Isle of the Dead (29 page)

‘Well, I don't speak Italian,' Dewick replied, laughing, ‘and then I passed on what he told me to her.
Susan Coates!
That was her name. I knew I'd remember it.'

Nino made a mental note. ‘What happened to her?'

‘She was discharged and I haven't heard from her since. She was depressed, but you felt she could find her way round it. I think she had a good chance to get well, but who knows? You can never tell, you just hope for them.'

‘And what about Vespucci?'

He stared at Nino, baffled. ‘Who?'

‘Angelico Vespucci, The Skin Hunter, the man you were researching for her. What d'you remember about him?'

‘You are joking? I don't remember a bit of it. He was some nutter in the past, but it goes in one ear and out the other. I've got enough to cope with – I don't need to fill my head with any more crazy stuff.'

Disappointed, Nino turned to go, but Dewick called him back. ‘You should have spoken to the volunteer—'

‘What?'

‘Now, he was a weirdo, that one,' Dewick continued. ‘He
and Susan got very thick, and he cut me out – said he'd help her with her writing. He was in her room day in, day out. I told the Sister about it. Didn't like the guy—'

‘Can you remember what he was called?

‘Eddie Ketch.'

‘D'you know where he is now?'

Dewick shook his head. ‘He was sacked, chucked out for behaving in “an unsuitable manner” with the female patients.'

Nino could feel his heart rate pick up. ‘Would Personnel have a record?'

‘I doubt it,' Dewick replied, almost apologetically. ‘Ketch was a volunteer, like I said. They can be a bit half-hearted about checking up on volunteers – or they used to be. It was only when he starting acting odd that they chucked him out. Ketch might not even be his real name.'

Certain he was on to something, Nino pressed him. ‘Why would you say that?'

‘Because there was something funny about Ketch. I've got a bit of a sixth sense for it. And he was odd, unemotional. Not like any other volunteer I've ever met. He could pretend, could Ketch, but he didn't feel anything. I could see it in the way he talked to the patients. He was listening, but not caring. I asked him why he volunteered once and he said that he was “between careers”. Stupid prick.
Between careers
 – what kind of a comment was that?'

‘What did he look like?'

‘Late twenties. He'd be thirty-one, thirty-two now. Slim, good-looking in a whey-faced way. Very well-spoken, I remember that – he sounded posh.'

‘Did he talk about his family, friends?'

‘Nothing,' Dewick replied, shaking his head. ‘He came here like a lost soul, but it was like he found something.'

‘In the patients?'

‘No, in what Susan Coates was working on. Some Italian killer. I don't know much about it, but Ketch was fascinated, asking her all sorts of questions. I thought it was just the usual – you know, people like murders and stuff, but Ketch was taking it seriously. Like he was going to give a bloody talk. Not that it was new to him—'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘It was obvious he'd heard about the killer before – he said so. He used to swap stories with Susan Coates. She knew more than he did and he drew her out. It was like she wanted to please him.' Dewick paused, thinking back. ‘Strange thing was that women liked him, I remember that. It was unusual, you see – vulnerable female patients can be jumpy around men, but all the women liked Ketch. The men didn't – you'd be hard put to find any man with a good word to say for him, but women – they took to him, trusted him, which surprised me because frankly I wouldn't have trusted that fucker as far as I could have thrown him.'

Personnel had the file on Susan Coates, but were unable to tell Nino anything about her whereabouts. It was illegal to give out patient information, the woman said. Perhaps you should talk to her doctor? But the doctor was even less forthcoming. As Nino walked past Personnel Reception again he caught the eye of the clerk. Aware that he had hit a brick
wall, she said nothing, but lifted Susan Coates' file up quickly to show him the word DECEASED printed across it.

‘Thanks,' he mouthed, walking over. Dropping his voice so that he wouldn't be overheard, he said, ‘You don't remember a volunteer called Eddie Ketch, do you? Good-looking, well-spoken—'

‘He was fired,' she whispered back, looking around to check no one was listening. ‘What about him?'

‘D'you know where he is now?'

‘No … But hang on a minute,' she said, moving into the storage backroom and returning with an old photograph. It was a picture of a group of people sitting outside a pub, obviously hospital staff. Jabbing her finger on the left-hand side, she glanced at Nino. ‘That's Eddie Ketch.'

Ketch was in the background, the only person not holding a glass. He was standing full on to the camera, his expression composed, emotionless … Smiling gratefully, Nino took the photograph and walked out.

He had his man. He knew it, could feel it: some shudder of recognition. This was the killer. Eddie Ketch – or whatever he was called – knew about The Skin Hunter. Had been fascinated, had grown close to Susan Coates, even became intimate with his tutor. And women liked Ketch, they trusted him. He was a man women would relax with. A man women would find attractive. A man who could be anything for anyone. Composed enough to calculate. Composed enough to kill.

He had murdered three women so far. Three down, one to go. And Nino had no idea who, or where, she was.

22 December

Snow seemed to be falling around most of the northern half of the world. It stopped the traffic on the A1 and M5, it grounded the planes at Heathrow and Kennedy Airport, and stamped its feet over a million suburban homes in France. In Venice the fog returned, and the snow spread further afield, trailing continents in its smothering grip. Soon the city of Tokyo winced under ice showers. From the side of buildings icicles dangled like malignant Christmas decorations, the water from burst pipes freezing in mid-air, and in the quiet back room of a flat in London a man sat in front of a computer screen.

He had made his choice.

Picked his last victim.

Only nine days to go before he would kill her.

The thought intoxicated him, made him wonder if Angelico Vespucci had felt the same sense of expectation and arousal. If he had also planned the murder ahead of time. Chosen
di Fattori and then waited for the inevitable conclusion. Did Vespucci revel in watching his victim live out her last days, knowing that he would be the one to end her life? Did he see fear in her eyes, or mock her ignorance?

He didn't know, but dismissed the rumours of Vespucci's madness. The Italian had been inspired, not insane. He did wonder about the skins though, had thought about them a great deal, because he loved the skins he had hunted. Surely Vespucci wouldn't have destroyed his own collection? Surely the hides were still out there somewhere? Hidden, as poignant as the desiccated mummies from the past. Perhaps they had been wrapped in cloth? Or placed in metal vessels? Maybe secreted under floorboards, maybe between bookshelves? Or in some chilly Italian vault no living person visited? Maybe.

But they were somewhere.

It was the only loose end, and having no guidance from Vespucci on the matter he didn't know what to do with
his
skins. He had followed the Venetian faithfully, but after every murder he was left with the question of what to do with the hide. Where to hide the trophy.

Getting to his feet, he walked over to the wardrobe and opened the doors, gazing in at the portrait of The Skin Hunter. His head tilted to one side, his thoughts sliding. When the last murder was completed, he would decide what to do with the painting
and
the skins. It would be
his
choice,
his
decision – something in which Vespucci would have no part. The realisation thrilled him, left him short of breath.
Perhaps he would – in the final analysis – outdo The Skin Hunter? Improve on his acts, even embellish them?

The thought was like cream on his tongue.

Moving back to the computer, he entered the chat room of the Vespucci website, expecting to find an entry from Jobo Kido. Of course there was one; the Japanese dealer was practically salivating at the thought of getting the Titian. He moved down the other entries, ignoring another approach from Johnny Ravenscourt, and fixing on the message from Nino Bergstrom.

He had always known who the white-haired man was; it had simply amused him to push Jobo Kido, to discover just how far he would go to get the portrait. Apparently Kido would betray anyone. Which was just what he had expected.

Although he had no intention of replying to Nino Bergstrom, he was interested to see a new message from him. But a flutter of rage went through him as he read it.

He was incensed. Surely this Bergstrom man couldn't think
he
was going to take credit for the murders? Bergstrom was a joke, a Hollywood lapdog. What the hell would he know, or care, about Angelico Vespucci?

The man paused, staring at the words on the screen, suddenly realising that he was being played. Bergstrom wanted to get him to confess.

Clever, but not clever enough …

Slowly, he typed his reply.

The man jumped, startled by the words.

There was a pause before the man replied.

The man paused on the end of the connection, smiling, then typed:

Venice

It had been playing on Tom Morgan's mind how much Johnny Ravenscourt had wanted the painting from the old flat. For once sober as a magistrate, Tom realised that he might have missed a trick, and that the portrait had been worth more than he had at first thought. Admittedly, he had helped himself to a couple of thousand out of Ravenscourt's wallet, but the fat bastard hadn't protested, had even believed himself – unless Tom was imagining it – to have got off lightly.

Having sold the old flat, and now settled in the rented apartment he had shared with Seraphina, Tom had relaxed into a state that only people with money in the bank can enjoy. Able to indulge himself, he spent a couple of days in a fug of highest quality marijuana and drank several bottles of champagne, but his thoughts kept turning to Ravenscourt and he wondered what Seraphina would have done.

If only their plan had worked. They would have been
millionaires. Not just comfortable, fucking cushy … The high-ceilinged apartment was cold and Tom shivered and turned up the heating, the pipes juddering as it stirred into life. His life had not turned out the way he had anticipated; his existence had improved with the money made from the property sale, but his lack of interest at work guaranteed another plunge in profits.