Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

‘I guessed you’d be here,’ the woman said, ignoring Triumph as he put his finger to his lips in the universal sign for silence. Sliding into the seat beside him, she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I suppose you’ve heard?’

‘About what?’ His voice was slow, suggesting a certain sluggishness of thought. Many a dealer had been caught out, taking him for a fool. Although they only ever did so once.

‘You know what I mean – the Vespucci painting.’

Leaning back in his seat, Triumph studied the woman sitting next to him: Farina Ahmadi, wife of the reclusive Abdul Alim, a retired millionaire based in Turkey. Alim’s acquisition of a collection of Italian Renaissance art had been sudden, purchased greedily over the last ten years by his ultra-competitive and striking wife. Having borne her husband two sons, Farina had then turned her restless mind to business, and her Louboutins had clicked their way through the galleries and auction rooms of London, New York, Tokyo, Sydney and Paris. Still in her thirties, her energy, ruthlessness, taste and money had made her a formidable opponent, and her acolytes made sure that Farina Ahmadi was the first to hear about anything that could increase the Alim Collection.

‘So?’ she asked, her dark eyes holding Triumph’s gaze. ‘ Have you heard about the Vespucci painting?’

He took a long moment to consider the question, then shook his head. ‘No.’

‘ No? Is that it?’ she asked, dropping her voice again. Her impatience amused him. ‘Don’t you want to know what’s going on?’

‘I’ll hear in time.’

Her expression hardened. ‘Speaking of time, maybe I’m wasting mine,’ she snapped, pulling the book he was reading towards her. Curious, she read the title. ‘ Hieronymus Bosch and the Power of Religion. ’ She looked back at him. ‘Is there a Bosch up for sale?’

‘I was just reading.’

‘You don’t just read, Triumph, you research,’ she said firmly, crossing her legs and smiling.

Farina knew the power of her smile; it had a contagious quality to it. People couldn’t help smiling back and that always made haggling harder. For them, at least. When she had first come on to the art scene she too had been fooled by Triumph’s demeanour, but time had made her canny and she now admired the elongated, elegant man who was watching her with a look of practised composure.

‘I know you’re dying to hear, so I’ll tell you. The notorious portrait of Angelico Vespucci was found in London two days ago. It was in the River Thames.’ She paused, but Triumph said nothing. ‘Gaspare Reni has it …’

Nodding, he let her continue.

‘… Gaspare Reni! Of all people,’ Farina went on. ‘I mean, he’s just not in the top league any more. He’s a busted flush, too old, and with no contacts—’

‘Yet he has the painting.’

She leaned towards Triumph, one hand brushing his arm. ‘I rang him, of course. But he denied having it.’

Sighing, Triumph turned back to his book. Farina slammed it shut in front of him. ‘ For God’s sake, it’s the Titian portrait! ’

‘I know who painted Angelico Vespucci,’ Triumph replied, reopening the book and regaining his place, ‘but that painting disappeared long ago. It was destroyed – it must have been, or it would have come on to the market before.’ His voice slowed. ‘And why – if it’s genuine – would it turn up in London? Did you say in the River … ?’

‘ Thames. ’

‘So it’s ruined?’

‘No!’ she snapped, then dropped her voice and moved closer to Triumph. ‘It was only in the water for a short time before it was spotted and taken to Gaspare Reni—’

‘And how d’you know this?’

Farina smiled. ‘I know everything that goes on in the art world, Triumph.’

‘Everything?’

She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or mocking her. ‘Implying that you know more?’ Her hand gripped the sleeve of his two-thousand-dollar suit. ‘Triumph, we both want this painting.’

‘It’s bad luck—’

‘It’s Titian,’ she snorted. ‘I want it for my husband. The copy was all well and good—’

He cut her off. ‘You have a copy of the Vespucci portrait?’

‘Yes, a good one. I commissioned it a couple of years ago from some painter on their uppers. They copied it from old engravings.’ She changed tack. ‘But if I could get the original for Abdul, that would be incredible.’

Expressionless, Triumph studied her. It was rumoured that she had made a pact with her husband, Abdul Alim. He liked privacy, she liked to socialise. He liked family, she liked to live like a single woman. And so, in return for her having given him two sturdy sons, they had come to an agreement. The father would support and raise the children, leaving the mother free to bolster the Alim Art Collection.

‘Does your husband know that the painting’s turned up?’

‘No!’ she said hurriedly. ‘And I don’t want him to. I just want to get it for him and see his face when I take it home. It would do wonders for the collection. Kick a few people in the crotch. It’s infamous. Imagine the publicity—’

‘Farina,’ Triumph said evenly, ‘why are you telling me about this? You know I’ll beat you if I go after it. So why confide? It’s foolish.’ He looked back at his book. ‘The painting must be a fake.’

‘ It’s genuine! ’

‘Have you seen it?’ Triumph asked, turning over a page and staring at a coloured illustration.

‘I’m flying to London tonight to try and get a look at it,’ Farina replied.

She couldn’t understand why Triumph was being so cool. Did he already know about the Titian? God forbid he had already got to Gaspare Reni. Or worse, did Triumph know that the painting was a fake ? Was he reeling her into a set-up?

‘Are you the only dealer who knows about it?’

She nodded. ‘Apart from you, I think so.’

‘What about Jobo Kido?’

Farina’s eyebrows rose. She had already worked out that the Japanese dealer would want the painting. She might long to place it in the Alim Collection, but by rights the portrait of a murderer would suit Kido more. His fascination with killers was legendary. Hadn’t he recently bought a painting by the notorious Japanese cannibal Issei Sagawa – a picture few dealers would touch, let alone buy?

‘I don’t know if Kido’s heard about the Titian,’ Farina said at last. ‘But he’ll want it, I know that much.’

Triumph looked up from his book.

‘If I remember correctly, Titian painted Angelico Vespucci over a period when four women were murdered and skinned.’

‘Yes, yes!’ Farina said impatiently. ‘I know – he was called The Skin Hunter.’

‘As I said before, the painting’s bad luck—’

‘Only to the dealers who don’t manage to get it,’ she replied smartly. ‘There’s no bad luck in business. You just have to see an opportunity and grab it. This painting’s notorious. Think of the number of people who’d pay to see it, to revel in The Skin Hunter out of ghoulish curiosity. Besides, I don’t believe that paintings have any power of their own.’ Smiling, she folded her arms. ‘For God’s sake, Triumph, this is the twenty-first century. They might have believed all kinds of superstitious crap in Titian’s time, but not now.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Does its reputation put you off?’

‘No.’

‘I thought not,’ she said crisply. ‘Well, I want it too. But I can’t get it without your help.’

Calmly, he smiled. ‘Why would I help a rival?’

‘You know Gaspare Reni; you used to deal with him. The Italian’s old school, and he’ll talk to you.’