Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

BOOK FOUR

Painting done under pressure by artists without the necessary talent can only give rise to formlessness, as painting is a profession that requires peace of mind.

Titian (1485–1576)

36

Venice

Grabbing hold of Johnny Ravenscourt, Tom Morgan hustled him backwards into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. Caught off guard, Ravenscourt put up his hands to ward the American off.

‘Calm down!’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down, you fag!’ Tom replied, jabbing at the other man’s shoulder. ‘I want to talk to you. Seems like I’m not the only one either. Why did you leave London so suddenly?’ He pulled at Ravenscourt’s arm, navigating him towards an armchair and then pushing him into it. Although Ravenscourt was the bigger man, he was cowed by the show of aggression and began to blather.

‘What is it? What is it?’ he pleaded.

Tom stood over him. He had lost some weight, and his exclusive clothes were creased, unkempt. A day’s growth of stubble and swollen eyes hinted at neglect, the smell of cannabis strong on his hands. And his feet were bare again, bloodless in the cold.

‘What d’you know about Seraphina’s death?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing!’

‘You hired someone to look into it. Which is odd, seeing as how I was interviewed by the same man, sent by Seraphina’s family.’ His voice took on a warning tone. ‘I never liked you, Johnny. I always thought you were a bad influence on my wife—’

‘I knew your wife long before you came into her life! I was her oldest friend.’

‘You were an emotional leech,’ Tom snapped. He was jumpy, jerky in his movements. ‘I know you were always trying to turn her against me. You wanted me gone and Seraphina to yourself. And now she’s dead – and I want to know why you’re poking your fucking nose into my business.’

‘Your business isn’t doing too well,’ Ravenscourt said snidely, straightening his jacket. ‘Don’t forget who helped you out when you needed it—’

‘I never asked Seraphina to go to you! You were the last person I’d have asked for help.’

‘But she did ask me, didn’t she?’ Ravenscourt countered. ‘And I did help you, Tom Morgan. Helped you save your bloody skin. One word from me to your employers and they’d have tossed your drugged arse out of the window in an instant.’

‘You want to watch what you say.’

But the steam had gone out of Tom Morgan and his anger had given way to a craving for a joint. A smoke would calm him down, he told himself. Life had been hell lately. Who could blame him for wanting to settle his nerves? Hurriedly he moved over to a cabinet and rolled a joint. Lighting it and inhaling deeply soothed him in seconds, as he slid on to the window seat.

He could see the canal below, the lamplight stippling the water, a knot of mangy ducks paddling under the bridge. It was true: his business was in trouble, and the old apartment he had once shared with Seraphina would soon have to go on the market. All the past was leaving him, all the memories of his wife disappearing with the home they had once shared. All that remained of Seraphina was the photographs and the papers and the numerous articles about her death.

‘I don’t know why Seraphina loved you,’ Ravenscourt said dismissively. ‘She could have done so much better.’

Tom turned to him. ‘What are you up to, you fat bastard? Why leave London in such a hurry? Are you on the run from the police?’ He paused. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you, Seraphina said you had a colourful history.’

‘I was bored in London. I just wanted to come back to Venice. It was a rush decision.’

‘I bet,’ Tom replied, inhaling again, then blowing the smoke slowly between his lips. ‘I miss her. I miss my wife.’

‘I miss her too.’

‘I was her husband.’

‘Yes, and I was her friend!’ Ravenscourt snapped back. ‘You didn’t … you didn’t have anything to do with her death, did you?’

To his amazement, Tom laughed. ‘Funny, I was just going to ask you the same thing …’ He stared out of the window. ‘She was different when she came back from her trip to London. Something had happened – d’you know what?’

‘No.’

‘But she used to talk to you. Even more than she talked to me,’ Tom continued. ‘And you hung out together a lot in the days before she died. Why?’

‘She was my friend—’

‘No! That wasn’t it. It know you, Ravenscourt – you don’t rate friendship that highly. You were stalking her—’

‘Rubbish! We went out for meals, we went shopping!’

‘But Seraphina didn’t want to see you!’ Tom snapped back. ‘She told me that. She said you were making her uneasy. Asking her questions about her trip, quizzing her. Why?’

‘I don’t believe she said any of that,’ Ravenscourt insisted, pouting. ‘We were very close. She needed me. She confided in me—’

‘What did she confide?’

‘That she was pregnant.’

Tom waved the words away with his hand. ‘The whole family knew that.’

‘But did the family know that you didn’t want the baby? That you told Seraphina to get an abortion?’

The words struck home.

‘What?’

‘Seraphina told me all about it,’ Ravenscourt went on. ‘How she wanted to have the child, but you were against it—’

‘But I wasn’t! It was the other way round! I wanted the baby, she didn’t.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Ravenscourt replied, but he was obviously shaken. ‘Why would she lie about it? Seraphina never told lies, and certainly not about anything as important as that.’ Pausing, he turned away from Tom, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘She swore blind that you didn’t want the child. She said it was a bad time, that you couldn’t afford to support a family.’

‘But there was money coming,’ Tom replied. ‘Soon we’d have been loaded, more cash than we’d ever dreamed of. There was a windfall on its way, Ravenscourt … You didn’t know that, did you?’ He grinned unpleasantly. ‘Seems Seraphina didn’t tell you that much after all. Kept the real goodies to herself. We had it all planned out and soon I’d never need your help – or anyone’s help – again. Fuck the business, we weren’t going to need it. We were going to be rich.’

His throat constricting, Ravenscourt struggled to control himself.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Come on! I know she told you—’

‘About what?’

Inhaling, Tom sucked at the joint. His mind was floating, all fury and frustration gone. The peace wouldn’t last, he knew that. But for a while he could linger, just above reality.

‘What are you talking about!’ Ravenscourt repeated, his bulk rising out of the chair, his heavy features flushed. ‘What did Seraphina say?’

‘Let me tell you a story,’ Tom began, looking out of the window again. ‘There was a girl called Seraphina. She came from an old Venetian family, who weren’t quite as powerful as they had once been. Well, Seraphina met a handsome prince in the USA,’ he spelt it out, taunting Ravenscourt – ‘and they fell in love. He was rich, but – as with her family – it didn’t last. So Seraphina was looking for an opportunity …’

‘Tell me!’

‘Listen to the fucking story!’ Tom retorted. ‘And lo and behold, a golden opportunity fell into her lap. Well, her hands anyway. By pure chance she found a painting worth millions.’ He paused, grinding out his joint and tossing the stub out of the window. The ducks hurried towards it, then, disappointed, moved off again. ‘What a lucky girl. She left it with a trustworthy old dealer, a man called Gaspare Reni, knowing it would be safe with him until we could figure a way to smuggle it to Venice. That’s where you came in, Johnny.’ He paused, but when there was no reply, he carried on. ‘You had a history of smuggling and Seraphina relied on that. On being able to convince you to help her. You two being so close … She was getting it all planned, all organised. The day before she died she was about to bring you in on it. We’d have given you a cut of the proceeds, you know. After all, there’d have been plenty to go around.’

Ravenscourt was watching him with despair. Cheated, desperate despair. ‘But she died before—’

‘Yeah, Seraphina was killed before she could talk to you. Before we could get the Titian from London to Venice.’ Tom paused, staring at Ravenscourt. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’ he croaked.

‘Like you think I killed her.’

‘Did you?’

‘Before we got the painting? No, that wouldn’t make sense,’ Tom replied, moving over to the big man. ‘Did you kill her?’

‘No! I was in London when she died.’

‘Oh, but that’s not true, is it?’ Tom said. ‘I saw you in Venice the following day. You could easily have come back the night before … Of course, I could get the police to check it out.’

Ravenscourt’s natural guile came back into play.

‘And bring more attention on yourself? I don’t think so. Remember the husband’s always the prime suspect.’ Standing up, he moved to the door. ‘I’m leaving now.’

‘I would. It’s beginning to get dark and it’s easy to get lost in Venice.’ Tom turned back to the window. ‘Oh, and mind the fog, Johnny. They say it’s going to be bad tonight.’

37

London, 14 December

It wasn’t going to be the usual kind of Christmas. It wasn’t going to be any kind of Christmas because Harriet Forbes was dead and her family couldn’t come to terms with her loss. There was to be no tree, no celebration dinner, no festive decoration of the house. Christmas cards would not be sent, presents not bought, because none of it mattered. Besides, there were no grandchildren to cater for – Harriet had never married and Louisa was not the maternal type.

Unable to cope with the despair in her parents’ house, Louisa Forbes took action. Applying for compassionate leave from work, she waited until the police – working with the Japanese force – had inspected her sister’s flat and then, painstakingly, she went through every item herself. The action calmed her, and when it was done she rang all of Harriet’s business contacts and friends. Someone knew something – it was just a question of finding out who. One letter, one note, one book, one article of clothing, one word – she didn’t know what it would be, but something would lead her to Harriet’s killer.

Louisa Forbes didn’t believe that it had been a chance murder, a crime or killer peculiar to Tokyo. She didn’t believe it because she had looked into the death of Sally Egan and the killings were too similar for chance. The man who had killed Sally Egan had killed her sister. That was all she had. It was all she needed.

So when Louisa was approached by Nino Bergstrom she was more than willing to listen. Together they walked to a nearby bar, and having chosen drinks and taken a seat, Louisa looked curiously at Nino.

‘You’re not connected to the police, are you?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I’m working for someone privately.’

‘Can I ask who?’

‘Gaspare Reni.’

She shrugged. ‘The name means nothing to me. Did he know Harriet?’

‘No, but he thinks that the deaths of your sister and a friend of his might be connected.’

She was intelligent, obviously so, her intense grey eyes fixing on his.

‘Do you know anything about Harriet’s death? The Japanese police don’t tell us a thing. They treat us like fools, make us feel bad just for asking questions. They won’t even release her body.’

She paused, sipping at the wine Nino had bought her. He had been expecting someone emotional but she was resolutely still. He imagined that she would be a loyal friend, a good wife, and she had a quality he admired – a kind of grace. The bar was already full of workers going home, grabbing a pint before the 6.57 train.

‘Can I talk to your parents?’ Nino requested.

‘They won’t talk to you – they’re in shock. If you want to talk, talk to me.’

Nodding, he leaned closer towards her and dropped his voice so that he wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Your sister had a flat in London, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to see it. Could you take me there?’

‘Now?’ She bent down and picked up her bag. ‘All right, we’ll go now.’ Her voice was composed. ‘It’s OK, Mr Bergstrom, I can cope. I want to help. Let’s get on with it, please.’

When they entered the Highgate flat it smelt like any place closed up in cold weather. It wasn’t damp but chilly, uninviting. Louisa turned on the lights and checked the post.

‘I should stop the mail. How d’you do that?’ She answered her own question. ‘Post Office, I suppose.’ Her long fingers rifled through the envelopes, then she dropped the pile on to the hall table and walked into the sitting room.

Nino followed her, looking at a wall of photographs. Harriet Forbes had been a traveller, that much was obvious. There were prints of the Far East, New York and Milan, Post-it notes stuck next to them, with the dates written in red. And on the space over her computer was her timetable – seven countries to visit over twenty days.

‘Did she always travel so much?’

Louisa nodded. ‘Since her twenties. Harriet was the restless sort, never liked to be in the same place for long.’

‘Did she get on with her employers?’

‘They were always changing. She would take on a project to do PR for one company, then go on to something else. It was a movable feast; the beauty business launches new projects all the time.’

‘What about her private life?’

‘Harriet wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment.’

‘There was no ex-boyfriend who might bear a grudge? No one rejected?’

‘No. The police asked me the same question, but there was no boyfriend.’

He could feel the hesitation in her voice, and pressed on. ‘Was there someone?’

‘Harriet was gay,’ Louisa said simply. ‘She didn’t think I knew. I kept waiting for her to confide in me, but she didn’t. She did have a partner a few years ago, but it broke up, amicably. They stayed friends.’

‘D’you know her name?’

‘I’ve forgotten it now, but I saw a Christmas card once. The message was very loving, very sweet … Harriet seemed to be ashamed of being gay. At least she kept it a secret, so I imagine she wasn’t comfortable with it. She used to cringe when Mum and Dad teased her about getting married and giving them kids.’ She breathed in, holding on to herself. ‘My sister’s work took up more and more of her life, until there wasn’t room for anyone.’

Nino was reading the spines on books arranged on rows of white painted shelving.

‘Your sister certainly liked reading.’ Surprised he pointed to one volume. ‘Machiavelli’s The Prince – that’s quite a switch from promoting make-up.’

‘Harriet was smart, much too smart for PR,’ Louisa said, folding her slim arms, her face composed. ‘She used to say that she’d make a killing, put away a load of money, and then do what she really wanted to do.’

‘Which was?’

‘Harriet wanted to be a journalist, in the arts.’

An alarm went off in Nino’s brain.

‘What branch of the arts?’

‘Painting.’ Putting her head on one side, Louisa studied him. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Please don’t lie to me, Mr Bergstrom. I can handle anything you tell me.’

He nodded. ‘All right. The first victim, Sally Egan, was a painter. A very gifted one.’

‘And?’

‘She was commissioned by a London dealer to paint a man called Angelico Vespucci.’ He caught a flicker of recognition at the name. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘It rings a bell,’ Louisa said, concentrating. ‘A while back Harriet wrote a piece for an art magazine. She was so thrilled she’d been commissioned.’ Moving over to her sister’s filing cabinet, she pulled out the top drawer and flicked through the papers. ‘My sister said it was very difficult finding out the information, so she was disappointed when they only published it on the internet.’

‘What was the magazine?’

‘I can’t remember,’ Louisa replied, still searching through her dead sister’s files. ‘But Harriet was angry about it. Said that they didn’t treat her seriously because she was a PR agent, and not someone trained in the history of art. I remember it well because it really upset her, and Harriet wasn’t someone who often showed her feelings.’ Finally she drew out a slim file marked VESPUCCI. ‘Here it is,’ she said, handing it over to Nino. ‘It took her weeks to write – she was so proud of it.’

Flipping open the file, Nino was confronted with a photograph of a face he knew only too well, together with a thoroughly researched and well written article. Her sister was right, Harriet Forbes had been wasted in PR.

‘Why did she want to write about Angelico Vespucci?’

Louisa shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She said something about him being painted by one of the Old Masters—’

‘Titian.’

‘Yes, Titian,’ she agreed, ‘but otherwise she didn’t talk about it. Is it important that both Harriet and Sally Egan had a connection with Vespucci?’ Her eyes fixed on Nino. ‘Or should I put it another way – it must be important that both of them had a connection. But why?’ She took the reproduction out of the file and studied it. ‘Who is Angelico Vespucci?’

‘He lived in Venice in the sixteenth century. He was a merchant.’

‘And?’ she said, pushing him. ‘What else about him, Mr Bergstrom? You have to tell me, otherwise I’ll just look it up on the internet and find out myself.’

‘He was a murderer, known as The Skin Hunter.’

She took the words full force, her fingers touching her mouth for an instant, her eyes closing then reopening. A moment passed, then another.

Finally she spoke. ‘How many women did he kill?’

‘Four.’

‘How many women – apart from Harriet and Sally Egan – have been killed now?’

‘Three,’ Nino replied, watching as she sat down. After getting her a glass of water from the kitchen, he handed it to her. Her breathing was rapid, but her control was impressive.

‘Was this other victim … Did she have any connection to Vespucci?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she mutilated?’

‘Yes.’

She looked up, holding Nino’s gaze. ‘Someone’s copying Vespucci, aren’t they?’

‘I think so.’

‘And his name – The Skin Hunter. Does it mean what I think it does?’

‘He flayed, or partially skinned, his victims.’

‘Like Harriet.’

‘Yes,’ Nino agreed. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t be! I want to know. I need to know what this is all about … Has anyone else connected the murders?’

He shook his head.

‘Not that I know of. The victims were all killed in different countries. The Japanese police haven’t connected Harriet’s killer with Sally Egan. I’m surprised you did.’

‘He skins women! How likely is it that there are two people doing that? Of course I made the connection,’ she replied, looking back at him. ‘You said Vespucci killed four women. So there’s one left.’

‘We can’t be sure—’

‘Of course we can! If the killer’s copied the Venetian’s actions so far, why would he stop until they’re completed? If he’s mad enough to start, he’s mad enough to go on … Have you any idea who he is?’

Pausing, Nino studied her. He was prepared to confide, but he wasn’t about to endanger her.

‘No,’ he said evenly, ‘I don’t know who the killer is.’

She nodded. ‘But you are going to find him, aren’t you?’

It was the first time he had been asked outright. Gaspare had needed help, but it was the sister of one of the victims who put the question directly. You are going to find him, aren’t you? And it was only at that instant that Nino realised exactly what he had taken on.

38

New York

Sitting beside the statue of Hans Christian Andersen, Triumph watched the people moving around in front of him. He hated New York at Christmas time; loathed the continual drinks parties and openings, the relentless gaiety of it all. Weighed down by guilt and riddled with uncertainty, he was hardly sleeping, his usual immaculate appearance muted with exhaustion. Suddenly a child walked in front of him and stopped, staring, fascinated by the black man who was sitting, immobile, in front of the bronze. A moment later, the child’s mother hustled him away as the first light snowfall drizzled down on Central Park.

It was three thirty in the afternoon, the light ready to dip down into the dark beginning of the evening. Triumph huddled further into his coat as a stooped man of around forty came over and took a seat next to him.

‘Cold, isn’t it?’

Triumph sighed. ‘I’m here, let’s get on with it. You said you had the Titian portrait of Vespucci.’

When there was no reply he turned, staring at the Cuban’s grainy face, his eyes narrowed under the snowfall as he lit up. The match flared, ignited the end of his roll-up, and then he blew it out, letting it drop to the ground. Patiently, Triumph watched the performance, his hands pushed deep into his pockets.

‘I haven’t got the painting yet—’

Triumph stood up.

‘But I can get it!’ the man went on, jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve got a good lead. I just need cash to get some more information.’

‘I’m getting nothing here but a cold,’ Triumph replied, walking off, the man following him.

‘Fucking bastard!’ he shouted. ‘You need me! You need me!’

No, Triumph thought, I don’t need you. Or the woman who stopped me outside the restaurant last night. I don’t need the dealer from Sweden who called by the gallery, or the junkie who stumbled into my path when I was walking to my car.

The news that he was looking for the Titian had certainly spread; there wasn’t a day that Triumph hadn’t been approached, the police questioning the wisdom of his action in offering a reward. But every offer, suggestion or deal had been bogus, and when he was unexpectedly tapped on the shoulder, he jumped.

‘Christ, Triumph!’ Farina said, laughing. ‘Your nerves are shot!’

She was wearing a ranch mink, the collar turned up, her hair hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. The snow which had seemed so out of place in the park flattered her, making a translucent backdrop. Smiling, she slid her arm through Triumph’s. If she found him tense, she didn’t allude to it. Instead she walked with him for several yards until she got down to the matter in hand.

‘That was very naughty of you, Triumph, putting out a reward for the painting. You’ll get every loser on earth coming out of the woodwork.’

He walked on, letting her talk.

‘Of course, you could get lucky; someone might know about the Titian. And they might tell you.’ She twinkled up at him. ‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

Tell you what? he thought. That I’m going to destroy it? No, I don’t think I’ll tell you that.

‘Of course,’ he lied.

‘My husband could make it worth your while,’ she continued, her gloved hand clinging to his arm. ‘You know how much I want him to have this painting. I’m sure you and I could come to some arrangement.’

‘An arrangement?’

‘We’re the biggest dealers in New York,’ Farina went on blithely. ‘We should get the goodies. We deserve them. No point letting other dealers – lesser dealers – have a go. You know how I admire you.’

‘You do?’ he asked, inwardly mocking her.

‘I always have,’ she replied, pausing when Triumph stopped walking.

‘This arrangement,’ he said. ‘I never thought of that, Farina. Never realised you were so attracted to me. Never thought of you and me …’

She was so taken aback she couldn’t speak. Surely this man, this African-American, wasn’t suggesting an affair?

‘To be honest, I’ve always admired you, Farina,’ he said, putting out his hand and stroking her cheek. ‘And now I’m wondering exactly what you would do for the Titian. How far would you go?’

He was staring at her so intently she flushed.

‘What the hell—’

Gently he slid her hand out from the crook of his arm, patting her shoulder in a paternal gesture. ‘Go home, my dear. You’re a great dealer, but a lousy whore.’

Then he turned, walking into the falling snow.

Without looking back, he could imagine the expression on Farina Ahmadi’s face – the outrage. She would seethe with humiliation. At having been regarded as a whore – and rejected as a woman. Of course Triumph knew he had made an implacable enemy, but he didn’t need Farina any more. He was tired of the deals, the hustling. Tired of a world which dealt in beauty, and employed all kinds of ugliness.

Preoccupied, he walked on, letting the snow fall on him as he rounded a bend in the park. But he never anticipated what would happened next. Wasn’t expecting the blow to the back of his head which sent him reeling against the side of the bridge over the pathway. Staggering backwards, he felt the blood pour from a scalp wound, but had no time to react. When he was struck again, his legs buckled. Caught off guard, the elegant Triumph Jones fell clumsily to the ground, the side of his head striking the stonework, his hands scrambling for purchase on the snowy ground.

And all the time he was thinking of the women, the three women who had died for a painting. The three deaths he had inadvertently caused. And wondering if his would be the fourth.