Isle of the Dead (19 page)

*

It was nearly seven thirty when Nino returned to Kensington. Letting himself into the gallery by the back door, he turned off the alarm and checked the answerphone. There were three messages: two from Gaspare, one from the police. The last recorded voice asked him, with cold civility, if he would call the station and ask for Detective Steiner. At his earliest convenience.

So when the doorbell rang thirty minutes later the name
coming over the intercom was a familiar one – Detective William Steiner. Frowning, Nino buzzed him in, waiting for the policeman at the top of the stairs. Showing him an identity card, Steiner moved into the sitting room and Nino offered him a seat. He was slight in build with curly, dry hair, wearing a creased grey suit that didn't fit and scuffed brown shoes.

‘I'd like to have a chat with you, Mr Bergstrom,' he said, his voice surprisingly guttural.

Wary, Nino regarded him.

‘Can I have the number of your police station? I'd like to check that you
are
Detective Steiner,' he said, taking down a number and making the call. When Steiner's identity was verified, he shrugged. ‘Sorry about that. I just wanted to be sure who I was talking to. You can never be too careful these days.'

Steiner was unemotional, unreadable. ‘You work for Mr Jonathan Ravenscourt, I believe?'

‘Yeah, I work for him.'

‘Doing what?'

‘I'm looking into something for him.'

‘What?'

‘The death of a friend of his, in Venice. A woman called Seraphina Morgan.' Nino paused. ‘What's the problem?'

Steiner ignored the question. ‘Aren't the Italian police dealing with the case?'

‘They are. But Mr Ravenscourt wanted me to look into the matter too.'

‘But you're …' There was a pause as Steiner flipped open
his notepad and checked his facts, ‘a location finder for the film industry, I believe.'

‘I was.'

‘But now you're a detective? Rather a change of career, isn't it? Or did watching all the private eyes on screen inspire you?'

Keeping his patience, Nino answered him. ‘I'm just helping Mr Ravenscourt out.'

‘But he's hired you. He's paying you for this
help
?' Steiner pressed him. ‘There's no point being evasive with me, Mr Bergstrom. I'm privy to all of Mr Ravenscourt's affairs and he hired you on the twenty-seventh of November, and paid you a retainer of five thousand pounds. Is that right?'

‘Yes,' Nino said warily. ‘What's the problem?'

‘What did he want to find out?'

‘Everything about Seraphina Morgan's death,' Nino repeated. ‘She was a close friend of his in Venice. He was upset, wanted to find out why she'd been killed. Who had killed her.'

‘And why would he think
you
could find this out?'

Feeling suddenly under threat, Nino wondered how much to tell, how much to withhold. He had to give the police something, but not too much. Nothing about the painting or Vespucci.

‘I knew Seraphina slightly – we met once. Actually we had a mutual friend.'

‘Mr Gaspare Reni.'

‘Why are you bringing him into this?'

‘Into what?' Steiner replied. ‘You said you had a mutual friend. We know you've been staying with Mr Reni at his Kensington gallery; I was just coming to an obvious conclusion … You seem very jumpy, Mr Bergstrom. Is there a reason for that?'

‘What's all this about?' Nino asked, his voice calm again. ‘You've obviously been checking up on me – why? Tell me. You owe me that.'

‘Mr Ravenscourt's back in Venice. He contacted us from there, told us about you. He said he was afraid of you—'

‘
What?
'

‘That you'd forced him to give you money in return for information—'

‘
Is this a joke?
' Nino asked, dumbfounded.

‘He said that you had come to
him
about the death of Seraphina Morgan. That you knew things no one else did. Things no one
could
know – unless they'd been her killer. Mr Ravenscourt felt he had to leave London because he was afraid of what you might do. After all, if you'd killed once, you could kill again.'

Incredulous, Nino stared at the detective. ‘He's lying! He hired me to—'

‘Mr Ravenscourt also said you had stolen some papers from him.'

‘He lent me those!'

Steiner was impervious. ‘He said you were trying to “steal a march on his book”. Apparently Mr Ravenscourt had been writing a book for some years and you had come along and
stolen his ideas.'

‘He's mad,' Nino replied. ‘It's all rubbish – the man's lying. I've never killed anyone in my life. Jesus, look at my background! I've never even had a speeding ticket. What the hell is the bastard talking about?'

‘You, Mr Bergstrom. He's talking about
you
.'

Nino's mind cleared in that instant. Ravenscourt was setting him up. Nino was to be the scapegoat this time. While the police were investigating him, Johnny Ravenscourt was free to do as he pleased. It was the twelfth of December – and the last murder committed by Vespucci had been on the first of January. The anniversary was coming up fast and the killer was still out there.

‘Everything he said is fantasy,' Nino insisted. ‘Get Ravenscourt here. Let him face me, then we'll see who's lying.'

‘I'd really like to do that, Mr Bergstrom,' Steiner said evenly. ‘But unfortunately Mr Ravenscourt seems to have disappeared.'

Tokyo

Jobo Kido waited until his wife was asleep, then crept into his study and locked the door. Turning on the computer, he went on to the internet, looking for angelicovespucci.1555. com. The site came up immediately and he pressed ENTER. Almost as soon as he had typed hello a reply came up.

Unnerved, Jobo pressed on.

Hands sweating, Jobo stared at the screen. He could get the Titian! Sod Farina Ahmadi, he wasn't going to have to share it after all. He could have the portrait all to himself. Hang it next to his other exhibits, stare at it, enjoy it. Relish it. It was the culmination of all his hopes: the depiction of a maniac, painted by one of the Old Masters. It would be worth millions. And it would be his.

Giddy, Jobo calmed himself, thinking of the implications of this correspondence. If the man on the computer knew who he was, did he also know where he lived? The thought made his flesh creep. Jobo might argue with his wife constantly, but he had no wish to see anything happen to her. Or himself. He would have to be very clever. Somehow manage to get hold of the painting – and expose the killer at the same time.

The picture
would
be his, but safely.

He turned back to the computer.

Hesitating, Jobo wanted to ask the obvious question, but resisted. Perhaps the man wasn't the killer and would be offended by the presumption. He might sign off, never contact Jobo again. And take the Titian with him.

There was a long pause, moments passing before the answer came up.

And with that, he logged off, breaking the connection, and Jobo was left staring at the empty screen.

London

It was twelve days to Christmas. Lights were strung across Regent Street and around Oxford Circus, shop windows dragging buyers into their clammy interiors. Thick with the scent of candles and perfume, the stores grew sticky under the plastic mistletoe, shoppers overheated as the temperature plunged outside. Snow was forecast, a breakdown at several set of lights holding up the traffic from Piccadilly to Park Lane.

Having been discharged from hospital, Gaspare was back at the Kensington gallery, struggling to remember the code as he turned off the alarm. For a moment he stood in the hallway looking upwards, thinking of the break-in, listening for the sound of footsteps. Then, annoyed at his own timidity, he walked into the sitting room and flicked on a solitary lamp. The old familiar shapes came back in all their dim glory: the painted ceiling, the suit of Japanese armour, the set of kettledrums he had bought in an auction. All so
random, like disparate friends greeting him for a surprise party.

Walking over to the central table, Gaspare noticed a jumbled assortment of notes. Some were in Nino's handwriting, others he presumed belonged to Johnny Ravenscourt. He knew that Nino hadn't shown them to the police, and touched them gingerly, as though they were contaminated, before gathering them together and putting them into a plastic bag.

Moments later, footsteps announced the arrival of Nino, Gaspare feigning horror as he entered the sitting room.

‘Ah, the Devil is loose. The killer is at large! Please spare me, don't hurt me!'

Ignoring the comments, Nino stared at his old friend. ‘You got back from the hospital all right then?'

‘Well, when I heard of your predicament I thought you might never get out alive.' He patted Nino's shoulder affectionately. ‘You didn't think I'd let the police keep you in there, did you?'

‘I don't know how you got me out. Detective Steiner seemed very eager to keep hold of me.'

‘The police had nothing concrete. The benefit of living a long time is that you make contacts over the years. None of us were born old; some of us had very influential positions in our prime. And even long-term friends have debts to pay back. Let's just say that I made a phone call.'

‘And that was it?'

Gaspare shrugged. ‘I'd love to say I had that much power,
but apparently the police were only trying to scare you. They didn't really believe what Johnny Ravenscourt said, but they'd lost touch with him – thought he was up to something – and put pressure on you to find out what it was.'

‘Up to something?'

‘Mr Ravenscourt's known to the Art Fraud department. He has a record for smuggling fakes,' Gaspare said, smiling. ‘It was a long time ago, and he's not been active since, but it's still on record.' He paused. ‘How much did you tell the police?'

Quickly Nino filled Gaspare in, pouring two glasses of brandy and passing one to the older man.

‘Ravenscourt tried to land me in it – which makes him look even more suspicious. If he's copying Vespucci I reckon he picked me to be his scapegoat.'

‘Or he was just stirring up trouble,' Gaspare offered, passing Nino a letter with his name on it. ‘When I got home, this had arrived.'

Taking it, Nino read.

Gaspare was looking at Nino with curiosity. ‘Anything interesting?'

‘It's from Harold Greyly's aunt. Perhaps she wants to tell me something he wouldn't.'

‘Or perhaps she's working with him to get you back to Norfolk?'

‘She asked me to ring her. Not visit.'

Gaspare shrugged. ‘So ring. But don't go back there.'

Half an hour later Nino finally managed to get an answer on Hester Greyly's phone. The receiver was picked up, but there was no greeting, just soft breathing down the line.

‘Hello?' he said, concerned. ‘Mrs Greyly?'

‘Who's this?'

Nino hesitated, not recognising the man's voice. ‘Mrs Greyly asked me to call her. Can I speak to her, please?'

‘That's not possible.'

‘Is she ill?' Nino asked, uneasy. ‘I need to talk to her. She sent me a letter—'

There was a rusting sound on the phone and someone else spoke. This time Nino recognised the voice immediately – it was Harold Greyly.

‘Who's calling?'

‘Nino Bergstrom. Your aunt sent me a letter asking me to get in touch. Can I talk to her, please?'

‘I'm sorry, Mr Bergstrom, that won't be possible,' he replied, bone cold. ‘My aunt died this morning.'

Nino's mouth dried.

‘She fell down the stairs and broke her neck. So I'm afraid that no one will be speaking to her. And frankly I have nothing to say to you anyway, so I'd be obliged if you didn't
contact me or my family again.' His manner was all crisp efficiency. ‘You came here under false pretences, Mr Bergstrom. I feel I should warn you that any further harassment will be reported to the police.'