Isle of the Dead (15 page)

But now the flat and the husband seemed precious. Louisa moved into her sister's bedroom and noticed the unmade bed and the laundry on a chair by the door. The family had been informed that the body would be held in Tokyo for forensic examination, after Harriet's father had flown over to identify her. It would be allowed home, but they didn't know when. And suddenly the thought of Harriet lying in some morgue, bloodless and mutilated, was too much for Louisa.

She sat down heavily, her hands trembling as she noticed her sister's laptop in the corner. Surprised that Harriet would have left it behind, she moved over and switched it on, waiting for the Microsoft welcome. And then the home page came up, with a photograph of her and her sister, arms around each other, smiling as though they had all the time in the world …

In that instant Louisa knew that she had misjudged her sister, and failed her. Had been too jealous to make allowances, to see another point of view. Perhaps Harriet had envied
her.
After all, she was married and secure, able to express herself, not hiding any part of her character. It was obvious that their parents would never have been able to cope with Harriet being a lesbian, but Louisa could have. It wouldn't have made any difference to her. The shared confidence might even have brought them closer.

It was no use blaming Harriet for being secretive and dismissive. Perhaps she hadn't felt secure enough to confide? And now it was too late. Their parents were ageing, and Louisa felt a sudden and terrible grief for a sister who wouldn't be around when they were gone. For the loss of her, the shutting down of a shared past. For the companion she would never have again. For the blood link which some maniac had severed in a toilet in the middle of Tokyo airport.

Shaken, Louisa made a decision. She might have failed her sister in life, but she wouldn't repeat the mistake in death.

Staring at his computer screen, Jobo Kido remembered what Farina, the bitch, had told him and typed into Google search
Angelico Vespucci – The Skin Hunter.
Outside his office, he could hear the new exhibition being arranged: a series of Japanese lithographs. Not to his taste, but popular and always good sellers. He jabbed his fingers on the SEARCH button impatiently, then watched as a website listing came up.

Good God, he thought, she was right. Pressing the entry, he watched as an image of the glorious Grand Canal in Venice came on to the screen.

It was like a normal picture postcard, until, suddenly, a crude image of a body fell from the grand architecture and plummeted into the water below, to the accompaniment of Sting's ‘Murder by Numbers'. Disgusted but curious, Jobo pressed the ENTRY TO SITE sign and then watched as the Venetian panorama closed down into a narrow, dark tunnel.
At the far end was an exit, a figure standing there. But just as Jobo saw it the figure rushed towards him, the screen filling with a splash of artificial blood.

‘God!' he snapped, jumping in his seat.

Looking round to check that no one had been watching him, Jobo glanced back at the screen. What kind of a lunatic would build a site like this? he wondered, with a grudging admiration for its shock tactics. He scrolled down the table on the home page, clicking CONTACT, and waiting for a moment before the details were flashed on the screen.

As if! Jobo thought, returning to Google and checking if there were any other entries. There was just one, entitled
angelicovespucci.1555.com

This site was altogether different. No cheap visuals, no crass music, just a very professional-looking biography of Vespucci, and a copy of an engraving of him. But, most importantly, across the top was written in copperplate:

Immediately Jobo looked to see who had created the
site. But there was no name, only an email address – avespucci-Venice.1555.

He typed a note:

Then he sent the message.

Jobo waited. No reply. Five minutes later there was still no reply. But when he came back into the office after an hour, having attended to business in the gallery, there was an email waiting for him.

Nonplussed, Jobo paused for a moment before continuing to type.

This was news to Jobo, the first time he had heard of her.

Surprised, Jobo considered the name, then remembered the woman who had been killed in Venice weeks earlier – Seraphina Morgan, previously Seraphina di Fattori. A relative? Was the newly murdered woman a descendant of the Contessa? If so, there might be a genuine connection between the 16th and 21st centuries. Between two murderers five hundred years apart.

The realisation made him uncomfortable and he typed out his next words carefully.

There was a long pause before the answer came back.

Groaning, Jobo read the words and leaned back in his seat. The man was a lunatic. Some anonymous moron who had found his niche on the internet glorifying someone like Vespucci. A sick fantasist, getting a thrill from revelling in a murderer's grotesque actions. He could imagine some sweaty nobody in a sleazy flat, endlessly crouched over a computer, building up a fan base for a dead killer.

Irritated, Jobo wrote back: No one should glorify murder.

The dealer held his breath, his hands shaking as he typed out the next words.

And with that, he broke the connection.

Sweating, Jobo wiped his forehead. The stranger had used his name! But how the hell did he know who he was? Had he given himself away? Or was the man enough of a computer geek to track his email address? Jesus, Jobo thought, alarmed, he was really out of his depth … Unnerved, he walked over to the window. Opening it, he breathed in the humid Tokyo air, but it seemed thick and tasted of tar. The absurd heatwave was glowering over the
autumn trees, making their branches calligraphic symbols against the burning sky. And as he wiped his palms the first few drops of rain began outside. Then they stopped, drying on the bleached pavement below.

In the past, Jobo Kido's fascination with murderers had only ever gone so far. It was true he wanted the Titian, but his admiration for evil had always been from a distance. At close quarters, it was terrifying. How did the man on the website know about the killings? And how had he connected them to Angelico Vespucci?

Jobo tried to calm himself. The murders had been in the news, on the internet – anyone could have found out about them. A fanatic could easily have made a connection with Vespucci. The present-day killer had skinned his victims, so had Vespucci. Some unbalanced mind could easily have paired the acts.

Some unbalanced mind could just as easily have committed them
.

Uneasy, Jobo moved back to his seat. He thought fleetingly of Farina Ahmadi and wondered if he should call her, but dismissed the notion. She would just mock him. And if she didn't, would the news tip her off, help her find the portrait? Likewise Triumph Jones … Jobo flicked over the pages in his diary, trying to engage his thoughts on anything that wasn't Vespucci. But it didn't work. He had no interest in lithographs any more – all his concentration was on the exchange he had just had over the internet.

Did the man really know where the Titian was? And if
so, could Jobo somehow bypass his rivals to get it? The thought excited him. What risk wasn't worth the chance of securing the portrait? He paced the room restlessly, knowing that, like last night, he wouldn't sleep. Instead he would be waiting for his next website conversation.

A conversation with a freak. Or a killer.

St Bartholomew's Hospital, London

Having developed a chest infection, Gaspare Reni was kept in hospital, and Nino stayed at the convent gallery. He had tried to contact Sally Egan's family, but had been told that her only living relative – her father – had Alzheimer's and had been admitted to a nursing home. Further enquiries led him to Jean Netherton, who had helped to care for Mr Egan, and Nino had left her a message to get in touch with him.

In the meantime, he continued reading through the Ravenscourt notes. His research had been meticulous, thorough, dozens of little additions in the margin giving away his contacts.

And on page 56 of the second notebook, he had written –
Sir Harold Greyly, Courtford Hall, Little Havensham, Norfolk. (Check him out for more information on Claudia Moroni.)

Apparently the lead had not been followed up, because there was no further reference to Harold Greyly. Instead, Johnny Ravenscourt had looked into the life and times of the Contessa di Fattori.

When they were not directly referring to Vespucci, his notes had resumed their usual jaunty tone:

Nino gazed at the model in
Danae with a Nurse
: her knowing look, the easy way she exposed her nudity, one arm lying on a pillow, her left hand between her legs. She had certainly been beautiful, but there was no resemblance to Seraphina. Her descendant had been slender and dark-haired, without any of the pulsing eroticism of the countess.

Turning back to the notebook, Nino continued to read.

Nino looked at Aretino's portrait: a fat, greedy-looking man, with cunning eyes.