Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘No.’

‘But she used to talk to you. Even more than she talked to me,’ Tom continued. ‘And you hung out together a lot in the days before she died. Why?’

‘She was my friend—’

‘No! That wasn’t it. It know you, Ravenscourt – you don’t rate friendship that highly. You were stalking her—’

‘Rubbish! We went out for meals, we went shopping!’

‘But Seraphina didn’t want to see you!’ Tom snapped back. ‘She told me that. She said you were making her uneasy. Asking her questions about her trip, quizzing her. Why?’

‘I don’t believe she said any of that,’ Ravenscourt insisted, pouting. ‘We were very close. She needed me. She confided in me—’

‘What did she confide?’

‘That she was pregnant.’

Tom waved the words away with his hand. ‘The whole family knew that.’

‘But did the family know that you didn’t want the baby? That you told Seraphina to get an abortion?’

The words struck home.

‘ What? ’

‘Seraphina told me all about it,’ Ravenscourt went on. ‘How she wanted to have the child, but you were against it—’

‘But I wasn’t! It was the other way round! I wanted the baby, she didn’t.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Ravenscourt replied, but he was obviously shaken. ‘Why would she lie about it? Seraphina never told lies, and certainly not about anything as important as that.’ Pausing, he turned away from Tom, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘She swore blind that you didn’t want the child. She said it was a bad time, that you couldn’t afford to support a family.’

‘But there was money coming,’ Tom replied. ‘Soon we’d have been loaded, more cash than we’d ever dreamed of. There was a windfall on its way, Ravenscourt … You didn’t know that, did you?’ He grinned unpleasantly. ‘Seems Seraphina didn’t tell you that much after all. Kept the real goodies to herself. We had it all planned out and soon I’d never need your help – or anyone’s help – again. Fuck the business, we weren’t going to need it. We were going to be rich.’

His throat constricting, Ravenscourt struggled to control himself.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Come on! I know she told you—’

‘About what?’

Inhaling, Tom sucked at the joint. His mind was floating, all fury and frustration gone. The peace wouldn’t last, he knew that. But for a while he could linger, just above reality.

‘ What are you talking about! ’ Ravenscourt repeated, his bulk rising out of the chair, his heavy features flushed. ‘What did Seraphina say?’

‘Let me tell you a story,’ Tom began, looking out of the window again. ‘There was a girl called Seraphina. She came from an old Venetian family, who weren’t quite as powerful as they had once been. Well, Seraphina met a handsome prince in the USA,’ he spelt it out, taunting Ravenscourt – ‘and they fell in love. He was rich, but – as with her family – it didn’t last. So Seraphina was looking for an opportunity …’

‘ Tell me! ’

‘Listen to the fucking story!’ Tom retorted. ‘And lo and behold, a golden opportunity fell into her lap. Well, her hands anyway. By pure chance she found a painting worth millions.’ He paused, grinding out his joint and tossing the stub out of the window. The ducks hurried towards it, then, disappointed, moved off again. ‘What a lucky girl. She left it with a trustworthy old dealer, a man called Gaspare Reni, knowing it would be safe with him until we could figure a way to smuggle it to Venice. That’s where you came in, Johnny.’ He paused, but when there was no reply, he carried on. ‘You had a history of smuggling and Seraphina relied on that. On being able to convince you to help her. You two being so close … She was getting it all planned, all organised. The day before she died she was about to bring you in on it. We’d have given you a cut of the proceeds, you know. After all, there’d have been plenty to go around.’

Ravenscourt was watching him with despair. Cheated, desperate despair. ‘But she died before—’

‘Yeah, Seraphina was killed before she could talk to you. Before we could get the Titian from London to Venice.’ Tom paused, staring at Ravenscourt. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’ he croaked.

‘Like you think I killed her.’

‘Did you?’

‘Before we got the painting? No, that wouldn’t make sense,’ Tom replied, moving over to the big man. ‘Did you kill her?’

‘No! I was in London when she died.’

‘Oh, but that’s not true, is it?’ Tom said. ‘I saw you in Venice the following day. You could easily have come back the night before … Of course, I could get the police to check it out.’

Ravenscourt’s natural guile came back into play.

‘And bring more attention on yourself? I don’t think so. Remember the husband’s always the prime suspect.’ Standing up, he moved to the door. ‘I’m leaving now.’

‘I would. It’s beginning to get dark and it’s easy to get lost in Venice.’ Tom turned back to the window. ‘Oh, and mind the fog, Johnny. They say it’s going to be bad tonight.’

37

London, 14 December

It wasn’t going to be the usual kind of Christmas. It wasn’t going to be any kind of Christmas because Harriet Forbes was dead and her family couldn’t come to terms with her loss. There was to be no tree, no celebration dinner, no festive decoration of the house. Christmas cards would not be sent, presents not bought, because none of it mattered. Besides, there were no grandchildren to cater for – Harriet had never married and Louisa was not the maternal type.

Unable to cope with the despair in her parents’ house, Louisa Forbes took action. Applying for compassionate leave from work, she waited until the police – working with the Japanese force – had inspected her sister’s flat and then, painstakingly, she went through every item herself. The action calmed her, and when it was done she rang all of Harriet’s business contacts and friends. Someone knew something – it was just a question of finding out who. One letter, one note, one book, one article of clothing, one word – she didn’t know what it would be, but something would lead her to Harriet’s killer.

Louisa Forbes didn’t believe that it had been a chance murder, a crime or killer peculiar to Tokyo. She didn’t believe it because she had looked into the death of Sally Egan and the killings were too similar for chance. The man who had killed Sally Egan had killed her sister. That was all she had. It was all she needed.

So when Louisa was approached by Nino Bergstrom she was more than willing to listen. Together they walked to a nearby bar, and having chosen drinks and taken a seat, Louisa looked curiously at Nino.

‘You’re not connected to the police, are you?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I’m working for someone privately.’

‘Can I ask who?’

‘Gaspare Reni.’

She shrugged. ‘The name means nothing to me. Did he know Harriet?’

‘No, but he thinks that the deaths of your sister and a friend of his might be connected.’

She was intelligent, obviously so, her intense grey eyes fixing on his.

‘Do you know anything about Harriet’s death? The Japanese police don’t tell us a thing. They treat us like fools, make us feel bad just for asking questions. They won’t even release her body.’

She paused, sipping at the wine Nino had bought her. He had been expecting someone emotional but she was resolutely still. He imagined that she would be a loyal friend, a good wife, and she had a quality he admired – a kind of grace. The bar was already full of workers going home, grabbing a pint before the 6.57 train.