Isle of the Dead (35 page)

He liked that part the best: the folding of the hide, the careful arranging of it. Then he would secrete it, along with the other three skins … Thoughtful, Hillstone remembered the package he had sent to Jobo Kido. That had been a sensational move but reckless in hindsight, as it had left his collection incomplete. He had, once or twice, even thought of asking Kido to return it, but suspected that the dealer had either handed it over to the police or destroyed it.

No, Hillstone thought dismissively, Kido would never have gone to the police, because that would have meant questions, interference, the whole story of the Titian exposed. And then the painting impounded, lost to the courts. Not that Hillstone was going to let Jobo Kido have the portrait. He was just playing with him, teasing him, drawing the dealer into a combat which had only one winner: Hillstone. But it amused him to think of the Japanese connoisseur's panicked outpourings in the chat room. He had been so frightened the night Hillstone had visited his gallery, pressing himself against the wall as he peered into the window. And
later, almost wetting himself when Hillstone had rattled the door handle.

It had pleased him to see the aesthetic Jobo Kido squeal like a girl. So much for learning, for artistic excellence – so much for all his pompous posturing. He had been scared. Just like Triumph Jones … Rolling his head to loosen his neck muscles, Hillstone thought of the American. Of the ease with which he had been fooled. Of how, nudged in the required direction, he had followed like a farm dog working sheep. And how glamorous those sheep had been – Jobo Kido, Farina Ahmadi. Brilliant and wealthy and respected. And manipulated.

Hillstone enjoyed that, loved knowing that in London, New York and Tokyo his victims were panicking, with no idea what they were doing. So much for education, money and power – they were all chasing the same thing, mistrusting each other, and outsmarted by an amateur.

But in four days it would all be over. Rachel Pitt would round off the victims, his imitation of Vespucci complete. After that, he would disappear. Emulate the Venetian utterly. Dissolve into thin air as he had done. No one – not even Hillstone – knew where Vespucci had gone. If he had lived, or been murdered. Or if he had died of natural causes, old and silent, at ninety. All his painstaking research had failed on two counts. He had failed to discover how Angelico Vespucci died, or where The Skin Hunter had hidden his trophies.

Hillstone reached for the photographs in front of him, his gaze idling over the woman's features for a moment
before he gathered up his knives and scalpels and put the kettle on the hob. Rachel Pitt was curvaceous, sensual, attractive, he thought as he waited for the water to boil and then poured it over the metal instruments. He wanted them to be very clean, very sharp, so they wouldn't tear her flesh. They had to cut evenly, so he could make a perfect job of her skinning.

She
was
pretty, Hillstone thought again. Perhaps, if he was particularly dextrous, he could peel off her face in one piece. He had always had so much trouble before, could never avoid tearing the flesh of the cheek or nose. But this was to be his last act, and it would have to be immaculate. He would take his time. Prepare himself and relax, to avoid any shaking hands. Give himself time to set up the table and lamps. Time to get the plastic sheeting on the floor. Time for everything to be perfect.

It was such a pity. He would have liked to pick someone else, but Rachel Pitt was corrupt. She was the mistress of another woman's husband. Supported financially like so many other whores. Stealing another woman's man, another family's father. It was wrong, inexcusable, immoral – anyone could see that.

In fact, Edward Hillstone wondered how she could live with herself. Even if it wouldn't be for much longer.

 

Venice, 1556

Aretino keeps to his house. Takes the passage from the back entrance across his private bridge to enter the city. He puffs with exertion, for worry has made him even more gross; he sweats with the weight of his sins and sends presents to Titian's studio, pleading for forgiveness.

Pomponio is innocent, Aretino says, I was wrong. So misguided, so duped by the merchant.

And what of the merchant, Vespucci? Aretino fears no exposure now. His championing of the killer is done with; and he will tell anyone with a mind to hear that Vespucci is no more. The mob which bayed outside the merchant's house is told of a disappearance. Vespucci has cheated the judge, the prison, the rope. The Skin Hunter has gone, and taken his prizes with him.

I was wrong, says Aretino, deceived as we all were.

But Titian will have none of it. Pomponio, still smarting from the accusations, plans to leave, but not before he rails against his father for being the writer's dupe. It does no good for Titian to
respond; each word is taken as a blow, one more sliver of malice driven into the priest's tight heart.

Titian has lost his son. Again. And his friend. His closest ally levered from his side by treachery.

Vespucci gone, they showed the portrait in the church, Titian ordering where it should be placed. They suspended the merchant's likeness as they would have hanged the man himself. I heard some talk that the artist was offering it for penance. For payment of Vespucci's sins. That Titian's genius might atone for all the winter's butchery. Yet the night after it was exhibited, a fire started in the vestry. It burned the rafters, tore through half the roof, and every pew was rendered black as an imp's hand.

Only the painting was untouched.

On Titian's orders a notice was hung up in St Mark's Square, saying the portrait would be destroyed. Someone sent news to Aretino, who came to beg for it. He mourns his loss of influence with the painter, he fears his loss of revenue from Titian, as once he feared exposure from the merchant.

But Vespucci will not speak against him. For Vespucci will not speak again … He has gone, disappeared, leaving no trace. There is no body. None has come up from the water, surfacing, bloated on a late tide. There is no carcass left flayed for the birds to peck at, no music coming across the water, no sounds of a hundred lurid couplings, no grumblings from misers, gluttons, deviants and their whores.

The fogs of Venice lifted when the portrait disappeared. When it was gone the winds dispersed, and clouds as wide as continents
gave way to the sun's return.

They say we have our city back. The darkness has left us; gone with Vespucci and his likeness. Gone with the merchant and the merchant's image. Gone on some nether tide, out to the sea, to the slithering depths of all damnation. They say we are no longer bewitched.

Look how the Doge recovers, the ships coming back to land.

They say the coldest and most terrible of winters is passed; that God is back among us. Some even tell of flowers come to blossom, of fruit ripening out of season, and angels settling on the bell tower of St Mark's.

But Titian sees no angels, paints no flowers. He grieves. A lesser man would seek out some revenge, but his regret is contained, and swells like a boil in the heart. He walks Venice like a man without his shadow and a hollow grows inside him.

And I watch him. As I watch Aretino. I see what others see, but Venice is not delivered yet.

Aretino might have picked the merchant's grave and made him own it, but another waits. The water sits beneath us, its cold wet mouth yawning in the darkness, its gills moving with the tide. It waits for the bloated carcass of Aretino to fall, panicked and gasping, into the muddy hollow of its lair.

Under the water he will go. Down with the dead soldiers, dogs and devils. Down with Vespucci, caught up in all the green weeds of his lies. Down with the suicides, the lusty priests, the cripples and the damned. Down with all the other traitors.

But Aretino suspects nothing. He walks like a man who has rid
himself of a threat, and is now sure of forgiveness. For Titian loves him still. In time he would, against judgement and logic, allow Aretino to return. Against reason, and tempting destruction, he would let him in.

He would.

But I will not.

29 December

In Kensington, Nino Bergstrom was on his computer, looking for Rachel. Working his way through newspaper art pages and internet listings, he turned to the
Spotlight
magazine for actors. But there was only one Rachel who was white, young and pretty.

He rang her, but a man answered, apparently her husband. Without alarming anyone, Nino asked if she would be available for an interview, only to be told that Rachel was in hospital preparing for the birth of her second child, in two weeks' time.

Wrong Rachel.

Checking
Spotlight
, and the US version of the actors' magazine, he looked for any reference to productions about Vespucci being cast. Nothing. Then he turned to
The Stage
and searched that paper. Again, there was nothing referring to The Skin Hunter, Angelico Vespucci, or even plays set in Venice. In desperation, Nino trailed through every
forthcoming play about murderers and their crimes – of which there were many.

It seemed that every town, city or state was putting on some play about a killer. But none of them were about Angelico Vespucci. The morning came and went, Gaspare made lunch and Nino kept working. At three, the dealer went to a hospital appointment and Nino returned to the archives in the London Central Library, looking back into the past. Perhaps something had been written before, and was being rewritten? Again, he drew a blank. He worked through every listing he could find about theatre staff in the UK and the USA, looking for Rachel. But Nino knew it was a long shot. The theatrical world was a movable feast – people came and went monthly, or changed their names, or moved into different areas. And he didn't know what the elusive Rachel actually did. Actor, manager, agent, painter, costume designer or stage doorman. His request to discover the names of angels – the backers who put up money for shows – was met with silence. Most wanted to remain anonymous.

December 28 had passed, December 29 was coming in, and still Nino had nothing to go on. At one point he even wondered if he was completely off target, if the victim had simply been photographed in front of a theatre without having any connection to it. Deflated, he then checked his last search – and
this
time there was a result: three theatres whose names began with HA.

 

HAMPTON THEATRE

HAILSTONE THEATRE

THE HAMLET THEATRE

The first was in Basingstoke, the second in Dorset and the third in Battersea.

Tapping out the name of The Hamlet Theatre, Nino entered their website. At the top of the home page was a list of reviews, all favourable and widespread in the press, some of the theatre's actors surprisingly well known.

A charismatic, but murderous, figure from the past
 … Nino couldn't think of a better way to describe Angelico Vespucci. Checking the phone number, he rang the theatre and a young woman answered.

‘Hello?'

‘I was wondering if I could speak with …' Nino glanced at the computer, ‘Harvey Enright.'

‘Who's speaking, please?'

‘My name's Nino Bergstrom and I think I might want to invest in your theatre,' Nino lied, knowing it would get him put through. And it did.

Within an instant an affected English voice came over the line. ‘Hello? Can I help you?'

‘I'm thinking of becoming an angel,' Nino said, glancing repeatedly at his notes. ‘I don't know much about any of this, forgive me. But I've come into some money and shares hardly seem the way to go at the moment.' He blundered on, wondering how convincing he sounded. ‘I'd like to invest. Perhaps in your theatre. Well, your productions anyway. I'm very interested in new companies, and yours seems to be very …'

‘Thrusting.'

‘Yes,' Nino replied, ‘that's the word … I know very little about the theatrical world. You see, I've been working in the film business for a long time, but want to change tack.' He checked his notes again. ‘On your website you talk about a new production you might be undertaking, about a murderer from the past?'

‘Yes,' Enright agreed. ‘We have two plays in mind. The one we most want to pursue at the moment is about a woman who works in engineering and discovers a talent for invention.'

Nino grimaced. ‘And the other one?'

‘Well, it was a good idea, unique. But lately the character in question has been getting a lot of press.'

‘Who was he?'

‘A man called Angelico Vespucci,' Enright replied, and as Nino heard the name he let out a long, relieved breath. ‘Unfortunately there have been some murders recently, copies of his crimes. You might have read about it?'

‘Yes, I think I have. Fascinating character. Were you writing the play yourself?'

‘No, I'm no wordsmith. Directing is my forte.'

‘So who's writing the play?'

‘Rachel—' he replied.

Nino was hardly breathing. ‘Oh,
Rachel
! I know her, I think. Rachel Andrews? Came from Brighton originally?'

‘No,' Enright replied. ‘Rachel Pitt. She's from up north, Lake District. Smashing girl. Anyway, she's actually our Assistant Stage Manager, but she had this idea for a play. Apparently she's been working on it for a long time. Ran it past me, and frankly it sounded interesting … Would you like to come in and talk, Mr Bergstrom? We'd be delighted to chat to any angel, existing or prospective.'