Isle of the Dead

by Alex Connor

  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.

  ‘Can I talk to your parents?’ Nino requested.

  ‘They won’t talk to you – they’re in shock. If you want to talk, talk to me.’

  Nodding, he leaned closer towards her and dropped his voice so that he wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Your sister had a flat in London, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to see it. Could you take me there?’

  ‘Now?’ She bent down and picked up her bag. ‘All right, we’ll go now.’ Her voice was composed. ‘It’s OK, Mr Bergstrom, I can cope. I want to help. Let’s get on with it, please.’

  When they entered the Highgate flat it smelt like any place closed up in cold weather. It wasn’t damp but chilly, uninviting. Louisa turned on the lights and checked the post.

  ‘I should stop the mail. How d’you do that?’ She answered her own question. ‘Post Office, I suppose.’ Her long fingers rifled through the envelopes, then she dropped the pile on to the hall table and walked into the sitting room.

  Nino followed her, looking at a wall of photographs. Harriet Forbes had been a traveller, that much was obvious. There were prints of the Far East, New York and Milan, Post-it notes stuck next to them, with the dates written in red. And on the space over her computer was her timetable – seven countries to visit over twenty days.

  ‘Did she always travel so much?’

  Louisa nodded. ‘Since her twenties. Harriet was the restless sort, never liked to be in the same place for long.’

  ‘Did she get on with her employers?’

  ‘They were always changing. She would take on a project to do PR for one company, then go on to something else. It was a movable feast; the beauty business launches new projects all the time.’

  ‘What about her private life?’

  ‘Harriet wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment.’

  ‘There was no ex-boyfriend who might bear a grudge? No one rejected?’

  ‘No. The police asked me the same question, but there was no boyfriend.’

  He could feel the hesitation in her voice, and pressed on. ‘Was there someone?’

  ‘Harriet was gay,’ Louisa said simply. ‘She didn’t think I knew. I kept waiting for her to confide in me, but she didn’t. She did have a partner a few years ago, but it broke up, amicably. They stayed friends.’

  ‘D’you know her name?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten it now, but I saw a Christmas card once. The message was very loving, very sweet … Harriet seemed to be ashamed of being gay. At least she kept it a secret, so I imagine she wasn’t comfortable with it. She used to cringe when Mum and Dad teased her about getting married and giving them kids.’ She breathed in, holding on to herself. ‘My sister’s work took up more and more of her life, until there wasn’t room for anyone.’

  Nino was reading the spines on books arranged on rows of white painted shelving.

  ‘Your sister certainly liked reading.’ Surprised he pointed to one volume. ‘Machiavelli’s The Prince – that’s quite a switch from promoting make-up.’

  ‘Harriet was smart, much too smart for PR,’ Louisa said, folding her slim arms, her face composed. ‘She used to say that she’d make a killing, put away a load of money, and then do what she really wanted to do.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Harriet wanted to be a journalist, in the arts.’

  An alarm went off in Nino’s brain.

  ‘What branch of the arts?’

  ‘Painting.’ Putting her head on one side, Louisa studied him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Please don’t lie to me, Mr Bergstrom. I can handle anything you tell me.’

  He nodded. ‘All right. The first victim, Sally Egan, was a painter. A very gifted one.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She was commissioned by a London dealer to paint a man called Angelico Vespucci.’ He caught a flicker of recognition at the name. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘It rings a bell,’ Louisa said, concentrating. ‘A while back Harriet wrote a piece for an art magazine. She was so thrilled she’d been commissioned.’ Moving over to her sister’s filing cabinet, she pulled out the top drawer and flicked through the papers. ‘My sister said it was very difficult finding out the information, so she was disappointed when they only published it on the internet.’

  ‘What was the magazine?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Louisa replied, still searching through her dead sister’s files. ‘But Harriet was angry about it. Said that they didn’t treat her seriously because she was a PR agent, and not someone trained in the history of art. I remember it well because it really upset her, and Harriet wasn’t someone who often showed her feelings.’ Finally she drew out a slim file marked VESPUCCI. ‘Here it is,’ she said, handing it over to Nino. ‘It took her weeks to write – she was so proud of it.’

  Flipping open the file, Nino was confronted with a photograph of a face he knew only too well, together with a thoroughly researched and well written article. Her sister was right, Harriet Forbes had been wasted in PR.

  ‘Why did she want to write about Angelico Vespucci?’

  Louisa shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She said something about him being painted by one of the Old Masters—’

  ‘Titian.’

  ‘Yes, Titian,’ she agreed, ‘but otherwise she didn’t talk about it. Is it important that both Harriet and Sally Egan had a connection with Vespucci?’ Her eyes fixed on Nino. ‘Or should I put it another way – it must be important that both of them had a connection. But why?’ She took the reproduction out of the file and studied it. ‘Who is Angelico Vespucci?’

  ‘He lived in Venice in the sixteenth century. He was a merchant.’

  ‘And?’ she said, pushing him. ‘What else about him, Mr Bergstrom? You have to tell me, otherwise I’ll just look it up on the internet and find out myself.’

  ‘He was a murderer, known as The Skin Hunter.’

  She took the words full force, her fingers touching her mouth for an instant, her eyes closing then reopening. A moment passed, then another.

  Finally she spoke. ‘How many women did he kill?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘How many women – apart from Harriet and Sally Egan – have been killed now?’

  ‘Three,’ Nino replied, watching as she sat down. After getting her a glass of water from the kitchen, he handed it to her. Her breathing was rapid, but her control was impressive.

  ‘Was this other victim … Did she have any connection to Vespucci?’

 
; ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she mutilated?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked up, holding Nino’s gaze. ‘Someone’s copying Vespucci, aren’t they?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And his name – The Skin Hunter. Does it mean what I think it does?’

  ‘He flayed, or partially skinned, his victims.’

  ‘Like Harriet.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nino agreed. ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘Don’t be! I want to know. I need to know what this is all about … Has anyone else connected the murders?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not that I know of. The victims were all killed in different countries. The Japanese police haven’t connected Harriet’s killer with Sally Egan. I’m surprised you did.’

  ‘He skins women! How likely is it that there are two people doing that? Of course I made the connection,’ she replied, looking back at him. ‘You said Vespucci killed four women. So there’s one left.’

  ‘We can’t be sure—’

  ‘Of course we can! If the killer’s copied the Venetian’s actions so far, why would he stop until they’re completed? If he’s mad enough to start, he’s mad enough to go on … Have you any idea who he is?’

  Pausing, Nino studied her. He was prepared to confide, but he wasn’t about to endanger her.

  ‘No,’ he said evenly, ‘I don’t know who the killer is.’

  She nodded. ‘But you are going to find him, aren’t you?’

  It was the first time he had been asked outright. Gaspare had needed help, but it was the sister of one of the victims who put the question directly. You are going to find him, aren’t you? And it was only at that instant that Nino realised exactly what he had taken on.

  38

  New York

  Sitting beside the statue of Hans Christian Andersen, Triumph watched the people moving around in front of him. He hated New York at Christmas time; loathed the continual drinks parties and openings, the relentless gaiety of it all. Weighed down by guilt and riddled with uncertainty, he was hardly sleeping, his usual immaculate appearance muted with exhaustion. Suddenly a child walked in front of him and stopped, staring, fascinated by the black man who was sitting, immobile, in front of the bronze. A moment later, the child’s mother hustled him away as the first light snowfall drizzled down on Central Park.

  It was three thirty in the afternoon, the light ready to dip down into the dark beginning of the evening. Triumph huddled further into his coat as a stooped man of around forty came over and took a seat next to him.

  ‘Cold, isn’t it?’

  Triumph sighed. ‘I’m here, let’s get on with it. You said you had the Titian portrait of Vespucci.’

  When there was no reply he turned, staring at the Cuban’s grainy face, his eyes narrowed under the snowfall as he lit up. The match flared, ignited the end of his roll-up, and then he blew it out, letting it drop to the ground. Patiently, Triumph watched the performance, his hands pushed deep into his pockets.

  ‘I haven’t got the painting yet—’

  Triumph stood up.

  ‘But I can get it!’ the man went on, jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve got a good lead. I just need cash to get some more information.’

  ‘I’m getting nothing here but a cold,’ Triumph replied, walking off, the man following him.

  ‘Fucking bastard!’ he shouted. ‘You need me! You need me!’

  No, Triumph thought, I don’t need you. Or the woman who stopped me outside the restaurant last night. I don’t need the dealer from Sweden who called by the gallery, or the junkie who stumbled into my path when I was walking to my car.

  The news that he was looking for the Titian had certainly spread; there wasn’t a day that Triumph hadn’t been approached, the police questioning the wisdom of his action in offering a reward. But every offer, suggestion or deal had been bogus, and when he was unexpectedly tapped on the shoulder, he jumped.

  ‘Christ, Triumph!’ Farina said, laughing. ‘Your nerves are shot!’

  She was wearing a ranch mink, the collar turned up, her hair hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. The snow which had seemed so out of place in the park flattered her, making a translucent backdrop. Smiling, she slid her arm through Triumph’s. If she found him tense, she didn’t allude to it. Instead she walked with him for several yards until she got down to the matter in hand.

  ‘That was very naughty of you, Triumph, putting out a reward for the painting. You’ll get every loser on earth coming out of the woodwork.’

  He walked on, letting her talk.

  ‘Of course, you could get lucky; someone might know about the Titian. And they might tell you.’ She twinkled up at him. ‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

  Tell you what? he thought. That I’m going to destroy it? No, I don’t think I’ll tell you that.

  ‘Of course,’ he lied.

  ‘My husband could make it worth your while,’ she continued, her gloved hand clinging to his arm. ‘You know how much I want him to have this painting. I’m sure you and I could come to some arrangement.’

  ‘An arrangement?’

  ‘We’re the biggest dealers in New York,’ Farina went on blithely. ‘We should get the goodies. We deserve them. No point letting other dealers – lesser dealers – have a go. You know how I admire you.’

  ‘You do?’ he asked, inwardly mocking her.

  ‘I always have,’ she replied, pausing when Triumph stopped walking.

  ‘This arrangement,’ he said. ‘I never thought of that, Farina. Never realised you were so attracted to me. Never thought of you and me …’

  She was so taken aback she couldn’t speak. Surely this man, this African-American, wasn’t suggesting an affair?

  ‘To be honest, I’ve always admired you, Farina,’ he said, putting out his hand and stroking her cheek. ‘And now I’m wondering exactly what you would do for the Titian. How far would you go?’

  He was staring at her so intently she flushed.

  ‘What the hell—’

  Gently he slid her hand out from the crook of his arm, patting her shoulder in a paternal gesture. ‘Go home, my dear. You’re a great dealer, but a lousy whore.’

  Then he turned, walking into the falling snow.

  Without looking back, he could imagine the expression on Farina Ahmadi’s face – the outrage. She would seethe with humiliation. At having been regarded as a whore – and rejected as a woman. Of course Triumph knew he had made an implacable enemy, but he didn’t need Farina any more. He was tired of the deals, the hustling. Tired of a world which dealt in beauty, and employed all kinds of ugliness.

  Preoccupied, he walked on, letting the snow fall on him as he rounded a bend in the park. But he never anticipated what would happened next. Wasn’t expecting the blow to the back of his head which sent him reeling against the side of the bridge over the pathway. Staggering backwards, he felt the blood pour from a scalp wound, but had no time to react. When he was struck again, his legs buckled. Caught off guard, the elegant Triumph Jones fell clumsily to the ground, the side of his head striking the stonework, his hands scrambling for purchase on the snowy ground.

  And all the time he was thinking of the women, the three women who had died for a painting. The three deaths he had inadvertently caused. And wondering if his would be the fourth.

  39

  London

  Picking up the post, Nino walked back upstairs into the sitting room. The cold was stinging, the old-fashioned gas fire hissing into the room, its blue flames spluttering as he opened the letter addressed to him. Surprised, he read the signature, then looked back to the beginning.

  Dear Mr Bergstrom,

  I thought I would send you a little note in case we didn’t have the chance to meet up. Life is so strange, and one can never leave things to chance, or so I find.

  You were asking about our family and I overheard you talking to Harold about our ancestor, Claudia Moroni. He was rather evasive, for reasons which will become obviou
s. My nephew is a snob and very defensive about the family reputation. Charlotte – later Claudia – did not elope, she was thrown out of the family. With her brother.

  Signor Moroni married her, but theirs was not a love match. Claudia did not love her husband, but her brother. There had been gossip in Norfolk about the incest, so she had to be exiled, along with him. She was sent to Venice. I believe there is a painting of her and Matthew. People think it portrays her and her husband, but that’s not true.

  I’m sure you know what happened to her. Her death was terrible; as big a scandal as her life.

  My nephew would do anything to prevent this information being dredged up again. But I think your enquiries were made for some other reason than simple curiosity. I hope I’m right, but I feel certain that you need to know about this.

  Use the information wisely. It caused much suffering once and I would hate to think such unhappiness could happen again.

  Kindest regards,

  Hester Greyly (Mrs)

  Nino read the letter twice, now certain that Hester Greyly had been murdered. Incest was taboo, as much in the twenty-first century as ever. A prominent family might ride out murder, even criminal links, but not incest. He could imagine Harold Greyly’s fear of exposure. His status would plummet: he – and his family – would be censored, reviled. The news would make the red-top papers, smut for gossip, the local pub and shop pointing him out. A man as proud as Harold Greyly could never have handled the fallout. His golf club, his shooting colleagues and his powerful friends would drift away and Courtford Hall would become a mockery without the applause of the admiring.

  The incest between brother and sister had to be hidden at all costs. And it had been, for centuries. Until, suddenly, someone emerged and started asking questions about the exiled Claudia … Nino could imagine the shock, the blow to the ego. Men killed for small change – how easy would it be for Harold Greyly to justify the murder of his aunt to protect his family name?

  Nino remembered Hester only too well, and the provocative baiting of her nephew. She could never have imagined the reaction to her teasing, her poke to the pompous ribs. Never believe that Harold Greyly would kill her to keep her quiet. And it had all been for nothing, Nino thought dully. Because, acting on some impulse, Hester had put the family history down on paper and posted it. Making sure that even if the words were never spoken, Nino would read the truth.