by Alex Connor
‘In the Army?’
‘God no!’ he laughed. ‘When I came out I worked as a consultant, putting the right people together with the right people – you know the kind of thing. Contacts. That’s how I got my OBE.’ He pointed to a painting on the landing. ‘That picture’s a Van Dyck. Not a copy, an original.’
‘Must be worth a lot of money.’
‘It’s not a problem. We’re insured and alarmed up to the hilt. We have to be, with the library, the silver and the paintings,’ Harold continued, just in case his visitor was not what he seemed. ‘We’ve not had a break-in since the seventies.’
‘It’s amazing,’ Nino said, looking around at the oak panelling and the carved ceiling above the stairwell. ‘It might be exactly what the film company’s looking for. Can I take some photographs?’
Flattered, Harold allowed him to capture a few shots of the hall and upper landing, culminating in the drawing room. Knowing that he couldn’t keep up the pretence for much longer, Nino pointed to a framed photograph on a side table, a faded picture of a debutante in the 1940s.
‘It that your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s all very English, isn’t it?’ Nino remarked, smiling as he took another photograph. ‘You can tell from my name I’m a bit of a half-breed myself. My mother was Italian, my father Swedish. I suppose Courtford Hall’s never seen any foreign blood? No dilution of the English line?’
Following Nino, Harold watched as he took several more photographs in the hall, finally concentrating all his attention on the ancient front doors.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There’s always a little slip-up here and there in the best of families.’
Pretending to line up a shot, Nino’s voice was casual. ‘Really? Some ancestor you hide away? Some old scandal?’
Pausing, Harold considered his reply.
‘There was an incident a long time ago. My relative was very excitable. She chose to marry a foreigner. She eloped, thank God. Saved us a lot of gossip.’
‘Didn’t the family approve of her choice?’
‘He was a Venetian merchant.’ Harold’s voice was pure scorn. ‘Called Moroni. My relative was christened Catherine, but changed her name to Claudia. To fit into Italy better, I imagine. Claudia Moroni – it would hardly suit Norfolk, would it?’
The name slapped down between them, as unsettling as a firecracker, and Harold’s voice suddenly took on an under-current of suspicion. ‘I thought you were interested in the house?’
‘I am, but it’s good to hear about the family too.’ Nino clicked away, avoiding Greyly’s stare. ‘So she married a Venetian in trade,’ he went on, refusing to acknowledge the insult and taking it as a joke instead. ‘That’s bad. Did she have children?’
‘A daughter.’
‘Hardly a threat to your lot, is it?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Nino could sense the enmity coming off the man.
‘I mean a daughter isn’t the same as a son who could claim some inheritance. Did your ancestor ever come back to England?’
‘No. She died in Venice.’ Harold replied curtly. ‘What exactly has she got to do with a film location?’
Nino shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. I just get bored looking at houses. Sometimes I like to know about the people who lived in them. It makes the place come to life.’ He paused after taking the last photograph. ‘I think I’ve got what I need now.’
‘Really? You do surprise me.’
The words caught Nino off guard. They were said with an unexpected malice Harold Greyly’s expression cold.
‘What exactly do you want, Mr Bergstrom?’
Nino didn’t miss a beat.
‘What do I want? What I got, Sir Harold. Some great shots of a great house.’ He opened the front door and stepped out on to the steps. ‘Will you say goodbye to your aunt for me, and thank her for her kindness? I’ll be in touch.’
Venice, 1555
The rumours have swollen, gross and unconfined. Three nights ago a mob collected outside Vespucci’s house. I counted over thirty men combined, carrying torches in the fog, their voices raised in a frenzy, their hands wrenching at the iron gates to gain admittance. But the gates held. Only later did Vespucci come to the window and look out. The candles illuminated his lean shape, the portrait of his murdered wife hanging on the wall behind him.
All Venice believes him guilty, for what other suspect is there?
At nine the wind picked up, frothing a sea so high it threatened to drown us all. Some spoke of wickedness, that God was meting out punishment where we would not. We had a killer in our number. Behind iron gates, Angelico Vespucci lived like an innocent. Whored, enjoyed the worst depravities. And kept his freedom. The priests spurred us to action: Vespucci was the reason for our suffering. The Skin Hunter was killing Venice herself.
The mob comes each night. They stand at Vespucci’s gates, they chant the names of Larissa and Claudia, summoning up the dead as though they believe the living cannot touch him. Vespucci has hired guards who patrol the railings and shadow the doors.
Later he stands at the balcony window, Aretino beside him. He stands like a martyr before God, demanding understanding, his lean hands pressed to his temples. Aretino might defend him, plead his innocence, Titian might suggest support, the portrait coming more and more to life as Vespucci moves closer and closer towards death.
All but a few of the old priests are refusing to come out at night. They fear the dark and the ghosts of drowned dogs, and although the poor body of Claudia Moroni was buried in a crypt on the Island of St Michael, the grave was desecrated and her corpse stolen. Two days later the body was returned. The undertakers had wrapped her in white silk, but when she came back she was flayed and bound in the darkest of crimson.
30
St Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
Bored, Gaspare stared at the television and then clicked it off. He had worked his way through all the books Nino had brought for him and dismissed the art magazines. His respiratory infection now under control, he was feeling more alert but aching to be home, back at the gallery. He knew that he would have to remain in hospital, but his enforced idleness had made him restless, keen for an update on Nino’s progress.
Having heard nothing from him since the previous day, Gaspare had spent an uneasy night making notes, drawing up a list of possible suspects. He dismissed the idea of a re-appearance of the original Skin Hunter. The killer was no supernatural force, so who was he? Someone copying Vespucci? Someone with a past record of violence? Someone who was known to be obsessed by the Venetian?
Jotting down two names, Gaspare considered them – Tom Morgan and Johnny Ravenscourt. Then he added the name Jobo Kido as an afterthought. Why not? The Japanese dealer was an oddity, his collection depraved. Could he have crossed over? Instead of collecting the memorabilia of killers, might he have started to collect his own? Harriet Forbes had been killed in Tokyo, where Jobo Kido lived. It was possible.
The door opened, interrupting his thoughts, and Nino walked in with a takeaway Italian meal. Putting it down on the bedside table, he split the food between the two of them and passed some to Gaspare.
Smiling, Gaspare looked at it. ‘Rubber pasta.’
‘But pasta nonetheless,’ Nino said, taking a mouthful and then pulling Gaspare’s notes towards him. ‘What’s this?’
‘Suspects.’
He read the names, shaking his head at the last. ‘Jobo Kido? Are you kidding?’
‘The man’s twisted,’ Gaspare said firmly. ‘Years ago I saw his private collection. He’s fascinated by killers. Don’t tell me that’s not relevant. Kido would do anything to get that Titian painting. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, is still out there somewhere.’
‘Unless the killer’s got it,’ Nino replied, pointing to the sheet of paper. ‘You can add another one to that list of suspects – Sir Harold Greyly.’ He wiped some tomato juice off his chin with a paper napkin. ‘His name came up in
Ravens-court’s notes and I went to see him yesterday. One of the Greyly ancestors was The Skin Hunter’s second victim.’
Gaspare’s eyebrows rose. ‘Claudia Moroni?’
‘Yeah,’ Nino agreed, taking another mouthful.
‘Did he tell you about her murder?’
‘No. And he got very twitchy when I started asking questions.’
‘But why suspect him of being involved with the current murders?’
‘I dunno,’ Nino replied, putting down his food and staring at the old man. ‘Something about him. Something off-key. He’s travelled a lot, was in the Army and then made a killing with his contacts, arrogant bastard. He’s now inherited a country pile after turfing out his old aunt, and she seemed a bit miffed. She also said something about Harold being a keen hunter.’
‘He lives in the country – most of them hunt.’
‘She said he could skin anything.’
Gaspare paused, putting his fork down and pushing the food away from him. ‘Before you arrived, I was just thinking about the killer. I mean, three women, in three different countries. Who could do that?’
Nino was still eating. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘He’d have to have funds. He’s either rich enough not to need a job, or he’s self-employed. If he had regular employment, he’d have to keep taking time off work.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Nino replied, finishing his food and throwing the containers in the bin. ‘Sally Egan was killed at night. After work hours.’
‘But the killer had already been to Venice and then went on to Japan. A plane ticket to Tokyo costs money—’
‘I agree. But surely the more important question is: why did he choose them? Before we wonder about his means, shouldn’t we try and work out why he picked these particular victims? That’s the key, Gaspare. The women must have something in common.’
‘But if the killer’s copying Vespucci, shouldn’t we look at his victims first?’
‘OK.’ Thoughtful, Nino nodded. ‘I’ve been reading Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes – not finished them yet – and they list Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni and the Contessa di Fattori. But a website dedicated to The Skin Hunter lists a woman called Lena Arranti as the penultimate victim.’ Nino paused for effect. ‘Somebody out there’s been doing their research. This information isn’t readily available. It took Ravenscourt decades to find it. And this website only went up forty-eight hours ago. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? A website glorifying The Skin Hunter appears at the same time as his crimes are being reenacted?’
‘You think the killer created it?’
‘Yes,’ Nino replied. ‘Yes, I do. I think the man who made the website killed the women. Perhaps it all started with him getting curious about Vespucci, then he became obsessed. Then, when he heard about the painting turning up – thanks to Triumph Jones’ PR stunt – he flipped. Took it as a sign and started his own tribute. He wants to copy Angelico Vespucci – he wants to be him, to have his power, his legend.’
‘It makes no sense—’
‘Not to us. But to a fanatic, it would. About five years ago I was working for a company who were making a film about Jack the Ripper. One of the many. I remember that the director said it would make a fortune. Even if it was bad, it would bring in a profit, because everyone wanted to know about a killer. Especially killers who had never been caught. Glamorous murderers. And The Skin Hunter has a kind of sick glamour. He created havoc in his time. He terrorised the Republic of Venice and yet he got away with it. Vespucci disappeared, and a scapegoat took the blame.’
‘I wish we knew who that was.’
Nino turned to Gaspare. ‘You think it’s important?’
‘I think everything we find out about Vespucci’s important. Did the victims have anything in common?’
‘Vespucci killed Larissa because she was unfaithful, but Claudia Moroni was a respectable married woman.’
Nino thought back over his conversation with Harold Greyly, repeating his words.
“My relative was very excitable … She eloped, thank God. Saved us a lot of gossip.” He glanced over at Gaspare. ‘Perhaps she wasn’t quite the innocent she appeared?’
‘And the Contessa di Fattori was a whore.’
‘Yes, everyone agrees on that. And the website said that Lena Arranti was a courtesan, working from the Jewish Quarter in Venice.’ Nino paused. ‘There is a link between the women – sex. Larissa Vespucci was an adulteress. Lena Arranti was a prostitute. The Contessa di Fattori was promiscuous. Perhaps there was some sexual secret about Claudia Moroni? Perhaps that was why her descendant said that her elopement saved them from scandal?’ Nino got to his feet. ‘If the theme is sexual – if Vespucci set out to punish these women – is that why women are being killed now? Does our killer want to punish women too?’ He walked to the door, then turned. ‘I’m going back to the gallery to finish Ravenscourt’s notes. Then I’ll talk to him—’
Gaspare flinched. ‘Don’t be stupid! We’ve just agreed that Ravenscourt could be the killer—’
‘And if he is,’ Nino said simply, ‘someone has to stop him.’
31
New York
The news had only been out for an hour when it came to Farina Ahmadi’s ears. Good God! she thought, hurrying back to her gallery on 45th Street. Who had ever heard anything like it? A top dealer virtually advertising for help in finding a famous work of art. Why didn’t Triumph just put a fucking sign up in Times Square? she thought angrily, slamming the door of the gallery behind her and moving into her office. Once there, she made a call on her mobile and stood by the window waiting for someone to answer.
‘What the bloody hell are you playing at?’ she snapped, infuriated to find herself talking to Triumph Jones’ recorded message. Severing the connection, she then dialled Tokyo, knowing she would wake Jobo Kido in the middle of the night and hopefully catch him off guard.
‘What!!!’ a voice answered, and Farina smiled to herself. He had been asleep. Good.
‘Jobo, it’s Farina.’
‘It’s one in the morning. What d’you want?’
‘Triumph’s drumming up help to find the Titian.’ She could hear the dealer take in a breath and could imagine him sitting up in bed, shocked out of sleep. ‘You know what that means, don’t you, Jobo? Every fucking lunatic will come out of the woodwork. And now everyone will know about the Titian portrait. I mean everyone.’ Her voice plunged. ‘Are you listening to me?’
‘Every word,’ Jobo said, getting to his feet, his wife grumbling as she turned over in bed. Walking downstairs, he made for the kitchen, closing the door behind him. ‘You woke my wife—’
‘I woke your wife!’ Farina snapped. ‘Jesus! You moron, this is more important than your wife’s beauty sleep!’
‘Farina, calm down,’ Jobo said, tying the dressing-gown cord round his waist and getting himself some water. ‘Why did he do it? It doesn’t seem like Triumph to advertise something like that. He’s crazy—’
‘Oh, he’s crazy like a snake!’ she snorted. ‘He wants that bloody painting so much he’s going to stoop to any depths to get it. And you know what that means, don’t you? We lose.’
‘We lose?’ Jobo repeated. ‘Why exactly are you letting me in on this, Farina?’
‘The Titian’s out there, hanging its arse in the wind. We have to get hold of it before it disappears again. Or worse, Triumph gets it. He can’t win, not this time.’ She thought of his steely confidence and cringed. ‘I refuse to let him add one more scalp to his belt – particularly that Titian. I want it. And I know you want it. But the way I see it, our joining forces would double our chances. We could share it.’
‘Share it?’
‘Stop repeating everything I fucking say!’ she roared. ‘Think about it. If we keep quiet, then who’s to know that we’re sharing it? We have to act! Triumph’s calling on all sorts – thieves, villains, and all the loser dealers out to make a buck. He’ll be up to his knees in fakes within a week. And
even if he does manage to flush out the Titian, he’ll lose it when we offer a better deal.’
‘If we hear of it.’
‘Let it be known that we’re willing to top his offer and we’ll hear of it.’ She paused, confident. ‘Come on, Jobo, it’s a good idea. You could have the Titian half the time and I could have it the other half. East meet West – it would be a cultural gesture.’
‘It would be a two-fingered gesture to Triumph,’ Jobo replied, amused. ‘But I want the painting for my collection.’
‘And I want the painting for my husband. So what? We both want it, but Triumph wants it more.’ She paused, her tone softening. ‘He’s rich, but I’m richer. And you’re no pauper, Jobo. Together we could match – and top – any amount Triumph can offer. Naturally we would have to draw up a contract.’
‘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.
