Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

All night I sat beside the window, watching. The sick moon, weary of staring, ambled behind a covering of cloud. On the black surface of the water which surrounded us, waves curled and unfurled themselves, lurching inanely at an angry tide.

I am afraid of water and that night its darkness shivered within me. I thought what horrors there might lie beneath, what wrecks and bones of desperate men, what secrets, purses, weapons and close weeds shuddered within the depths. I wondered how the water would press down, how the cold might seep into the lungs, how someone quick and living would soon slide into that murky hollow.

It was seven in the morning when the church bell rang. It rang like a call to arms, and wakened me. Leaving the house, I ran to the sound, knowing before I arrived what I would find there.

Beautiful still. She had once been as wild and savage as an animal, but now she was quiet. Slowly the Contessa di Fattori was hauled out of the winnowing tide. Her face was ruined, her eyes fixed, her body still perfect in its shape, but flayed. And around her wrist a ribbon had been tied, a label fluttering in a bitter breeze.

It was the first day of January, 1556. And it came in with the tide and the body of a woman murdered only a little while before, in the dying hours of the dying year.

She was unrecognisable and the only identity her killer had given her was on the label:

The Whore of Venice.

57

Norfolk

Rushing into the yard, Nino was just in time to see a man running down the driveway. Moments later he heard a car start up and watched as the headlights illuminated the lane and then disappeared into the darkness. So there had been someone in the house, someone who had managed to get Harold Greyly drunk or drugged, someone who had wanted him incapacitated. And there could be only one reason for that – the intruder had needed time. Time to search, without being interrupted. But what had he been looking for?

Back in the house, Nino checked on Harold. He was unconscious, snoring loudly, his legs splayed in front of him. Unrecognisable from the arrogant Army man Nino had first met. Walking over to the grate, he damped down the blaze with the water Greyly presumably used to mix his whisky, worried that the chimney night catch fire. Or maybe that was what the intruder had wanted. Intruder? Nino wondered. Or killer?

It was too much of a coincidence to believe this had been a mere break-in. This had been planned by someone who knew Harold Greyly and the house. Someone who had come for a specific reason: to search. Perhaps they had known exactly where to look, and hoped that by banking up the fire so recklessly there might be an accident after they had left. And there would have been if Nino hadn’t turned up.

Instinct told him that the intruder hadn’t found what he wanted. Otherwise he would have left as soon as Nino arrived so as not to risk discovery. If he’d got what he had come for why would he have stayed around, eavesdropping? Perhaps he had hoped that Nino, finding Harold Greyly drunk and insensible, would leave. One thing was certain: he hadn’t expected him to stay. And when he did, there was only one option left to the intruder – to run.

Moving into the library beyond the sitting room, Nino flicked on the lights. The collection was remarkable: antiquarian tomes of notable value rubbing shoulders with copies of modern classics. Fingering an Ian Fleming first edition, he turned to an Agatha Christie, his gaze moving upwards from the lower bookshelves. Using the library steps, he climbed up to the top row of books, where a Boccaccio leant bullishly against a Shakespeare First Folio. Scanning the spines, Nino remembered what Hester Greyly had said about how the family had amassed an impressive number of books over the centuries, some of which were extraordinarily rare.

A noise from the sitting room made Nino freeze, then he heard the unmistakable sound of Harold’s snoring begin again and relaxed. Pushing the library steps to the other side of the room, he climbed up to look at the highest shelf and was surprised to see a collection of plays, written in Russian, Chinese and Italian. Taking a volume down, he glanced at the content, then replaced it, stretching for another book. But in doing so, he overreached and lost his footing on the steps. Slipping, he grabbed at the shelves to stop his fall. But instead of supporting him the top two shelves came away from the wall, falling on top of him.

Several books landed on his head and shoulders before he could scramble back to his feet. Relieved to see that the noise hadn’t roused Harold Greyly in the sitting room, he returned to the library. Picking up the books and putting them on the library table, he rested the broken shelving against the wall and glanced up to look at the damage. There was a gap of about three feet by four feet, and it exposed an area of what appeared to be fresh plasterwork. Something wasn’t right. Climbing back up the library steps, Nino’s hand went out towards the plaster.

Immediately it gave way.

Instead of resisting his pressure, the plasterwork was little more than putty as Nino’s hand pushed through into a cramped cavity behind. Scrambling around the aperture, his fingers closed over several thin volumes.

Surprised, he pulled out the first and saw the title:

Assassini Italiani Famosi

Then he read what followed.

Uno degli assassini Italiani piu malfamati era il commerciante venezian. Angelico Vespucci, ce e stato conosciuto come il cacciatore della pelle.

It was easy to translate: One of the most infamous Italian murderers was the Venetian merchant, Angelico Vespucci, who became known as The Skin Hunter.

Hurriedly, Nino flicked over the first page to look at the frontispiece. And there was an engraving of the Titian painting, Vespucci’s bulbous eyes staring at him. Reaching up again, he felt around the back of the cavity, bringing down two other volumes. One was a bulky, well-worn book entitled:

Assassini, che mutilato le loro vittime. L’Italia, XVº secolo allo XVIº secolo.

‘Murderers, who mutilated their victims. Italy, 15th century to the 16th century.’

But it was the last volume which chilled him. It was barely thirty pages in length, written in longhand, aged, weathered, the paper breaking up around the edges. Climbing down the library steps, Nino moved over to the table and took a seat, reading the following:

Le vittime del cacciatore della pelle erano la suoi moglie, Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti e Melania, Contessa di Fattori

It was a list of Vespucci’s victims. But that wasn’t what jolted Nino, it was what he found in among the pages. Additional notes. Newly written, in a modern hand. A list of The Skin Hunter’s victims together with the list of their modern-day counterparts.

Larissa Vespucci

Seraphina Morgan

Claudia Moroni

Sally Egan

Lena Arranti

Harriet Forbes

Melania di Fattori

Rac

He was just about the read the last name when he was struck from behind. The impact of the blow was so violent that it propelled him forward, his head striking the edge of the library table and knocking him unconscious.

58

The persistent ringing of his mobile brought Nino round as he scrabbled in his pocket to answer it.

‘What?’

‘Mr Bergstrom? This is Louisa Forbes, Harriet Forbes’ sister … Are you OK?’

Nauseated, the blood pumping in his ears, Nino straightened up in his seat and looked around him. Books were scattered all over the floor, but he could see at once that the three volumes he had found were gone. And the name of the last victim had escaped him too. He had had it in his hand and lost it. All but the first letters: Rac.

‘Mr Bergstrom?’ Louisa asked again. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, getting to his feet and locking the house doors front and back. He could see the sleeping figure of Harold Greyly in the sitting room and pulled the door closed so that he wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Why are you ringing?’

‘I’ve found something,’ she said. ‘Look, I can talk to you another time. I shouldn’t have rung – it’s Christmas Day.’

‘Believe me, nothing you could do could make it worse,’ Nino replied, holding some kitchen towel to the wound at the back of his head. ‘Why aren’t you at home with your family?’

‘I am,’ she said quietly. ‘I just sneaked out to call you. I’ve been going through my sister’s belongings. I’ve gone through them repeatedly. To be honest, I don’t want to. I don’t want to let go of her …’

He could imagine her intelligent face, her determination to do something, anything, which would help.

‘Harriet had a stack of papers, like everyone. Accounts, bills. No diaries, I’m afraid – nothing that easy. I checked all her friends and no one could tell me anything that might point to who killed her. Her work colleagues knew her and liked her, and there didn’t seem to be anything unusual about her life. She hadn’t made enemies.’ She paused, dropping her voice so that she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘You know Harriet wrote that piece on Vespucci …’

‘The magazine folded.’

‘Yes, it did. But one of Harriet’s old colleagues knew the proprietor and gave me his name. I phoned him and he remembered Harriet, said she had talent. He remembered the piece very well – “A very erudite article on a very macabre subject.” He recalled my sister because he had wanted to use her again, but had lost her contact details. Poor Harriet, if only she’d known …’

‘Go on.’

‘I asked him if he’d talked to my sister about the Vespucci article, and he said they’d chatted, because he was impressed by Harriet’s research. He asked her which reference books she’d used and who her contacts were. Apparently Harriet told him that there had been a couple of people, a man and a woman, who’d helped with the research.’

Alert, Nino pushed her. ‘Who were they?’

‘He didn’t remember the man’s name. Harriet just said he’d been difficult and she’d never go to him again. But he did remember something about the woman. She was called Rachel.’

Rachel – Rac.

Nino took in a breath. ‘Rachel what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Louisa could tell it meant something. ‘Is it important?’

‘Yes, I think it is.’

‘Apparently Rachel was involved in the theatre, but I don’t know how. She could have worked there, or been an actor, or in management. Or even a financial backer. The publisher didn’t know, but Harriet mentioned to him that this Rachel woman had been involved in a play about Vespucci.’

The words reverberated in Nino’s head. So that was the contact. Not a relative. Not a painting. Not an article. This time it was theatre.

‘She wanted to put on a play about Vespucci?’ Nino shook his head. ‘Jesus, which theatre?’

‘He didn’t know.’

‘But he must have some idea!’

‘No,’ Louisa replied firmly. ‘I pressed him, but he wasn’t being evasive – he really didn’t know. He would have told me, I’m sure of it. He’d liked Harriet and wanted to help and he was shocked by her death … He’s sent me an email with everything he remembers. I was going to send it on to you.’

‘Do.’

‘He also mentioned all the press coverage on Vespucci—’

‘Yes, I saw something this morning,’ Nino replied, dabbing at the back of his head, the wound still bleeding. ‘I was hoping they might leave it alone until after Christmas.’

‘What, a story like that?’ She seemed bitter. ‘You know the press – they couldn’t resist it. My phone’s been ringing off the hook. Apparently they want to know all the details of my sister’s death. It’s big news, Mr Bergstrom – young women skinned in different countries round the world. Some lunatic copying Angelico Vespucci’s work.’

‘And the website’s stirring it all up, whipping everyone into a fever.’

Louisa paused, controlling herself. ‘There’s only a week left, isn’t there?’

‘Until the anniversary of the last victim? Yes.’

‘You can catch him,’ she said emphatically. ‘I know you can.’

He wondered at her confidence. He had a first name and he knew the connection between the mysterious Rachel and Angelico Vespucci. But that was all. He had no surname, no theatre. No country even. She could be anywhere on earth.

‘If only I knew where the theatre was—’

‘It’ll be in a capital city,’ Louisa replied, thinking back. ‘Harriet had been travelling – I didn’t know why then, but she said she had something to find out in London or New York.’

She rushed on. ‘Maybe we could contact this Rachel woman? Or put out a search for her? God knows, there’s enough in the media to catch her interest. She must know about the killings and Vespucci now. So why hasn’t she come forward?’

‘Maybe she hasn’t made the connection,’ Nino replied. ‘People write about the Boston Strangler and Jack the Ripper all the time – it doesn’t mean that they expect someone to come after them—’

‘But she must have read about someone copying Vespucci.’

‘She may have done, but so what? They make films, plays, books about murderers constantly. There’s an industry out there thriving on serial killers. Rachel won’t be overly worried. She probably thinks she’s just another person interested in the Italian. Killers don’t go after everyone who reads about them, otherwise half the population would be wiped out.’

‘You’ve got to find her,’ Louisa went on, her agitation obvious. ‘You have to find her.’

‘I will. Unless—’

‘He’s already got to her?’

‘Or she’s somewhere remote.’

‘You think she’s hiding?’

‘She could be,’ Nino agreed. ‘She might have taken fright. Or she might be spending the holidays away from home. Gone for a break somewhere quiet, away from people.’

‘Perhaps …’ Louise’s voice was questioning, ‘we should go to the police?’

‘And tell them what? They’ll know all about Vespucci now – the press have seen to that. And they must have made the connection between the murders. That last entry on the website made it clear what the killer was up to. He’s even advertising his next performance on the first of January.’

‘But—’

‘I can’t tell the police anything they don’t already know.’

‘Except what we know about the next victim.’

‘And what do we know?’ Nino countered. ‘She’s called Rachel, and she’s involved in a play about Vespucci. That’s all.’ He sighed. ‘The police have plenty of manpower, but they don’t understand what this is all about. I do. I was in it from the start. I’m ahead of the police. I’ve been in contact with the killer—’

He could hear her take in a breath. ‘You know who he is?’

‘I know who he was. Who he is now, I have to find out.’

‘So do it,’ Louisa said firmly. ‘And find Rachel – before he does.’

59

After finishing his conversation with Louisa, Nino went back into the sitting room. Harold Greyly was still sleeping, his breathing drugged, his neck bent awkwardly over the back of his chair. Worried that he might choke if he vomited, Nino slid a cushion under his head and turned off all but a single lamp. As the room darkened, the dogs woke and followed him out into the back garden. Cautious, Nino glanced down the lane. It was empty. He locked the gate, walked back into the house with the spaniels, and bolted the front and back doors.

The freezing winter air had revived his senses, his head clearing as he helped himself to food from the fridge and checked his mobile. Hearing the message left by Patrick Dewick, he immediately rang him back – only to get his voicemail. Disappointed, Nino walked into the sitting room and stared at Harold Greyly. Obviously he wouldn’t be waking any time soon, which gave Nino a welcome opportunity to search the house further. He might have lost the hidden books – and the killer’s notes – but the question uppermost in his mind was why they had been hidden in Courtford Hall in the first place.

Someone had taken a great deal of trouble to conceal the books. Someone with intimate knowledge of the house. Someone with access and time to move the shelves, create their hiding place, and disguise it. No stranger could have pulled off such a coup. It would have taken time and effort. The work of an insider … Nino frowned. Perhaps Hester had investigated Vespucci herself. Or had it been Harold Greyly? He wasn’t the killer, that much was obvious now. He had been unconscious when Nino was attacked. So what was the connection? Simply the relationship between Claudia and The Skin Hunter? The hidden taboo in a respectable family’s past? Or her terrible murder?

The blood was drying on his head. Nino could feel it crusting over and realised how it must look against the pure white of his hair, making him even more conspicuous. But what did that matter now? The killer knew who – and where – he was. In a remote place, with a drugged man, trying to understand why a murderer had chosen to hide his notes in a country house in Norfolk.

But why hadn’t he killed him when he had the chance?

Was this his home? Was this where he had been hiding out? Was he a member of the Greyly family? If so, was that why Harold Greyly had been so much on the defensive? Moving over to the desk under the library window, Nino searched the drawers, finding nothing more than stationery and bills. The centre drawer opened without resistance. Apparently there were no locks in Courtford Hall. Even feeling behind the desk, and beneath it, gave up no secrets.

If he was going to hide something, Nino asked himself, where would he put it? The room gazed back at him impassively as he searched, pulling the cushions off the seats to check that there was nothing hidden underneath and looking behind every painting. Curtains were shaken, linings examined, shutters opened and closed, window seats plundered, rugs lifted and shaken – but with no result. He drew a complete blank.

So perhaps there was a safe?

Moving back to the sitting room, Nino bent down towards the stupefied man and shook him awake. ‘Have you got a safe?’

‘Whaaat?’

‘Where’s the safe?’

Greyly’s lips were furred with saliva. ‘What safe?’

‘You have a safe. Where is it?’

‘No safe!’ he slurred.

‘All right, let’s try another tack. Who came here today? There was someone here – I heard them. They left, then came back and attacked me.’ Nino shook Harold violently. ‘Wake up! I need you. Who came here today?’

He could see a shift in Greyly’s expression, from slackness to unease.

‘No one! I’ve told you. No one … No one comes here any more …’

Nino didn’t believe him. Someone had been there. Someone Harold knew and feared.

‘Was it a member of your family?’

‘They’ve gone …’

‘You said you’d sent the staff home for Christmas,’ Nino persisted. ‘Did one of them come back? Did they try and rob you?’ He shook the man urgently. ‘Wake up! I need your help – you let them in. There was no break-in, so you knew them. You opened the door to them, so you must have trusted them. If not now, once. Who was it?’ He jerked Harold upright, holding him by the lapels of his jacket. ‘Look at me! Concentrate. Tell me the names of your staff.’

‘Let me sleep!’

‘Tell me their names!’

‘Let me sleep!’

‘You can sleep after you’ve told me.’

Harold’s eyes tried to focus, but failed, his voice a mumble. ‘Mr and Mrs Harrison, the cook … the gardener, Len … Len Owen … All been with me for years … All bloody old, on their last legs.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Edward.’

‘Edward? Who’s Edward?’

His head was rolling, his voice blurred.

‘Edward Hillstone. My assistant …’

Letting go of him, Nino stepped back. The memory returned, sharp and clear. When he had first come to Court-ford Hall, Harold had wanted him to make an appointment with his assistant. And that assistant had been Edward Hillstone. A diffident young man in the background. Edward Hillstone. Eddie Hillstone. Eddie Ketch … Dear God, Nino thought, was he the killer? Vespucci’s impersonator? Had he found him? If so, Hillstone would have been ideally placed. The Greyly family had a connection with Angelico Vespucci: an ancestor murdered by the Venetian. At Court-ford Hall the killer would have access to the library, would be able to read the books on Vespucci and hide his own notes where no one would find them. Harold Greyly wasn’t interested in the collection – he would have left Hillstone to his own devices, left him to his research and plotting, to his immersion in the legend of The Skin Hunter.

Moving fast, Nino left the room, making for the upper floors. He found the master bedroom, guest rooms and bathrooms, then followed a narrow corridor which led to the servants’ quarters in another wing. He was running, only pausing when he reached a door on the third floor. The only one locked. Kicking at the handle, he broke the lock and entered.

The bedroom was cramped and extended a long way, half of its floor space under the sloping eaves. All the available wall surface was covered with bookshelves and a copy of the Vespucci painting loomed above the narrow bed.

The room was Spartan, neat, without character apart from the books and portrait. In the wardrobe were a few pairs of jeans and some T-shirts, a couple of fleeces neatly folded. On the bedside table was a copy of The Book Collector and an alarm clock set to eight a.m. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing unlike a thousand other bedrooms occupied by single men.

Frowning, Nino glanced around, opening some of the books and shaking them to see if there were any loose pages. Nothing. He continued his search, looking behind the books and under the shelves. Again, nothing. Wondering if he was suspecting the wrong man, he turned back to the wardrobe and opened it again. A long mirror on the back of the door caught his attention, a tiny edge of paper poking out at the corner. Pulling the mirror off the door, Nino stared at the collage in front of him.

The photographs told him he was on to the right man. There were some of Edward Hillstone, others of a young woman – a slim woman, dressed casually. But in every one her face had been blacked out with a felt-tipped pen. He thought of Patrick Dewick’s message. Was this the woman who had broken the killer’s heart? Or was this the next victim? Was this Rachel?

One thing was certain: Edward Hillstone had picked his lair with skill. Courtford Hall was the perfect place from which to operate. It was remote, with a pompous employer unlikely to fraternise with the staff. Hillstone would have been a faultless employee – quiet, efficient, determined not to draw attention to himself. And all the time he was working as Harold Greyly’s assistant, he would have had access to the prodigious and arcane library.

Had Hillstone already known about Claudia Moroni when he first came to Courtford Hall? Or did he find out later, when his fascination with Vespucci grew? For an experienced researcher, it wouldn’t have been difficult to discover that Claudia Moroni had once been a member of the Greyly family. And in researching Claudia, Edward would have researched the three other victims. Stoking up his obsession, probably enjoying the added frisson of living in a family who had experienced The Skin Hunter’s deviation first hand.

Nino could feel his heart pulsing as he flung back the mattress on the bed, hoping to find another selection of photographs. But that would have been too obvious for Hillstone. Hurriedly, he looked around, then tapped the floorboards. Nothing loose. He walked to the window, pulled back the shutters – but there was nothing to be found. There were more photographs, Nino knew it – but where? Then another idea came to him and he moved over to the door. It had been repanelled and he levered apart the space between the original and the façade. The photographs fell at his feet. Some were of Venice, horribly familiar – the exact place where the body of Seraphina had been discovered. Other prints were of a woman he recognised as Sally Egan. Some had been taken through her kitchen window, others were snaps of her walking home, a solitary figure under the dismal street light. And then there were the photographs of her skinned body.

He had taken the shots from all angles, her flayed corpse laid out on a plastic sheet, her skin placed neatly beside her like a lover. Repelled, Nino hurried through the other photographs, hesitating when he came to a shot of the airport in Tokyo and another image, of Harriet Forbes, sitting alone at a café window. The last prints were of Greenfield’s Hospital, where Eddie Ketch had worked. Only it wasn’t Eddie Ketch any more, it was Edward Hillstone.

Moving over to the desk, Nino looked for a computer, but there wasn’t one. Hillstone wasn’t that stupid. He had taken the most incriminating evidence with him. He might have been rushed, but he had made sure he took the laptop and the notes. As for the photographs he had left behind, perhaps he thought he would be able to explain them away. Or maybe he didn’t care any more. Maybe being recognised as the killer was what he wanted.

But Nino knew one thing: Edward Hillstone wasn’t going to let himself be caught yet. Not until after the last murder. Then he might even give himself up, surrender to the notoriety which would be his by rights. When Rachel was dead – when he had mutiliated and killed her – then he would stop. In the meantime he was deliberately raising the price on his head. Putting up the Titian as a reward for his capture. Tainting the world with his promise of the bloodletting to come.

Of course there was no sign of the Titian portrait. Edward Hillstone would hardly risk having that in his possession. The painting was somewhere else entirely. Glancing around the bedroom, Nino looked at the upheaval he had caused – the overturned bed, the photographs scattered over the floorboards – and then he leaned forward, taking a closer look.

His gaze fixed on one of the pictures in which the face of the young woman had been blacked out. But across her chest was written one word:

JEX

He recognised the name at once. It was the name used by the creator of the Vespucci website. But it wasn’t the name that caught Nino’s eye, it was the background of the photograph. The image was grainy, hard to make out, but he could decipher a few letters on what seemed to be a hoarding. The last word was THEATRE. The first word was half blocked by the woman’s figure, only the first syllable visible – HA.

Nino held his breath. He was certain that the woman in the picture was Rachel, and that he was now looking at a part of the name of the very theatre where she worked. HA … THEATRE. How many theatres had names which began with HA? Not that many. Nino’s hopes lifted for the first time in days. He had a lead, a chance to find the last victim.

He had a week.

A week to save her.

A week to stop Hillstone.