Isle of the Dead (33 page)

Surprised, he pulled out the first and saw the title:

Then he read what followed.

It was easy to translate:
One of the most infamous Italian murderers was the Venetian merchant, Angelico Vespucci, who became known as The Skin Hunter.

Hurriedly, Nino flicked over the first page to look at the frontispiece. And there was an engraving of the Titian painting, Vespucci's bulbous eyes staring at him. Reaching up again, he felt around the back of the cavity, bringing down two other volumes. One was a bulky, well-worn book entitled:

‘Murderers, who mutilated their victims. Italy, 15th century to the 16th century.'

But it was the last volume which chilled him. It was barely thirty pages in length, written in longhand, aged, weathered, the paper breaking up around the edges. Climbing down the library steps, Nino moved over to the table and took a seat, reading the following:

It was a list of Vespucci's victims. But that wasn't what jolted Nino, it was what he found
in among
the pages. Additional notes. Newly written, in a modern hand. A list of The Skin Hunter's victims together with the list of their modern-day counterparts.

He was just about the read the last name when he was struck from behind. The impact of the blow was so violent that it propelled him forward, his head striking the edge of the library table and knocking him unconscious.

The persistent ringing of his mobile brought Nino round as he scrabbled in his pocket to answer it.

‘
What?
'

‘Mr Bergstrom? This is Louisa Forbes, Harriet Forbes' sister … Are you OK?'

Nauseated, the blood pumping in his ears, Nino straightened up in his seat and looked around him. Books were scattered all over the floor, but he could see at once that the three volumes he had found were gone. And the name of the last victim had escaped him too. He had had it in his hand and lost it. All but the first letters: Rac.

‘Mr Bergstrom?' Louisa asked again. ‘Are you OK?'

‘I'm fine,' he said, getting to his feet and locking the house doors front and back. He could see the sleeping figure of Harold Greyly in the sitting room and pulled the door closed so that he wouldn't be overheard. ‘Why are you ringing?'

‘I've found something,' she said. ‘Look, I can talk to you another time. I shouldn't have rung – it's Christmas Day.'

‘Believe me, nothing you could do could make it worse,' Nino replied, holding some kitchen towel to the wound at the back of his head. ‘Why aren't you at home with your family?'

‘I am,' she said quietly. ‘I just sneaked out to call you. I've been going through my sister's belongings. I've gone through them repeatedly. To be honest, I don't want to. I don't want to let go of her …'

He could imagine her intelligent face, her determination to do something, anything, which would help.

‘Harriet had a stack of papers, like everyone. Accounts, bills. No diaries, I'm afraid – nothing that easy. I checked all her friends and no one could tell me anything that might point to who killed her. Her work colleagues knew her and liked her, and there didn't seem to be anything unusual about her life. She hadn't made enemies.' She paused, dropping her voice so that she wouldn't be overheard. ‘You know Harriet wrote that piece on Vespucci …'

‘The magazine folded.'

‘Yes, it did. But one of Harriet's old colleagues knew the proprietor and gave me his name. I phoned him and he remembered Harriet, said she had talent. He remembered the piece very well – “A very erudite article on a very macabre subject.” He recalled my sister because he had wanted to use her again, but had lost her contact details. Poor Harriet, if only she'd known …'

‘Go on.'

‘I asked him if he'd talked to my sister about the Vespucci
article, and he said they'd chatted, because he was impressed by Harriet's research. He asked her which reference books she'd used and who her contacts were. Apparently Harriet told him that there had been a couple of people, a man and a woman, who'd helped with the research.'

Alert, Nino pushed her. ‘Who were they?'

‘He didn't remember the man's name. Harriet just said he'd been difficult and she'd never go to him again. But he
did
remember something about the woman. She was called Rachel.'

Rachel –
Rac
.

Nino took in a breath. ‘Rachel what?'

‘I don't know.' Louisa could tell it meant something. ‘Is it important?'

‘Yes, I think it is.'

‘Apparently Rachel was involved in the theatre, but I don't know how. She could have worked there, or been an actor, or in management. Or even a financial backer. The publisher didn't know, but Harriet mentioned to him that this Rachel woman had been involved in a play about Vespucci.'

The words reverberated in Nino's head. So
that
was the contact. Not a relative. Not a painting. Not an article. This time it was theatre.

‘She wanted to put on a play about Vespucci?' Nino shook his head. ‘Jesus, which theatre?'

‘He didn't know.'

‘But he must have some idea!'

‘No,' Louisa replied firmly. ‘I pressed him, but he wasn't
being evasive – he really didn't know. He would have told me, I'm sure of it. He'd liked Harriet and wanted to help and he was shocked by her death … He's sent me an email with everything he remembers. I was going to send it on to you.'

‘Do.'

‘He also mentioned all the press coverage on Vespucci—'

‘Yes, I saw something this morning,' Nino replied, dabbing at the back of his head, the wound still bleeding. ‘I was hoping they might leave it alone until after Christmas.'

‘What, a story like that?' She seemed bitter. ‘You know the press – they couldn't resist it. My phone's been ringing off the hook. Apparently they want to know all the details of my sister's death. It's big news, Mr Bergstrom – young women skinned in different countries round the world. Some lunatic copying Angelico Vespucci's work.'

‘And the website's stirring it all up, whipping everyone into a fever.'

Louisa paused, controlling herself. ‘There's only a week left, isn't there?'

‘Until the anniversary of the last victim? Yes.'

‘You can catch him,' she said emphatically. ‘I know you can.'

He wondered at her confidence. He had a first name and he knew the connection between the mysterious Rachel and Angelico Vespucci. But that was all. He had no surname, no theatre. No country even. She could be anywhere on earth.

‘If only I knew where the theatre was—'

‘It'll be in a capital city,' Louisa replied, thinking back. ‘Harriet had been travelling – I didn't know why then, but she said she had something to find out in London or New York.'

She rushed on. ‘Maybe
we
could contact this Rachel woman? Or put out a search for her? God knows, there's enough in the media to catch her interest. She must know about the killings and Vespucci now. So why hasn't she come forward?'

‘Maybe she hasn't made the connection,' Nino replied. ‘People write about the Boston Strangler and Jack the Ripper all the time – it doesn't mean that they expect someone to come after them—'

‘But she must have read about someone
copying
Vespucci.'

‘She may have done, but so what? They make films, plays, books about murderers constantly. There's an industry out there thriving on serial killers. Rachel won't be overly worried. She probably thinks she's just another person interested in the Italian. Killers don't go after everyone who reads about them, otherwise half the population would be wiped out.'

‘You've got to find her,' Louisa went on, her agitation obvious. ‘You
have
to find her.'

‘I will. Unless—'

‘He's already got to her?'

‘Or she's somewhere remote.'

‘
You think she's hiding?
'

‘She could be,' Nino agreed. ‘She
might
have taken fright. Or she might be spending the holidays away from home. Gone for a break somewhere quiet, away from people.'

‘Perhaps …' Louise's voice was questioning, ‘we should go to the police?'

‘And tell them what? They'll know all about Vespucci now – the press have seen to that. And they must have made the connection between the murders. That last entry on the website made it clear what the killer was up to. He's even advertising his next performance on the first of January.'

‘But—'

‘I can't tell the police anything they don't already know.'

‘Except what we know about the next victim.'

‘And what
do
we know?' Nino countered. ‘She's called Rachel, and she's involved in a play about Vespucci. That's all.' He sighed. ‘The police have plenty of manpower, but they don't understand what this is all about. I do. I was in it from the start. I'm ahead of the police. I've been in contact with the killer—'

He could hear her take in a breath. ‘
You know who he is?
'

‘I know who he
was
. Who he is
now
, I have to find out.'

‘So do it,' Louisa said firmly. ‘And find Rachel – before he does.'

After finishing his conversation with Louisa, Nino went back into the sitting room. Harold Greyly was still sleeping, his breathing drugged, his neck bent awkwardly over the back of his chair. Worried that he might choke if he vomited, Nino slid a cushion under his head and turned off all but a single lamp. As the room darkened, the dogs woke and followed him out into the back garden. Cautious, Nino glanced down the lane. It was empty. He locked the gate, walked back into the house with the spaniels, and bolted the front and back doors.

The freezing winter air had revived his senses, his head clearing as he helped himself to food from the fridge and checked his mobile. Hearing the message left by Patrick Dewick, he immediately rang him back – only to get his voicemail. Disappointed, Nino walked into the sitting room and stared at Harold Greyly. Obviously he wouldn't be waking any time soon, which gave Nino a welcome opportunity to search the house further. He might have lost the hidden books – and the killer's notes – but the question uppermost
in his mind was
why
they had been hidden in Courtford Hall in the first place.

Someone had taken a great deal of trouble to conceal the books. Someone with intimate knowledge of the house. Someone with access and time to move the shelves, create their hiding place, and disguise it. No stranger could have pulled off such a coup. It would have taken time and effort. The work of an insider … Nino frowned. Perhaps Hester had investigated Vespucci herself. Or had it been Harold Greyly? He wasn't the killer, that much was obvious now. He had been unconscious when Nino was attacked. So what was the connection? Simply the relationship between Claudia and The Skin Hunter? The hidden taboo in a respectable family's past? Or her terrible murder?

The blood was drying on his head. Nino could feel it crusting over and realised how it must look against the pure white of his hair, making him even more conspicuous. But what did that matter now? The killer knew who – and where – he was. In a remote place, with a drugged man, trying to understand
why
a murderer had chosen to hide his notes in a country house in Norfolk.

But why hadn't he killed him when he had the chance?

Was this his home? Was this where he had been hiding out? Was he a member of the Greyly family? If so, was that why Harold Greyly had been so much on the defensive? Moving over to the desk under the library window, Nino searched the drawers, finding nothing more than stationery and bills. The centre drawer opened without resistance.
Apparently there were no locks in Courtford Hall. Even feeling behind the desk, and beneath it, gave up no secrets.

If
he
was going to hide something, Nino asked himself, where would he put it? The room gazed back at him impassively as he searched, pulling the cushions off the seats to check that there was nothing hidden underneath and looking behind every painting. Curtains were shaken, linings examined, shutters opened and closed, window seats plundered, rugs lifted and shaken – but with no result. He drew a complete blank.

So perhaps there was a safe?

Moving back to the sitting room, Nino bent down towards the stupefied man and shook him awake. ‘Have you got a safe?'

‘Whaaat?'

‘Where's the safe?'

Greyly's lips were furred with saliva. ‘What safe?'

‘You have a safe. Where is it?'

‘No safe!' he slurred.

‘All right, let's try another tack. Who came here today? There was someone here – I heard them. They left, then came back and attacked me.' Nino shook Harold violently. ‘Wake up! I need you. Who came here today?'

He could see a shift in Greyly's expression, from slackness to unease.

‘No one! I've told you. No one … No one comes here any more …'