Isle of the Dead (14 page)

He was used to her manner, and carried on.

‘Something incredible has just happened. Over here, in Tokyo,' he said, pausing to create the maximum effect. ‘There's been a murder at the airport. Hardly that shocking usually, but there's something very odd about this one. The victim was stabbed and partially skinned.'

‘So?'

‘Well, it's the third, isn't it?'

‘
The third?
'

‘The third victim,' he said chillingly. ‘First there was Seraphina di Fattori, then Sally Egan—'

Farina cut across him immediately. ‘I was just thinking about what happened to her. How did you hear about her murder in Japan?'

‘The internet. And besides, we have a bloodthirsty interest in such things.'

‘You mean
you
do,' she retorted. ‘I bet you've got a Google Alert out on violent murders. I wouldn't put it past you. God knows, you spend long enough drooling over those sick pictures of yours.' She doodled the women's names on a piece of paper, then paused. ‘What's the name of the last victim? The one in the airport?'

‘Harriet Forbes.'

Farina shrugged. ‘Means nothing to me, but then again, why should it?'

‘Well, we all knew – or knew
of
 – Seraphina di Fattori, because her parents were collectors. I was just wondering if you knew the other victims.'

Hesitating, Farina took a moment to consider if it was in her best interests to admit that she had known Sally Egan.
Was it worth mentioning to the Japanese dealer? But then again, perhaps some shared confidence might strengthen their relationship? Make it more likely Jobo Kido could share information about the missing Titian?

‘Oddly enough,' she began, ‘I did know Sally Egan. Well, I didn't
know
her, I commissioned her. And you'll never guess what she did for me – she copied the Vespucci portrait.'

Her tone was light, but it rankled Jobo. ‘
She did what?
'

‘Copied the Titian.'

‘And now she's been murdered and skinned.'

Farina paused, uncomfortable. ‘It could be a coincidence—'

‘That she painted
The Skin Hunter
and was killed like that?' His voice rose. ‘Don't be stupid, Farina, this is more than any coincidence. So, does the name Harriet Forbes ring any bells?'

‘No! Why should it?'

‘She didn't paint any Titian copies for you?'

Farina's tone was biting. ‘No, she didn't. I've never heard of the woman.'

‘The killer tried to skin her too—'

‘
In Tokyo!
' she snapped. ‘Seraphina di Fattori was killed in Venice, Sally Egan died in London, and your woman's been murdered in Tokyo. If it's the same killer, I hope he's collecting air miles.'

He ignored the sarcasm, deciding on his next tactic. Perhaps it was the ploy he should have used from the beginning,
but now fate had played into his hands – and Jobo Kido was never a man to ignore good fortune.

‘There have been three murders since the painting re-emerged. My God, it makes you think. I mean, I've always had a fascination with the dark side, but this is way beyond anything I've ever come across before. Perhaps the picture's really got some kind of power.'

‘You think?'

‘Maybe it
is
bad luck.'

She had already seen through the ruse.

‘Bullshit, Jobo! You can't put me off it so easily. If the killings are connected, it's just some fucking lunatic copying Vespucci's methods. Could be they heard about the painting coming to light—'

‘How?'

‘Look on the internet, stupid. Since last night there's been a whole website devoted to Angelico Vespucci, the infamous Skin Hunter.'

‘I haven't seen it!'

She carried on blithely. ‘Anybody that interested would have heard about the painting. I bet some nutter's devoted their life to Vespucci and the re-discovery of the portrait's triggered him off.'

‘To murder?'

‘Why not?' she countered.

‘But why?' Jobo persisted. ‘What would be the reason? How would he pick his victims? And why them?'

‘Goodness, Jobo,' she said snidely. ‘I'd have thought that you of all people would have a theory. Of course you could
always ask your friends in your
private
gallery.' She laughed, knowing she was making him cringe. ‘Have a word with them, why don't you? Or are you still hoping the Angelico Vespucci will end up side by side with all your other freaks?'

Breathing in, Jobo steadied himself before he spoke. ‘You can laugh now, Farina, but I'll get that painting! It might take me a while, but I'll get it.'

‘Really?' she countered, her tone amused. ‘You'll have to kill me first.'

Within minutes of Triumph's departure, Gaspare had told Nino everything that had transpired. He listened expressionless, then whistled softly between his teeth.

‘Mr Jones is too clever by half.'

Nodding, Gaspare climbed back into the hospital bed, pulling the blanket over him. He seemed chilled, taking off his glasses and laying them on the bedside table. To Nino's surprise there was a rosary he had never seen before, lying beside Gaspare's newspaper. The beads were spread out, the silver cross dangling over the edge of the table, swinging gently and throwing a sombre shadow on the wall behind.

‘Are you all right?'

The dealer nodded. ‘Just tired. Triumph Jones exhausted me. All that plotting, all that trouble, just to make himself even more important. And look what it cost him. He's now responsible for two murders.'

‘
Three
.'

Expressionless, Gaspare stared at Nino. It was almost as though he had expected the words. That he had already heard them and absorbed the shock.

‘Where?'

‘Narita International airport, Tokyo,' Nino explained. ‘A woman called Harriet Forbes was stabbed and partially skinned. It's all over the internet, and of course the police will start wondering if it's connected to Sally Egan over here. After all, Harriet Forbes was an Englishwoman – it's more than a little suspicious.' He paused, folding his arms. ‘I think Triumph Jones is right about one thing – someone's copying The Skin Hunter.'

Reaching for his rosary, Gaspare fingered the beads. ‘How far have you got with Johnny Ravenscourt's notes?'

‘About halfway through.'

‘Any help?'

‘Yeah, they're giving me background information. But I'll know more when I've finished them.'

‘Come across the scapegoat? The man who took the suspicion off Vespucci?'

‘No, nothing on him,' Nino replied. ‘Even Johnny Ravens-court didn't uncover who he was.'

Not for the first time Nino wondered about Ravenscourt. If someone was copying The Skin Hunter, was it him? He had seemed benign – but was that an act? He certainly had the physical size to overpower and mutilate his victims. And the money and means to do so in private. Was he actually abetting and paying Nino
in order to keep close to him
?
Having put him on a retainer, Johnny Ravenscourt would want –
expect
 – him to report back and fill him in with everything he knew. What if, instead of wanting to distance himself from the Vespucci business, Ravenscourt actually wanted to get closer?

‘Talk to me.'

Nino looked up. ‘Sorry, I was thinking. I want to find out everything about the victims, the three women who've been killed. I know about Seraphina, but nothing about the other two. I should talk to their families, their friends.'

‘But not the police.'

‘No,' Nino agreed. ‘Not the police. They can do their own inquiries, and I'll do mine.'

Gaspare was reaching into his locker, rummaging for something. ‘You'll need money. I'll write you a cheque.'

‘I'm OK—'

‘You can't be – you're broke. Let me help – you're doing this for me.' The old man paused, alerted as he saw the expression on Nino's face. ‘What is it?'

‘Johnny Ravenscourt's paid me a retainer—'

‘
And you took it?
'

‘Of course I took it!' Nino exclaimed. ‘You haven't got money to throw around, Gaspare. I need travel money, expenses—'

‘Not from him! You've just said he could be involved in the murders.'

‘I know I did, but think about it. If I pull out now, refuse to take his money and work for him, it will look suspicious.
If Ravenscourt
is
guilty, I need him to trust me, not suspect me.'

Gaspare looked away, his tone edgy.

‘I shouldn't have involved you in this. It was selfish of me – I didn't think it through. I just wanted to know what happened to Seraphina and I was pleased that you wanted to help.' He glanced back at Nino, his expression anxious. ‘But it's getting too dangerous now. Three women are dead. And you're involved with Ravenscourt.'

‘What about Tom Morgan?' Nino teased him, trying to break the tension. ‘You haven't forgotten about him, have you?'

‘Nino—'

‘I called Morgan this morning. Strange man, hyped up, always on the defensive. Apparently he was questioned by the Venetian police again yesterday, but not held or charged. Interpol are involved, and the British police, but they couldn't hold Morgan.'

Despite himself, Gaspare's attention was caught. ‘So he could have killed the women?'

‘He's not supposed to leave the city, but as the police haven't taken his passport, yes, he
could
have killed them,' Nino said. ‘But I've no idea where Johnny Ravenscourt was when Sally Egan and Harriet Forbes were murdered. He calls himself a spoilt old queen, and acts like one. But I've been thinking about that. What a perfect cover to fool everyone! He acts fearful, pets his dogs, talks in that high voice. No one would suspect him of violence – and remember, he has the money to travel as often, and as far, as he likes.'

‘But why would he give you his research?'

‘Maybe he wants an audience. The story's all over the news – maybe he's getting a vicarious pleasure from it. Maybe he wants to tempt fate, see if I can work it out.' Nino thought for a moment. ‘Now I think about it, he came out of the blue and asked to talk to me. He said that he'd heard someone had hired me to investigate Seraphina's death, but he never explained
how
he knew about me. I didn't think about it at the time, but it's strange. After all, it's not my usual line of work, is it?'

‘All the more reason why you should stop now,' Gaspare said, his thumb and forefinger closing over the crucifix. ‘Maybe I've been wrong. Maybe the police should sort it out—'

‘How can they?' Nino snapped. ‘They don't know as much as we do. They certainly won't connect the painting with the women's deaths. Why should they?'

‘But if they ask around—'

‘You know the art world, Gaspare. They'll close ranks if they're questioned. No business on earth can hide a secret better, especially when there's money at stake. And who else would talk? Triumph Jones? Never – he's not going to admit his part in this publicly.'

Taking a breath, Gaspare watched him. He wondered fleetingly how different everything would have been if Nino Bergstrom had collapsed in France or New York. Wondered if the chance which had cemented their friendship might turn out to break them apart.

‘Believe me,' Nino continued, ‘the police will only ever get half the story. Let them carry on, but let me carry on too. I liked Seraphina and I want to pay you back for what you did for me.' He smiled, tapping his temple. ‘My brain's active again, I feel fit. I can solve this, I know I can. Someone has to. Don't take this opportunity away from me, Gaspare. I need it.'

It was past seven when Louisa Forbes arrived at her sister's flat, standing in the doorway for a long moment before entering. She was pretending that Harriet was still alive, that at any moment her mobile would ring and she would start talking. But she knew this time was different, this time her sister wasn't phoning, or returning. She had been stopped in Tokyo, outside a toilet cubicle – killed within reach of a thousand people, within sight of a dozen cafés and bureaux de change. Only metres from the admirable Japanese plumbing, Harriet Forbes had died. And worse, she had been disfigured. It hadn't been enough that her clothes had been taken off her – the killer had wanted her skin too.

The thought made the hair stand up on the back of Louisa's neck. Who could have killed Harriet? That was the question the family were asking, the police were asking, and she was asking. Her sister had been a PR agent specialising in health and beauty, a freelancer dealing in nothing more provocative than lipgloss.

Walking into the flat, Louisa turned on the light and glanced around. The place was familiar, although she hadn't visited for several weeks after they had an argument about their parents. Louisa had loved her sister, but Harriet had been difficult to like at times, brusque, with a habit of dismissing other people's problems. Had she been a little callous with someone outside the family? Someone who took offence? A man perhaps? God knows, Harriet could attract any man – not that she was interested.

Many times over the years Louisa had expected her sister to confide in her about being gay. She had waited, not wanting to push the issue, but it had never been raised. Perhaps Harriet thought she had fooled her sister? Conned her into believing that she genuinely wasn't interested in getting married and having children, while all the time Louisa had known there had never been any chance of that. Why hadn't she talked to her? Hadn't she trusted her sister? Why live with a secret like that, as though it was something shameful?

Moving further into the flat, Louisa stared at the mess. Always running late, Harriet had left her home in a hurry and the kitchen still showed signs of her last breakfast, the cushions on the sofa in the sitting room scattered. She had drawn the blinds, but there was still a half-finished cup of coffee near the window where she had stood, waiting for her cab to arrive. Turning, Louisa remembered their last meeting in a wine bar. Harriet had been complaining about all the travelling she had to do, and Louisa had felt a flicker
of jealousy. She was a bank manager – no exotic locations for her. Only a flat in Highgate and a husband working in IT.