Isle of the Dead (16 page)

Suddenly the phone rang beside Nino and a familiar voice came down the line.

‘I've just got back to London. How are you getting on?' Johnny Ravenscourt asked, the dogs barking in the background.

‘Pretty good.'

‘You all right for money?'

‘Yes, fine, thanks,' Nino answered, glancing at the papers in front of him. ‘I'm just reading about the Contessa di Fattori. Personally I'm surprised her husband didn't kill her.'

‘There
was
a theory at the time that he hired Angelico Vespucci to murder her—'

‘Hired him? Why would he need to pay someone as rich as Vespucci?'

‘He wouldn't. I imagine The Skin Hunter would have done it in the name of friendship … I suppose you've seen the website? The one that's just gone up on Vespucci?
angelicovespucci.1555.com.
' He laughed, but the sound was strained. ‘Whoever put it up certainly knows a lot about him.'

‘Anything you didn't already know?'

‘No!' Johnny replied shortly. ‘I'm the bloody expert! I've spent years on Vespucci and now some upstart thinks he can set up a website and steal my thunder. Bastard.'

Amused, Nino tried to mollify him. ‘Should I look at it?'

‘Suit yourself,' Johnny said, his tone sulky. ‘To be honest, I emailed the site, but no one's come back to me yet. They're on to the Titian though. They know the portrait's turned up.'

Leaning back in his seat, Nino listened. His doubts about Johnny Ravenscourt were not lessened by the news of the website. Perhaps he had set it up himself, pretending there were other interested parties, other suspects. What
was
surprising was that the site announced the re-emergence of the Vespucci portrait – but then again, hadn't Johnny Ravenscourt been one of the first to know about it? Hadn't Seraphina told him? Certainly none of the dealers – Jobo Kido, Farina Ahmadi or Triumph Jones – would have deliberately made the news public.

Mistrustful, Nino chose his next words with care. ‘So the portrait's common knowledge now?'

‘It's on the net, so everyone will know.'

‘Give me the website address again, will you?' Nino asked, jotting it down then returning to his previous theme. ‘The Contessa di Fattori was an exhibitionist.'

‘The Contessa was a one-off. After she died, the family became reserved, kept away from society. They were ashamed of her life
and
her death. But Seraphina admired her beauty.' He changed tack. ‘Have you spoken to her husband lately?'

‘Yeah, I talked to Tom Morgan yesterday. He's not been arrested. The police have questioned him again, but they let him go.'

‘The Italian police couldn't find a dog in a tin can,' Johnny replied dismissively.

‘Have they got any other suspects?'

‘Not that I know of.'

Nino rifled through the pages in front of him until he found the piece of paper he was looking for. ‘You made a note of a name – hang on, it's here somewhere – yes, that's it. Someone called Sir Harold Greyly, in Norfolk.'

‘What about him?'

‘Did you talk to him?'

‘I was going to, but he was travelling overseas every time I got in touch. In the end, I moved on.'

It was a lie, and Nino sensed it. ‘You wanted to talk to him about Claudia Moroni. Why?'

‘I can't remember,'

‘But it must have been important. Claudia was one of Vespucci's victims.'

‘Like I say, I can't remember.'

In the background Nino could just catch a faint noise. A ping from Johnny Ravenscourt's computer to say that he had an email.

‘I have to go, I've got a message!' he said, obviously excited. ‘It's from the website. Somebody's finally answered me.'

With that, Johnny Ravenscourt clicked off the phone.

Thoughtful, Nino went back to his notes. Unable to concentrate, he turned to the computer and brought up the Vespucci website. On the last page, under CONTACTS, it read WEBSITE CREATED BY JEX. Jex, Nino thought, frowning as he made a note of the name.

He turned back to the paper on Vespucci. Johnny Ravens-court had been lying, not in what he had said but in what he
hadn't
said. If Nino wasn't mistaken he had deliberately ignited his interest, then encouraged it by feigning indifference.
Ravenscourt might act like a dolt, but Nino suspected that he was more devious than he appeared.

Reaching for the notes, Nino checked the name he had noticed earlier – Sir Harold Greyly, Courtford Hall, Little Havensham, Norfolk.

The address which would change his life.

New York

The body count was now up to three. Three women, all killed in the same way Vespucci's victims had met their end. The new Skin Hunter was active, inspired by the legend Triumph Jones had created. Had he never set his plan in action he could simply have bought the Titian portrait for himself. That would –
should
 – have been enough for any dealer. His peers would have admired and envied him, his nickname gaining a platinum lustre. The prestige of owning a Titian should have been sufficient for even a mammoth ego.

But not for Triumph.

The same ambition which had cost him his marriage would now cost him his peace of mind. Sleep had deserted him, the lure of his business turned off. Even the pleasure of dining out had somehow become little more than a chilly formality. His friends might still gather about him, still engage him in conversation and gossip, but Triumph's mind never stayed with them for long. Instead it fixed on the
names of the murdered women. It threw up images of their corpses, not seen but imagined in every terrible detail.

It seemed that every few days there was a report in the paper of another murder. In Venice, London, Tokyo. Perhaps only a ghost could travel so easily and so unnoticed? But this was no ghost, no legend that he had callously drawn up. This was reality. A man was killing women. Inspired by the original Skin Hunter someone was seeking to emulate – God forbid, exceed – his murders. It was as though a lunatic was now recreating what Vespucci had done four centuries previously.

Triumph suspected the police were likely to have connected the killings already. The publicity had ensured intense activity, the media demanding answers. What would happen next was inevitable: the news of a woman being skinned would travel quickly from Tokyo and they would remember Sally Egan in London, then, after a while, Seraphina. The police were bound to make the connection because there were too many similarities for the killings
not
to have been committed by the same man. And although Triumph had not engaged in the act of killing, he was indirectly responsible for the murders. It had been
his
PR which had drawn a lunatic out.
His
ego which had brought The Skin Hunter back to life.

He was responsible – and he knew it.

It would not be his buying and selling, his collecting, his numerous coups in the art world by which he would be judged. Triumph Jones would be victorious in something
altogether more heinous. Only Gaspare Reni knew the truth – but that didn't matter to the American. He knew what he had done and every waking moment scorched him with guilt. Overwrought, he became obsessed, developing a fantasy, a means of absolution. He would find the Titian and destroy it. He would send it back to the water. Back into the dark, the deep.

He had no idea if such a deed would stop the killings, but in his confusion Triumph convinced himself that it would prove miraculous. That somehow, if he could destroy the means by which the killer had been inspired, he could also destroy the man.

Having decided on his next course of action, Triumph sent out another message, knowing it would travel around the knotted vines of the art world within hours.
Whoever brought him the painting would be rewarded.
The man who brought the Titian back would be publicly recompensed, while privately becoming his saviour.

It never occurred to him that he might be summoning up the Devil instead.

Norfolk

Only two weeks until Christmas. Nino drove into the village of Little Havensham, parking his car outside a butcher's shop. Suspended from a row of steel hooks outside were the carcasses of turkeys and geese, inviting early purchase and orders. Next door a traditional greengrocer piled up his window with baskets of clementines, avocados, oranges, lychees and lozenge-shaped packets of dates, the whole presentation surrounded by a kitsch frosting of artificial snow. Walking in, Nino took his place behind a man waiting to be served, then asked for directions to Courtford Hall. Thanking the shopkeeper for his assistance, he made his way back to the car, only to be stopped by an elderly woman carrying a shopping basket.

‘I couldn't help overhearing – you were asking for Court-ford Hall, weren't you?'

He smiled. ‘That's right.'

‘Well, I used to live there. Until the 1990s, when I was widowed and had to move to a flat. One of those modern places by the end of the green.' She seemed keen to tell her story. ‘My nephew took over – Sir Harold Greyly. I suppose it's him you want to see?'

Having learnt quickly that listening was more profitable than talking, and that even the most unlikely people had good information, Nino encouraged her.

‘Yeah, I'd like to talk to him. Unfortunately I haven't got an appointment, because I've no phone number for him to call ahead. I'm just dropping by on the off-chance he'll see me.'

‘I'm Hester Greyly,' the woman said, putting out her hand. Willing, he took it.

‘I'm Nino Bergstrom.'

‘Unusual name,' she said, gesturing to his hair. ‘Your appearance is unusual too. So much white hair on a young man.' She hurried on. ‘I married into the Greyly family, so I was easier to put out to grass. Does that sound bitter? It wasn't meant to. Are you curious about the house or the family?'

The lie was smooth. ‘Actually I'm a location finder for the film industry. We're always looking for interesting places to use and I heard about the hall for an E. M. Forster movie. It might be just perfect, but it's long shot.'

‘
The film industry?
' she said, her eyes alert. ‘How exciting. Perhaps I could help you. I was thinking of calling at the hall myself …'

She let the words hang and Nino caught them.

‘D'you want a lift? I can take you there. Your nephew could hardly refuse to talk to me if I was introduced by his aunt.' He smiled, knowing that she would be a willing companion. ‘Of course I'd understand if you were busy—'

‘Oh no, I'm not busy. Not busy at all.'

Nino followed the directions to Courtford Hall. When they arrived, Hester climbed out of the car and looked around her, sighing longingly. Mullioned windows, bearded with variegated ivy and winter-bitten honeysuckle, caught the last rays of daylight and two stone statues book-ended the double doors of the entrance, the wood worn in parts and studded with iron nails.

Grabbing hold of it, Hester began to rap with a knocker the size of a serving dish. But no one answered the door. Instead a man appeared round the side of the house. He was wearing gardening clothes, cords tucked into Wellingtons, but he had the bearing of a military man and someone well practised in manners.

‘What a surprise!' he said, kissing his aunt on the cheek and beckoning for them both to come in. ‘How good to see you. I'm only sorry Clare isn't here, but she's gone to London to do some shopping and stay with her sister. Christmas, hey – gets worse every year.' He turned to Nino. ‘Welcome. And you are?'

‘This is Nino Bergstrom,' Hester said enthusiastically. ‘A new friend of mine. He's a location finder. Wants to have a look at the hall for a film, something by E. M. Forster.'

Harold Greyly was all smoothness.

‘Really?' he said, turning to Nino. ‘Perhaps you'd like to make an appointment. You could talk to Mrs Grant, the housekeeper, or my assistant. I'm sure we can arrange a date that would be convenient for both of us.'

Immediately Nino stopped him.

‘Actually I just need a few minutes, Sir Harold. If it wouldn't be too much of an imposition, could we do it now?'

Having beckoned for his assistant to approach, Greyly waved him away and turned back to Nino. ‘Fine, come on through.'

With the air of the practised host, Harold Greyly ushered them into a comfortable sitting, room where two springer spaniels lay in front of a log fire, the day's newspapers dumped unceremoniously on the sofa.

Moving them out of the way, Harold turned to his aunt. ‘Glass of sherry?'

‘Lovely,' she agreed.

‘And you?' he asked Nino.

‘I'm OK, thanks.'

After pouring the sherry, Harold stood in front of the fire, giving Nino the chance to study him. His frame was upright, trim around the waist, his shoulders wide, his whole body suggesting time spent at a gym. Nino guessed his age at around fifty. Harold Greyly had kept his wavy auburn hair and his skin was weathered and marked with old acne scars around the eyes. He looked well fed and well bred, a country Englishman at one with his august surroundings.

‘Nino wanted to look around the hall, but he was also wondering about our family,' Hester said, as though they had been talking about it in detail.

Nino was getting the drift quickly: the old woman was a bit of a mischief-maker. Having been ‘put out to grass' she was eager to get back to her old home, even temporarily, and desperate to know what was going on.

Nino picked up from where she left off. ‘I heard that the hall was one of the grandest properties in Norfolk. And one of the oldest, isn't it?'

‘The foundations date from the fourteen hundreds—'

‘Thirteen eighty,' Hester said firmly. ‘Then there were wings and additions in the fifteenth century and more in the eighteenth.' She dimpled up at Harold, annoyingly helpful. ‘Isn't that right, dear?'