Isle of the Dead (10 page)

‘
Old
serial killers?'

‘From past times. Like Vespucci,' Johnny replied. ‘I did the usual suspects – Vlad the Impaler, Genghis Khan, even the more modern ones like Son of Sam, but then they were so boring, the stories so well known. And then I heard about Vespucci—'

‘How'd you hear about him?'

‘Goodness,' he replied, his tone amusingly camp. ‘You are suspicious!'

‘I'm just careful. You leave a message for me and I don't know anything about you. I don't even know how you heard about me.'

‘People gossip,' Johnny replied. ‘Venice gets very boring in the winter and strangers are always good copy. You came, apparently with a dashing head of white hair, and everyone noticed. Then you started asking questions about one of the city's least popular residents and it was reported back to me.'

‘Why?'

‘People know I used to be a dealer and that I'm interested in Vespucci, so naturally they told me about you.' He paused, affecting a hurt tone. ‘We don't have to talk. I just thought—'

‘No, I'd like to talk.'

‘Good. Come and see me.'

‘I can't. I'm back in London.'

‘I'm back in London too,' Johnny replied, ‘staying at my flat off South Molton Street. Number 234 – you'll see my name on the door. Shall we say around seven?'

‘Fine,' Nino replied, glancing down the corridor and noticing a doctor approaching him. ‘I have to go now—'

‘When we meet, remind me to tell you about the Contessa di Fattori, will you?' Johnny went on, his tone unreadable. ‘Now, there was a dangerous woman.'

After Nino had talked to Gaspare's doctor and been reassured that his ‘father' would recover, he headed for South Molton Street. The evening was frenzied with the first of the early Christmas shoppers, traffic listless and heading for the West End, or Claridges in the next block. Buzzing the intercom marked
Johnny Ravenscourt
, Nino heard the door click open and climbed the stairs. As he approached Flat 3 he was greeted by two pug dogs barking shrilly at the door.

‘Oh, do stop it!' Johnny said, shooing them to one side and waving for Nino to enter. ‘Ignore them, they're just being silly.'

The effeminate voice that Nino had heard on the phone did not in any way prepare him for the strapping appearance of Johnny Ravenscourt. Tall and bulky, he had heavy Germanic features, dyed black hair and a slack mouth. As he busied himself chivvying his dogs, his colossal hands flapped like wounded birds.

Finally, he sat down on a Regency settee and looked over at Nino. ‘So?'

‘So,' Nino replied, bemused.

‘You came to talk?' Johnny said, jumping to his feet again and pouring them both a gin and tonic. Smiling, he passed one to Nino and regained his seat. His nerves were obvious and surprising. ‘How do we start?'

‘
You
wanted to talk to
me
.'

‘Oh yes,' Johnny replied, crossing his weighty legs and smoothing the crease on his trousers. ‘About murder.'

‘About Angelico Vespucci.'

Johnny sipped his drink, pausing for effect. ‘Yes, Vespucci.'

‘I couldn't find out much about him,' Nino went on. The room felt overheated and stuffy, the towering Italian furniture dwarfing its modest proportions. ‘Is there anything I can read? Any books?'

‘Mostly hearsay.'

‘But?'

‘You've guessed, haven't you?' Johnny said, getting up again and placing a thick sheaf of papers on the table in front of his guest. ‘Those' he said, jabbing at them with a stubby forefinger, ‘are all about The Skin Hunter.'

Wary, Nino looked at the notes. ‘I'm very grateful – but why are you helping me?'

‘I heard that you'd been hired to look into the death of Seraphina di Fattori. That's why. Are you being paid well?'

Hesitating, Nino paused. He had used up the last of his savings on the Venice trip and was beginning to wonder how he could continue his investigation without financial
support. He could approach Gaspare, but the dealer had already done more than enough for him. Asking for a fee seemed like insulting Gaspare, who was mourning Seraphina and himself a victim of an attack.

‘I could use some cash,' Nino admitted at last.

‘Then it's yours,' Ravenscourt said, his tone indifferent, as befitted a wealthy man. ‘I'll give you a retainer now and you let me know how much you need as you go along. Oh, and keep this between us, will you? I'd rather people didn't know of my interest.' He shifted in his seat, his figure bulky on the elegant sofa. ‘Seraphina was my friend. She was very kind to me when I had a little … upset … with a gentleman in a bar. I mean, I'm gay.' He regarded Nino for a moment as though daring him to challenge the words. When he didn't, Johnny continued. ‘Seraphina was a rare creature who didn't judge people. I find that a remarkable quality, don't you?' Before Nino had time to answer, Johnny hurried on. ‘But I don't like her husband. I think Tom Morgan's a bad lot.'

‘You think he had something to do with her death?'

‘No, but I think he had a lot to do with her life,' Johnny replied enigmatically.

‘I don't understand.'

‘Seraphina went to London to get away from him. She loved him, but she needed a break. She was pregnant, you see, and worried about it.'

Nino made no show of having already known. ‘Didn't she want the baby?'

‘She did. Tom didn't.'

‘Did they argue about it?'

‘Constantly. Seraphina had been pregnant before, in their old apartment. She was never happy there, hated the place, but Tom wanted to stay there. Said it was impressive – but when Seraphina lost the baby she
insisted
they move. A little while later, she asked me to find out about the history of the old building.'

‘Did you?'

‘Yes. It had once belonged to the Moroni family. And – would you believe it? – Claudia Moroni was murdered. And partially skinned.' He waited for a response, but when Nino didn't give him one, he continued. ‘I told Seraphina what I'd found out – and now I can't stop wondering about what happened to
her
. To die in the same way … It can't be a coincidence. It just can't. And then you came to Venice and started asking questions and I knew that if I went to the police, they would brush me off. Laugh at any connection with the house, or Vespucci.'

‘But you think there's one?'

‘Mr Bergstrom, I'm not a fool,' Johnny replied curtly. ‘Seraphina came back from her trip to London and she was upset. Really upset. I thought it was because of her hormones. You know, pregnant women get tearful about the slightest thing—'

‘She didn't strike me as the tearful kind.'

‘She wasn't usually, but she was scared.' He paused, looking back and remembering. ‘Eventually she told me about the painting …'

Nino blew out his cheeks.

‘…
I haven't told anyone else!
' Johnny said hurriedly. ‘Seraphina made me promise and I've kept that promise. I know you met up in London. I know she found the Titian. And I know she's dead and I want to understand why.' He pushed the notes closer to Nino. ‘Go on, read about him, about Vespucci. It's taken me nearly fourteen years to get all that information together. Cost me a lot of money too. I found out who and what he was, what he did, and what he tried to do to avoid punishment. I read about his cronies, his murders, and about the folklore which grew up around him.'

‘Which was?'

‘
When the portrait emerges, so will the man,
' Johnny laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, it's fantastic, of course! That's what I thought anyway. Until Seraphina, my friend, came back from London and told me that the portrait had turned up. And then I started to worry …' He stroked one of his dogs, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Somehow she had found out about her ancestor, the Contessa di Fattori. And the fact that she'd been murdered by Vespucci.'

‘How did she find out?'

‘I don't know who told her. Her parents maybe.'

Nino frowned. ‘Why would they?'

‘Seraphina could have talked about the Titian she'd found and they could have offered up the family connection.' He clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘How do I know who told her! She just
knew
, that was all. It scared me—'

‘Why?'

‘I don't know,' Johnny replied. He looked at Nino, his gaze surprisingly intense, then glanced away. ‘For the next two days I phoned her continually. We met up, went shopping. Ate out together. You see, I wanted to be with her, to watch out for her. Then, on Wednesday morning, she was found dead.' He paused, alert. ‘What is it?'

Without answering, Nino took the newspaper out of his pocket and handed it over. Frowning, Johnny Ravenscourt read the headlines. A moment passed, then he pointed to his notes, lying on the table between them.

‘I'm not a brave man, I think that's obvious. I'm a rich, spoilt old queen, with no taste for danger. But I loved Seraphina and I want to know who killed her.' He pushed the notes further towards Nino. ‘Please take the help I offer you, Mr Bergstrom. In those papers is everything I know about Angelico Vespucci. Everything I think there
is
to know about The Skin Hunter.' His voice was insistent. ‘Take them. You don't have to bring them back. I don't want them back. Just read them – and remember Seraphina.'

Nodding, Nino picked up the notes.

‘I think this is just the beginning,' Johnny said, as he stared at the photograph of Sally Egan, ‘so perhaps now is the time for you to start reading?'

 

Venice, 1555

Did I tell you I was afraid of water?

The tide is rising now, higher than it has ever done, over the steps behind the houses, lapping on to the stone floors, making lazy pools under tables, silk rugs floating like bladderwrack. And with it comes the mist. The Doge is ill; some say it is another omen, some intimation of disaster coming with the freezing tides.

Not that Aretino feels any trepidation. He has a new lover, a woman as amoral as he. The Contessa di Fattori. A whore all Venice knows. Her husband encourages her excesses, wills her to try new lusts. It is said he derives his pleasure from the recalling of it. She is tall, this di Fattori, hair red as a night fox, eyes eerily blue under the triumphant arches of her brows. Cosseted by her husband's wealth, she revels in her hedonism. Luxuries are imported for her, carpets from India, perfumes from France, and in her bedchamber there are flowers sent from Holland weekly, daring the winter tides.

Some say she is a witch. For all her power she may be so. Stealing her husband from his betrothed, she soon looked elsewhere. Walking
across the piazzas with her maid and blackamoor in tow, di Fattori is imperious, heading, unashamed, for low places, or one of the threatening tangle of back streets where she is expected. It is rumoured she will lie with Arabs or boys hardly above ten, her servants sleeping on the steps outside. Sometimes, at dawn, di Fattori can be seen returning home, with her head upright like a conqueror, smelling of sex.

It was inevitable that she should entrance Aretino and he is smitten, even knowing that she laughs at his gut and his poor manhood. Vicious and fascinating, di Fattori rattles the dice of her fate, not caring for the outcome. She is reckless, demanding, cruel. She is Aretino's true match.

They say all three writhe in a mutual bed, di Fattori demanding attention from the merchant when Aretino tires. And as this latest information came to the streets, December crawled in. It came with biting winds.

A body bumped up against the struts of a bridge, rolling and turning in the tide, and finally jammed itself against the stonework. A moment later, footsteps were heard running. Echoing, disembodied, they faded into the Venetian streets.

I heard that the woman was mutilated, her back skinned, but not the rest of her. This time the murderer had been disturbed, cheated of his enjoyment. The hunter had killed but had been denied his skin.

Let me set down the date for this record. It was 26th November 1555, and the second victim was the wife of a merchant. Her name, Claudia Moroni.

Ginza, Japan

The alarm had gone off again at two thirty in the morning. But Jobo Kido, preoccupied and unable to sleep, had been more than willing to leave his bed and drive to his company premises. Within a few moments he had turned off the alarm and then made himself a coffee in the staff quarters off the main gallery. His wife's constant bad temper had worn away at his feelings and when she had threatened to go and stay with her mother he had been ecstatic. With his son also away, the house would be his for a while. It would be peaceful, uninterrupted by shouting and slamming doors, a temporary haven he would relish. Of course Jobo wouldn't admit to enjoying his wife's absence, or she would be sure never to leave again. Instead he would affect a sadness at her leaving and relief at her return and hope further arguments would result in further hiatuses from her tirades.

Fully awake now, Jobo glanced at the clock – nearly 3 a.m. He wondered momentarily if he should go for a walk, but
instead sat down at his computer. Seconds later he was looking at a reproduction of Titian's portrait of Angelico Vespucci …

What he wouldn't do to get that painting! Jobo thought. As for Farina Ahmadi trying to fob him off! Stupid woman, of course she knew about the Titian. He could tell just from looking into her sly little eyes that she was already imagining it on the walls of the Alim Collection.

He was disappointed at not having found out more in New York. Perhaps it had been too much to hope, but he had longed from some crumb of scandal to drop at his ready feet. And pumping Triumph Jones had been a tiring business. From his lofty height, the American had batted away Jobo's enquiries like a giant swatting summer wasps. It always irked Jobo that although he was taller than the average Japanese man he always felt diminutive around Triumph Jones. He had also noticed that every conversation they had was conducted with them standing up, the American giving Jobo a prolonged view of his impressive jawline.