Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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ALEX CONNOR

New York • London

© 2014 by Alex Connor

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

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Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to Permissions c/o Quercus Publishing Inc., 31 West 57th Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10019, or to [email protected].

e-ISBN 978-1-62365-370-5

Distributed in the United States and Canada by Random House Publisher Services

c/o Random House, 1745 Broadway

New York, NY 10019

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

www.quercus.com

Alex Connor is also known as Alexandra Connor, and has written a number of historical sagas under this name. She is an artist and lives in the UK.

The illustrations within this book are copies of Titian’s paintings, the portrait of Angelico Vespucci the author’s own.

Contents

Book One

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Book Two

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Book Three

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Book Four

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Book Five

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Book Six

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Epilogue

Bibliography

Also Available

TITIAN (SELF PORTRAIT)

PIETRO ARETINO (AFTER A PORTRAIT BY TITIAN)

ANGELICO VESPUCCI – THE SKIN HUNTER (IMAGE BY THE AUTHOR)

BOOK ONE

Thirty feet under the first supporting column of Grosvenor Bridge a savage tangle of birds were fighting, shaken on the shifting surface of the Thames, their beaks dipping and jabbing at each other to get closer to the package which had just been dropped there. Over the previous few minutes they had tried to rip open the plastic covering, but when they finally gained access to the insides they flew off, disappointed. Slowly but determinedly the tide finished off the birds’ work and tugged aside the wrapping to expose the corner of a painting.

Incongruous under a sulky London sky, the painted face looked up as though surprised to find itself shuffled between the bridge supports; the merchant’s vestments lapped by water as the painting headed towards a small launch vehicle. Then, buffeted by another early November wind, it spun on the current and was shunted away. Ten minutes later the portrait washed up on the slimy bank of the Thames where it was spotted by a tourist walking along the Embankment.

It was the first time the portrait of Angelico Vespucci had been seen in public for over four hundred years. As the painting was lifted out of the river, the varnished surface shimmered in the light, the eerie gaze of the sitter unblinking and oddly defiant. No one knew the history of the portrait, or of the man it portrayed.

No one knew that its discovery would result in brutal murder and the identification of a killer who had been active centuries earlier.

Prologue

Venice, 1555

I am afraid of water. Even though I was born with a caul on my head, which the old say is a protection from drowning. No one knows this, for people know little of me. That is my talent – to be invisible. Walking among people as unseen as the monsters under the Lagoon, the grasping weedy fingers lurking under bridges and the echo of drowned men, bleached and bloodless under the sea.

Winter has come quickly to Venice. Too soon, too cold, mists curling about the alleyways and the narrow bridges, figures looming up like ghouls as they go about their day. The atmosphere of the city has changed too. Long, fathomless nights and murky, unwholesome days lure in the city dwellers with the call of the bells from St Mark’s. A darkness more profound than anyone can remember comes down on the city after dusk. Lamps struggle to make an impact, and they say more than fifty dogs have drowned, losing their bearings in the blackness.

Not only dogs are dying. Not long ago I saw a woman dragged up from the Lido, laid out for the passers-by to gawp at. She had been in the water a long while, caught up under one of the bridges, and was unrecognisable: her eyes blind opals, her tongue slimy, thick as a sea slug. Her throat was cut, the skin stripped from her torso and limbs.

At first it was thought that the tides had mutilated her, but later it was discovered that she had been flayed. Rumours began to circulate: the killer had been disturbed before he could finish his work, before he could strip the flesh from her face. People talked of a lunatic, come to the city from abroad. Others suggested it had to be someone with wealth and means, a man with room and time to mutilate a corpse. Still others blamed the whores. But everyone asked themselves the same question: where was the victim’s skin? Where was the flayed hide?

Venice is waiting, dreading but expecting another victim. The courtesans talk of nothing else and stay away from the piazzas at night, while respectable women visit their priests and burn candles in the dying light.

1

London, the present day

Struggling to hold the package under her arm, Seraphina Morgan scrambled up the muddy bank of the Thames and on to the Embankment beyond. There she sat down, propping up the parcel she had just rescued beside her. She could see at once that the painting was old and that the frame was gilded and valuable, which made her wonder why the picture had found itself dumped, so ignominiously, in the Thames. Pulling back the brown wrapping, Seraphina realised that the picture had only been in the water for a little time. There was no damage – none that she could see anyway.

The afternoon was backing off, the sky glowering as Seraphina remembered the dealer, Gaspare Reni. In the past, Reni had been a showy, theatrical character, an Italian travelling extensively and buying copious amounts of Renaissance art for his private collectors. Once based in Venice, he had settled in London and prospered. But age had slowed him down, and as he entered his seventies the younger, more ruthless dealers had usurped him. Gaspare Reni might still have his famous gallery in Kensington – previously a convent – but the money he had once found so easy to accumulate had all but disappeared and his rich lifestyle had become cramped and narrow.

Still staring at the painting, Seraphina made her decision. Tomorrow she would return to Venice and her American husband, Tom Morgan, but before she left London she would repay a favour. Many years earlier Gaspare Reni had bought some paintings from her parents, his intervention preventing the forced sale of their Venetian home. He had paid over the odds for the works, but later, when the dealer’s own luck had stalled, he had refused any help in recompense. And the generosity he had extended so willingly to his friends had remained unpaid.

Until now. Now Seraphina Morgan – previously di Fattori – was hailing a taxi and setting off for Kensington. It was to be an act of kindness.

But instead it would unleash a bloodbath.

2

Huddled in front of the fire, Gaspare Reni held out his hands towards the heat, the room behind him deeply shadowed. A newspaper lay by his feet, and a plate with a half-eaten piece of toast on it. His head, once large and impressive, had shrunk with age, his bull neck as creased as a lace glove. Around the outer corners of his eyes wrinkles spread in semicircles, running towards the hairline like the tributaries of some slow, dun-coloured river.

Beside him sat a man in his thirties.

Nino Bergstrom, Gaspare’s surrogate son. A man who had at one time been dangerously ill and, having no family or friends in London, had recovered in the dealer’s home and been pressed to stay. A bond had grown between them, the usual roles reversed as the old man cared for his younger companion.

Long widowed, Gaspare had been more than willing to offer a temporary haven to a stricken acquaintance. Trading at the gallery had been slow, due to the recession and Gaspare’s age, so his time was often empty, unfilled. Quiet days and perpetual nights had become irksome to the dealer, and it was with no small relief that he welcomed a companion.

‘I was thinking about the time I first came here,’ he said, turning to Nino. ‘I bought the convent off the church – the paperwork! – and then opened it as a gallery. Took me over a year to get it all sorted out, and another six months to get a good enough collection to piss off every other dealer in London. I made a killing in those days – one of the real big hitters. But now … I’ve got old, haven’t I?’

Nino glanced at the dealer. Sepia-toned, a Daguerreotype of a man.

‘All gristle now,’ Gaspare went on, pinching his arm. ‘Gristle and bone.’

Nino shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I’m the one with the white hair.’

It was true. Due to his illness, Nino’s once black hair had lost its colour, and at the age of thirty-eight it was white as a snow goose. The effect was all the more striking against the peppercorn blackness of his eyes and provided a lasting reminder of that terrible time. Now fully restored, he had only to look in the mirror to recall the summer which had changed him. After collapsing on a film set in London, he had found himself under the care of Dr Steven Morrison, the world’s foremost authority on neurological diseases. Morrison had lived up to his reputation, but Nino had faced a lengthy and expensive clamber back to health, which had all but obliterated his savings.

The long dry season of illness had turned a careless adventurer into a thoughtful onlooker. No more California for Nino Bergstrom; no more endless travelling. He was changed, shunted out of his old life and unsure of where to go next. It didn’t help that he had no family and his closest friends were in California, USA. In London, where he had had the malign fortune to fall ill, Nino Bergstrom had no one.

Except for the old dealer, Gaspare Reni. Hearing of Nino’s illness, the Italian had visited him in hospital and offered his home for as long as he needed to convalesce. The gesture had Nino dumbfounded. He had known Gaspare professionally for years, and had grown to like him, but his unconditional support had come as a blessing and a surprise. Too weak to protest, and certainly too frail to take care of himself, Nino had slid behind the protective and shielding walls of the imposing convent gallery. Fed by Gaspare and left to sleep, his recovery limped through the first week, but by the end of the second, Nino Bergstrom had climbed back to life. By the time the month was up, he was restored. Nothing about his build or face gave his illness away; only his hair did that, remaining defiantly white.

‘Why don’t you put the lights on?’

The old man shrugged. ‘Expensive.’

‘And the heating?’

‘You know why,’ he said, exasperated. ‘I’ve told you over and over again. It’s expensive.’

‘And I’ve told you – over and over again – to let me pay rent while I’m here.’

‘Pah!’ Gaspare retorted, waving his hand impatiently. ‘I don’t want money! I like your company. And I like it dark. It’s dramatic.’

‘So’s falling down a flight of stairs,’ Nino replied, getting to his feet and flicking on the light switch.

The room was propelled into sudden view. Looming walls supported their skins of Turkish carpets, and a gaggle of oil paintings towered over the dour Spanish furniture and French commodes. Silverware, stacked piece upon blackened piece, leaned tipsily against blackamoor torchères and vulgar gilded screens. Tooled leather-backed books wheezed under the weight of ormolu clocks and obese cherubs, a suit of Japanese armour attempting a samurai pose by the door.

Looking up, Nino gazed at the painted ceiling, grown more yellow by the day, its caramel-coloured angels hovering above the mouldering room below.

‘Christ, Gaspare, why you don’t sort this mess out? Let me help you.’

‘You’re convalescing.’

‘I’m fit again,’ Nino replied. ‘And anyway, I’ve got to start thinking about going back to work.’

‘Too soon!’

Stiffly, the old man turned in his chair. He had liked having Nino around and was more than a little reluctant to let him leave. The refashioned convent, which had been admired and considered impressive in his younger days, was now too big for a single ageing man. The maintenance was a constant bleed to his wallet and gradually room after room had been cordoned off, space reduced as his years increased.

‘You don’t have to hurry to leave,’ Gaspare went on. ‘You used to like it here. You hired it more than once—’

‘But it wasn’t like this then, was it?’

He had hired the location for a Los Angeles film company and everyone had enthused about the place and used it several times. But that had been ten years earlier, before the damp had bloomed on some of the paintings, the dust turned sticky on the silver. Now the glamour was tarnished, ravaged by age and lack of funds.

‘Why don’t you sell up?’

Rising to his feet, Gaspare flicked off the light again, pitching them both back into candlelight.

‘Sell it? Who’d buy?’

‘Kensington’s a prime location. This place could be worth a fortune.’

‘Maybe I want to die here. Or maybe I should leave it to you? You’re the closest I have to a family.’

He was being deliberately provoking: Nino’s affection was not reliant on any inheritance.

‘So why don’t you sell some of your stuff?’

‘My stuff,’ Gaspare replied crisply, ‘is important to me. I know every piece, and what it’s worth.’

‘Then let me pay the electricity bill—’

‘You’re broke, Nino. You know that, and I know that. Anyway, what’s with all the electricity? I don’t need to have the place lit up like a supermarket! I don’t need to see it to know it’s beautiful.’

Thoughtful, Nino studied the dealer. What he said was true: virtually all of Nino Bergstrom’s money had gone. Not that he had ever saved that much in the first place. His life in Los Angeles, on the periphery of the movie business, had been well paid and Nino had spent extravagantly, expecting the largesse to continue. Hired to find film locations round the world, he had travelled from Australia to Sri Lanka, London to Tripoli, Hong Kong to Africa. His ease with people, and his skill at spotting unique locations, kept him in constant work. And the money rolled in. So did the parties – and the opportunities.

A brief, unhappy marriage had dented Nino’s confidence, but an attractive man working in the film industry was never likely to be lonely for long. The clichés of glamour – sex, top-range cars and clothes bought from Rodeo Drive – became commonplace. It was difficult to appreciate plenty when it was readily available. And in the maelstrom of success prescience was for fools. Just as tomorrow was for the old.

And then Nino collapsed.

He had been scouting in London, on the Isle of Dogs, and a pain had gone off in his head like a car backfiring. Like a pistol shot. Like a window shattered by the impact of an extreme and violent blow. In the nanosecond the sound reverberated in his head Nino had stared ahead, looking for the source of the noise, then felt the muscles of his neck tighten with an involuntary spasm, his forehead engulfed by lacerating heat, his brain punctured and peeled by a dozen nails driven into his skull. His hands flew upwards, trying to protect his head, to hold together the breaking, bleeding mass.

He remembered falling … but nothing else, until he woke up in hospital and Gaspare Reni was sitting by his bed …

The memory was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing in the gallery below.

Surprised, Gaspare glanced over at his companion, his expression questioning. They had few visitors in the day, none at night.

‘Who the hell’s that?’ he said, moving over to the intercom, his voice brusque as he spoke. ‘Who’s there?’

In the street outside, Seraphina paused, momentarily taken aback. ‘Mr Reni? It’s Seraphina Morgan.’ Knowing that her married name would mean nothing to him, she added, ‘I used to be Seraphina di Fattori—’

‘Di Fattori?’

‘You knew my parents in Venice.’

Smiling, Gaspare buzzed her in, moving out into the hallway to greet her. Under the sullen gaze of a low-wattage light she seemed surprisingly young, holding a package tightly in her arms. Unused to the dim candlelight, Seraphina allowed herself to be guided into the sitting room and led over to a round table, Gaspare reluctantly turning on the chandelier suspended above them.

As it blazed into life, Seraphina blinked, laying her package down and turning to the dealer.

‘So you remember me?’

He nodded, studying her. ‘I do. You were always pretty.’

‘You were always charming,’ she countered, her Italian accent pronounced. ‘My mother used to say you could flatter a saint into an indiscretion.’

‘How is she?’

‘Older, but well enough … My father had a stroke. He’s making progress, but it’s slow.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Gaspare said, his tone genuine. ‘Give them my regards and tell them I think of them often. And how are you?’

‘Married. To an American. I came to London to do some research on gene therapy—’

‘A scientist in the family?’

‘Not all of us are cultured,’ she said in a mocking tone.

Gaspare gestured for Nino to approach. The introduction was light-hearted. ‘This is my closest friend, my borrowed son, Nino Bergstrom.’ He grimaced. ‘Italian mother, Swedish father, hence the name. What can you do? Nino’s a location finder—’

‘A what?’

‘I find locations for movies. Or rather I used to.’ Uncomfortable, Nino moved the conversation away from himself and gestured to the package on the table. ‘What’s that?’

‘A painting—’

‘A painting?’ Gaspare echoed, curious.

Smiling, Seraphina looked at each of the men in turn. ‘Can I take off my coat? It’s a bit wet,’ she explained, draping it over the back of a chair and glancing at Gaspare. ‘You see, I’ve been splashing about in the river.’

Amused, Gaspare teased her.

‘I haven’t seen you for years, and that was in Venice. And now you just arrive out of the blue with a picture. A wet picture.’

Intrigued, he unwrapped the package and then caught his breath. What he was looking at was notorious – and priceless.

3

Ginza, Tokyo

For years afterwards Jobo Kido would remember the moment when the call came through. Having just lost out at an auction in New York, he had returned home to a disagreeable wife and a problem with the alarm system at his gallery. An unexpected heatwave had added to his discomfort and, exasperated, he had retired to his office and locked the door. When the phone rang he had been tempted to ignore it, but then snatched it up before his secretary could answer.

The man’s voice that came over the line was elegant, verging on cultured. For a moment Jobo had thought he was English, then realised that the caller was, in fact, an American with a Boston accent.

‘Mr Kido, I have something of interest to tell you.’

The same old line, Jobo thought; always the same few words intended to elicit curiosity and hopefully a sale. Disgruntled, he turned up the air conditioning in the office, his voice impatient.

‘What are you trying to sell me?’

‘I have nothing to sell,’ the man replied coolly. ‘I’m merely passing on information which I think will be of value to you. Are you still interested in adding to your private pieces?’

Hesitating, Jobo thought about his personal collection. The collection which was not shown in the gallery or at his private abode, but housed in an undisclosed location, several miles away. The pieces in this ‘unique’ collection had been acquired over the years from many – and disparate – sources, and while their existence was not a secret it was not generally known outside the art world.

It had begun when he was a child, taken by his school on a trip to London. But the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and even Madame Tussauds had not cast their usual spell and instead Jobo had been fascinated by the exhibits in the Hunterian Museum. His curiosity had been caught by the images collected there. Mementos of cruelty had become mixed in his mind with Japanese legends of the samurai and Ronin. Jobo wasn’t interested in torture so much as the depictions of the criminals themselves. Some obsession with their physiognomy captivated him and led to a lifetime fascination with the essence of evil. His question was always the same: could evil be read in a face? It was the same question Shakespeare had asked. The same question phrenologists and reconstructors had pursued for years.

The same unanswered, elusive question.

‘Mr Kido, are you still there?’

‘Who am I talking to?’

‘My name’s irrelevant. My information is all that matters,’ the man replied. ‘Have you heard of Angelico Vespucci?’

The name fired its malignant arrow down the phone line. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. He was known as The Skin Hunter.’

‘And Titian painted his portrait.’

‘He did,’ Jobo replied cautiously, ‘but the painting went missing soon after it was completed—’

‘What if I were to tell you that it’s just surfaced …’

Jobo could feel his skin prickle with excitement.

‘… and that the infamous portrait of a killer is now in London?’ The man paused to let the information work its magic. ‘There will be dealers who won’t handle it. The piece has a dark reputation, after all, but it would be a wonderful addition to your personal collection.’

Jobo tried to swallow. ‘Do you have it?’

‘No, but I know where it is.’

‘Is it coming up in a sale?’

‘Who knows?’

‘London?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Is it a private seller?’ Jobo pressed the man hurriedly. ‘Are you working as a broker?’

‘All I can tell you is that the portrait of Angelico Vespucci has re-emerged. And if you want it, I would suggest you start putting out some feelers now, before another collector beats you to it.’

Before Jobo Kido could answer, the line went dead.

Light-headed, he put down the phone and slumped into the chair behind his desk. Outside he could see the unnatural blue of the Japanese sky, the hustle of buildings yammering upwards to the risen sun. The painting was in London, the caller had said. London, Jobo thought to himself. Was it worth a trip to England? Perhaps not until he knew more. But how could he find out more? The caller had left no contact details; perhaps he wouldn’t ring again. Perhaps another dealer would get the prize … No, Jobo thought, calming himself, the man knew he had a ready buyer in Jobo Kido. Knew he would pay handsomely for the portrait.

An unsettling thought followed. What if the caller had contacted another dealer? Or several other dealers? Perhaps he was trying to drum up interest and, by extension, value? Everyone in the art world knew that competition dictated the price paid. Perhaps the planting of interest in several ears, and several countries, would ensure a more lucrative sale. To his surprise Jobo found himself sweating, even though the air conditioning was turned on full. He felt a morbid sense of anxiety, a panicky fear that he might lose. That something he would prize more than any other man might elude him.

Only five minutes earlier Angelico Vespucci had been little more than a footnote in Jobo Kido’s mind. An intangible mirage, a half-remembered story he had heard many years earlier. But now this remarkable, feared work, this image of evil, had re-emerged. Melodramatically, mysteriously. Like a vampire it had come back to life and, like a vampire, it had the capacity to haunt him.

Thoughtful, Jobo unlocked his safe and picked up a creased leather pouch. He gazed at it for a moment and then shook out a key. It was the only one in his possession. There was a copy, but that was in his bank, to prevent his wife, son or business colleagues gaining access. Holding the key against his cheek, Jobo thought of his private collection.

Outside, Tokyo might be unreal, greasy with heat, leaves falling from autumnal trees even as the temperature hit ninety degrees. At home, his wife might sulk, and at the gallery the burglar alarm might trip again at dawn – but what did it matter to him? All he could focus on was the thought of the Vespucci portrait.

Found again.

In London.

For now.

Soon in Japan. Soon his.

Smiling to himself, Jobo imagined where he would place the painting in his collection. He had no fear of its reputation. Superstition was only for the gullible. What interested him was not the crimes, but the sitter. He longed to see what The Skin Hunter had really looked like. Yearned to own Titian’s magnificent portrait of the man who had murdered and mutilated four women. Ached to study the features of Angelico Vespucci and test them against other, later killers. To see if there was some likeness in evil, some repetition of feature or expression.

Jobo Kido had no fear of Angelico Vespucci. That would come later.