Isle of the Dead (22 page)

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.

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.

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.

Claudia Moroni's love of her brother was the link between her and The Skin Hunter. Incest would have made her a target, her immorality only temporarily hidden under the guise of being a respectable merchant's wife. Somehow Vespucci had uncovered her weakness, a sin which would have damned her in the eyes of society and of God. The perfect victim.

But if the links were obvious between the women in the past, what of the women in the present? It was true that Sally Egan had been promiscuous, and that Harriet Forbes had been gay, but Seraphina? She was happily married,
pregnant. Was her connection with Vespucci merely a familial one? Or because she had found the portrait?

Walking back to the table, Nino looked over his earlier notes. He had spent the previous hour tracking down London dealers called Ahmadi. There were four in total, in various districts. He had duly called them all, discovering that the first three dealt in Turkish, Islamic, Dutch and American art, but the fourth dealt in Italian Renaissance painting. Ms Farina Ahmadi.

Putting in a call to her, Nino was met with the supercilious tones of her male secretary.

‘What is this concerning?'

‘My name's Nino Bergstrom and it's a private matter.'

He was condescending, arrogant. ‘I'm afraid I can't connect you to Ms Ahmadi without knowing who you are.'

‘Perhaps you could tell her that unless she comes on the phone I'll make a call to the press about Angelico Vespucci,' Nino said calmly. ‘I think that should get me through.'

Seconds later, Farina came on the phone.

‘What is it? Want d'you want? I should tell you that I'm not used to being threatened.'

‘Who threatened you?'

‘You did, Mr Bergstrom!' she snapped. ‘We don't do business this way.'

‘What kind of a way
do
you do business, Ms Ahmadi?' he replied coolly. ‘Or perhaps I should talk to Triumph Jones instead?'

‘All right! What d'you want? You mentioned Angelico Vespucci. Is that supposed to mean something to me?'

‘You, and quite a few others in the art world.'

‘I've never heard of him.'

‘Oh, you've heard of him. You commissioned a woman called Sally Egan to do a copy of his portrait. Ring any bells?'

‘Who the hell are you?'

‘Nino Bergstrom. I'm privately employed. Undertaking an investigation for Mr Gaspare Reni.'

She snorted. ‘Hah! Investigating what?'

‘The death of Seraphina Morgan, who used to be Seraphina di Fattori.'

There was a long silence, Nino waiting for a response that didn't come. Finally, he spoke again. ‘She was murdered in Venice—'

‘I know!'

‘Oh, good. That'll save time. I suppose you've also heard that Sally Egan was killed? Well, I was wondering why you hired her to copy the Vespucci portrait?'

‘I wanted it for an exhibition we were doing – Lost Old Master Portraits. Obviously, because they were
lost
, we had to get copies done.'

‘And after the exhibition, what happened to the painting?'

Her voice was impatient. ‘I don't know! It's probably in store somewhere.'

He took a shot in the dark.

‘So the painting that's suddenly turned up in London might not be Titian after all. In fact, it could be your copy.' He paused. ‘Don't say you haven't heard about the Titian re-emerging.'

‘How d'you know about it?'

‘I saw it.'

‘
You saw it?
' She was breathless. ‘Christ, have you got it?'

‘No. It was stolen from Gaspare Reni. I don't know where it is now, but I know Triumph Jones is after it, and others.'

‘Jobo Kido,' she said under her breath, Nino smiling to himself as she continued. ‘The painting you saw – did Reni see it too? Because if he said it was genuine, it was. Reni's no mug – he knows his stuff.'

‘But the copy was very good.'

‘How would
you
know?'

‘I saw a photograph,' Nino replied. ‘It looked like a Titian to me—'

‘
Not to an expert!
' she retorted, nettled. ‘And, like I said, I don't know where it is now. It might be in storage, or we might have got rid of it. If the copy's what you wanted to know about, I can't help you. It was worthless.'

‘It cost Sally Egan her life.'

She ignored the comment.

‘I suppose Gaspare Reni wants you to get the Titian back for him?'

There was silence down the line.

‘OK, Mr Bergstrom, whatever he's paying you, I'll double it. Work for me instead.'

‘I think,' Nino replied smoothly, ‘that there isn't enough money on earth to make that sound attractive.'

Ginza, Tokyo

Jobo Kido was shocked to hear about Triumph being mugged in Central Park. He made some trite comment about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was anxious. What had possessed his old adversary? Triumph Jones' behaviour was totally out of character. He was taking ridiculous chances. He must have known that his reward would have drawn out every runner and gofer in the art world. Petty criminals, forgers and failed artists would leap at the chance of relieving Triumph of some of his wealth. Why invite such lunacy? And why, thought Jobo for the hundredth time, would he be walking in Central Park after dark?

Perhaps his rival had a death wish? His actions were certainly provocative, courting danger … Jobo looked over to the window. The heatwave had finally broken, the temperature falling, the rain at its curdling best … Was it all to do with the Titian? he wondered. After all, Triumph's change in behaviour had started after the Vespucci portrait
had been found. Was there some connection? Some reckless impetus which was driving him?

Giving the computer a sidelong glance, Jobo wondered if the American had also been in touch with angelicovespucci.1555.com. Had Triumph been communicating with the site's creator too? Was that the reason for the sudden and brutal attack? Unnerved, he stared at the dead screen. Was he taking a terrible risk? Was he walking into something he might come to regret? Perhaps Triumph's mugging should act as a warning?

But as he thought it, Jobo knew he wouldn't – couldn't – stop. The contact had promised him the Titian. All he had to do was to discover how the victims were connected to Vespucci. After that, the painting would belong to him. Not Triumph Jones or Farina Ahmadi, not even Gaspare Reni.
He
would have it. The pride of his collection.

After all, Jobo consoled himself, high achievers always took risks. He had to prove that he was special enough to own the work. This was no time to be timid. He glanced back at the screen, swallowing drily. It was late – he should have left for home an hour ago. The walls seemed oppressive, the car park outside aggressively silent. Then, suddenly, he heard footsteps.

But the gallery was closed, he thought, panicked. It should be empty.

Hurriedly Jobo locked the doors, flicking the lamps off. The footsteps crunched on the gravel outside, near the window, as Jobo held his breath and pressed himself
against the wall. Reflected in the mirror opposite, he could see the outline of someone looking in, the dark shape hovering for a moment, then moving on.

Hardly breathing, Jobo waited. Immobile, he listened.

Then he heard the entrance door open and saw the handle of his office door rattling hard against the lock.

London, December

‘I'm going to Tokyo to talk to Jobo Kido and see where Harriet Forbes was killed,' Nino said, waiting for Gaspare to protest.

But he just stared at him. ‘You need money?'

‘I've still got plenty left over from Ravenscourt, the bastard. He owes me.'

‘No news from him?'

‘Nothing. And the police haven't been in touch again. Much as I'd like it, I don't think anything's happened to Ravenscourt – I think he's just backed off.' Nino paused. ‘Well, go on. Aren't you going to ask me?'

‘About going to Japan? No, I know why you're going.' The dealer shrugged. ‘I can't say don't go, Nino – you will anyway. But I can tell you to be careful.'