Isle of the Dead (42 page)

Since the murders Triumph Jones had aged. To everyone's surprise, the mugging had not been connected to Edward Hillstone. If anything, it was considered that he'd brought it on himself by publishing the Reward announcement. Whatever had possessed him? Triumph thought. How
deluded had he been to think he could retrieve the Titian by inviting every criminal to try and cheat him? But he had been desperate. And men who are desperate and floundering will try anything to lessen their guilt.

He had been responsible for four deaths. And he would die knowing it.

*

The alarm went off again at two thirty, and again Jobo Kido rose from his bed and drove to his offices to turn it off. When he had done so, he paused by his desk, looking at the computer and thinking of the exchanges he had had with a murderer.

The thought horrified and thrilled him at the same time. To think that he, Jobo Kido, had been involved with a serial killer. A man who had threatened him, come to his door, sent the vile package through the mail. Terrifying and unbelievable as it was, it
had
happened. And it had changed the Japanese dealer.

He would never admit to anyone, least of all his wife and son, that he was exhilarated to have been – indirectly – a part of Edward Hillstone's crimes. It thrilled him to think of it; made him believe that he had a better insight into his exhibits. That when he visited his private collection and looked at Jeffrey Dahmer or Son of Sam he was just a little closer to understanding them. Not
too
close, but close enough to satisfy his ego, while keeping him safe.

Of course the unfilled gap on the wall annoyed him. By rights the Titian should have been hanging there. But the
Titian was never going to be his now, so instead Jobo had hung another exhibit. It was crudely framed, because he hadn't wanted to risk asking a professional to undertake the job, but it was adequate. A frame was a frame, after all. It was what was
inside
that mattered.

Jobo paused, thinking of his new exhibit. A piece of skin. Part of the hide of a murdered woman. The piece which had been sent through the mail weeks earlier … At first he had intended to destroy it, but he couldn't bring himself to commit such a violation. So he displayed it instead. Without a label, obviously. No point bringing the police down on his head. It was Jobo's
private
pleasure. A reminder of his dabbling with a lunatic. A concrete image of an insane mind.

Or, to put it another way, a gift from Edward Hillstone to an admirer.

*

Having lost any chance of getting hold of the infamous Titian, Farina Ahmadi feigned total indifference. It was a weak portrait anyway, she said imperiously – in appalling condition. Not one of Titian's finest works. And besides, who wanted the image of a serial killer hanging on their gallery wall?

The whole matter had been fucking disgusting, she told everyone. It had made her despair of the art world and the people who populated it. And besides, everyone knew that the Alim Collection would never dream of exhibiting such a painting.

She told her husband the same.

He told her she was a fool and that he was seeing another woman.

The following day Farina filed for a massive divorce settlement.

And a week later Sally Egan's copy of the Vespucci portrait was sold at auction for an undisclosed sum.

Triumphant, Farina made a bid for the Alim Collection. The fight is ongoing.

*

The only person who really triumphed was Johnny Ravens-court. His profile escalated. He was – as he had hoped – featured on television, radio and the press as the leading expert on Vespucci. For once, his picaresque background was an advantage as he regaled the world with stories of Angelico Vespucci, The Skin Hunter. He then exhibited the portrait of Claudia Moroni and her brother, making a gargantuan profit out of their incestuous relationship. And her tragic death.

However, it was the discovery of the victims' skins which propelled Johnny Ravenscourt into global notoriety. Lacking any morals, he exhibited them wherever they were requested – for a formidable fee. His fortune, which had always been impressive, swelled with the blood money of Vespucci's victims, the macabre, beribboned skins displayed like Bulgari jewels.

People in numerous countries around the globe came to gawp at the flayed hides and read the stories of the murdered women. Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti
and the Contessa di Fattori became household names, their lives and deaths the subject of numerous programmes and articles. A film was mooted as Hollywood took up their cause, tying together the connection between The Skin Hunter and Edward Hillstone. And in the middle of all this interest, money and fame, was the burly figure of Johnny Ravenscourt.

He flourished. Lived as sumptuously as Vespucci had once done. Had no end of boys at his bidding, and the grudging respect of the art world. His smuggling days were no longer regarded as a disgrace, but as cavalier roistering, and the police watched with disbelief as their one-time irritant shimmered in the glow of public opprobrium.

And then, one morning, Johnny Ravenscourt was found dead. Apparently he had suffered a massive heart attack. But oddly, at his mansion on Eaton Square, the phone line had been cut and the burglar alarm turned off. Despite his fabulous wealth and possessions, nothing had been stolen. Silver, paintings, antiquarian books, jewellery, wine and cigars were untouched. A solid silver chess set, a Bechstein piano, a Russian malachite table and a Louis XIV commode were ignored. The Rolls-Royce, Mercedes and Bentley cars remained in the garage. There was no damage.

The day before Ravenscourt's death the skins of Vespucci's victims had been put on a boat to be shipped over to the USA for a controversial exhibition in New York. Later it was discovered that at the very time Johnny Ravenscourt had
died the ship had been hit by freak weather and had sunk in the middle of the Atlantic. The crew was saved.

The hides of The Skin Hunter's victims were lost forever.

Edward Hillstone, aged 34, of Spitalfields, London, committed suicide in Wormwood Scrubs Prison on 14 January. He had been charged on numerous counts and had pleaded not guilty to all of them, forcing a jury trial. Although Hillstone had not been considered a suicide threat, he had hanged himself in the early hours.

He left no suicide note, just a brief letter to Nino Bergstrom.

It read:

‘The skins are where they should be …' Puzzled, Nino read the letter to Gaspare for the third time, both of them weighing the words.

‘Where should skins be?'

Gaspare shrugged. ‘Does he mean it literally? Like the skin on an animal?'

‘Or on fruit?'

‘Or on milk?'

Nino raised his eyebrows. ‘
On milk?
'

‘So you make some better suggestions,' Gaspare retorted. ‘I'm doing my best.'

‘“
They are where they should be
.”' Nino repeated the words. ‘A skin should be on a body. But the skins were taken off the women's bodies. So does he mean that they're in a grave, perhaps?'

Gaspare shook his head. ‘Nah, that would be too difficult. There are millions of graves – where would you look? Italy? Japan? London?'

‘Skins … where should they be?'

‘Hillstone wants you to find them,' Gaspare said. ‘That much is obvious. So the clue must be solvable.'

They sat in silence, both preoccupied with their own thoughts. At times Nino would think he had the solution, then slump back in his seat, disappointed. A wind blew up outside, making peevish darts at the gallery windows, a car alarm going off just after six. Another hour droned on, then, suddenly, he rose to his feet.

Surprised, Gaspare looked at him. ‘What is it?'

‘I think I've solved it,' Nino replied, grabbing his coat and running out.

On the street, he phoned the police in charge of the Hillstone case and told them what he suspected. He knew they would listen to him and follow it up, contacting their colleagues abroad. All he had to do now was to wait. Just wait, for an hour. Give them enough time … Impatiently Nino paced, checking his watch every other minute, Gaspare watching from the gallery window above. The day lengthened, wind tossing up rubbish, a splatter of cold rain making gloomy haloes round the street lamps.

The minutes sulked along until, finally, the time had come. His hand shaking, Nino took out his mobile. Looking up a number he hadn't used for a while, he phoned Venice, a maid answering at the di Fattori residence. After asking to speak to Seraphina, he waited for her to come on the phone.

‘If you want to tell me that Eddie's dead, I know already.'

‘You've got them, haven't you?'

‘What are you talking about?' she asked, her tone wary. ‘Got what?'

‘The skins. The skins of the women Edward Hillstone killed. He told me—'

‘Liar!'

‘You said there was no evidence. That no one had seen or heard anything. That you could explain everything by saying Hillstone had you in fear of your life. But you can't explain everything.' Nino paused, hearing a commotion on the other end of the line, the sound of footsteps and raised
voices. ‘Hear that? That's the police, Seraphina. They've come for the skins. And they'll find them, won't they? Like Hillstone said, they're
where they're supposed to be
. And that's with you.'

He could hear her drop the phone and took in a breath. Like all killers, Seraphina had kept trophies. She hadn't been able to resist. And it would be the skins that would damn her.

A normal woman – or a woman under threat, as Seraphina di Fattori claimed to be – would never keep such mementos.

Edward Hillstone was dead. But he had got his revenge.

 

Venice, 1556

I came to Venice from Rome. One of seven children and damaged at that. It was the year I was ten and was put upon a boat for Venice. They told us the Republic was like Heaven, that children cried to be admitted and food was plentiful. They said, I remember, that no one minded a twisted foot. That I would be welcomed, treasured for my difference.

I was not treasured. The boat was thrown about in the sea and made me sick, I leaned over the side and vomited, my face looking back at me from water as dark as a burnt candle stub. I am afraid of water, always have been. They took us to the quayside, pulled us up, pummelled and pinched, and people came to view us in the heat. I was still sick from the boat and stood like a goat, whining and trying to hide my deformity.

He was passing on the street and turned to the bargaining voices of the people, of those wanting little servants to pet and bully. I would not be chosen; I was not pretty, nor quick. I feared my house would be a poor place, my owner quick in temper. And I could not
even speak when I was taken by the arm, and stumbled clumsily.

Come with me, he said. Come on, come with me.

He was tall, with a beard and a coaxing voice, and he walked at my pace without making me a laughing stock for limping. When we came to his home he unlocked a garden gate and guided me in. Lemons were hanging heavy from trees, oranges ripe in terracotta pots, a cat sunning itself by an open door.

Come with me, he said again.

I believed it then. That Venice was a Heaven children cried to enter. Mute, I looked around me, at paintings high as trees, at faces real as those I had just passed. On easels and against walls, canvases reeking of oil paint and linseed threw up scenarios of living things that were not living. He had depicted dogs, fur that was trembling to be stroked, water that would trick a river's flow, and women so beautiful they prompted tears.

From that day on I was the master's servant. I grew with Titian, had no talent to be honed, but served him as a child his father. Without a family, he loaned his to me. And so I grew to love him as I grew in age. I kept his studio, made his food, washed his clothes. Although there were many other servants, I let no one close. For Titian had rescued me. Had saved my life. No harm, I swore, would ever come to him. No injury. My life, no less, was forfeit should it serve him.

And so I watched. And so I learned. People do not see cripples. Or if they do, they think them idiots. I was no fool. And so I saw my master triumph. The Doge was his friend, kings admired him, Venice held him up as a cross before battle. And yet for all of this, he let the writer in.

It was a solemn day when Aretino came to Venice. Puffed up with reputation, eager to triumph, seeing in Titian a brilliance and a fullness of heart to massage dry. But Titian grew to love this ravenous dog. He loved the beast. He made excuses, feted him, advanced this corpulent bag of pus until his name did rival Titian's own.

And he never once suspected what I knew.

It was last Thursday that Aretino came to Titian's home and begged for entrance. As I well knew, my master would eventually relent. And so he did, letting this murderer, this traitor, this mountebank, enter his life again. And to what end? To what dank scandal? What unrivalled disgrace?

I made them supper, watched them eat. The pig wheezed and snuffled about his food, laughed, told stories, sought to beguile again. And Titian, watching like a chicken does a fox, was mesmerised by him. They ate. I served them. They drank. I poured the wine. Outside the sea waited for its next drowning.

And I waited too.

Aretino was talking of some dancer, some new whore, and paused, his sharp eyes startled. His hands, those bloodied hands, clutched for his throat as though some bone was stuck there. Titian turned, reached for his friend, but Aretino was already falling, dead before he found the floor. He never saw me tamper with his food. He never saw me pass a plate to him unlike my master's own.