Isle of the Dead (39 page)

It read:

Gaspare threw down the paper. Patrick Dewick, the man who had put Nino on to Eddie Ketch, was dead.

Nino was wrong – the killer
did
kill men. He must have realised that Dewick had tipped Nino off and murdered him to prevent him saying any more. Gaspare shivered, unnerved.
If the killer had been watching Rachel Pitt, he must have seen Nino up in the Lakes. Must have known that he was going to try and stop him. And that was the last thing he wanted.

Gaspare glanced over at the clock – twelve thirty already. The morning gone, the afternoon hot on its heels. Only thirty-six hours until the New Year – the first of January that everyone was waiting for … He sat down at the table, watching the traffic outside. Kensington Church Street was busy, the Christmas lights due to come on when the daylight faded, the statue of Christ alone and forgotten in His urban shrine.

Thinking of Seraphina, Gaspare remembered. She was back in his sitting room again, her coat and feet wet from scrabbling in the shingle, handing him the Titian painting. Then later, afraid, asking him to destroy it. And then he remembered the news from Venice, recording her death. She had been the first.

God only knew who would be the last.

The flat was chilly because the heating had been switched off, and although there had been no snow in London it had been raining heavily. At the doorway, Rachel hesitated, Nino walking in before her and looking around. Reassured, she had followed him but now stood, aimless, in the sitting room. Her hands were restless, moving from her face to her hair, her gaze moving round the room as though she hardly knew the place.

‘D'you want me to get the police?'

‘No!' she said shortly. ‘I want you to be here. I trust you. You catch him, OK? You catch him. You can – I know you can. I don't want the police.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘What would they do? Take me to the station and interview me, then let me go … then what? Don't tell me they'll be able to stop the killer. Don't say they'll be able to protect me – they didn't protect the other girls.
You
found me. They didn't.' She started pacing, five steps one way, five steps the other. ‘Even if the police kept me in overnight, he'd still get
me when I came out. And he'd be mad then, because I'd messed up his plan.' Still pacing, her voice was staccato. ‘No, I want to be here. I want
you
to stay with me … When he comes, you can stop him.'

Nino touched her shoulder. For a moment she looked as though she might cry, then rallied.

‘I'm OK,' she reassured him. ‘I'm OK …'

‘Good. I'm going to look round the flat, check the windows and doors. Get to know the place.'

He didn't add that he was worried about the layout. The flat was old and on two floors – ground floor and basement – with a landing in between. A landing with a window. Beginning in the basement, Nino checked that the front door was locked and bolted and saw – to his relief – that the windows were barred. No chance of anyone getting in there.

On the landing Nino checked the window and glanced out into a small communal garden beyond, where the back gate swung in a sulky breeze. Hurrying outside, he locked the gate, then turned, looking
into
the flat. There was a clear view into the sitting room from all sides. The killer would have been able to watch Rachel for some time, would have seen her in the kitchen and also in the sitting room. Had he watched her talking on the phone? Or working on her computer? Nino paused, looking around. Yes, there it was – the computer on a work table under the far window. The killer would have seen Rachel there, her back to him, not knowing she was being hand-picked for a kill.

Thoughtful, Nino returned to the flat, bolting the door after him. The first floor was the next to get his scrutiny – Rachel's bedroom and a guest room opposite. He tried the windows of the guest room, relieved that they had been painted over and were resistant to opening, then walked into the master bedroom. It was untidy, but the windows were closed and locked. Likewise the bathroom. To all intents and purposes – unless the killer had a key – he couldn't get in.

Returning to the kitchen, he found Rachel making tea. In silence, she passed him a mug and a cheese sandwich.

‘Sorry, it was all I had.'

Looks good. Thanks. Aren't you eating?

‘No, no appetite … Are all the doors locked?'

‘Yes.'

‘And the windows?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's going so fast.'

‘What is?'

‘The time.' She glanced at her watch. ‘It's two o'clock now. Before long it will be dark again, day over. Year over … Jesus, what a mess … Will he come tomorrow? Tomorrow's the first … But he could come just after midnight, couldn't he? He could – it would be the first then, wouldn't it?' She bit down on her lip, fighting panic. ‘All those people in Piccadilly Square celebrating, counting down the seconds to the New Year …' She was shaking uncontrollably. ‘
He's going to kill me, isn't he?
'

Nino shook his head.

‘No. He's not going to kill you, Rachel. You're going to have a long, happy life. You're going to see in at least another fifty New Years. And one day, when you're old, you'll tell your grandchildren all about it. They won't believe you, of course, but you'll tell them anyway. It's not the end, Rachel.'

She stared at him intently. ‘You can't be sure of that.'

‘Oh yes I can,' Nino replied. ‘In fact, I've never been so sure of anything in my life.'

The traffic was the one thing Edward Hillstone hadn't made allowances for. For the first hour it had been easy to follow Bergstrom's car. Enjoyable, in fact. The van was anonymous, with nothing to give it away – he could have followed Bergstrom for days without drawing suspicion to himself. But then some idiot had pulled out without signalling, making him swerve on to the hard shoulder. It had taken Edward almost four minutes to get back onto the road, four minutes in which he had lost track of Bergstrom and Rachel Pitt.

He suspected that they were going to Bergstrom's temporary home at the Kensington gallery, or Rachel's flat in Battersea, Bergstrom playing the hero and making it easy for Edward to fall into his trap. He smiled at the idea, at Bergstrom's arrogance. Either place would suit him, Edward thought. Both places were familiar to him. After all, he had stolen the Titian from Gaspare Reni's gallery, and he knew Rachel's flat almost as well as his own. But it still irked him that he had lost contact with them, and he felt a sullen annoyance as he drove the remaining hours alone.

It wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

But then again, everything else had gone so smoothly, it was just a blip. Tonight was the real climax. Let Rachel Pitt think she might have another full day to live. Let her long to see another morning, afternoon and evening. Let her think she had twenty-four hours, another one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes – when, in reality, what she had was a second.

On the last chime of Big Ben, when TV, radio and internet connections everywhere welcomed the New Year, he would kill her.

And after that, he would be famous.

11.20 p.m.

Standing outside Rachel's flat, Edward savoured the murder to come. He would kill her, then take her back to his home in Spitalfields. There he would make an announcement of her death on the website, proclaim his success – The Skin Hunter brought back to life. A 21st-century Vespucci to be celebrated. Anonymous, but triumphant … Edward breathed in to steady himself. After he had killed Rachel Pitt, he would take his time, relish the New Year's Day spent removing her skin from her body. Then he would take photographs – of the flayed Rachel, and the skin of Rachel. Two Rachels for the price of one. The images would be over the internet in seconds, the world seeing what he had achieved. From continent to continent he would be famous. And feared.

It wasn't difficult to image the reactions of the dealers. Jobo Kido would despair, realising he was never going to get the Titian; Farina Ahmadi would burn at being outclassed; and Triumph Jones – not so Triumphant now – would slip
into a guilty old age. Bested. Beaten. All his machinations coming to nothing. And the pompous dealers who had belittled Edward Hillstone in the past would be seen for what they were – fools.

His journey was almost over, Edward thought, looking back. He had been dedicated – no one could deny that. From his first interest in Angelico Vespucci to his growing obsession, he had never veered from his route. Even if it had taken him off-course occasionally. Poor Susan Coates. Clever, but quite mad. It had been worth volunteering at Greenfield's Hospital just to talk to her. What she knew about Vespucci was second to none. Edward had even begun to like her – before he was moved on. And then he remembered Sir Harold Greyly. So rich, so lazy, so full of his own importance that he had jumped at the chance of help.

Put the library in order
, he had demanded, passing it over to the amiable, well-spoken Edward.

Greyly had been stupid too – not like his aunt. Hester Greyly was anything but stupid. She had been Edward's first real deviation. But he had
had
to stop her talking to Nino Bergstrom about Claudia Moroni. The old woman might well have said something which could lead to him. Her death had been inevitable and had succeeded in throwing Bergstrom off his scent – at least for a while. Until Bergstrom had revisited Courtford Hall to talk to Harold Greyly. The squire was out of it by then. Edward's anonymous letter to his wife explaining how their family was going to be exposed in the media had done the trick. The taboo of incest and
the red tops had beached the marriage and, once alone, Harold Greyly turned a hobby into a career. Within a month he was sodden with booze.

Edward leaned against the wall, staring at Rachel's flat. Angelico Vespucci might have had some limited reputation in Venice, but he, Edward Hillstone, would go global.

It was so close now. So very close … When he had finally got back to London, Edward had shaved, taken a shower and changed his clothes, then eaten a light meal, but drunk no wine. After a short sleep, a little music had filled the rest of the time and it was ten p.m. when he finally left Spital-fields in search of Rachel Pitt. He had checked out the Kensington gallery first, but the place had been deserted and in darkness, not even the old man around. When he looked in the window, Edward could see the red light flickering on the alarm. No one was there, which meant that Bergstrom had taken Rachel to her place.

Of course he could have hidden her somewhere else, but Edward didn't think so. Not for a minute. He was getting to know his pursuer now, even getting to admire him a little. And he suspected Nino of having an ego – a desire to win. Having found himself drawn into the whole business by accident, Bergstrom wasn't a man to shy from a challenge. He had been ill, Edward knew – as always, he had done his research. Perhaps Bergstrom was trying to prove something, especially to himself? A man who had been weakened and made vulnerable would want his power back.

Edward Hillstone did not underestimate Nino Bergstrom. Not any more.

Suddenly a light came on and Edward checked the time – 11.44 p.m. It was in the sitting room in the basement of the flat, a small side lamp on the computer table. So Rachel Pitt had thought she was safe, had she? Had locked her doors and windows and drawn her blinds. He knew there were no police in there, but Bergstrom was there, maybe. Likely, in fact.

Smiling, Edward watched as Rachel sat down in front of the computer. She had obviously just bathed – she had a thick bathrobe on and a towel wrapped round her hair, her head and shoulders silhouetted against the queasy glow of the computer screen. Excited, Edward wriggled his fingers, feeling the itch in his palms. There were only a few minutes to go and he was hot with arousal … He leaned forward, peering through the blind. It blocked out some of his view, but he could see Rachel's silhouette, imagine how she would scream when he grabbed her, how the knife would slide into her neck and severe the jugular vein. How the blood would run over his gloves and how she would jerk uncontrollably. They all did that.

In that instant another thought occurred to Edward. Perhaps Bergstrom hadn't told Rachel Pitt that she was a victim. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to scare her. Perhaps he was now hiding somewhere. Waiting for the killer to make his move … Uneasy, Edward looked around. But there was no sign of Bergstrom. And then he spotted something through the wrought iron gate which led to the street –
Bergstrom's car
. It was a little way off, but he recognised it immediately
and could just make out the familiar, unmistakable white head of hair. Bergstrom! Where the hell was he going?

Edward didn't hesitate. Wherever he was going, Nino Bergstrom wasn't in the flat with Rachel Pitt. This was his chance … Noiselessly, he ran down the alleyway between the houses, jumped the gate, and then paused by the back door. Like so many other people, Rachel had hidden a second key in case she locked herself out. It had taken Edward a while to find, but in the end he had discovered it tucked in among the dying plants in the window box. He had then copied it, so she would never know.

It was the copy he slid in the back door now, turning the lock, pushing it slightly ajar. Silently he walked in. He could hear faint music, and see the light from the computer coming through the partly opened door of the sitting room.

His breath caught in his throat as he reached into his pocket and brought out the hunting knife. It felt familiar and heavy in his hand as he gripped it and moved further into the room. For one second he relished the thought of the kill – then he rushed her. He rushed towards the computer and the seated figure, lunging at Rachel, the impact throwing her off the seat and on to the floor.