Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

47

England

He was watching her and thinking that he had chosen very well. She had an interest in his passion, a mutual connection, and she was young and attractive. Of course she was a whore, but she had to be or she wouldn’t be suitable.

The man stared at the photographs he had put on his computer, tilting his head to one side, his gaze tracing the line of her throat. Flaying a body wasn’t easy. At first he had presumed that it would be – merely a peeling away. But it hadn’t been like that at all. He had had to cut the flesh away from the muscle underneath, and that had taken sharp knives, not your usual kitchen utensils. In the end he had gone to a medical suppliers on Wigmore Street and bought a set of scalpels which had made skinning so much easier. Concentrating, he had sliced into the skin, making a V shape. When he had done that, he had lifted the bloodied flap and, holding it, had continued slicing it away from the body.

It had been very neat.

He had always thought of himself as a non-violent man, so it had been difficult for him to come to terms with what he had to do. But he wanted everything to be perfect – he wanted the homage to be exact– so the murders had been copied in every detail. And what he didn’t know in fact, he followed in instinct; imagining what Vespucci would do.

After the first killing he found the flaying stimulating, almost as though he had two victims, not one. Of course the corpse was blood-red when he had taken the skin away, but the hide was soft, supple. It rested in his hands, and after he had washed it, it took on a chamois leather, butter-soft quality. Sometimes he even draped it over his bare arms, feeling the dead skin resting on his own.

Sipping a mug of coffee, he relished his memories. He had first come across Angelico Vespucci at school. One of those chance findings in the library where he used to hide out to miss Games. Of course he had had to keep his studious side a secret – girls never went for nerds and his peers only admired the tough boys. It wouldn’t do for him, considered very cool, to be revealed as an intellectual.

So instead he studied in secret and polished his glossy outer image until he became more and more removed from his lower middle-class upbringing. His parents might be proud of his brain, but that wasn’t what interested him; he wanted to feel something. Feeling had always been difficult. Over the years he had observed his mother crying when the dog was put to sleep, and his father overcome with affection at Christmas, happy with booze and sentimentality. He had watched them with curiosity. What was all this feeling everyone talked about? It was in films, books, computer games – feelings, feelings, always fucking feelings. But not for him. He didn’t feel anything.

But while he didn’t feel, he could mimic. He could replicate any emotion. As a copyist, he was second to none. And no one ever guessed. He left his childhood and slid into his teens without emotion. He attracted a girl and had sex with her, without emotion. He tried cutting himself with a knife, and felt nothing. Nothing he experienced, read or saw touched that hidden nub of feeling. If it was there at all.

But it was there. It was just a question of stimulating it. Of finding some trigger which would detonate him into life … His attention moved back to the girl’s photographs, then he entered the Vespucci website he had created. His gaze fed off the image of the Italian, the tips of his fingers resting longingly against the screen, tracing the bulbous eyes.

It was easy to remember when he had first heard of The Skin Hunter. The name had jolted him, given him a shift in the stomach, something he had never experienced before. The image, and the legend of a long-dead man, had evoked a feeling. A reaction so intense it had been almost sexual. A stripping away of all the dullness, until a waxen world seemed suddenly stained glass.

At last he was responding, and everything he read about Angelico Vespucci spiked his emotions. He revelled in the Italian’s murders and the details of the skinning, taking Vespucci’s feelings as his own. Somehow a dead killer had managed to skip the centuries and waken the psyche of a disaffected man.

After that first rush of adrenalin, he was addicted. Angelico Vespucci’s victims were not allotted sympathy: they had disappointed the merchant, deceived him, been less than he desired. Committing himself to research, he delved into the archives in Italy and London and on the web, and even visited Venice. His obsession growing, he fancied that Vespucci walked alongside him, taking them through the same dank, restricted alleyways he had once walked, the Italian throwing a shadow behind his own.

He fell in love. Not with Vespucci, but with his crimes. He fell in love. Emotion saturated him; he could imagine the smell of blood and the skin of the women, he could feel their flesh between his teeth and climaxed in his dreams.

Two years passed, by which time he considered himself the foremost authority on Angelico Vespucci. Let the fat queer Ravenscourt think he held the crown, he would prove to everyone that he was Vespucci’s premier admirer and natural successor. So he pleaded for guidance, threw himself on every listening devil, and asked for a way to absorb the Italian. To relive the Italian. To become the Italian. The reply was simple. He was to copy The Skin Hunter , in every detail. He would kill on the same dates, choosing the same kinds of women and skinning them as his predecessor had done. But he had to choose victims who had some link to Vespucci.

It was harder than he imagined. Vespucci had been famous in his time, but the Venetians seemed to want to scrub him from the records, and Italian libraries had little history of their killer. Persistent, he shifted through libraries and papers, and if he discovered a connection with any woman, he took it as a sign that she was to be a victim.

His hatred for the normal world increased. While engaged in research he was patronised by scholars and dismissed by art dealers. His amateur questions provoked scorn in them, their learning waved like an Olympian torch to illuminate his own kindergarten efforts. In all the time he researched Angelico Vespucci he was shown no kindness from the art world. Instead he was made to feel inferior, a common, ill-educated tyro.

As his admiration for Vespucci grew, his loathing of the art world intensified – and an addendum to his original plan took form. He would emulate The Skin Hunter and belittle the art world at the same time. Give them the runaround. Humiliate them as they had humiliated him. But in order to damage his enemy, he knew he had first to get close.

Idly, he touched his victim’s face on the computer screen, scanning all the images he had taken of her. She would be the fourth, the last of The Skin Hunter’s victims. She would be a masterpiece …

Closing his eyes, he leaned back. Well-spoken, if despised, he had made himself the perfect straight man for some of the biggest egos in the art world. His abuse at the hands of Farina Ahmadi had amused him – yes, he felt it, his determination to see her thwarted a direct result of her foulmouthed hectoring.

And then there had been Triumph Jones. Charismatic, knowledgeable, unbeaten Triumph Jones … Driven by some instinct, he had travelled to New York. The art world was a predictable place. The dealers handled fortunes but paid their staff a pittance. So if some personable young man offers to work for even less, he is let in.

Of course he is not seen.

The dealers bob in their shiny bubble immune to the staff.

He is not heard either.

Who notices a pillar?

Who thinks a rug can understand?

In time he becomes indispensably invisible. Silently doing their bidding, without cluttering up their space.

It took him over a year to penetrate the vacuum around Triumph Jones. Twelve months of serving, dogsbodying, eating humble pie like a duke would eat swan. He learnt, because he read the dealer’s impressive book collection; he researched, because he was trusted; and no one – no one – expected the diffident Englishman would want to scurry endlessly through the forgotten archives. By the time he left Triumph Jones, he had darned most of the holes in his impressive body of research on Angelico Vespucci.

And then fate – the pretty witch – took an interest. On returning to England he was looking for employment and found it working at a country house. A country house with an old library, and an even older connection to Angelico Vespucci. A family connection, a blood tie.

He was singing, even in his sleep.

When he moved on from Norfolk he was ready, and all the little tendrils he had laid twitched with the music of knowledge. Having impregnated the art world through the thin skin of its belly, he was privy to information on the street. The porters talked. The receptionists gossiped. He heard of the Titian surfacing but did not know who had it. Rumours flourished like mushrooms in muck, Triumph Jones laying a PR trail to whip up a frenzy, an orgasm of desire. And when the American had finished churning up the art world, he resurrected the legend. When the portrait emerges, so will the man.

It was genius, fucking genius, he thought. It sent a tingle up the spines from New York to London, London to Dubai, Dubai to Venice. And it let him in. What better time to copy the works of Vespucci? What better time to bring him back from death? He had an excuse now. He had permission. He had a ready audience. Superstition was potent; even the most stolid could not fail to wonder if some demon had been roused.

He slipped up once. Suddenly the trail of the painting dried up. He even thought he had lost it. But within a day he had picked up clues which led to Gaspare Reni. The dealer had been old, but feisty. And when he left the convent gallery he brought the Titian home and hung it in his cupboard. At night he opened the doors and stared at it. His knives were sharpened, his wits also. He watched Seraphina Morgan and thought of her ancestor, the Whore of Venice, and was obsessed.

His first victim was a revelation. That surprised him, as did the amount of blood which came from her when he punctured the skin. He had mutilated her in Venice in a rented cellar next to an abandoned warehouse, then put her in the hired launch and taken her over to St Michael at night. It seemed the right place – in with the dead. The work had been hard, taking a long time, exhausting him so much that once he drove a knife deep into her stomach, churning it around the organs in fury. When he pulled it out again, he was ashamed. The skin was spoilt.

He would not do that again.

48

Pushing aside one book, Nino reached for another, avoiding Gaspare’s intense stare. Together they had worked through most of the dealer’s extensive art history collection, the bulk of which covered the Italian Renaissance, and the time when Titian and Angelico Vespucci had been active. Nino had known from the start that it was a long shot, more than a little doubtful that he would come across some fact in among the academic theories. But he had hoped.

And had been disappointed.

Exasperated, he had then turned to the internet. The email he had sent to the chat room of the Vespucci site had been ignored, and Jobo Kido had not been in touch since they’d parted. Instinctively mistrusting the dealer, Nino’s attention turned to Triumph Jones. But although he was out of hospital, the American had not been forthcoming when he’d called him earlier.

‘Can’t you think of anything that might help?’

‘How would I know who the next victim is?’ Triumph replied, his voice dropping at the end of the line. He sounded lethargic, wavering. ‘Maybe there won’t be another killing.’

‘You believe that?’

‘No …’

‘So help me. Have you had any further contact about the Titian?’

‘I think we both know the answer to that,’ Triumph replied. ‘The painting’s gone to ground. If any dealer in the art world had it, I’d have heard. If anyone else has it, they’re not telling me – even for a reward.’

‘You don’t think that your mugging was connected?’

‘I think a man who’s a big enough fool to walk in Central Park after dark deserves everything that’s coming to him.’ He sounded defeated. ‘But, Mr Bergstrom, if you’re asking me where I think the Titian is now, I think the killer has it.’

‘But how could he keep it quiet?’

‘Maybe it’s in another country. Maybe it’s in your country. Maybe someone destroyed it.’

‘No, it’s too valuable.’

‘Really?’ Triumph said, ringing off.

Moving back to the computer, Nino typed in the name Vespucci and then looked at the listings. He had investigated every entry several times before and learnt nothing he didn’t already know. Flicking on the table lamp, he glanced over at Gaspare. The dealer was reading again, concentrating, his glasses magnifying his eyes.

‘Gaspare?’

He looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘We have to go through this, step by step.’

‘All right,’ the old man said patiently.

‘Seraphina had the painting, and she was related to the Contessa di Fattori.’

Exasperated, Gaspare slammed his book shut.

‘Dear God, not again! We’ve gone through this a hundred times.’

‘And we’re missing something!’ Nino retorted. ‘Sally Egan did a copy of the Vespucci portrait—’

‘Which no longer exists. Or so Farina Ahmadi says.’

‘You think she’s lying?’

‘She’s breathing,’ Gaspare said, raising his eyebrows, ‘so she could be lying.’

‘Harriet Forbes wrote an article on Vespucci.’

‘Did you read it?’

‘Yeah, it was interesting.’

‘For him or against him?’

‘She’s dead. What do you think?’ Nino remarked wryly. ‘So what other areas could there be?’

Taking off his glasses, Gaspare yawned. Then he straightened up in his seat, turning to Nino.

‘History.’

‘I’ve researched the time that Vespucci lived, but not found anything written about him that we haven’t already seen. Nothing particular—’

‘Did you look in Italy? The Italian universities have History departments. Maybe they’d have something extra on Vespucci?’

Nino shook his head. ‘There’s nothing online.’

‘I don’t mean on the internet! Let’s do it the old-fashioned way,’ Gaspare admonished him. ‘Let’s pick the brains of tutors, scholars, historians.’ He reached for his address book and thumbed through the pages, throwing it down and picking up another from his desk drawer. Peering through his glasses, he made a clucking sound with his tongue and then waved the book in front of Nino. ‘Professor Cesare Lombardo!’

‘Who is?’

‘About ninety,’ Gaspare replied, pulling a face. ‘But when I knew him he was the foremost authority on the Renaissance painters in Venice.’

‘He’s an art historian. Vespucci was a merchant—’

‘Who was painted by Titian. If Lombardo’s still alive, he’ll be worth talking to.’

Reaching for the phone, Gaspare put in a call to Rome, his voice rising with impatience as he talked. Fluent in Italian, Nino could follow what he was saying – that the Professor had been moved into a nursing home. He was fit, if frail. Writing down the number, Gaspare dialled again.

Asking for Professor Lombardo, he was gentle when he was put through.

‘How are you, sir?’ he asked, his tone respectful. ‘This is Gaspare, Gaspare Reni … Yes, I’m well … living in London. You sound good, very good …’ He laughed, amused. ‘Yes, we are both still alive. I need some help, Professor. I’m looking for information on a man who was painted by Titian – his name was Angelico Vespucci. And it’s your speciality, that period …’ There was a pause, then more conversation, and Gaspare made notes. ‘Yes, yes, I know all that. I was thinking of anything more in-depth about The Skin Hunter. Perhaps you know of someone with specialised knowledge? … I see, Mr Patrick Dewick. He had a special interest … And where is he? … A hospital in London? Most illuminating …’ He glanced at Nino, his expression incredulous. ‘And Jonathan Ravenscourt wanted to talk to him. Yes, I know of Mr Ravenscourt. Did he speak with Mr Dewick? Did you pass this information on to him? …’

Nino was holding his breath without knowing why.

‘… No … As you say, Professor, there are people we confide in and people we mistrust … I thank you for your help … grazie. Grazie. Ciao.’

Replacing the phone in its cradle, Gaspare glanced at Nino. ‘He gave me the name of a male nurse who works in Ealing – Patrick Dewick. Mean anything?’

‘No, but Sally Egan was a care worker. They could have met that way. He lives in London, so did she.’ Nino paused, trying to contain his excitement. ‘But why would a nurse study Vespucci?’

‘Patrick Dewick is a psychiatric nurse,’ Gaspare replied. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

BOOK FIVE

Venice, December 1555

They found part of the skin at noon on Sunday, hanging outside the church, fluttering like a bloodied flag in the east wind. The priest cut it down and took it away, we do not know where. Some say it is a new victim, but I hear the hide fits part of the portion taken from Claudia Moroni.

But there is more. The scapegoat has been named, at last. The suspect who will absolve Vespucci’s guilt. I heard it spoken outside the studio of Titian, saw how the crowd mumbled the name, then fell hushed. Aretino came out to talk, his eyes lowered as though he could not bear to be the carrier of such news.

He said my friend is innocent, and the man who has done these deeds is Pomponio.

Pomponio, son of Titian. Pomponio, brother of Octavio. Pomponio, priest of the Catholic church, estranged from his father. Pomponio, feckless, a wanton spendthrift, cut off from his family as a waster. Pomponio, the braggart, the idle, but The Skin Hunter?

The rumour traversed Venice within the hour, Aretino visiting his friend, pleading with Titian to listen to him. That it grieved him to impart such news. That he was forced to speak to protect an innocent man …

I watched him talk, puffed up with bile and cunning, Titian motionless, without words. His hand gripped the paintbrush he held, his eyes turning to the man he had counted as his dearest friend.

‘Pomponio is my son …’

Dropping his head, Aretino glanced down. I watched him. As ever, he did not see me, but I saw him. Saw him nail the foolish Pomponio to a scapegoat’s cross.

All of Venice knew of the bad blood between the father and the son, but he was Titian’s child, for all his carelessness. For all his idleness, his greed, for all his loathing of the priestly vestments that he was made to wear, he was the artist’s son. Less than his brother in talent, no match for his father’s genius, a reluctant and unsteady priest.

But still his father’s son.

And Aretino thought him worth the sacrifice. Throw Pomponio to the mob, to let Vespucci be … I knew his reasoning: his callousness would justify his claim. Pomponio was no credit to his father, what loss so poor an heir? I could imagine how easy Aretino would have come upon his plan, picking a powerless victim to shield his own interests.

Nothing would be allowed to harm the merchant. Vespucci could take us all to hell and Aretino would stand apologist for him. And all to save exposure. To save the artist knowing of his deceit. To save a fall from grace as great as that of Icarus.

We are to consider Pomponio The Skin Hunter. A mediocre man, a reluctant priest, to set the mob talking. And thinking. Perhaps Titian had banished him because he suspected his son? Perhaps he was privy to horrors committed and exiled Pomponio to ensure his child’s escape? Perhaps this mild and vapid man could kill and fool us by his calf-soft ways?

By choosing the artist’s son Aretino picks himself a lamb. But the lamb was raised with lions. The lions of St Mark’s. While Aretino holds his suspect high to take the coming arrows, he shows his unclothed hand. Ruthless and unloving, he miscalculates. Loyalty lies with blood, not friendship.

He has betrayed his friend, and Titian knows it. Knows not of the monetary thefts but of Aretino’s wickedness of heart. While Titian hears the mob outside his gates, while I hear people calling for Pomponio, while Vespucci slides through the mire of his own making, Titian grieves. He grieves for his child, and in grieving might rear up like a lion to strike against those who would injure his own.

I know it. Only I.

The accusation will not stand. But Aretino has made it, and in doing so, has marked his own demise.

The city is tormented. Cloud, heavy with fog, disguises the buildings and hides the water’s edge. There is even talk of snow.

And, in silence, we await another death.