by Alex Connor
Nodding, Nino picked up the notes.
‘I think this is just the beginning,’ Johnny said, as he stared at the photograph of Sally Egan, ‘so perhaps now is the time for you to start reading?’
Venice, 1555
Did I tell you I was afraid of water?
The tide is rising now, higher than it has ever done, over the steps behind the houses, lapping on to the stone floors, making lazy pools under tables, silk rugs floating like bladderwrack. And with it comes the mist. The Doge is ill; some say it is another omen, some intimation of disaster coming with the freezing tides.
Not that Aretino feels any trepidation. He has a new lover, a woman as amoral as he. The Contessa di Fattori. A whore all Venice knows. Her husband encourages her excesses, wills her to try new lusts. It is said he derives his pleasure from the recalling of it. She is tall, this di Fattori, hair red as a night fox, eyes eerily blue under the triumphant arches of her brows. Cosseted by her husband’s wealth, she revels in her hedonism. Luxuries are imported for her, carpets from India, perfumes from France, and in her bedchamber there are flowers sent from Holland weekly, daring the winter tides.
Some say she is a witch. For all her power she may be so. Stealing her husband from his betrothed, she soon looked elsewhere. Walking across the piazzas with her maid and blackamoor in tow, di Fattori is imperious, heading, unashamed, for low places, or one of the threatening tangle of back streets where she is expected. It is rumoured she will lie with Arabs or boys hardly above ten, her servants sleeping on the steps outside. Sometimes, at dawn, di Fattori can be seen returning home, with her head upright like a conqueror, smelling of sex.
It was inevitable that she should entrance Aretino and he is smitten, even knowing that she laughs at his gut and his poor manhood. Vicious and fascinating, di Fattori rattles the dice of her fate, not caring for the outcome. She is reckless, demanding, cruel. She is Aretino’s true match.
They say all three writhe in a mutual bed, di Fattori demanding attention from the merchant when Aretino tires. And as this latest information came to the streets, December crawled in. It came with biting winds.
A body bumped up against the struts of a bridge, rolling and turning in the tide, and finally jammed itself against the stonework. A moment later, footsteps were heard running. Echoing, disembodied, they faded into the Venetian streets.
I heard that the woman was mutilated, her back skinned, but not the rest of her. This time the murderer had been disturbed, cheated of his enjoyment. The hunter had killed but had been denied his skin.
Let me set down the date for this record. It was 26th November 1555, and the second victim was the wife of a merchant. Her name, Claudia Moroni.
17
Ginza, Japan
The alarm had gone off again at two thirty in the morning. But Jobo Kido, preoccupied and unable to sleep, had been more than willing to leave his bed and drive to his company premises. Within a few moments he had turned off the alarm and then made himself a coffee in the staff quarters off the main gallery. His wife’s constant bad temper had worn away at his feelings and when she had threatened to go and stay with her mother he had been ecstatic. With his son also away, the house would be his for a while. It would be peaceful, uninterrupted by shouting and slamming doors, a temporary haven he would relish. Of course Jobo wouldn’t admit to enjoying his wife’s absence, or she would be sure never to leave again. Instead he would affect a sadness at her leaving and relief at her return and hope further arguments would result in further hiatuses from her tirades.
Fully awake now, Jobo glanced at the clock – nearly 3 a.m. He wondered momentarily if he should go for a walk, but instead sat down at his computer. Seconds later he was looking at a reproduction of Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci …
What he wouldn’t do to get that painting! Jobo thought. As for Farina Ahmadi trying to fob him off! Stupid woman, of course she knew about the Titian. He could tell just from looking into her sly little eyes that she was already imagining it on the walls of the Alim Collection.
He was disappointed at not having found out more in New York. Perhaps it had been too much to hope, but he had longed from some crumb of scandal to drop at his ready feet. And pumping Triumph Jones had been a tiring business. From his lofty height, the American had batted away Jobo’s enquiries like a giant swatting summer wasps. It always irked Jobo that although he was taller than the average Japanese man he always felt diminutive around Triumph Jones. He had also noticed that every conversation they had was conducted with them standing up, the American giving Jobo a prolonged view of his impressive jawline.
But if Triumph Jones had the Titian he wasn’t admitting it … Walking over to his safe, Jobo gave in to the temptation he had tried, feebly, to resist. It was the early hours of the morning – what better time to indulge himself? Fifteen minutes later he was letting himself into another building, double-locking the doors behind him and flicking on the lights.
The gallery was arranged in the normal way, but the exhibits presented a terrifying and disturbing vision. Portraits of known killers hung side by side with the work of John Wayne Gacy, the grotesque clown heads leering out in all their primary heat. And further along was a garish portrait of Jeffrey Dahmer, his stern gaze averted from the viewer, life size, the yellow pigments sour, the red the colour of a tomato, wrongly benign against the image of a killer. On the opposite wall, lit by a searching overhead portrait light, was a photograph of Albert Fish, the child killer and cannibal. And underneath were written his words:
I like children, they are tasty …
Jobo’s eyes moved down the line of monsters, lingering for a second on the drawings of Burke and Hare, the grave robbers, and beside them, a photograph of the dashing Victorian murderer Frederick Deeming, posing as Lord Dunn. The dealer’s gaze rested on the next exhibit with a morose curiosity: Ed Gein, 1906–1984, murderer and grave robber from Wisconsin.
As ever, the monstrous nature of the sitters did not repel but rather intrigued Jobo. He was sure that there was a clue in their appearance, some insinuation of violence in the features. But although he had looked at his exhibits for many years the explanation continued to elude him. Every image was well known, studied minutely, the dealer’s obsession increasing with every purchase, every image of a killer. But in among the photographs, pictures and drawings he knew something vital was missing for a notable collection. Skill.
His collection might display the skills of the killer, but not those of the artist.
The photographs Jobo had collected were press fodder – nothing remarkable, and certainly nothing to rival Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci. He stared at the images intently. It was true that his collection was impressive, but it lacked the definitive piece – a portrait of a famous killer, painted by a famous artist. He ached for the Titian. Staring at the display, Jobo mentally moved the resident images to make space for the Vespucci portrait. Owning a masterpiece would make his collection respectable; no longer to be sneered at but admired. After all, who could belittle a Titian?
Unfortunately the unknown caller had not got back in touch. Jobo had waited for a week for further contact, but there had been none, and he was getting impatient. Obviously the man had gone elsewhere and unless Jobo was careful he would find himself sidelined. He had two choices – he could either take a risk and wait for further developments, or set his own personal cat to put a flurry in the dovecotes.
Once decided, Jobo moved into the office at the back of the gallery and tapped out a number on the phone. His desire for the Titian had made him unusually reckless, determined to force action.
‘Hello?’
Jobo’s voice was all sweet concern. ‘Triumph, is that you?’
‘Jobo?’ the American replied, drawing out the name like a piece of ribbon. ‘What are you calling me for? It must be the middle of the night in Tokyo.’
‘I couldn’t sleep. And neither could you – if you knew what I do,’ Jobo said enigmatically. �
�I’ve just seen the Titian.’
There was a silence on the other end. ‘Where?’
‘Well, I’ve not actually seen it, I’ve just seen a photograph.’ Jobo was making it up as he went along, trying to draw Triumph out and discover what he knew. ‘Someone sent me a note in the mail.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. But it said that they’d also approached you about the portrait …’ He paused, sly to a fault. When Triumph didn’t respond, he threw the dice again … ‘and Farina Ahmadi.’
‘No one’s been in touch with me, Jobo.’
Jobo didn’t believe that for an instant. ‘What about Farina?’
‘She hasn’t mentioned it.’
Jobo sighed expansively. ‘Oh, that’s all right then. I’m so glad I talked to you, Triumph. You know what I think, don’t you? The painting’s a hoax – someone’s just trying to scam the dealers. Well, I’m not going to be taken in,’ he said, his tone light. ‘Sorry I disturbed you.’
For several minutes after they had concluded the call, Jobo sat in his office with the door open, gazing at his private gallery, his own personal assembly of freaks. He might have found out nothing, but he knew that his call would have immense repercussions. The American would realise that the news was out, and that it had travelled as far as Japan. There was no doubt that Triumph Jones had earned his sobriquet and his impressive cunning would ensure that he investigated any trail, even a false one.
What would happen next was anybody’s guess, but the Titian was up for grabs and at least three dealers were after it. With such a coterie of egos nothing – not even Angelico Vespucci’s portrait – could remain hidden for long.
18
At one time there had been some sort of order to Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes, but as time went by the precise jottings had been replaced with slips of paper and reminders etched on the back of serviettes and empty cigarette packages. Old, barely decipherable newspaper cuttings were shuffled in among reproductions of Angelico Vespucci’s portrait, along with contemporary engravings. In every one of them the same bulbous, heavy-lidded eyes gazed out, the eyes Nino remembered seeing the night Seraphina brought the portrait to Kensington. The eyes which had been covered by a blanket when the painting had been lodged, temporarily, in the eaves above the convent gallery.
Concerned for Gaspare’s safety, Nino was pleased that the dealer had to stay in hospital for further tests. Nothing serious, the doctor reassured him – ‘just to be on the safe side’. He didn’t know how true the words were. Back at the Kensington gallery, Nino discovered where the thief had broken in and had the window repaired, changing the door locks as an added precaution.
But when he visited Gaspare in hospital that afternoon, Nino was unprepared for the dealer’s refusal to involve the police.
‘Keep them out of it!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want anyone to know about the painting. No one knows about the break-in – and no one will.’
‘You were attacked—’
‘For the painting!’ Gaspare remonstrated. ‘Now they’ve got it, why would they bother to come back? There’s no danger for us.’ He pointed to the newspaper which reported Sally Egan’s death. ‘We have other things to think about. That girl, for instance. Why was she killed in that way? Not another coincidence, surely. She must have some connection to the Titian portrait or Vespucci himself.’
Nino shrugged. ‘Why? It’s rare, but victims have been skinned before—’
Gaspare cut him off.
‘But why would it happen now? Just when the painting of The Skin Hunter’s come to light? No. There’s a connection, there has to be.’ He looked around the private room, grateful that no one could overhear them. ‘Did you talk to the Raven-scourt man?’
‘Yes, I did, and he gave me his research, all his notes, everything he’d ever found out about Vespucci.’
‘Really?’ Gaspare replied, wary. ‘What’s in them?’
‘I dunno, I haven’t had a chance to read them yet. I’m going to look at them when I get back to the gallery.’
Picking up the newspaper, Gaspare read the headline again.
‘First Seraphina, now this woman … You think they had something in common? I do. I’m sure something connects them.’
‘Like Vespucci?’
Gaspare nodded thoughtfully. ‘We need to go back to where it all began – in Venice. We need to know about Vespucci’s victims. See if they had any connection to each other. Then we can see if they have any connection to Seraphina and Sally Egan.’
Nino paused, thinking back.
‘You told me that Vespucci got away with the murders because there was another suspect—’
‘But I don’t know who. No one does.’
‘Unless he’s named in Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes,’ Nino suggested.
The old man leaned forward in his hospital bed, suddenly alert. ‘Read them!’ he said urgently. ‘Read them!’
‘And what do we do about the painting?’
‘Forget about that for now! It’s gone. It could well have been stolen to order – that’s not unknown in the art world. It might be on its way to New York or Berlin as we speak. God knows how many dealers went after it—’
‘But how would they know about it?’
‘Seraphina?’
‘She only told Johnny Ravenscourt.’
‘And how many people did he tell?’ Gaspare asked perceptively. ‘What kind of a man is he?’
‘Scared. He was very close to Seraphina.’
‘D’you think he could have stolen the Titian?’
‘No,’ Nino said confidently. ‘Johnny Ravenscourt isn’t like that. He’s no thug, just a rich man with time to indulge his interests. His obsession with The Skin Hunter came from his research into serial killers. The fact that there’s a portrait in the mix means little to him – except for the legend that its emergence would bring back Vespucci.’
‘He believes that?’
‘Oh yes,’ Nino said emphatically. ‘He believes it – and it scares the shit out of him. I reckon the reason he gave me his notes was to get them off his hands. I’d say that Johnny Ravenscourt wants to put some distance between himself and his subject.’
‘But Vespucci’s victims were women—’
‘That makes no difference – logic doesn’t come into this. Johnny Ravenscourt’s spooked. The moment he gave me his research I could see him relax. It was like watching a man jump over a gate to escape a charging bull.’ Nino paused for an instant. ‘His notes connected him to The Skin Hunter. By getting rid of them he severed that connection.’
‘And?’
‘I think he also believes that if the legend is true, Vespucci will come after me now, not him.’
19
There is a passageway from Kensington Church Street that leads through an archway to a scruffy path around the back of the church. Over the years the figure of Christ has hung in a shrine there, crucified and on view to the passing traffic. At times yobs have thrown paint over Him, others have laid flowers at His feet, and at Christmas tinsel is wound gently around the brutal crown of thorns. He has stood under the wind, under the snow, and hung His head when summer sun cracked His painted face. And He was still standing as Nino cut through the passageway, heading for the convent gallery.
Unlocking the back door and turning off the repaired alarm, Nino made himself a drink and then moved to the drawing room on the first floor. In Gaspare’s absence he flicked on all the lights, spreading out Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes on the table and sitting down. Above him loomed the caramel angels, the Japanese suit of armour on duty by the door, a globe – dented in the Horn of Africa – holding up a Turkish rug.
Painstakingly Nino began to sort out Johnny Ravenscourt’s research. On his left he placed all the scraps of paper and hasty notes, on his right the photographs and reproductions, and in the centre he put the two notepads. He then started to read, choosing the journals first. Ravenscourt’s handwriting was surprisingly small for a b
ig man, but every word was readable.
Angelico Vespucci b. 1510 – not known where he died. Last heard of February, 1556. His list of victims is open to debate, but there are records in the chapel of the Mazzerotti church. (The priest was so difficult, I had to donate to the renovations before he would even talk to me and then he was evasive. No one wants to talk about Angelico Vespucci. They pretend he never existed, until you come along with proof or asking questions. He’s like Venice’s dirty little secret.) Anyway, their records list the deaths of Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni …
Nino paused. Claudia Moroni. He knew about her. The woman who had once lived in the house where Seraphina had owned an apartment and lost her baby. Claudia Moroni, the second of The Skin’s Hunter’s victims … He scribbled down a note of his own, and continued to read.
The Moroni family were respectable, long established in Venice.* They were merchants, notable for the quality of their silks. Claudia Moroni came from a wealthy family and had one – or two, the accounts differ – sons, neither of whom survived infancy. Apparently her brother came to live in the household soon after she was married.
Weirdly, when I visited the Moroni house I knew I’d been there before. It turned out to be Seraphina’s first flat after she married Tom Morgan.
Nino scanned down the page to a note at the bottom.
*N.B. There is a painting of Claudia Moroni and her husband in the house.
Johnny Ravenscourt had pinned a photocopy of a portrait on to the page and Nino studied the couple depicted. The man was vulgarly handsome, the woman blonde, diffident, rather unremarkable except for the richness of her clothes. She certainly bore no resemblance to Seraphina, he thought, turning back to the notes.
