Isle of the Dead (40 page)

The last thing Edward Hillstone expected was the punch to his throat, his head exploding as he struggled for breath. Gasping, he rolled over, crawling on all fours, wrenching at his collar in an effort to breathe. The first kick hit him full in the ribs, sending him backwards, the second landed in his solar plexus, rendering him helpless. Caught by surprise,
winded, struggling for air, Edward Hillstone stared up at his attacker in disbelief.

In the struggle the head towel had come off – and instead of Rachel Pitt standing there, it was Nino Bergstrom.

Securely tied to a chair, Edward Hillstone was still gasping for breath, trying to form his words, spittle drooling from the left side of his mouth. Nino had taken off the towelling robe and was standing in his jeans and shirt, facing the killer. Despite Hillstone's temporary dishevelment, it was obvious why he had been so successful. He was personable, almost refined, a man who could have easily blended into the art world or worked at a country gentleman's retreat.

The knife that he had dropped was now on the sideboard, out of reach, and Nino had phoned the police. Watching him, Edward shook his head to try to clear his thoughts, his hands working against the rope which held him.

‘Where is she?'

‘In my car.'

He nodded, almost amused. ‘It was a wig?'

‘Rachel works in a theatre,' Nino replied. ‘It was easy for her to get hold of a prop. I knew you'd be fooled by the white hair – it's what everyone notices. You were no different.' He checked the rope, winding some more around
Hillstone's neck before finally knotting it at the back of the chair. ‘If you struggle, you'll strangle yourself. If I were you, I'd keep still and plead insanity.'

Reaching into Edward's pocket, he took out his keys and wallet, checking the address on his driver's licence. Then he walked over to the window, waiting. Only minutes later a police car pulled up outside.

And as the police entered by the front, Nino left by the back.

‘Make your way to the gallery now,' Nino said, leaning down to talk to Rachel in the driver's seat. ‘Gaspare's expecting you.'

‘Where are you going?'

He ignored the question, tapping the top of the car. ‘Go on, go now. I'll be over later.'

Waiting until he saw the car disappear down the street, Nino hailed a cab, arriving outside Edward Hillstone's home twenty minutes later. It was one of the Georgian silk merchant's houses, narrow, on four storeys, its paintwork freshly done. Glancing up, Nino looked for any lights turned on, but there were none and he opened the door, moving into an unlit hallway. The walls were painted dark green, the cornice picked out in gold, the effect luxurious and oppressive at the same time.

First he checked the front room, which was empty and well furnished. Next he moved into a snug, again empty, and then went further into a modernised, galley-style kitchen. Everything was lavish, the fridge stocked with food, wine
in a pantry beyond. But what caught Nino's eye was a woman's handbag on the table. He wondered fleetingly if it had belonged to one of Edward Hillstone's victims, but his attention was distracted when he turned and spotted a slatted wooden door beside the main exit.

Opening it, Nino flicked on the light. At once he could see a number of stone steps leading down to a cellar beyond. Wary, he moved downwards, turning on another light as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The space surprised him: it extended to half the length of the house. At the far end was a sink, a table in the centre, and beside it what looked like an operating trolley. But this – unlike the house – was decrepit, the surgical instruments well used and filthy.

Everywhere was the sight of fresh, and dried, blood. Gore caked the scalpels and the plastic sheeting on the floor and across the table. The smell was there too, the stink of blood catching on the back of Nino's throat as he moved further into the private slaughterhouse of Edward Hillstone. Unnerved, he glanced around, spotting a pair of surgical gloves thrown on the floor, used and bloodied; a waste bin piled high with swabs; and patches of torn clothing, stained with faecal matter. Along the sides of the table were grooves like those on a morgue slab, where the blood could run and be filtered into a bucket at the end. And the bucket was still there, the blood congealed, dark red, turning to brown.

Fighting a gag reflex, Nino moved away, catching sight of an imposing, ebonised cupboard. It was like a kitchen
cupboard, but locked, without door handles. Using one of the knives from the table, he levered the lock open. And there, inside an old cupboard lined with floral wallpaper from the 1950s, was Titian's portrait of Angelico Vespucci.

Nino was about to reach for it but stopped when he heard a sound overhead. Flicking off the main light, he hurried to the bottom of the cellar steps and turned off that light too. In the darkness he could hear someone moving around, ascending the stairs from the hallway to the first landing. Pressing himself further under the steps, Nino listened in the dark. Could Edward Hillstone have escaped? And if it wasn't Hillstone,
did he have an accomplice
?

Were there two killers? Did one kill and the other mutilate the bodies? Stepping on to the bottom stair, Nino moved upwards. After every step he took, he paused, listening, before taking another one. He could see a faint glow at the top of the steps coming from under the cellar door. Someone had turned on the hall light … Silently, Nino continued to climb, finally reaching the top of the steps and moving out into the hall.

He glanced towards the front door, but it was still bolted. Then he looked into the kitchen, staring at the table. The handbag had gone.

Gripping the banister rail, Nino mounted the stairs. He still had the knife he had picked up in the cellar, and was holding it in his hand, ready to strike. But no one jumped him. No one came out from any of the upstairs rooms. No one confronted him on the landing. It was only when he
reached the top of the staircase that he saw a light coming from a bedroom at the end of the corridor.

Tightening his grip on the knife, Nino walked towards the room, reaching the door and slamming it backwards against the wall.

He had wanted to startle the intruder.

But she wasn't startled at all.

Seraphina Morgan, formerly Seraphina di Fattori, looked into the mirror and smiled at him.

‘Eddie's been caught,' she said simply. ‘But then you know that, don't you?'

Transfixed, Nino stared at her. ‘You're dead. You were murdered in Venice—'

‘
Was I?
' she replied, swivelling round in her seat, lush and bronzed. ‘I don't think so.'

He remembered her coming to Gaspare's studio with the painting. Remembered the old man's grief at her murder. Remembered his own dedication to find out who had killed her.

‘
What the hell is going on?
'

‘Have you found the Titian?' she asked, ignoring his question. ‘I heard you downstairs, so I suppose you have.'

‘What are you doing?' he asked, approaching her. ‘What are you playing at? Why would you let everyone think you were dead? Why would you
do
that?' He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Were you working with him? With Hillstone?' She said nothing and Nino continued. ‘
You planned all this?
'

‘The night we met you seemed very unsure of yourself. I put that down to your having been so ill. I must say, I never thought it would be you that caught us.' She put down the hairbrush in her hand, smiling. ‘You're trying to work it out, aren't you? Thinking really hard … I can see that in your face.'

‘So why don't you explain it? Or shall we just wait for the police to come and you can talk to them?'

‘But then you'd never find out the truth, because I'd hardly tell them, would I?' she countered. ‘Shall I start? I met Edward Hillstone a few years ago—'

‘On the Italy trip?'

‘Yes!' she said happily. ‘The same trip that Rachel Pitt was on. I know you've found out about that – you must have done. Anyway, where was I? They do this in films, don't they, Mr Bergstrom? Always confess at the end, tell the audience how it was done. You would know, you being in the movie industry—'

‘So how
did
you do it?'

‘Eddie and I had a fling. He wanted me more than I wanted him, and he was obsessed with Angelico Vespucci. It turned him on to think that I was a descendant of one of The Skin Hunter's victims. He's a very good lover, you know. But then men that don't really feel too much always are. They can lose themselves in the moment. A very cold fish, is Eddie. It's what makes him so attractive.'

‘He's a killer.'

‘Not then – that came later, although he was always fantasising
about killing women. He'd talk about it in bed, describe what he'd do, how he'd mutilate them. I thought it was just sex talk …' Her tone was light. ‘We met up quite often and he talked more and more about Vespucci, and then something strange happened.'

‘Go on.'

‘My family are into the arts. Well, you know that from Gaspare Reni. I knew about the art world, and I heard the gossip—'

‘But you're a scientist—'

‘With a wide circle of friends,' she said mockingly. ‘Offspring of the rich and well-connected. They hear things and someone heard about the Titian painting re-emerging. You can't keep that kind of thing a secret in art circles, Mr Bergstrom. It's a business that feeds off gossip.'

‘So?'

‘I heard about Triumph Jones being involved and about his being in London when I was. In fact, I was going to talk to him about the Titian, but when I arrived at his hotel they said he was out. That was bad manners.' Her tone was curt, offended. ‘I knew he was there, so when he left, I followed him. He has a sly reputation, does Mr Jones. His actions had piqued my interest. I followed him in a taxi and he got out on Grosvenor Bridge, with a parcel. About the right shape and size for a painting … You are following all this, aren't you?'

‘Every word.'

‘He was looking around to see that no one was watching. He didn't see me, obviously, and then he threw it into the
river!' She shook her head, incredulous. ‘It came up on the bank pretty quickly and I picked it up … I don't know if he saw me … I looked at it and knew what it was … Then of course I asked myself, what should I do?' She put her head on one side. ‘It was the portrait of Angelico Vespucci. The rumours had been right, but I'd never expected to be the one who found it.'

‘So why did you come to Gaspare Reni's gallery?'

‘I needed somewhere to hide it in London. With someone respectable. I knew the old man would never destroy it, but he
would
look after it until I worked out how to get it home.'

‘But you were so frightened that night,' Nino said, remembering. ‘You were afraid of the painting when Gaspare told you the story about Vespucci.'

‘Just acting,' she replied deftly. ‘I knew the story already. How could I
not
know? I just wanted to make it all look believable. And it did. When I left the gallery I contacted Eddie. He was hardly able to talk he was so excited, and when I told him about the rumour Triumph Jones had set in motion he went frantic. “When the portrait emerges, so will the man.” She smiled, cold eyes. ‘That was his excuse to kill. That's what set Eddie off.'

‘And you didn't stop him?'

‘Why should I? I wanted the Titian. But more than that, I wanted out. Wanted to leave my old life, leave my husband in particular – the lazy American oaf. But how could I? It
was the painting that gave me the idea …
I could die.
Without actually dying.'

Incredulous, Nino stared at her. He was trying to match this Seraphina with the young woman he had first met in the Kensington gallery, but could find no trace of the original.

‘You let everyone think you'd been murdered. Your family, your husband—'

‘Oh, don't waste your pity on Tom,' she countered. ‘When he knew there was a Titian in the mix he was more than willing to go along with it. For a while I even let him think I was going to work with him. And Johnny Ravenscourt. He'd been involved in smuggling so it seemed logical to suggest we could hire him and split the proceeds.'

Nino nodded. ‘I get it … Then you plan your own death, so you don't have to share with anyone. Except Hillstone.'

‘But I didn't mind sharing with Eddie – he was doing most of the work, after all. It was everyone
else
I wanted to get away from.'

‘So the woman who was found murdered, the woman everyone thought was you – who was she?'

Her expression was composed, with an undercurrent of triumph.

‘A suicide. I'm a scientist, I work at the hospital in Venice. I knew someone who'd help me out and turn a blind eye to what was going on in the morgue one night. You can bribe pretty much everyone if you offer them enough. He identified me by the necklace ‘I' was wearing. A sentimental
present he had given to me when we first married.' She shrugged again. ‘We took her body—'

‘And Hillstone mutilated it?'

‘Well, I didn't!' she replied, angered for the first time. ‘Killing was
his
dream, not mine. And besides, I never really believed he'd go through with it. People say all kinds of things—'

‘Not usually about killing people.'

She shrugged.

‘Maybe not.'

‘So then what happened?' Nino pushed her. ‘You'd disappeared, so you were out of the picture.'

‘And Eddie stole the Titian from Gaspare Reni's gallery—'

‘He attacked an old man in the process.'

‘He didn't kill him,' she responded. ‘It could have been worse.'