Isle of the Dead (34 page)

Nino didn't believe him. Someone had been there. Someone Harold knew and feared.

‘Was it a member of your family?'

‘They've gone …'

‘You said you'd sent the staff home for Christmas,' Nino persisted. ‘Did one of them come back? Did they try and rob you?' He shook the man urgently. ‘Wake up! I need your help – you let them in. There was no break-in, so you knew them. You opened the door to them, so you must have trusted them. If not now, once.
Who was it?
' He jerked Harold upright, holding him by the lapels of his jacket. ‘Look at me! Concentrate. Tell me the names of your staff.'

‘Let me sleep!'

‘
Tell me their names!
'

‘Let me sleep!'

‘You can sleep after you've told me.'

Harold's eyes tried to focus, but failed, his voice a mumble. ‘Mr and Mrs Harrison, the cook … the gardener, Len … Len Owen … All been with me for years … All bloody old, on their last legs.'

‘Anyone else?'

‘Edward.'

‘Edward? Who's Edward?'

His head was rolling, his voice blurred.

‘Edward Hillstone. My assistant …'

Letting go of him, Nino stepped back. The memory returned, sharp and clear. When he had first come to Court-ford Hall, Harold had wanted him to make an appointment
with his assistant
. And that assistant had been Edward Hillstone. A diffident young man in the background.
Edward Hillstone. Eddie Hillstone. Eddie Ketch … Dear God, Nino thought, was
he
the killer? Vespucci's impersonator? Had he found him? If so, Hillstone would have been ideally placed. The Greyly family had a connection with Angelico Vespucci: an ancestor murdered by the Venetian. At Court-ford Hall the killer would have access to the library, would be able to read the books on Vespucci and hide his own notes where no one would find them. Harold Greyly wasn't interested in the collection – he would have left Hillstone to his own devices, left him to his research and plotting, to his immersion in the legend of The Skin Hunter.

Moving fast, Nino left the room, making for the upper floors. He found the master bedroom, guest rooms and bathrooms, then followed a narrow corridor which led to the servants' quarters in another wing. He was running, only pausing when he reached a door on the third floor. The only one locked. Kicking at the handle, he broke the lock and entered.

The bedroom was cramped and extended a long way, half of its floor space under the sloping eaves. All the available wall surface was covered with bookshelves and a copy of the Vespucci painting loomed above the narrow bed.

The room was Spartan, neat, without character apart from the books and portrait. In the wardrobe were a few pairs of jeans and some T-shirts, a couple of fleeces neatly folded. On the bedside table was a copy of
The Book Collector
and an alarm clock set to eight a.m. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing unlike a thousand other bedrooms occupied by single men.

Frowning, Nino glanced around, opening some of the books and shaking them to see if there were any loose pages. Nothing. He continued his search, looking behind the books and under the shelves. Again, nothing. Wondering if he was suspecting the wrong man, he turned back to the wardrobe and opened it again. A long mirror on the back of the door caught his attention, a tiny edge of paper poking out at the corner. Pulling the mirror off the door, Nino stared at the collage in front of him.

The photographs told him he was on to the right man. There were some of Edward Hillstone, others of a young woman – a slim woman, dressed casually. But in every one her face had been blacked out with a felt-tipped pen. He thought of Patrick Dewick's message. Was
this
the woman who had broken the killer's heart? Or was this the next victim? Was this Rachel?

One thing was certain: Edward Hillstone had picked his lair with skill. Courtford Hall was the perfect place from which to operate. It was remote, with a pompous employer unlikely to fraternise with the staff. Hillstone would have been a faultless employee – quiet, efficient, determined not to draw attention to himself. And all the time he was working as Harold Greyly's assistant, he would have had access to the prodigious and arcane library.

Had Hillstone already known about Claudia Moroni when he first came to Courtford Hall? Or did he find out later, when his fascination with Vespucci grew? For an experienced researcher, it wouldn't have been difficult to discover that
Claudia Moroni had once been a member of the Greyly family. And in researching Claudia, Edward would have researched the three other victims. Stoking up his obsession, probably enjoying the added frisson of living in a family who had experienced The Skin Hunter's deviation first hand.

Nino could feel his heart pulsing as he flung back the mattress on the bed, hoping to find another selection of photographs. But that would have been too obvious for Hillstone. Hurriedly, he looked around, then tapped the floorboards. Nothing loose. He walked to the window, pulled back the shutters – but there was nothing to be found. There were more photographs, Nino knew it – but where? Then another idea came to him and he moved over to the door. It had been repanelled and he levered apart the space between the original and the façade.
The photographs fell at his feet
. Some were of Venice, horribly familiar – the exact place where the body of Seraphina had been discovered. Other prints were of a woman he recognised as Sally Egan. Some had been taken through her kitchen window, others were snaps of her walking home, a solitary figure under the dismal street light. And then there were the photographs of her skinned body.

He had taken the shots from all angles, her flayed corpse laid out on a plastic sheet, her skin placed neatly beside her like a lover. Repelled, Nino hurried through the other photographs, hesitating when he came to a shot of the airport in Tokyo and another image, of Harriet Forbes, sitting alone
at a café window. The last prints were of Greenfield's Hospital, where Eddie Ketch had worked. Only it wasn't Eddie Ketch any more, it was Edward Hillstone.

Moving over to the desk, Nino looked for a computer, but there wasn't one. Hillstone wasn't that stupid. He had taken the most incriminating evidence with him. He might have been rushed, but he had made sure he took the laptop and the notes. As for the photographs he had left behind, perhaps he thought he would be able to explain them away. Or maybe he didn't care any more. Maybe being recognised as the killer was what he wanted.

But Nino knew one thing: Edward Hillstone wasn't going to let himself be caught yet. Not until after the last murder. Then he might even give himself up, surrender to the notoriety which would be his by rights. When Rachel was dead – when he had mutiliated and killed her – then he would stop. In the meantime he was deliberately raising the price on his head. Putting up the Titian as a reward for his capture. Tainting the world with his promise of the bloodletting to come.

Of course there was no sign of the Titian portrait. Edward Hillstone would hardly risk having that in his possession. The painting was somewhere else entirely. Glancing around the bedroom, Nino looked at the upheaval he had caused – the overturned bed, the photographs scattered over the floorboards – and then he leaned forward, taking a closer look.

His gaze fixed on one of the pictures in which the face of the young woman had been blacked out. But across her chest was written one word:

JEX

He recognised the name at once. It was the name used by the creator of the Vespucci website. But it wasn't the name that caught Nino's eye, it was the
background
of the photograph. The image was grainy, hard to make out, but he could decipher a few letters on what seemed to be a hoarding. The last word was THEATRE. The first word was half blocked by the woman's figure, only the first syllable visible – HA.

Nino held his breath. He was certain that the woman in the picture was Rachel, and that he was now looking at a part of the name of the very theatre where she worked. HA … THEATRE. How many theatres had names which began with HA? Not that many. Nino's hopes lifted for the first time in days. He had a lead, a chance to find the last victim.

He had a week.

A week to save her.

A week to stop Hillstone.

Ginza, Tokyo, 27 December

That morning there had been a new entry on the website angelicovespucci.1555.com. It read:

As he had done repeatedly over the previous nine days, Jobo Kido entered the chat room of the site, trying vainly to conjure up a reply.

There was no answer, just the taunting message, making the killer's intention clear to everyone who visited the site. And his work wasn't confined to the internet any longer. Newspapers, magazines and television had picked up on the story and were running with it. It made the police look
foolish. There were so many officers in so many different countries, but they couldn't find one man.

The lack of forensic evidence didn't help. The killer had left some DNA, but he wasn't on file in Italy, USA, Japan or the UK. His blood group was O, the most common, and as he had had no sexual relations with the victims, there was no sperm. He had committed the murders, taken the skins, and – to all intents and purposes – disappeared.

In five days the last victim would be dead, and Jobo still hadn't worked out the connection which would ensure that the Titian became his … The killer's silence chided him. Obviously his failure merited no communication. Jobo Kido had had his chance, and failed. He would never hang the Titian in his Rogues' Gallery, never use it make his gory collection respectable. Instead it would go to someone who didn't understand and appreciate it.

His only consolation was the agony of his rivals. Triumph Jones was melting like an ice cream in July, his composure soggy. As for the foul-mouthed Farina Ahmadi, she was sulking in Turkey, cheated out of her victory. She might have twisted and coiled herself into a variety of modes and moods, but all her machinations had got her precisely nowhere.

The killer had the Titian, and apparently he was keeping it … Jobo wondered about that, feeling a momentary shiver of hope. What would happen when the murderer was caught? Who would get the painting then? The answer was unpalatable – it would be impounded as evidence. Locked away with DNA samples and carpet fibres.

Desperate, he turned back to the computer.

To his amazement, he finally got a response.

Edward Hillstone felt so powerful he had an erection. Every newspaper he had seen over the past two days had borne some reference to him. On the television news he was discussed, and there was even a debate about him on
Newsnight
. He'd enjoyed that, even laughed, which wasn't something that came easily to him.

As for Nino Bergstrom, his intervention had been aggravating. Hillstone had been so close to getting everything out of Courtford Hall, the sodden Harold Greyly letting him and then realising that his obedient minion wasn't quite what he had seemed. Hillstone hadn't been threatened by his employer's bluster. Harold Greyly might think of himself as an Army man, but he was an ice soldier. A little heat and he was finished … Of course Hillstone knew that Nino Bergstrom would have found his room, and his belongings. And the photographs. In fact, he was relying on that, laying down a mosaic of clues which would develop into a shrine to his ingenuity.

Hillstone might admire, even worship, Angelico Vespucci,
but as time went by he had found ways to enhance his devotion. Simple imitation wasn't going to be enough – he was developing his own embellishments. Hillstone would never deny that the Italian had been his inspiration, but his appetite for violence had increased along with his desire for recognition. If he stuck to The Skin Hunter's brief, he would merely be regarded as a copycat, always playing second fiddle to the hero.

Hillstone didn't like the idea. Didn't like to think that the last four years of dedication and research would result in Vespucci becoming famous, and him overshadowed. An imitator, nothing more. He wanted his own stab at notoriety, his own turn on the media merry-go-round. The Venetian had prompted him to murder, but Edward Hillstone was expanding its possibilities.

Like what he would do with the skins.

Musing, he wondered if Nino Bergstrom would uncover their hiding place and realised that he had misjudged the man. Dismissed him as an amateur sleuth, easy to dupe. His attention had been too focused on the dealers, in an effort to impress the people he despised. But Bergstrom had surprised him, gradually slotting together the disparate pieces – like Jobo Kido and Harold Greyly. But he would never find the next victim. Nino Bergstrom had only four days left, and the unsuspecting Rachel Pitt was lined up, ready for the kill. It didn't worry him that his cache of photographs might have been found – it would only underline to whoever found it what they were up against.

Hillstone breathed in, imagining the sleek feel of her skin, the intricate peeling away from the red muscle underneath, the sticky blood flowing from all the nicked vessels as he took away her hide. He would do as he had done before, following Vespucci's lead. First he would rinse the skin and hang it over a basin, then let it dry until it was stiffened. Only then would he take it down and knead some flexibility back into it, gently working the skin until it became pliable and easy to fold.