Isle of the Dead (5 page)

‘So?' she asked, her dark eyes holding Triumph's gaze. ‘
Have
you heard about the Vespucci painting?'

He took a long moment to consider the question, then shook his head. ‘No.'

‘
No?
Is that it?' she asked, dropping her voice again. Her impatience amused him. ‘Don't you want to know what's going on?'

‘I'll hear in time.'

Her expression hardened. ‘Speaking of time, maybe I'm wasting mine,' she snapped, pulling the book he was reading towards her. Curious, she read the title. ‘
Hieronymus Bosch and the Power of Religion.
' She looked back at him. ‘Is there a Bosch up for sale?'

‘I was just reading.'

‘You don't just read, Triumph, you research,' she said firmly, crossing her legs and smiling.

Farina knew the power of her smile; it had a contagious quality to it. People couldn't help smiling back and that always made haggling harder. For them, at least. When she had first come on to the art scene she too had been fooled by Triumph's demeanour, but time had made her canny and she now admired the elongated, elegant man who was watching her with a look of practised composure.

‘I know you're dying to hear, so I'll tell you. The notorious portrait of Angelico Vespucci was found in London two days ago. It was in the River Thames.' She paused, but Triumph said nothing. ‘Gaspare Reni has it …'

Nodding, he let her continue.

‘…
Gaspare Reni!
Of all people,' Farina went on. ‘I mean, he's just not in the top league any more. He's a busted flush, too old, and with no contacts—'

‘Yet he has the painting.'

She leaned towards Triumph, one hand brushing his arm. ‘I rang him, of course. But he denied having it.'

Sighing, Triumph turned back to his book. Farina slammed it shut in front of him. ‘
For God's sake, it's the Titian portrait!
'

‘I know who painted Angelico Vespucci,' Triumph replied, reopening the book and regaining his place, ‘but that painting disappeared long ago. It was destroyed – it must have been, or it would have come on to the market before.' His voice slowed. ‘And why – if it's genuine – would it turn up in London? Did you say in the River … ?'

‘
Thames.
'

‘So it's ruined?'

‘No!' she snapped, then dropped her voice and moved closer to Triumph. ‘It was only in the water for a short time before it was spotted and taken to Gaspare Reni—'

‘And how d'you know this?'

Farina smiled. ‘I know everything that goes on in the art world, Triumph.'

‘Everything?'

She couldn't tell if he was teasing her or mocking her. ‘Implying that you know more?' Her hand gripped the sleeve of his two-thousand-dollar suit. ‘Triumph, we both want this painting.'

‘It's bad luck—'

‘It's Titian,' she snorted. ‘I want it for my husband. The copy was all well and good—'

He cut her off. ‘You have a copy of the Vespucci portrait?'

‘Yes, a good one. I commissioned it a couple of years ago from some painter on their uppers. They copied it from old engravings.' She changed tack. ‘But if I could get the original for Abdul, that would be incredible.'

Expressionless, Triumph studied her. It was rumoured that she had made a pact with her husband, Abdul Alim. He liked privacy, she liked to socialise. He liked family, she liked to live like a single woman. And so, in return for her having given him two sturdy sons, they had come to an agreement. The father would support and raise the children, leaving the mother free to bolster the Alim Art Collection.

‘Does your husband know that the painting's turned up?'

‘No!' she said hurriedly. ‘And I don't want him to. I just want to get it for him and see his face when I take it home. It would do wonders for the collection. Kick a few people in the crotch. It's infamous. Imagine the publicity—'

‘Farina,' Triumph said evenly, ‘why are you telling me about this? You know I'll beat you if I go after it. So why confide? It's foolish.' He looked back at his book. ‘The painting must be a fake.'

‘
It's genuine!
'

‘Have you seen it?' Triumph asked, turning over a page and staring at a coloured illustration.

‘I'm flying to London tonight to try and get a look at it,' Farina replied.

She couldn't understand why Triumph was being so cool. Did he already know about the Titian? God forbid he had already got to Gaspare Reni. Or worse, did Triumph know that the painting was a
fake
? Was he reeling her into a set-up?

‘Are you the only dealer who knows about it?'

She nodded. ‘Apart from you, I think so.'

‘What about Jobo Kido?'

Farina's eyebrows rose. She had already worked out that the Japanese dealer would want the painting. She might long to place it in the Alim Collection, but by rights the portrait of a murderer would suit Kido more. His fascination with killers was legendary. Hadn't he recently bought a painting by the notorious Japanese cannibal Issei Sagawa – a picture few dealers would touch, let alone buy?

‘I don't know if Kido's heard about the Titian,' Farina said at last. ‘But he'll want it, I know that much.'

Triumph looked up from his book.

‘If I remember correctly, Titian painted Angelico Vespucci over a period when four women were murdered and skinned.'

‘Yes, yes!' Farina said impatiently. ‘I know – he was called The Skin Hunter.'

‘As I said before, the painting's bad luck—'

‘Only to the dealers who don't manage to get it,' she replied smartly. ‘There's no bad luck in business. You just have to see an opportunity and grab it. This painting's
notorious. Think of the number of people who'd pay to see it, to revel in
The Skin Hunter
out of ghoulish curiosity. Besides, I don't believe that paintings have any power of their own.' Smiling, she folded her arms. ‘For God's sake, Triumph, this is the twenty-first century. They might have believed all kinds of superstitious crap in Titian's time, but not now.'

‘Maybe.'

‘Does its reputation put you off?'

‘No.'

‘I thought not,' she said crisply. ‘Well, I want it too. But I can't get it without your help.'

Calmly, he smiled. ‘Why would I help a rival?'

‘You know Gaspare Reni; you used to deal with him. The Italian's old school, and he'll talk to you.'

‘Ah, but maybe he won't want to sell the picture.'

‘He's struggling,' she replied, leaning forward in her seat. ‘He's old and he's got that great albatross of a gallery hanging round his neck. It must cost a fortune just to keep it open. Trust me, Gaspare Reni will sell – but not to me. We had a run-in a long time ago, and he won't let anything come to the Alim Collection if he can help it.'

‘I
could
help you,' Triumph said after a prolonged pause, knowing that by assisting her he would be publicising the find and upping its value, ‘but then we'd be competing for the same painting – which means you'd lose.'

‘You can't win every time,' Farina challenged him. ‘No one wins
every
time.'

Sunnyvale Rest Home, London

Finishing her shift, Sally Egan pulled a coat over her uniform and left by the back exit. Her door keys were in her pocket, her handbag slung over her left shoulder. She was thinking, with some pleasure, of the man she had slept with the previous week, Eddie Gilmore. They had been a bit drunk, but he had still managed to perform pretty well and afterwards he hadn't hustled her either. Instead he'd made her a sandwich and together they'd pulled the duvet around them and watched a DVD. For the first time in years she had felt comfortable and treasured. At nine they had made love again, with real affection, but at nine thirty Sally's alarm had gone off and, reluctantly, she had dressed and headed home.

She hadn't heard from him since.

Briskly pushing open the gate, Sally hurried up to the semidetached house and opened the door. Immediately a woman came down the stairs, dressed in a nurse's uniform.

‘Your dad's asleep.'

‘How's he been?' Sally asked, taking off her coat and moving into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The woman followed her.

‘A bit het up this afternoon. Asking for your mother, but he calmed down later.'

Pulling out a chair, Jean sat down. For the previous three years she had acted as a part-time carer for Sally's father, who was approaching the last stages of Alzheimer's. At times she wondered how Sally coped with her full-time job at the care home
and
a senile father. How did an attractive, intelligent woman in her thirties take to being an incessant carer? Didn't she ever get sick of emptying bedpans and listening to interminable stories from the past and long to escape? Weren't there moments of complete despair as she walked from the care home across the green to the semi where her father was fading, hour by hour?

A couple of times over the years Sally had confided that she had wanted to go to art school. She'd been talented, she said – top of her class. But her mother's early death and her father's already erratic behaviour had prevented her from leaving home, and the need for a proper wage had shattered any illusions of pursuing a painting career. So instead of studying Michelangelo, she had started work in a nearby care home for the elderly, shelving Rodin for Radio 4 and incontinence pads.

If there was any bitterness, Sally never showed it. And if Jean had been told about her being a bit the worse for wear
in the local pub, who the hell could blame her? Even the rumours about Sally sleeping around she had shrugged off. You had to find comfort somewhere, Jean had told her husband, and that poor cow's got precious little else going in her life.

‘So he's asleep now?' Sally asked, passing Jean a mug of tea. ‘Maybe he'll sleep through.'

‘You should get someone in at night—'

‘Yeah, right!' Sally laughed. ‘And how do I pay them? I can just about cover your wages.'

‘You need more help.'

Shrugging, Sally sat down. ‘You know something? I was talking to one of the residents at the home and she said that when she was forty she'd had her first child. Forty.' Sally gazed across the kitchen. ‘I mean, that was old then, but she did it. And it made me think that I could still have a shot at it … That's if I ever meet anyone.'

‘You're good-looking—'

‘That's bugger all to do with it. It's not attracting men, it's getting to keep the right one,' Sally replied, changing the subject. ‘Anyway, I was looking at Dad yesterday and he looked pretty good. You know, not so thin. Maybe he's putting on a bit of weight?'

‘I don't think so, love.'

‘Nah, maybe not. I'm just imagining things. I know he can't get better, I'm not kidding myself. I know he's dying.' She sipped her tea. ‘I just wonder sometimes how long. I mean, I love him …'

‘I know that.'

‘… but I wonder how long it'll go on. Because you see, I don't have him. Not my father. I've got someone else who looks like my father. And I don't know who he is, and sometimes, at night, I think about it and wonder if I owe
this
man. You know what I mean? If my father doesn't know me, do I have to know
him
?' She shook her head. ‘I know I do! I know I have to look after my father for as long as it takes. But I can't help thinking that every time he deteriorates, a bit of me does too, and I don't want to be dried out at forty.'

Hurriedly standing, Sally moved over to the washing machine and piled in some dirty clothes. With the light on in the kitchen and the blinds open, she could see her reflection in the window and the image of Jean behind her, and wondered about Eddie Gilmore. About whether he would ever ring.

It never occurred to her that as she studied her reflection in the window someone was also looking in at
her.
Someone who had watched her laughing, getting drunk, larking about in the pub. Someone who had seen her kissing Eddie Gilmore. Someone who had been about when she left home at seven in the early morning darkness. The same someone who had followed her home across the green that night.

That night, and every other night, for the past three days.

Gaspare Reni sat at the table, gazing out into the walled garden of his house. What had served him as an extraordinary home and gallery for over forty years had once been a convent for a silent order of nuns. In among the gloss and activity of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, it had served as a reflective nucleus of a changing world. Wars, the deaths of monarchs and the scandals of empire had passed beyond its gates, while nuns in meditative silence made pleas to Heaven.

Minutes earlier Gaspare had received a phone call from the Countess di Fattori, telling him of the murder of her daughter, Seraphina. He had flinched at the words, thinking of the last sight he had had of her, walking out into the London street, her hand raised, illuminated in the lamplight. Her coat had dried by the time she had left. And she wasn't carrying any parcel. Not any more. She had left the painting with Gaspare.

He had thought that would be enough to save her. He had been wrong.

And now, here was her mother, an old friend of his, trying to make sense out of the insensible. ‘Her body was—'

She spoke quickly, almost as though she thought he could catch her distress.

‘—the skin was taken off her.'

No! thought Gaspare, taking in a breath. No.

‘They skinned her.'

No.

‘I don't know why …' The woman, the mother, paused. Her words came from another place inside her. Raw from the heart. ‘When you saw her, was Seraphina worried about anything?'