket. What the hell is the bastard talking about?’

‘You, Mr Bergstrom. He’s talking about you .’

Nino’s mind cleared in that instant. Ravenscourt was setting him up. Nino was to be the scapegoat this time. While the police were investigating him, Johnny Ravenscourt was free to do as he pleased. It was the twelfth of December – and the last murder committed by Vespucci had been on the first of January. The anniversary was coming up fast and the killer was still out there.

‘Everything he said is fantasy,’ Nino insisted. ‘Get Ravenscourt here. Let him face me, then we’ll see who’s lying.’

‘I’d really like to do that, Mr Bergstrom,’ Steiner said evenly. ‘But unfortunately Mr Ravenscourt seems to have disappeared.’

34

Tokyo

Jobo Kido waited until his wife was asleep, then crept into his study and locked the door. Turning on the computer, he went on to the internet, looking for angelicovespucci.1555. com. The site came up immediately and he pressed ENTER. Almost as soon as he had typed hello a reply came up.

Mr Kido, how are you today?

Jobo: How do you know me?

Answer: Everyone knows everyone. Are you wondering about the painting?

Jobo: You know I am.

Answer: In time you’ll see it. But not yet, Mr Kido. Perhaps you’d like to ask me another question?

Jobo: You mentioned three women.

Answer: Three dead women.

Unnerved, Jobo pressed on.

Jobo: Are they connected?

Answer: You’ve disappointed me. I was expecting more from you.

Jobo: Don’t sign off!

Answer: Then make it worth my while to talk to you. I can’t tell you how the women are connected – you have to find that out for yourself. If you do, I’ll give you the painting.

Hands sweating, Jobo stared at the screen. He could get the Titian! Sod Farina Ahmadi, he wasn’t going to have to share it after all. He could have the portrait all to himself. Hang it next to his other exhibits, stare at it, enjoy it. Relish it. It was the culmination of all his hopes: the depiction of a maniac, painted by one of the Old Masters. It would be worth millions. And it would be his.