Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

43

Venice

Tom Morgan was looking around the old apartment, where he and Seraphina had once lived, apartment for the last time. His argument with Johnny Ravenscourt had been enlightening. The Titian wasn’t with him, and judging by his reaction, Ravenscourt had no inkling where it was. Frowning, Tom glanced around the rooms, his gaze coming to rest on the painting of Claudia Moroni and her brother. It had never been of any real interest to him. But now it was. Although he had agreed to sell the apartment with all fittings, fixtures and furniture, he was damned if he was going to leave it behind. His knowledge of the art world wasn’t great – that had been his wife’s forte – but an old oil painting had to be worth money. And Tom needed money.

Taking it down, he placed an old print over the empty space on the wall and took the painting out into the hallway of the flats as the burly figure of Ravenscourt loomed up from the floor below. He had a florid look about his jowls and was breathing heavily.

‘You look fucked,’ Tom said, watching him.

‘I heard you were leaving,’ Ravenscourt gasped. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Only to the other apartment. I’ve sold this one; I can’t stay here.’

‘You must have made a fortune.’

‘Not as much as I’d have made with the Titian,’ Tom replied, gripping the painting.

Recognising it, Ravenscourt blustered. ‘You can’t take that—’

‘I can and I will,’ Tom snapped. ‘The buyer got a good deal on the sale. He won’t miss one painting.’

‘But that one?’

‘What?’ Tom asked, holding the picture at arm’s length and looking at it. ‘What’s so great about this one?’

‘It’s Claudia Moroni.’

‘And that’s supposed to mean something?’

‘Look,’ Ravenscourt said, his tone mollifying. ‘Let me buy it off you. I’ll give you a good price.’

‘I don’t think so. The Italian currency’s failing. If I was going to sell it, I’d want US dollars.’

Ravenscourt nodded. ‘OK, OK.’

‘I said if I was going to sell it,’ Tom continued, staring at the painting intently. ‘Because you wanting it so badly makes me wonder why. Perhaps it’s valuable?’

‘Only to me. It’s important for my research.’

‘Into Angelico Vespucci?’ Tom countered, laughing. ‘You sad fag, where’s all that research got you? You could have had the Titian, but you fucked up. Killing Seraphina—’

‘I didn’t kill your wife!’

‘Someone did. And you were in Venice. And you wanted the painting. I wouldn’t put it past you to try and cut me out.’

‘Maybe it was you who cut me out. You were in trouble, banking on getting the Titian,’ Ravenscourt replied. ‘Don’t try and bluff me.’

They stared at each other, neither man giving way, neither believing what the other said.

‘Anyway, why are you still in Venice?’ Tom asked. ‘You told Seraphina you were going to spend Christmas in London.’

‘I had to leave London for a while.’

‘Why?’

‘I had some trouble. I needed to get the police off my back.’

‘I suppose it wouldn’t have anything to do with Nino Bergstrom being back in Venice, would it?’ Tom could see Ravenscourt pale and laughed again. ‘Coming after you, is he?’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘About what?’

‘The Titian. About the plan you and Seraphina had.’

‘No!’ Tom replied, shrugging. ‘I haven’t seen Bergstrom for weeks. Anyway, why would I tell him what we were up to?’

‘You wouldn’t …’ Ravenscourt replied, his thoughts running on. ‘Bergstrom’s a nosy sod. I tried to get rid of him in London, but he’s cropped up again. I wonder why he’s back in Venice?’ His attention shifted back to his original topic. ‘We were talking about the painting. I’ll give you a good price for it – although, by rights, you should give it to me. Something to remember Seraphina by. I was her closest friend – she would have wanted me to have it.’

‘She wouldn’t have given a shit,’ Tom replied. ‘She used to laugh at you all the time, say what a sad case you were. She mocked your “intellectual pretensions” and all your Italian boys.’ He could see the colour leaving Ravenscourt’s face. ‘Seraphina thought you were a pig—’

‘She wasn’t like that!’

‘Oh, but she was. Seraphina was nothing like she appeared. So frankly, Johnny, if you killed her I wouldn’t let it keep you up at night.’

He paused, then suddenly pushed the painting at Ravenscourt, the dealer’s big hands grabbing it to stop it falling, then reached into Ravenscourt’s back pocket and took out his wallet.

‘Thanks,’ he said, putting the wallet back after taking out a wodge of notes.

‘You bastard!’

‘What are you complaining about? You got the painting,’ Tom said, guiding Ravenscourt out of the apartment and slamming the door behind both of them. Finally, he slid the keys through the letterbox and dusted his hands off.

‘I’m glad to be leaving. Seraphina never liked this place. Said it was bad luck.’

‘It certainly was for her.’

Shrugging, Tom moved past Ravenscourt. But halfway down the stairs, he hesitated and looked back at him. ‘I don’t buy it, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Your big dumb act. Like Seraphina, you’re not what you seem to be. I don’t know whether I should laugh at you, or be afraid of you.’ He paused, as though he was considering his options, then walked on, whistling.

44

Apparently the di Fattori marriage had been a charade for over a decade. Or so the Contessa told Nino as they sat in the apartment overlooking the Grand Canal. The height of the room prevented any intimacy, the arched ceiling as impersonal as a church. And seated under all this grandeur was the sparse frame of Seraphina’s mother, the Contessa di Fattori. When she spoke the impression of fragility continued, her voice as brittle as her appearance.

In the weeks since Nino had last seen her she had lost weight, the veins on her forehead pronounced under the skilful make-up, her tinted hair too dark for her pallor. Erect, she looked like a person who had been tied to her seat, rigid with unease.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said in Italian, then slid effortlessly into English. ‘I have matters of the utmost importance to discuss with you. And of course I ask for your complete confidence.’

Nino nodded. ‘You have it.’

She went on without a pause. ‘My husband and I are getting a divorce.’

‘I’m sorry—’

‘Please don’t be. Seraphina’s death was too much for us. They say people either grow closer in adversity or break apart. We did the latter.’ Her lips closed firmly, as though she was relieved to have the words out of her system. ‘I have something to show you, Mr Bergstrom.’ Reaching over to the table beside her, she handed him a substantial envelope. ‘My husband was of the opinion that family matters should remain within the family. I, however, do not agree. But then again, I married into the di Fattori line, so perhaps I don’t have the same loyalty to the name. Or the dead.’

Opening the package, Nino was struck by the age of the paper, a heavyweight embossed vellum.

‘What are these?’

‘Those are jottings written by the infamous Melania, the Contessa di Fattori. Painted by Titian, the lover of Pietro Aretino, the Harlot of Venice. Do you know what the name Melania means?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Dark,’ she said wistfully. ‘And she was. Not in colouring —she had red hair – but Melania di Fattori had a dark heart. Of course you know of her death, her murder? Very like Seraphina’s, wasn’t it?’ She paused, sighing, although there was barely a sound. ‘I’ve been thinking a great deal. About my daughter, about what happened to her. And I was speaking to Gaspare Reni this morning – he told me about the Titian portrait.’ She put up her hands to prevent Nino interrupting. ‘It was right that he did so. I couldn’t go on in ignorance, Mr Bergstrom. It makes sense that there was some connection between Seraphina and Melania … What Gaspare told me made me decide to show you these.’

‘You want me to read them?’ Nino said, gesturing at the papers.

‘Every word. They might help you.’

‘Have you read them?’

‘Read them first, Mr Bergstrom, then we’ll talk again,’ she replied. ‘My husband would never have released this information, and I ask you to keep it secret. I only give it to you because it might be of use. Melania was an extraordinary woman. Immoral, without conscience.’ She breathed in. Again, the action was hardly audible. A wraith in a silk dress. ‘We disguise so much, lie to ourselves, hide so many secrets. Melania did that. So did my daughter.’

‘What kind of secrets?’

‘The baby she was carrying … it wasn’t Tom Morgan’s.’

The words were a body blow.

‘Did he know?’

‘No,’ the Contessa said firmly. ‘Seraphina only told me … and possibly Johnny Ravenscourt.’

The name resonated unpleasantly. ‘I know Ravenscourt. He’s not the father, surely?’

‘I don’t know who the father was,’ the Contessa replied. ‘It’s amazing how easy it is once you start to talk. Hiding things becomes a habit. You tell a lie so long you believe it. Every word is considered for its impact. How much do I say? To whom? I suppose all ancient families are the same. Do you think so, Mr Bergstrom?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yes, maybe,’ she agreed. ‘It’s like recovering from an anaesthetic. I feel I can breathe again. If I want to. If I choose to.’ She paused, as though she was considering her options there and then. After a moment, she spoke again. ‘Seraphina’s dead. I want to know who killed her. I know why—’

Nino was taken aback. ‘You know why?’

‘Angelico Vespucci killed his victims because they were immoral. Seraphina was immoral too.’ Her head went up, her eyes fixed on her visitor. ‘You think it pleases me to say this about my own daughter? No – but it is the truth nonetheless. All the time Seraphina was growing up I’d look at her and wonder why she behaved so recklessly. At nineteen she left Venice and travelled the world. I imagine she had many lovers. We had nothing in common, Mr Bergstrom. I married young and remained married, without taking a lover.’ She looked around her, tensing as her gaze fell on a painting of a red-haired woman. Nino didn’t have to ask who the sitter was. ‘That’s Melania. Seraphina inherited the worst of her ancestor’s traits … I used to worry that something would happen to her, but when she came back to Venice and married Tom Morgan, she was content.’ The Contessa paused, then continued in the same quiet, listless tone. ‘I believed she’d changed. After all, they were in love. But Tom Morgan was lazy, let his business slide, took risks, took drugs.’

‘Did Seraphina?’

‘No, she said not. She had no interest in drugs, or in drinking. She didn’t need it, she said, she was always full of life. Too full of life. To my amazement she continued her education, worked as a scientist, using her brain. She could separate her life into little containers, into pigeon-holes: career, family, husband, lovers.’

‘So she was unfaithful to Tom Morgan?’

‘After the first thrill of marriage wore off, Seraphina started looking around.’ The Contessa caught Nino’s gaze and held it. ‘Venetians close ranks against outsiders, but people here knew her reputation. It was only when she became pregnant that I was hopeful. Maybe, at last, she’d settle down.’

‘What about her husband? Did Tom Morgan have lovers?’

‘Too lazy,’ the Contessa said dismissively. ‘He likes to get “high”, to lounge about. He’s no taste for seduction. To be honest, I imagine he would find it tiring.’

‘But he knew about Seraphina’s lovers?’

‘Isn’t the question “Did he care?”’

‘Did he?’

‘He cared for comfort, for money, for a soft life,’ she replied. ‘He cared for my daughter, but never enough. Do I think he killed her? He could have done …’

Nino took in a breath as she continued.

‘But when I heard about the other deaths, the murders so like Seraphina’s, then I doubted it. It would take planning, cunning and energy – not traits Tom Morgan possesses.’ Her gaze moved downwards to her hands. ‘But then Gaspare told me about the Titian portrait and I started to think again. The painting would be worth a fortune. An easy way for a lazy man to get rich.’

‘But Seraphina never told you about the portrait?’

‘No. But then a wife tells a husband more than a woman tells her mother,’ she replied perceptively. ‘Seraphina could have told Tom Morgan. And he could have been tempted … And if he killed her, I want to know. I have to know.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Read the papers, Mr Bergstrom. Read what Melania di Fattori wrote. She knew The Skin Hunter. She was his lover. If you’re hoping to find Vespucci’s imitator, perhaps you should first learn more about the original.’

45

‘I need your help,’ Nino said, ringing Gaspare from Venice. ‘The Contessa di Fattori has given me some information—’

‘She said she was going to.’

‘Why did you tell her what was going on?’

‘The woman’s lost her daughter, and her marriage has broken up. What reason was there to keep it a secret from her? She deserves to know. If she was still with her husband I wouldn’t have told her, but the Contessa’s smart, she can handle it.’ Gaspare paused. ‘So, what did you want me to do?’

‘Time’s running out. I’ve got to find the last victim. So I want you to trace every woman who’s ever been connected to Angelico Vespucci—’

‘What!’

‘Go on the internet and see what’s been done on The Skin Hunter. We know about the copy of the portrait, and the article. The last victim has to have a link.’

‘It could be anything.’

‘I know!’ Nino snapped back. ‘But what else have we got to go on? I’ll read the stuff I was given, and then talk to Tom Morgan again. Incidentally, Seraphina’s baby wasn’t his.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true. Her mother told me.’ Nino sighed. ‘Every time I turn round there’s another corridor leading off to God knows where. Motives in motives, claims and counterclaims. No one’s what they seem.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘Less than two weeks, Gaspare. That’s all we’ve got. We have to discover the link to the victim. We have to.’

Finishing the call, Nino turned back to the papers the Contessa had given him, drawing them out of the envelope and laying them side by side. There were three pages of handwritten Italian, the writing baroque.

November 1555

He is harvesting and speaks of nothing else. As for Aretino, such a conscience there, he worships Titian like a god and yet thinks nothing of deceiving him. Last night I lay with him again, Angelico Vespucci coming later, when the boar had finished. He watches, like he watches his pet whores, sweats in his excitement, his body wheezing with the thrust of pleasure.

Aretino writes of me in his books, gives me another name, as though I cannot guess the subterfuge. Poor Aretino, so very foolish for a clever man. And yesterday, when the rain stopped for an hour come afternoon, I chose another whore for my Vespucci …

Nino stopped reading, the words staring up at him from the page.

… a little Jewish girl, come from Milan a month ago. She is naive and compliant; I think maybe he will love her. As he did the merchant’s wife.

Claudia Moroni was a whim of mine. A response to a rumour I had heard some months before. I courted her, came to her home, flattered her into a friendship, then brought her to Vespucci.

He loved her within hours. Not for her appearance, which was poor, but for her wickedness.

‘God,’ Nino said softly. Contessa di Fattori, the whore of Venice, the consort of a murderer, was also Vespucci’s procuress.

I watched her plead with him to keep her silence, but he’d have none of it. She lies with her brother – and so Vespucci wants her.

He tells me that he feels her corruption on his skin, that it dries like mud against his fingers. He licks his lips as though he can taste her poison, and calls her to him, time after time.

She comes across St Mark’s, the priest with her. Passes through the bronze archway leading to Vespucci’s room.

The priest sits fingering his rosary outside. He pays no mind to me, and so I watch the merchant’s wife pay for her sins to stay secret.

At first Vespucci thought to make me jealous. Thought I would bay at the moon for him. And so I took the writer as my lover …

Frowning, Nino stared at the words, remembering the portrait of Melania in the palazzo.

Provoked, Vespucci now thinks to take me from Aretino, tells me such tales, but I’ll have none of it. All lovers lie. Until, until …

His wife was found last evening in the Lido, stripped of her skin. He said he keeps it for her, promising to dress her when they meet in Hell. I still thought him a liar. A spinner of tales to court me, a cruel narrator scratching for some alchemy to keep me to his bed. I rolled upon him, begged to be given facts …

He told me, curled the words out with his tongue, spoke of how he peeled the skins away and hid them. He will not tell me where, he taunts me with it, speaks of adding more.

And now Claudia Moroni has been found. Vespucci promised to craft a garment for me, to fashion a chemise from her dead hide. Afraid, I left for the mainland.

I thought Vespucci would follow, but it wasn’t him. Instead came Aretino, begging my return. He said it was a jest, a bed sport, a bragging to make a woman moan …

I knew if I went back I would never leave again. I knew if I lay with Vespucci, felt his hands working my flesh, that he would work my soul.

When I next saw him he was washing himself, and the water that left his skin had blood in it.

Shaken, Nino pushed the notes aside and stood up. Melania, the Contessa di Fattori, had supplied Vespucci with his whores. Seraphina’s ancestor had colluded with a murderer. Willingly.

December 1555

The little Jewish girl I brought him has been found. Dead also … Aretino came to see me, lay against me in my bed, snuffled his girth against my back and pleaded Vespucci’s innocence. He tells me he is not what people say, and I should stand an ally to him. And I, drowsy with guilt, open my legs to him.

The portrait all of Venice talks about is nearly complete. Titian says nothing of it, only that it will be shown in the church where Vespucci worships. He says, come the last Sunday in December, the painting can be seen by any with the will to view it.

What Titian thinks of his sitter is impossible to know. Certainly he turns away from me whenever I approach and people have pinned papers to my door, condemning me.

‘The Whore of Venice’ I am called. Vespucci something else. His title, which will not grace his portrait – is that of Skin Hunter.

I know I will not live to see this black year’s end …

Melania, Contessa di Fattori, had been depraved. Her deviancy had kept her tied to a murderer, her sexuality condemning her.

Possibly that was where Seraphina had inherited her traits. It explained how it was possible for her to be an adulteress and pass off another man’s child as her husband’s. The young woman Nino had met in London weeks earlier had seemed uncomplicated, charming. Her death had been a shock. But now it was obvious why Seraphina had been the next victim. It wasn’t simply because of her relationship to the Contessa di Fattori, but because of her own sexual history.

They were alike, even in the way they met their end. Seraphina had not anticipated hers, but Melania had had a chance to escape – and had chosen not to. The fourth, and last, of the Skin’s Hunter’s victims, she was murdered and mutilated on 1 January, 1556.

While Nino was considering what he had just read, his mobile rang. He recognised the voice of Seraphina’s mother immediately.

‘Have you read the papers, Mr Bergstrom?’

‘Yes,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Have you?’

‘Should I?’

‘No, Contessa,’ Nino lied. ‘They’re of no importance. No importance at all.’

46

Tokyo, Japan

Jobo Kido wasn’t sure why, but the last three times he had gone online, there had been no response from the Vespucci website. Anxious, he had tried at different times of the day, with no success, until finally there was an answer.

Jobo: Where have you been?

Answer: What makes you think I’ve been anywhere?

Jobo: I couldn’t get a response.

Answer: I was angry with you. I don’t think you were very polite last time we spoke.

Jobo: I’m sorry.

Answer: You should be. If you want the Titian you play by my rules, not your own. It makes me wonder if you’ve been talking to someone.

Jobo: No, no one.

Answer: Not even the man with the white hair?

There was a long pause before Jobo answered gingerly.

Jobo: I don’t know who you mean.

Answer: Think very carefully, Mr Kido. Do you want the painting, or do you want to continue to lie to me and lose it? Who is the white-haired man?

His hands suspended over the keyboard, Jobo hesitated. If he gave Nino away would he be endangering him? But if he didn’t give him up, he would lose the Titian. He cursed inwardly. What was Nino Bergstrom to him? Until a few days ago, he had never met the man. Why should he give up such a prize to shield a comparative stranger?

All his life Jobo had been waiting to be at the top of his game. The Titian portrait would propel him into the artistic stratosphere, into that platinum orbit Triumph Jones and Farina Ahmadi inhabited. The portrait of Vespucci was his by rights.

Jobo: He’s called Nino Bergstrom.

Answer: What does he want?

Jobo: To catch you before you kill again.

Answer: Are you helping him?

Jobo: No.

Answer: Have you worked out the connection between the victims yet?

Jobo: No, how can I? I don’t know who the last victim is going to be.

Answer: What if I were to give you her name? Would you tell Mr Bergstrom? Or would you warn the victim?

Stunned, Jobo stared at the screen.

Answer: If you did either, you’d lose the Titian. So how much do you want it? Enough to sacrifice one life? Two lives?

Jobo: I’ll buy the painting off you.

Answer: It’s not for sale. It has to be earned. I’ll ask you again, Mr Kido. If I tell you the name of the next victim will you keep it a secret? Or will you let her die? If she dies, can you read about it later? Can you hear all the details and know you could have saved her? How much does the Titian really mean to you?

Agonised, Jobo stared at the words on the screen. His previous doubts had been annulled, his guilt suspended. And with Nino no longer sitting alongside him, Jobo Kido’s greed overrode his conscience.

Jobo: I want the Titian. I swear I won’t tell anyone who the next victim is.

Answer: Very good, Mr Kido. But if you’re not going to save her, why do you need to know? Until tomorrow.

On that note, the connection was severed.