Isle of the Dead (9 page)

 

Venice, 1555

Angelico Vespucci is leaving now. Look, there he goes. And here runs Aretino, off to meet his friend. They do much business. The bulk of him seems all the more coarse for Vespucci's elegance, his bear's arm slipped proprietorially through the merchant's. I imagine the friendship will cost both of them more than either can afford. Certainly Titian will suffer. I know that, but it is beyond me to intervene. I will, in time, but for now I watch, compelled to wait on tragedy.

We are deep in winter. The water is grey as a merle, the lamps at the edge of the quay flickering nervously in the wind. From the Jewish Quarter comes the muffled sound of singing, then the echo of someone running. In these bitter days and nights there are always running feet. They say the Devil has his workers out; that the wooden piles which help keep Venice above the water are shaken nightly by the kicking of their cloven hooves. They say the aborted foetuses of a thousand courtesans are come back as vicious water sprites.

It may be true. We live in a city where men like Aretino and Vespucci reign like potentates. Where a man might kill and mutilate
his wife and suffer nothing more than stares. And among the vulgar whispers there is always one question: where does Vespucci keep his precious hide? His own Bartholomew? Where does he lock away the skin that once he stroked and kissed? Is it dried out like the meat in the summer? Is it laid out, stiff and macabre, on what was once their marriage bed? Does he look at what once covered his dead wife and witch her back in his dreams?

Jerking awake in her chair, Jean stood up as Sally walked in. She was wavering on her feet, obviously drunk, her skirt creased, her make-up worn off. Once a month Jean babysat for Sally Egan's father, giving her a chance to go out. It was usually a Friday, and usually she came back slightly the worse for wear. But this Friday Sally was drunk, unable to focus, and Jean was out of patience.

‘It's half past one in the morning!'

‘Sssh!' Sally hushed her. ‘You'll wake Dad up.'

‘Fat lot you care about your father or you wouldn't be making all this noise coming in at this time!' Jean retorted. ‘You said you'd be back at midnight. I had to ring my husband twice to let him know what was going on. It's not fair.'

Waving her hand impatiently, Sally slumped into a chair, her legs splayed out in front of her. Of course Eddie Gilmore hadn't rung. Of course not. She shouldn't have expected it. She'd been a mug, sleeping with him and thinking he gave a shit. And then she'd seen him in the pub and he'd blanked her.
Blanked her.
Christ, she hadn't known where to look …
And now here was Jean, moaning about having to call her husband. At least she
had
a bloody husband. At least she had someone who gave a fuck about where she was.

‘You promised—'

‘Oh, shut up!' Sally snapped, the booze making her aggressive, unlike herself. ‘It's only once—'

‘It's not once,' Jean countered. ‘It's three times now. Three times I've had to wait for you to roll home. And always drunk.'

‘
I'm not drunk!
' she hissed, running her hands through her matted hair. ‘I just need to get out and have some fun. Christ, I'm entitled to that, aren't I?' Her voice turned into a wail, as she became increasingly maudlin. ‘It's all the life I get. And some fucking life it is!'

Miserable, she rested her head on the arm of the chair. Jean sat down on the sofa beside her. She cared for Sally, always had, knowing the pressure she was under. But lately she was getting worried. It wasn't just the drinking – Sally wasn't taking the same care of her appearance and her usual good nature was foundering. It wasn't unusual – the strain of looking after a parent with Alzheimer's was hard for anyone. Especially alone.

But seeing her drunk again Jean's sympathy was becoming exhausted, anxiety getting the upper hand.

‘You should look after yourself more.'

‘Hah!'

‘Walking home in this state. Why didn't you take a taxi?'

‘They cost money!' Sally snapped, attempting to pull off
her jacket and giving up. Slumping back in the seat, she tried to focus on the woman in front of her. ‘You don't know what it's like, living like this. I love my dad, but … You don't know what it's like.'

‘You're drinking too much, love,' Jean said gently. ‘That never helps anyone.'

‘I only drink when I go out! God Almighty, maybe I should never go out again, sit in with my father day and night and accept the fact that I'll die single. Some dried-out old cow without a family of her own.' She leaned towards the other woman drunkenly. ‘Would you like that, Jean? Is that how you see me ending up?'

‘I'm not arguing with you—'

‘
You are!
' Sally snapped back, staggering to her feet and fighting to keep her balance. ‘You're like everyone else, trying to stop me having any fun. Well, I need a man, and I need sex, and I need it
however
I get it. Understand?'

Embarrassed, Jean walked to the door.

‘I'll talk to you tomorrow, when you've sobered up,' she said firmly. ‘Your father's asleep, so you don't have to worry about him—'

‘
Worry about him!
'

‘Get some coffee down you – you can't do anything the state you're in,' Jean replied, her tone disgusted. ‘What if your dad wakes up and needs some help?'

‘
What about me?
' Sally roared. ‘Who worries about me?' Drunkenly she pushed Jean towards the door, shoving her out of the house. ‘
Go on, get out!
Get out! This is my house! I don't need you, I don't need anyone!'

‘Sally—'

‘Get out!' she repeated, slamming the door in Jean's face.

Furious, Jean walked to the end of the road and rang her husband on her mobile, waiting in the cold for him to pick her up. When he arrived three minutes later, Jean got into the car and told him – word for word – what had happened. And she said that she would never work for Sally Egan again.

And while they drove past the green and away from the Egan house, while Sally fell on to her bed and slid into a stupor, while poor Mr Egan dozed in his sedated sleep … someone watched the house. The same someone who had been watching it for days. The someone who was now crossing the green and climbing over the fence, trying the back door.

Sally Egan was right about one thing. She died single. She died childless. And she died that night.

Gian Francesco Leoni, writing to Alessandro Farnese

St Bartholomew's Hospital, London

Running as fast as he could, Nino hurried across the road and entered the hospital. At Reception he was told that Mr Gaspare Reni had been admitted the previous night and that his condition was now stable. Relieved, Nino made his way up the back stairs to the fourth floor, moving on to the ward and spotting Gaspare.

The old dealer was lying on his back asleep, a bruise the size of a fist on his left temple.

‘Excuse me, sir,' a nurse said, approaching Nino, ‘you'll have to wait until visiting time.'

Ignoring the comment, Nino turned to her. ‘How is he?'

‘Who are you?'

‘His son,' Nino lied. ‘How is he?'

‘Doing well. He had a lucky escape,' she replied. ‘Your father had a bad fall – it could have been much more serious.'

So he wasn't the only one who was lying, Nino thought. Obviously Gaspare had given a sanitised version of events
to the hospital, one that had no bearing on what he had told Nino over the phone.

Walking closer to the dealer's bedside, Nino stared at the old man. ‘Is he going to be all right?'

‘You'll have to ask the doctor—'

‘Oh, for God's sake!' Nino snapped. ‘Just tell me.'

‘Your father should recover fully.'

Leaving them alone, the nurse walked off and Nino sat down beside Gaspare's bed. He ached to touch him but was afraid of waking the old man, and so he waited in silence, his hand lying half an inch from Gaspare's. Seeing him so vulnerable, Nino felt pity and an affection for his surrogate parent. When he had been ill, Gaspare had cared for him. Now it was Nino's turn.

‘You look tired.'

Surprised, Nino saw that the old man's eyes had opened and he was looking directly at him.

‘You told the hospital you had a fall—'

‘Better that way,' Gaspare replied, smiling at his visitor. ‘Thanks for coming back to London so quickly.'

‘What the hell were you doing?'

‘I thought I'd won,' Gaspare said wryly. ‘I had an intruder and I went for him. I should have hit him harder. The poker only stunned him and he took it off me – and laid me out instead.' Touching the bruise on his face, he tried to shrug. ‘I couldn't stop him.'

‘Who was it?'

‘I dunno. A man threatened me, then broke into the gallery.' There was a long pause. ‘He got the Titian.'

‘So what?' Nino said bluntly. ‘He didn't get you. Why didn't you make a run for it? You should have got out of there.'

‘
He got the painting!
' Gaspare repeated heatedly. ‘That was the last thing I wanted to happen. I never wanted that picture out of my hands.' Wincing, he touched his temple. ‘Seraphina was right – I should have destroyed it. I'll never forgive myself for that. What made me think I could protect it? Or keep it hidden? I should have burnt it.'

Trying to calm him, Nino took his hand. ‘Forget it. It's gone. All that matters is that you're going to be OK.'

He nodded, unconvinced. ‘What happened in Venice?'

‘We can talk about that when you're better—'

‘Dear God, Nino, I'm not a child! Tell me what happened. Did you find anything out?'

‘I spoke to Tom Morgan, Seraphina's husband.'

‘And? What was he like?'

‘Jumpy. But then any man would be after what had happened. He said they'd been very happy. He said …' Nino paused, then went on, ‘Seraphina was pregnant when she died.'

Gaspare closed his eyes for an instant, then reopened them, staring at the ceiling. Nino could see he was fighting back tears.

‘D'you think he had anything to do with her death?'

‘Honestly? I'm not sure. But I doubt it. He didn't seem very stable, but a killer? I wouldn't think so.' Nino paused,
thinking back. ‘And he didn't know about the painting. Or at least he wasn't about to admit it if he did.'

‘So it was a wasted trip?'

‘Not entirely. Tom Morgan did say something that stuck in my mind. Apparently Seraphina had insisted that they move from their previous apartment. When I asked why, he told me that a woman had been killed there a long time ago. She was called Claudia Moroni.'

Gaspare shrugged. ‘The name means nothing to me.'

Pulling out a notebook, Nino balanced it on his knee and began to read. ‘I went to look up the records and finally discovered that the house had been owned by her husband – Ludovico Moroni – back in the 1550s. It took some doing, but I then found out that Claudia Moroni had been killed and mutilated … It happened weeks after Larissa Vespucci had been murdered. You remember what you told me?'

Gaspare took in a slow breath. ‘That four murders happened in the winter of 1555 to 1556, during the time that Titian was painting that bloody portrait. Did you find out who the other two victims were?'

‘No. After that, I hit a brick wall. Suddenly no one wanted to talk to me, or even show me any old records.' He smiled grimly. ‘It could just be that they didn't want some nosy foreigner poking around, but it seemed strange. Then I heard what had happened to you, and as I was leaving Venice I got message from a man called Johnny Ravenscourt. He said he'd like to talk to me.'

‘About what?'

‘I don't know yet. I'll call him later.' Nino leaned back in his chair. ‘Shouldn't you rest?'

‘I
am
tired,' Gaspare admitted, closing his eyes. ‘Perhaps I'll doze for a few minutes.'

When the dealer had fallen asleep, Nino left the ward and moved into the corridor outside, where he asked to see the doctor. On being told that he would have to wait, he sat down and opened the evening paper someone had left on the seat next to him. On the front page was the headline:

CARE WORKER SKINNED

He stared at the words, rereading them, certain he was mistaken. But the article made it clear :

It could have been any of a dozen murders, had it not been for the mention of the victim being skinned. Nino stared at the paper. Seraphina in Venice, Sally Egan in London. Two women killed in the same way, in the same week, after the Vespucci portrait had surfaced … There must be a connection, he thought, but what was it? What
could
the two women have in common?

Disturbed, he glanced down the corridor. The afternoon was failing, the great white orbs over his head giving off a sickly light. Finally, unable to wait another second, Nino moved out of the hospital into the car park. Hurriedly, he punched in Johnny Ravenscourt's mobile number. A moment later, a high-pitched voice came on the line.

‘Hello?'

‘Johnny Ravenscourt? This is Nino Bergstrom—'

‘Oh, good, you called. Can we talk? I think we should, I really think we should. I heard that you'd been asking about The Skin Hunter, Angelico Vespucci. Well, I'm a criminolo-gist writing a book about serial killers.' He laughed. ‘I know what you're thinking – who isn't writing about serial killers? I should have got on with it a long time ago. I've been writing it for years. But you see, my book's about
old
serial killers. You know, not Ted Bundy and the like—'