Isle of the Dead (23 page)

‘I know it's a long shot, but what else can I do? Farina Ahmadi's a dead end, Triumph Jones is in hospital in New York—'

‘
What?
'

‘He was mugged yesterday,' Nino explained. ‘But what did he expect, putting out a reward for the Titian? I don't know why he just didn't paint a target on his forehead – it would have been quicker.'

‘Who mugged him?'

‘Take your pick. It could have been anyone out of a cast of thousands. Or it could have been the killer.'

Gaspare frowned. ‘In New York?'

‘He's been in Venice and Tokyo already, why not New York? Triumph Jones was never going to find the portrait that way. He must have been desperate.'

‘He was lucky he wasn't killed.'

‘Maybe that's what he wanted. Apparently he expected the police to swallow some story about falling down a flight of stairs.' Nino changed the subject. ‘I've only got two weeks left to find the last victim. Some woman's being stalked now. At this very moment she's being watched. Hand-picked to be murdered on the first of January … I can't let him kill her.'

‘But you don't know who she is.'

‘Not yet.'

‘Nino,' Gaspare said carefully, ‘how can you possibly track her down?'

‘I can't, unless I find out her connection to The Skin Hunter. There
is
one. Every victim has had some connection to Vespucci. This woman will be the same.'

‘But—'

‘Seraphina's relative knew him, and she found the portrait; Sally Egan copied it; Harriet Forbes wrote an article on The Skin Hunter.' Nino was emphatic. ‘The next woman he picks will have a connection too. I just have to find it.'

‘And you think you'll find it in Tokyo?'

‘Maybe. Harriet Forbes was killed there. Jobo Kido lives and works there.'

‘Yes, and he might be a suspect.'

Nino shook his head. ‘No, I don't think so. He's too obvious, Gaspare. He'd be the first person everyone would suspect. It's not Kido. But he might know something. Or there might be something about the place where Harriet was killed. I have to go.'

‘What you're trying to do is impossible. You can't prevent a death when you don't know who the victim is—'

‘
She knows Vespucci
,' Nino snapped. ‘She's heard of him, read about him, painted him or studied him.
But there is a link.
And I do have one clue to her identity.'

‘What?'

‘In the killer's eyes, she'll be immoral. Sexually reprehensible. Just like Vespucci's victims. And she'll also be young and good-looking, like the others.' He paused, catching Gaspare's expression. ‘What is it?'

‘You're chasing a phantom.'

‘No, I'm not,' Nino corrected him. ‘The killer admires Angelico Vespucci. He worships him, otherwise why would he want to
be
him? Why would he copy everything he did? The killer didn't just pick his victims out of thin air, he
chose them because of their link to Vespucci. It makes sense to him. A twisted logic. Like it's meant to be, a sign for him to pick that particular woman.'

Gaspare sighed.

‘All right, say all of that's true. But how did he find out about them? How did he know about the copy of the portrait and the article? He could easily discover Seraphina's link to Vespucci. Her ancestor was his mistress, after all. But the other two – that's more difficult.'

‘Not if you'd studied him for years,' Nino said, sitting down and leaning towards the old man. ‘You're an art dealer, Gaspare. You've spent decades reading, researching details most people could never discover. Or even know how to find. Look at that Bellini portrait, what you uncovered about that.'

‘But I read books that had been written on Bellini,' Gaspare replied practically. ‘Where's the killer getting his information on Angelico Vespucci?'

‘He was famous in his time. I know that all the evidence about him was supposed to have been destroyed and forgotten, but I don't believe that. He's part of Venetian folklore – whether people talk about him or not, he existed.
Somewhere
there will be records about Vespucci. There must be—'

‘Because the killer keeps putting up information on the website?'

Nino nodded. ‘Yeah. Every day there's something new. Which means that the killer's got a source. Maybe he's been collating his material for years while he was planning this,
making the whole scenario perfect. The way he kills, the women, the dates – he's not leaving anything to chance. It's an offering to his idol, The Skin Hunter. A perfect replica of his deeds, the ultimate accolade. And you know something else? The killer might be mad, but he's clever. He wants someone to come after him—'

‘You're joking!'

‘No, I'm not. He wants his audience. He's no fool. He knows someone will have worked out the dates, and knows that his next murder will be anticipated for the first of January. It'll add to the thrill for him. Give him that extra buzz to prove he can tip us all off – and still get away with murder.' Nino paused, thinking. ‘I sent an email to the Vespucci website, but got no answer. I thought he'd reply, but he didn't take the bait. Maybe I wasn't right for him.'

Baffled, Gaspare stared at him. ‘What
are
you talking about?'

‘I'm not cultured. I'm from the film business, I'm not a member of the art world. I wouldn't be educated enough to appreciate Titian, or a genius like Angelico Vespucci.' Nino smiled wryly. ‘Not in the killer's eyes, anyway. No, our man wants to impress the professionals. He wants to be their equal in status. As smart, as respected. Not just by emulating Vespucci, but by copying a man so powerful he was painted by Titian. He's a snob.'

Gaspare looked at Nino blankly. ‘
A snob?
'

‘Yes, because not only is he impressed by Vespucci's violence, but because the Venetian was so powerful. He had
influence, money, status. I doubt the killer would have copied Rosemary and Fred West. They'd have been considered vulgar, working class. This man admires the life of Vespucci. And that's why I think the killer is someone who's had to educate himself.'

Impressed, Gaspare listened. He had been surprised when Nino had offered to help him solve Seraphina's death, but as the weeks had passed the dealer had watched his progress with admiration. Fully recovered, Nino Bergstrom was no longer the sick man who had convalesced at his gallery. He was tough; the task had re-energised him, and his thinking was incisive. A man who had never investigated anything before, he was determined to succeed. Prepared to run any lead to ground, to talk to anyone. Even ready to go after a murderer.

‘Why d'you think the killer's badly educated?'

‘Not badly educated,
self
-educated,' Nino replied. ‘He's meticulous, pedantic, obsessive – all traits of someone with a chip on their shoulder. He wants to be the equal of the dealers, because they impress him. But if he
was
their equal, it would never have occurred to him to seek their approval. He admires
and
fears them. He feels inferior, he hasn't the imagination to be an original, so he copies.' Nino paused, before adding: ‘I think the killer's solitary, bookish. I'd be surprised if he was married, or had a family.'

‘Violent men have families.'

‘Yeah, but they're usually opportunistic killers, men who act spontaneously. Not men who plan murders. That takes
time, and skinning the victims takes time and space. You couldn't do that in a modern semi with kids running a round.'

‘Thank God,' Gaspare said quietly. ‘But what happens when it's over? After he kills the four women, what then?'

‘He won't kill four women,' Nino replied. ‘He won't succeed in copying Vespucci, because he'll be stopped.
I'll
stop him. And you know why? Because the killer's fixed his attention on the elite, the dealers. He's not looking in my direction. To him, I'm a no-account, an amateur, a hick. And
that's
my protection.'

 

Venice, 1555

It was nearing midday when the priest came by, trailing a wary look. He came with a notepad under his arm, pausing outside the studio of Titian. His manner was hesitant, his black robes sodden about the hem where he had crossed St Mark's. The rain had added to the sitting water, and now no one traversed the piazza and stayed dry.

He was still standing outside when the rain began again, his face baffled, with the look of someone pressed to a duty they dreaded. I felt little pity for him, for the Church has stayed remote, Venetians resenting its distance. It was meant to give succour, people said, but the victims were never mentioned in prayers, and the killer has kept the city clean of priests.

But now another rumour has sprung up. As the victims increase and Vespucci shirks from his guilt, Aretino comes forth to shield the beast again. He has put it aboard that there is another suspect. That The Skin Hunter is not, nor ever has been, Angelico Vespucci. We heard this news just after dawn, when the death of Lena Arranti was still fresh, the little Jewish girl cut down but still hanging in memory, forever hanging, from the rope which had held her corpse.

Her body has long gone, but men shudder when they walk under the lamp which held her, and someone has thrown flowers on the bridge, and ivy in remembrance. There was talk of her skin being found, but no one would say where. Or maybe no one knew. Finally one of the Doge's confidants pinned a paper to the doors of St Mark's proclaiming that her skin
was
found, and would be blessed and buried. The note satisfied no one, and later messages cursed Vespucci and foretold that Venice would be damned until his punishment came.

There was talk of hanging him by the same lamp which had held the Jewish girl. Of stripping off his flesh and laying it under the paw of the Lion of St Mark's. He became the Devil who had committed unspeakable acts and brought the city to its knees.

And this unwholesome man, this font of pus, has all of Aretino's great protection. While Titian continues the portrait which will become famous throughout the world, Aretino picks up his handful of shit and throws it in the face of all Venetians.

He says:

‘There is another suspect. Another man has done these dreadful deeds.'

He will reveal this person to us all, in time.

‘Look away from Vespucci!' he says. ‘There is no villain there.'

And now I am watching as the priest knocks at the door of Titian's studio. I have heard rumours of what he is to say. Of words formed by Aretino, but spoken by this cleric. Words with which the artist's friend will rip out his heart and make a scapegoat of an innocent man. He will name this man, this son, this blood tie, offer him up to take Vespucci's place. He will do it to protect his interests, his wealth. Aretino, bribed into silence by so many in the past, will bribe another
to quieten a tongue that otherwise will destroy him.

Titian is occupied. See, he paints. He lights more candles, turns the canvas to them to extend his working hours. The effigy of Vespucci grows on the easel. He is coming to life in snatches, like a hanged man grabbing at the air. In the background of the portrait is an object no one can decipher. No one but me.

For all the rouge redness of the colours, the ebony blackness of Vespucci's clothes, the majesty of sleeping Venice behind, for all of this, there is some intimation in the pigment. A way the artist hints at what he knows. A token accusation in the paint. Behind the sitter's bulbous eyes and venal mouth, behind Vespucci's sloping back, is a shape defying interpretation.

I saw the master paint this. This object, this limp spectacle, this mordant shape of nothingness. He caught me watching him, turned and held my gaze, then turned away. And I knew he understood the evil of the image, but was committed to its depiction, painting the dissolution of a man, a record of goodness soured.

It was to be a masterpiece. A history of depravity, a warning. That others might look upon it and repent. Or so I thought.

We did not know the scapegoat's name. Not then, that came soon after. It came like the wind across Venice, cold and relentless, driving the damage home. It came from Aretino's mouth into the ears of his friend. Words no man should suffer to hear.

I am leaving now, taking one last look at the portrait of Angelico Vespucci. He is sleek, clever and terrifying, and in the candlelight the shape behind him makes more than a little sense. Titian has painted a hide.

A skin, emptied of life.

Ginza, Tokyo

The gallery had become a kind of prison. It wasn't a place of business any more, but of dread. It had taken Jobo Kido almost an hour to leave the previous night. Whoever it was who had broken into the gallery had so unnerved him that he couldn't stop shaking when he thought of it. He had watched the handle of his office door rattling, wondering if the intruder would get to him. Knowing –
knowing
 – that it was the killer. The person he had been communicating with over the internet.

And then the rattling of the door handle had stopped. There was nothing else. No knocking, no calling out. Just a horrible and prolonged silence. Still pressed against the office wall, Jobo had waited, finally hearing the footsteps moving off, and then a car engine starting up. It had taken him several moments to move, he had been so terrified, and then he groped his way towards his office chair and collapsed into it.

In the semi-darkness he had stared blankly ahead, hardly able to gather his thoughts. This wasn't some game over the internet. He had called up the killer as surely as sending him an invitation. Startled, Jobo had then thought of home and rang his wife, almost relieved to be shouted at. At least she was still alive. Questions as to the whereabouts of his son had been met with hostile accusations. Since when did he care about his son?