Isle of the Dead (2 page)

Not only dogs are dying. Not long ago I saw a woman dragged up from the Lido, laid out for the passers-by to gawp at. She had
been in the water a long while, caught up under one of the bridges, and was unrecognisable: her eyes blind opals, her tongue slimy, thick as a sea slug. Her throat was cut, the skin stripped from her torso and limbs.

At first it was thought that the tides had mutilated her, but later it was discovered that she had been flayed. Rumours began to circulate: the killer had been disturbed before he could finish his work, before he could strip the flesh from her face. People talked of a lunatic, come to the city from abroad. Others suggested it had to be someone with wealth and means, a man with room and time to mutilate a corpse. Still others blamed the whores. But everyone asked themselves the same question: where was the victim's skin? Where was the flayed hide?

Venice is waiting, dreading but expecting another victim. The courtesans talk of nothing else and stay away from the piazzas at night, while respectable women visit their priests and burn candles in the dying light.

London, the present day

Struggling to hold the package under her arm, Seraphina Morgan scrambled up the muddy bank of the Thames and on to the Embankment beyond. There she sat down, propping up the parcel she had just rescued beside her. She could see at once that the painting was old and that the frame was gilded and valuable, which made her wonder why the picture had found itself dumped, so ignominiously, in the Thames. Pulling back the brown wrapping, Seraphina realised that the picture had only been in the water for a little time. There was no damage – none that she could see anyway.

The afternoon was backing off, the sky glowering as Seraphina remembered the dealer, Gaspare Reni. In the past, Reni had been a showy, theatrical character, an Italian travelling extensively and buying copious amounts of Renaissance art for his private collectors. Once based in Venice, he had settled in London and prospered. But age had slowed him down, and as he entered his seventies the younger,
more ruthless dealers had usurped him. Gaspare Reni might still have his famous gallery in Kensington – previously a convent – but the money he had once found so easy to accumulate had all but disappeared and his rich lifestyle had become cramped and narrow.

Still staring at the painting, Seraphina made her decision. Tomorrow she would return to Venice and her American husband, Tom Morgan, but before she left London she would repay a favour. Many years earlier Gaspare Reni had bought some paintings from her parents, his intervention preventing the forced sale of their Venetian home. He had paid over the odds for the works, but later, when the dealer's own luck had stalled, he had refused any help in recompense. And the generosity he had extended so willingly to his friends had remained unpaid.

Until now. Now Seraphina Morgan – previously di Fattori – was hailing a taxi and setting off for Kensington. It was to be an act of kindness.

But instead it would unleash a bloodbath.

Huddled in front of the fire, Gaspare Reni held out his hands towards the heat, the room behind him deeply shadowed. A newspaper lay by his feet, and a plate with a half-eaten piece of toast on it. His head, once large and impressive, had shrunk with age, his bull neck as creased as a lace glove. Around the outer corners of his eyes wrinkles spread in semicircles, running towards the hairline like the tributaries of some slow, dun-coloured river.

Beside him sat a man in his thirties.

Nino Bergstrom, Gaspare's surrogate son. A man who had at one time been dangerously ill and, having no family or friends in London, had recovered in the dealer's home and been pressed to stay. A bond had grown between them, the usual roles reversed as the old man cared for his younger companion.

Long widowed, Gaspare had been more than willing to offer a temporary haven to a stricken acquaintance. Trading at the gallery had been slow, due to the recession and Gaspare's age, so his time was often empty, unfilled. Quiet days
and perpetual nights had become irksome to the dealer, and it was with no small relief that he welcomed a companion.

‘I was thinking about the time I first came here,' he said, turning to Nino. ‘I bought the convent off the church – the paperwork! – and then opened it as a gallery. Took me over a year to get it all sorted out, and another six months to get a good enough collection to piss off every other dealer in London. I made a killing in those days – one of the real big hitters. But now … I've got old, haven't I?'

Nino glanced at the dealer. Sepia-toned, a Daguerreotype of a man.

‘All gristle now,' Gaspare went on, pinching his arm. ‘Gristle and bone.'

Nino shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I'm the one with the white hair.'

It was true. Due to his illness, Nino's once black hair had lost its colour, and at the age of thirty-eight it was white as a snow goose. The effect was all the more striking against the peppercorn blackness of his eyes and provided a lasting reminder of that terrible time. Now fully restored, he had only to look in the mirror to recall the summer which had changed him. After collapsing on a film set in London, he had found himself under the care of Dr Steven Morrison, the world's foremost authority on neurological diseases. Morrison had lived up to his reputation, but Nino had faced a lengthy and expensive clamber back to health, which had all but obliterated his savings.

The long dry season of illness had turned a careless adventurer into a thoughtful onlooker. No more California for Nino Bergstrom; no more endless travelling. He was changed, shunted out of his old life and unsure of where to go next. It didn't help that he had no family and his closest friends were in California, USA. In London, where he had had the malign fortune to fall ill, Nino Bergstrom had no one.

Except for the old dealer, Gaspare Reni. Hearing of Nino's illness, the Italian had visited him in hospital and offered his home for as long as he needed to convalesce. The gesture had Nino dumbfounded. He had known Gaspare professionally for years, and had grown to like him, but his unconditional support had come as a blessing and a surprise. Too weak to protest, and certainly too frail to take care of himself, Nino had slid behind the protective and shielding walls of the imposing convent gallery. Fed by Gaspare and left to sleep, his recovery limped through the first week, but by the end of the second, Nino Bergstrom had climbed back to life. By the time the month was up, he was restored. Nothing about his build or face gave his illness away; only his hair did that, remaining defiantly white.

‘Why don't you put the lights on?'

The old man shrugged. ‘Expensive.'

‘And the heating?'

‘You know why,' he said, exasperated. ‘I've told you over and over again. It's expensive.'

‘And I've told you – over and over again – to let me pay rent while I'm here.'

‘Pah!' Gaspare retorted, waving his hand impatiently. ‘I don't want money! I like your company. And I like it dark. It's dramatic.'

‘So's falling down a flight of stairs,' Nino replied, getting to his feet and flicking on the light switch.

The room was propelled into sudden view. Looming walls supported their skins of Turkish carpets, and a gaggle of oil paintings towered over the dour Spanish furniture and French commodes. Silverware, stacked piece upon blackened piece, leaned tipsily against blackamoor torchères and vulgar gilded screens. Tooled leather-backed books wheezed under the weight of ormolu clocks and obese cherubs, a suit of Japanese armour attempting a samurai pose by the door.

Looking up, Nino gazed at the painted ceiling, grown more yellow by the day, its caramel-coloured angels hovering above the mouldering room below.

‘Christ, Gaspare, why you don't sort this mess out? Let me help you.'

‘You're convalescing.'

‘I'm fit again,' Nino replied. ‘And anyway, I've got to start thinking about going back to work.'

‘Too soon!'

Stiffly, the old man turned in his chair. He had liked having Nino around and was more than a little reluctant to let him leave. The refashioned convent, which had been admired and considered impressive in his younger days, was now too big for a single ageing man. The maintenance was
a constant bleed to his wallet and gradually room after room had been cordoned off, space reduced as his years increased.

‘You don't have to hurry to leave,' Gaspare went on. ‘You used to like it here. You hired it more than once—'

‘But it wasn't like this then, was it?'

He
had
hired the location for a Los Angeles film company and everyone had enthused about the place and used it several times. But that had been ten years earlier, before the damp had bloomed on some of the paintings, the dust turned sticky on the silver. Now the glamour was tarnished, ravaged by age and lack of funds.

‘Why don't you sell up?'

Rising to his feet, Gaspare flicked off the light again, pitching them both back into candlelight.

‘Sell it? Who'd buy?'

‘Kensington's a prime location. This place could be worth a fortune.'

‘Maybe I want to die here. Or maybe I should leave it to you? You're the closest I have to a family.'

He was being deliberately provoking: Nino's affection was not reliant on any inheritance.

‘So why don't you sell some of your stuff?'

‘
My stuff
,' Gaspare replied crisply, ‘is important to me. I know every piece, and what it's worth.'

‘Then let me pay the electricity bill—'

‘You're broke, Nino. You know that, and I know that. Anyway, what's with all the electricity? I don't need to have the place lit up like a supermarket! I don't need to see it to know it's beautiful.'

Thoughtful, Nino studied the dealer. What he said was true: virtually all of Nino Bergstrom's money
had
gone. Not that he had ever saved that much in the first place. His life in Los Angeles, on the periphery of the movie business, had been well paid and Nino had spent extravagantly, expecting the largesse to continue. Hired to find film locations round the world, he had travelled from Australia to Sri Lanka, London to Tripoli, Hong Kong to Africa. His ease with people, and his skill at spotting unique locations, kept him in constant work. And the money rolled in. So did the parties – and the opportunities.

A brief, unhappy marriage had dented Nino's confidence, but an attractive man working in the film industry was never likely to be lonely for long. The clichés of glamour – sex, top-range cars and clothes bought from Rodeo Drive – became commonplace. It was difficult to appreciate plenty when it was readily available. And in the maelstrom of success prescience was for fools. Just as tomorrow was for the old.

And then Nino collapsed.

He had been scouting in London, on the Isle of Dogs, and a pain had gone off in his head like a car backfiring. Like a pistol shot. Like a window shattered by the impact of an extreme and violent blow. In the nanosecond the sound reverberated in his head Nino had stared ahead, looking for the source of the noise, then felt the muscles of his neck tighten with an involuntary spasm, his forehead engulfed by lacerating heat, his brain punctured and peeled by a
dozen nails driven into his skull. His hands flew upwards, trying to protect his head, to hold together the breaking, bleeding mass.

He remembered falling … but nothing else, until he woke up in hospital and Gaspare Reni was sitting by his bed …

The memory was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing in the gallery below.

Surprised, Gaspare glanced over at his companion, his expression questioning. They had few visitors in the day, none at night.

‘Who the hell's that?' he said, moving over to the intercom, his voice brusque as he spoke. ‘Who's there?'

In the street outside, Seraphina paused, momentarily taken aback. ‘Mr Reni? It's Seraphina Morgan.' Knowing that her married name would mean nothing to him, she added, ‘I used to be Seraphina di Fattori—'

‘Di Fattori?'

‘You knew my parents in Venice.'

Smiling, Gaspare buzzed her in, moving out into the hallway to greet her. Under the sullen gaze of a low-wattage light she seemed surprisingly young, holding a package tightly in her arms. Unused to the dim candlelight, Seraphina allowed herself to be guided into the sitting room and led over to a round table, Gaspare reluctantly turning on the chandelier suspended above them.

As it blazed into life, Seraphina blinked, laying her package down and turning to the dealer.

‘So you remember me?'

He nodded, studying her. ‘I do. You were always pretty.'

‘You were always charming,' she countered, her Italian accent pronounced. ‘My mother used to say you could flatter a saint into an indiscretion.'

‘How is she?'

‘Older, but well enough … My father had a stroke. He's making progress, but it's slow.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' Gaspare said, his tone genuine. ‘Give them my regards and tell them I think of them often. And how are you?'

‘Married. To an American. I came to London to do some research on gene therapy—'

‘A scientist in the family?'

‘Not all of us are cultured,' she said in a mocking tone.

Gaspare gestured for Nino to approach. The introduction was light-hearted. ‘This is my closest friend, my borrowed son, Nino Bergstrom.' He grimaced. ‘Italian mother, Swedish father, hence the name. What can you do? Nino's a location finder—'

‘A what?'

‘I find locations for movies. Or rather I
used
to.' Uncomfortable, Nino moved the conversation away from himself and gestured to the package on the table. ‘What's that?'

‘A painting—'

‘
A painting?
' Gaspare echoed, curious.