Isle of the Dead (30 page)

Perhaps he should leave Venice? The company was making allowances for his condition – as the widower of a murdered woman – but for how long? How long before his arse was pushed into action again? He wasn't made for work, Tom realised – not really. It was all too brutal, too coarse for him … His mind went back to the painting and, irritated, he left the flat, making for the piazza where Ravenscourt lived.

The sight of its magnificence inflamed his self-pity further. What had a shit like Ravenscourt done to deserve such luxury? By rights, if everything had gone to plan, he and Seraphina should have been enjoying the proceeds from the Titian sale.

But instead Tom was being shown into the drawing room where Ravenscourt was sitting reading a magazine.

He looked up. ‘Spent all the money already?'

‘I was thinking,' Tom replied, helping himself to some wine and sitting down by the window. ‘Why did you want that painting so much?'

‘The Titian?'

‘Nah, the other one. The one with the couple in it. Who painted it anyway?'

‘Some minor artist.'

Looking around, Tom turned back to Ravenscourt. ‘I don't see it. Where have you put it?'

‘Being restored.'

He nodded, thoughtful. ‘That's expensive, or so Seraphina's parents always used to say. They said it wasn't worth having any picture restored unless it was valuable.' He paused, but Ravenscourt was still flicking through his magazine, forcing him to continue. ‘So, was it?'

‘What?'

‘Valuable.'

‘So-so.'

‘So-so to you or so-so to me?'

Ravenscourt laid the magazine down, his reading glasses swinging from a chain around his neck. ‘What d'you want to know?'

‘Who painted it?'

‘A man called Barmantino, a good artist but not a great one. It was one of his earlier works. And it was in bad condition—'

‘Looked OK to me.'

‘Yes, but you don't know much about art, do you? That was Seraphina's strong suit.' Ravenscourt leaned back in his seat. In the room beyond a uniformed Italian boy no more than eighteen was arranging some flowers. ‘What's the matter anyway? You were happy enough to sell it.'

‘Yeah, and you were very keen to get it. Why?'

‘I'm an art dealer. It's what I do.'

‘So why hadn't you wanted it before? God knows, you'd seen it often enough.' Tom paused, walking around, his gaze travelling to the canal outside. ‘Water, water everywhere … don't you get sick of it?'

‘It's Venice.'

Tom ignored the comment.

‘The company sent me here, you know. I wouldn't have chosen it.'

Taking an orange from the fruit bowl, Tom began to peel it. He did so with dexterity, keeping the peel intact then dropping it, unbroken, into a large Murano vase.

Exasperated, Ravenscourt stared at him. ‘What d'you want, Morgan? You and I aren't friends, we have nothing in common—'

‘Not since Seraphina died.'

‘So why are you here?'

‘I've been thinking … Seraphina was afraid of water.'

‘I know.'

‘She never walked near the edge of pathways or bridges. Seems like a strange way to die, being chucked in the Lido.' He paused, chewing a segment of orange. ‘And mutilated like that. Like Vespucci's victims. It made me wonder about why it had all started up. The Titian portrait of Vespucci, then the skinning of Seraphina, then the other women being killed.'

‘
Are you accusing me?
'

‘Of the murders?' Tom shook his head. ‘I thought you might have killed Seraphina, but not the others. Why would
you? There was no money in it. Anyway, I can't imagine you getting involved in anything so
butch.
'

‘So what are you suggesting?'

‘I don't know really. You could say I'm just feeling my way around.' He winked, taunting Ravenscourt. ‘But you were always obsessed by Angelico Vespucci. You used to talk to Seraphina about it.'

‘She was born and raised in Venice, with artistic parents, and her ancestor was the Contessa di Fattori – it would have been unusual
not
to talk about him.'

‘But Seraphina finding the Titian – that was incredible.'

‘Paintings turn up in the most unlikely places, in all manner of ways,' Ravenscourt replied, unfazed. ‘But she should never have left it with Gaspare Reni. God knows why she didn't bring it home—'

‘You know why. We had to find a way to smuggle it back to Venice. She could hardly bring it back in her fucking hand luggage, could she?
You
were going to help us get it back – but then she got killed … God knows where the Titian is now.'

Ravenscourt shrugged.

‘Who knows? Everyone's looking for it, in Japan, New York, London, but it's disappeared—'

‘D'you think the killer has it?'

Frowning, Ravenscourt turned in his seat to look over his shoulder. ‘How would he get it?'

‘Steal it off Gaspare Reni. Someone did. Why not the murderer?'

‘But how did he know it was with Reni? There were only two people who knew that – Seraphina and you.'

Tom smiled at the lie.

‘Don't count yourself out, Johnny – you knew too. You can deny it all you like, but I'll never believe my wife didn't tell you about the Titian—'

Bristling, Ravenscourt threw down his magazine. ‘You can fling accusations around all
you
like, but it doesn't make them true.'

‘When's it coming back?'

‘
What?
'

‘The Barmantino painting that's being restored. The one you bought off me.'

Standing up, Ravenscourt moved over to him.

‘You're right there –
I bought it
. It's mine now. So what I do with it has nothing to do with you.'

Infuriated, Ravenscourt watched the American walk out, listened as he heard his footsteps echo down the stairs and on to the piazza beyond. Curious, he then moved to the window in time to see Tom Morgan crossing the bridge which connected the houses on one side of the canal with the other. When he was certain the American had gone, Ravenscourt dismissed the servant and then closed the drawing room doors.

Anger had taken its toll on him. Anger that he had been cheated out of the Titian when he had been so close. That Seraphina's death had occurred before she had included him in a plan which would have netted all three of them a fortune. Why hadn't she confided in him sooner? Ravenscourt asked himself, surprised that Seraphina had been so sly. But maybe it had taken a while to connect the plan, and she had been killed before she could approach him. Or maybe it had taken time for her to be persuaded.

Smuggling the Titian out of the country would have been relatively easy for Johnny Ravenscourt. He had contacts from
the old days and could press anyone into committing a minor crime for a major reward. Seraphina's deception had surprised him, but then again, he had only Tom Morgan's account of what she had said. Seraphina could hardly speak for herself.

He had always suspected Tom Morgan. Maybe he had pressurised his wife against her will, knowing how easy it would be for her to get her old friend on board. Everyone knew that Johnny Ravenscourt was immoral, greedy. Everyone knew he liked to mix with a rough crowd, the criminal element adding a frisson to his sex life. There had been more than a few thieves invited into Johnny Ravenscourt's bed over the years.

But to have lost out on the Titian portrait of Angelico Vespucci, his obsession! It was almost too much to bear … He thought of Tom Morgan, uncertain of the American's motives and curious as to why he had taken such a sudden interest in the Barmantino painting. God knows it had been hanging in the Morgan apartment the whole time they had lived there, and he never even remarked on it before. Except to say that Claudia Moroni had been a plain woman.

Of course Seraphina had always liked the picture. She thought Claudia Moroni had had a fascinating face, a look which almost prophesied her death. She had often commented that she would make sure to keep the painting in the family, and talked of moving it into the new flat. And she wasn't blind to the fact that it was also a pretty good investment … Ravenscourt frowned. If Seraphina was alive
now she wouldn't have approved of her husband selling the apartment, or the painting.

Restlessly, he fiddled with the beaded chain on his reading glasses, uncertain of what to do next. He wasn't intending to return to England for a while – the police would be only too interested in his re-appearance – but in Venice he had no way of discovering what was going on in London. He was out of the loop and afraid that he might suffer for it.

Taking a breath, Ravenscourt realised that there was only one course of action open to him, and put in a phone call.

Nino answered on the third ring. ‘Hello?'

‘It's Johnny Ravenscourt—'

‘You bastard!'

‘Hear me out!' he pleaded, his tone plaintive. ‘I had to get the police off my back—'

‘And on to mine?'

‘They let you go,' Ravenscourt said dismissively. ‘What are you complaining about? Gaspare pulled in an old favour and I retracted my statement. Besides, you must have done well out of this. And I haven't asked for my retainer back. Have you spent all of it?'

At the other end of the line Nino shook his head in disbelief, and lied. ‘Yes. All of it.'

‘Whatever did you do with it?'

‘I went to Japan on a wild goose chase. Which pretty much sums up everything about you and your story.'

‘You saw Jobo Kido in Japan?'

‘I saw him, but I'm none the wiser,' Nino lied again, mistrusting
Ravenscourt and determined that he would give him no information. ‘What d'you want?'

‘I want you to carry on working for me—'

‘Like hell.'

‘Mr Bergstrom, I'll pay you whatever you want. You can go to Japan, New York – wherever you like. I just need to know what's going on – and I can't do that stuck here in Venice.'

‘Go on the internet.'

‘I don't see why you're so defensive,' Ravenscourt replied, his tone honeyed…. ‘You should snatch my hand off. I've money to burn, so why not relieve me of some of it? I brought you in on this—'

‘No, you didn't. I got involved because of Gaspare Reni's friendship with Seraphina.'

‘I was much closer to her!' Ravenscourt snapped. ‘And I gave you all my notes on The Skin Hunter. I gave you a head start, and now I want some feedback. I want to know who killed Seraphina—'

‘And you want to know where the Titian is.'

‘I'm a dealer – what's wrong with that?' he replied, then softened his tone. ‘I admit, I'd like the painting. But so would a number of other dealers – that doesn't make me a suspect.'

‘It doesn't clear you either.'

‘You can't believe that I killed Seraphina, or the other women!'

‘I don't know who killed them.'

‘But you're still trying to find out?'

Nino paused, deciding to string Ravenscourt along. The dealer was stuck in Venice, so he could tell him anything and he had no way of knowing if it was true or not. And besides, if he carried on talking to Johnny Ravenscourt, the dealer might let something slip.

‘Have you seen Tom Morgan lately?'

Ravenscourt relaxed, sure that Nino was back on board. Sure that he could deceive him again. He was tired of the skittish Tom Morgan and wanted him corralled.

‘Actually, I saw Morgan today …' Ravenscourt began, thinking of all the American's vicious jibes and his nosy interest in the Barmantino. ‘He was acting very strangely.'

‘How?'

‘Jumpy, on the defensive.'

‘About what?'

‘Well, I hate to be the one to say it,' the dealer paused, then took aim, ‘but I think he might have something to do with his wife's death after all.'

Greenfield's Hospital, London

In between shifts, Patrick Dewick lit up a cigarette at the back of the hospital, drawing in the tobacco smoke and relishing the sensation. Then he started coughing, finally spitting out a gob of phlegm which landed in the puddle at his feet. Sniffing, he leaned against the wall and stared upwards into the sky. It was going to snow again. Bugger it, he would have a hell of a time getting home. The car was unreliable and whatever his wife had said, Patrick wasn't convinced that she had put in antifreeze. He should leave her to it, see how she liked it when the bloody car wouldn't start at the supermarket. It would be another matter then – she wouldn't forget the sodding antifreeze next time.

His thoughts drifted, suddenly alighting on Nino Bergstrom. It had been peculiar talking about Eddie Ketch after so long – the man had always left a sour taste in his mouth – but oddly enough, once reminded, he couldn't
stop
thinking about him. The upset with Susan Coates had been uppermost
in his mind, but there had been something else about Ketch which eluded him.

Inhaling again, Patrick screwed up his eyes against the cigarette smoke and peered into the falling snow. Under the overhang of the porch leading to the car park, he was sheltered from the worst of it, snow landing morosely on the concrete at his feet. Nino Bergstrom had asked him about Ketch's family. And he'd said that he never talked about them. But that wasn't true, Patrick remembered – there had been one instance when Ketch had slipped up, and mentioned a woman. A beautiful woman.

But Patrick was damned if he could remember her name.

Ketch had been angry that day, unusually emotional. He had left the ward and slammed into the men's toilet, where Patrick had found him, his face flushed, his hands flat against the wall, repeating a woman's name over and over again. His attractive face had been distorted with rage, but as soon as he spotted Patrick, Ketch had controlled himself. A moment later he looked normal – so normal Patrick had wondered if he'd imagined the whole incident. But he knew he hadn't. And he knew Ketch's rage had been directed at a woman. A woman he had known well. A woman he had obviously cared about.