Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

60

Ginza, Tokyo, 27 December

That morning there had been a new entry on the website angelicovespucci.1555.com. It read:

Angelico Vespucci’s triumph is close. Only five days left. Only one victim remains.

As he had done repeatedly over the previous nine days, Jobo Kido entered the chat room of the site, trying vainly to conjure up a reply.

Jobo: Why don’t you respond?

There was no answer, just the taunting message, making the killer’s intention clear to everyone who visited the site. And his work wasn’t confined to the internet any longer. Newspapers, magazines and television had picked up on the story and were running with it. It made the police look foolish. There were so many officers in so many different countries, but they couldn’t find one man.

The lack of forensic evidence didn’t help. The killer had left some DNA, but he wasn’t on file in Italy, USA, Japan or the UK. His blood group was O, the most common, and as he had had no sexual relations with the victims, there was no sperm. He had committed the murders, taken the skins, and – to all intents and purposes – disappeared.

In five days the last victim would be dead, and Jobo still hadn’t worked out the connection which would ensure that the Titian became his … The killer’s silence chided him. Obviously his failure merited no communication. Jobo Kido had had his chance, and failed. He would never hang the Titian in his Rogues’ Gallery, never use it make his gory collection respectable. Instead it would go to someone who didn’t understand and appreciate it.

His only consolation was the agony of his rivals. Triumph Jones was melting like an ice cream in July, his composure soggy. As for the foul-mouthed Farina Ahmadi, she was sulking in Turkey, cheated out of her victory. She might have twisted and coiled herself into a variety of modes and moods, but all her machinations had got her precisely nowhere.

The killer had the Titian, and apparently he was keeping it … Jobo wondered about that, feeling a momentary shiver of hope. What would happen when the murderer was caught? Who would get the painting then? The answer was unpalatable – it would be impounded as evidence. Locked away with DNA samples and carpet fibres.

Desperate, he turned back to the computer.

Jobo: Are you there?

Silence.

Jobo: Why don’t you talk to me?

To his amazement, he finally got a response.

Answer: Welcome, Mr Kido. Have you solved the puzzle yet?

Jobo: I thought you’d gone.

Answer: Gone where? I told you, I’m everywhere. So tell me, have you solved my little riddle? Have you made the connection?

Jobo: How long have I got?

Answer: I think that’s a no, isn’t it? What if I were to say that I’d give you as long as my last victim has to live? Solve the puzzle by the 1st January and the painting’s yours.

Jobo: Do I have your word on that?

Answer: Don’t be tiresome, Mr Kido. Solve it, or lose it.

61

Edward Hillstone felt so powerful he had an erection. Every newspaper he had seen over the past two days had borne some reference to him. On the television news he was discussed, and there was even a debate about him on Newsnight. He’d enjoyed that, even laughed, which wasn’t something that came easily to him.

As for Nino Bergstrom, his intervention had been aggravating. Hillstone had been so close to getting everything out of Courtford Hall, the sodden Harold Greyly letting him and then realising that his obedient minion wasn’t quite what he had seemed. Hillstone hadn’t been threatened by his employer’s bluster. Harold Greyly might think of himself as an Army man, but he was an ice soldier. A little heat and he was finished … Of course Hillstone knew that Nino Bergstrom would have found his room, and his belongings. And the photographs. In fact, he was relying on that, laying down a mosaic of clues which would develop into a shrine to his ingenuity.

Hillstone might admire, even worship, Angelico Vespucci, but as time went by he had found ways to enhance his devotion. Simple imitation wasn’t going to be enough – he was developing his own embellishments. Hillstone would never deny that the Italian had been his inspiration, but his appetite for violence had increased along with his desire for recognition. If he stuck to The Skin Hunter’s brief, he would merely be regarded as a copycat, always playing second fiddle to the hero.

Hillstone didn’t like the idea. Didn’t like to think that the last four years of dedication and research would result in Vespucci becoming famous, and him overshadowed. An imitator, nothing more. He wanted his own stab at notoriety, his own turn on the media merry-go-round. The Venetian had prompted him to murder, but Edward Hillstone was expanding its possibilities.

Like what he would do with the skins.

Musing, he wondered if Nino Bergstrom would uncover their hiding place and realised that he had misjudged the man. Dismissed him as an amateur sleuth, easy to dupe. His attention had been too focused on the dealers, in an effort to impress the people he despised. But Bergstrom had surprised him, gradually slotting together the disparate pieces – like Jobo Kido and Harold Greyly. But he would never find the next victim. Nino Bergstrom had only four days left, and the unsuspecting Rachel Pitt was lined up, ready for the kill. It didn’t worry him that his cache of photographs might have been found – it would only underline to whoever found it what they were up against.

Hillstone breathed in, imagining the sleek feel of her skin, the intricate peeling away from the red muscle underneath, the sticky blood flowing from all the nicked vessels as he took away her hide. He would do as he had done before, following Vespucci’s lead. First he would rinse the skin and hang it over a basin, then let it dry until it was stiffened. Only then would he take it down and knead some flexibility back into it, gently working the skin until it became pliable and easy to fold.

He liked that part the best: the folding of the hide, the careful arranging of it. Then he would secrete it, along with the other three skins … Thoughtful, Hillstone remembered the package he had sent to Jobo Kido. That had been a sensational move but reckless in hindsight, as it had left his collection incomplete. He had, once or twice, even thought of asking Kido to return it, but suspected that the dealer had either handed it over to the police or destroyed it.

No, Hillstone thought dismissively, Kido would never have gone to the police, because that would have meant questions, interference, the whole story of the Titian exposed. And then the painting impounded, lost to the courts. Not that Hillstone was going to let Jobo Kido have the portrait. He was just playing with him, teasing him, drawing the dealer into a combat which had only one winner: Hillstone. But it amused him to think of the Japanese connoisseur’s panicked outpourings in the chat room. He had been so frightened the night Hillstone had visited his gallery, pressing himself against the wall as he peered into the window. And later, almost wetting himself when Hillstone had rattled the door handle.

It had pleased him to see the aesthetic Jobo Kido squeal like a girl. So much for learning, for artistic excellence – so much for all his pompous posturing. He had been scared. Just like Triumph Jones … Rolling his head to loosen his neck muscles, Hillstone thought of the American. Of the ease with which he had been fooled. Of how, nudged in the required direction, he had followed like a farm dog working sheep. And how glamorous those sheep had been – Jobo Kido, Farina Ahmadi. Brilliant and wealthy and respected. And manipulated.

Hillstone enjoyed that, loved knowing that in London, New York and Tokyo his victims were panicking, with no idea what they were doing. So much for education, money and power – they were all chasing the same thing, mistrusting each other, and outsmarted by an amateur.

But in four days it would all be over. Rachel Pitt would round off the victims, his imitation of Vespucci complete. After that, he would disappear. Emulate the Venetian utterly. Dissolve into thin air as he had done. No one – not even Hillstone – knew where Vespucci had gone. If he had lived, or been murdered. Or if he had died of natural causes, old and silent, at ninety. All his painstaking research had failed on two counts. He had failed to discover how Angelico Vespucci died, or where The Skin Hunter had hidden his trophies.

Hillstone reached for the photographs in front of him, his gaze idling over the woman’s features for a moment before he gathered up his knives and scalpels and put the kettle on the hob. Rachel Pitt was curvaceous, sensual, attractive, he thought as he waited for the water to boil and then poured it over the metal instruments. He wanted them to be very clean, very sharp, so they wouldn’t tear her flesh. They had to cut evenly, so he could make a perfect job of her skinning.

She was pretty, Hillstone thought again. Perhaps, if he was particularly dextrous, he could peel off her face in one piece. He had always had so much trouble before, could never avoid tearing the flesh of the cheek or nose. But this was to be his last act, and it would have to be immaculate. He would take his time. Prepare himself and relax, to avoid any shaking hands. Give himself time to set up the table and lamps. Time to get the plastic sheeting on the floor. Time for everything to be perfect.

It was such a pity. He would have liked to pick someone else, but Rachel Pitt was corrupt. She was the mistress of another woman’s husband. Supported financially like so many other whores. Stealing another woman’s man, another family’s father. It was wrong, inexcusable, immoral – anyone could see that.

In fact, Edward Hillstone wondered how she could live with herself. Even if it wouldn’t be for much longer.

BOOK SIX

Venice, 1556

Aretino keeps to his house. Takes the passage from the back entrance across his private bridge to enter the city. He puffs with exertion, for worry has made him even more gross; he sweats with the weight of his sins and sends presents to Titian’s studio, pleading for forgiveness.

Pomponio is innocent, Aretino says, I was wrong. So misguided, so duped by the merchant.

And what of the merchant, Vespucci? Aretino fears no exposure now. His championing of the killer is done with; and he will tell anyone with a mind to hear that Vespucci is no more. The mob which bayed outside the merchant’s house is told of a disappearance. Vespucci has cheated the judge, the prison, the rope. The Skin Hunter has gone, and taken his prizes with him.

I was wrong, says Aretino, deceived as we all were.

But Titian will have none of it. Pomponio, still smarting from the accusations, plans to leave, but not before he rails against his father for being the writer’s dupe. It does no good for Titian to respond; each word is taken as a blow, one more sliver of malice driven into the priest’s tight heart.

Titian has lost his son. Again. And his friend. His closest ally levered from his side by treachery.

Vespucci gone, they showed the portrait in the church, Titian ordering where it should be placed. They suspended the merchant’s likeness as they would have hanged the man himself. I heard some talk that the artist was offering it for penance. For payment of Vespucci’s sins. That Titian’s genius might atone for all the winter’s butchery. Yet the night after it was exhibited, a fire started in the vestry. It burned the rafters, tore through half the roof, and every pew was rendered black as an imp’s hand.

Only the painting was untouched.

On Titian’s orders a notice was hung up in St Mark’s Square, saying the portrait would be destroyed. Someone sent news to Aretino, who came to beg for it. He mourns his loss of influence with the painter, he fears his loss of revenue from Titian, as once he feared exposure from the merchant.

But Vespucci will not speak against him. For Vespucci will not speak again … He has gone, disappeared, leaving no trace. There is no body. None has come up from the water, surfacing, bloated on a late tide. There is no carcass left flayed for the birds to peck at, no music coming across the water, no sounds of a hundred lurid couplings, no grumblings from misers, gluttons, deviants and their whores.

The fogs of Venice lifted when the portrait disappeared. When it was gone the winds dispersed, and clouds as wide as continents gave way to the sun’s return.

They say we have our city back. The darkness has left us; gone with Vespucci and his likeness. Gone with the merchant and the merchant’s image. Gone on some nether tide, out to the sea, to the slithering depths of all damnation. They say we are no longer bewitched.

Look how the Doge recovers, the ships coming back to land.

They say the coldest and most terrible of winters is passed; that God is back among us. Some even tell of flowers come to blossom, of fruit ripening out of season, and angels settling on the bell tower of St Mark’s.

But Titian sees no angels, paints no flowers. He grieves. A lesser man would seek out some revenge, but his regret is contained, and swells like a boil in the heart. He walks Venice like a man without his shadow and a hollow grows inside him.

And I watch him. As I watch Aretino. I see what others see, but Venice is not delivered yet.

Aretino might have picked the merchant’s grave and made him own it, but another waits. The water sits beneath us, its cold wet mouth yawning in the darkness, its gills moving with the tide. It waits for the bloated carcass of Aretino to fall, panicked and gasping, into the muddy hollow of its lair.

Under the water he will go. Down with the dead soldiers, dogs and devils. Down with Vespucci, caught up in all the green weeds of his lies. Down with the suicides, the lusty priests, the cripples and the damned. Down with all the other traitors.

But Aretino suspects nothing. He walks like a man who has rid himself of a threat, and is now sure of forgiveness. For Titian loves him still. In time he would, against judgement and logic, allow Aretino to return. Against reason, and tempting destruction, he would let him in.

He would.

But I will not.

62

29 December

In Kensington, Nino Bergstrom was on his computer, looking for Rachel. Working his way through newspaper art pages and internet listings, he turned to the Spotlight magazine for actors. But there was only one Rachel who was white, young and pretty.

He rang her, but a man answered, apparently her husband. Without alarming anyone, Nino asked if she would be available for an interview, only to be told that Rachel was in hospital preparing for the birth of her second child, in two weeks’ time.

Wrong Rachel.

Checking Spotlight, and the US version of the actors’ magazine, he looked for any reference to productions about Vespucci being cast. Nothing. Then he turned to The Stage and searched that paper. Again, there was nothing referring to The Skin Hunter, Angelico Vespucci, or even plays set in Venice. In desperation, Nino trailed through every forthcoming play about murderers and their crimes – of which there were many.

It seemed that every town, city or state was putting on some play about a killer. But none of them were about Angelico Vespucci. The morning came and went, Gaspare made lunch and Nino kept working. At three, the dealer went to a hospital appointment and Nino returned to the archives in the London Central Library, looking back into the past. Perhaps something had been written before, and was being rewritten? Again, he drew a blank. He worked through every listing he could find about theatre staff in the UK and the USA, looking for Rachel. But Nino knew it was a long shot. The theatrical world was a movable feast – people came and went monthly, or changed their names, or moved into different areas. And he didn’t know what the elusive Rachel actually did. Actor, manager, agent, painter, costume designer or stage doorman. His request to discover the names of angels – the backers who put up money for shows – was met with silence. Most wanted to remain anonymous.

December 28 had passed, December 29 was coming in, and still Nino had nothing to go on. At one point he even wondered if he was completely off target, if the victim had simply been photographed in front of a theatre without having any connection to it. Deflated, he then checked his last search – and this time there was a result: three theatres whose names began with HA.

HAMPTON THEATRE

HAILSTONE THEATRE

THE HAMLET THEATRE

The first was in Basingstoke, the second in Dorset and the third in Battersea.

Tapping out the name of The Hamlet Theatre, Nino entered their website. At the top of the home page was a list of reviews, all favourable and widespread in the press, some of the theatre’s actors surprisingly well known.

Welcome!

We are a small company, but one of the most innovative in the UK. Although we have only been in existence for seven years, our play on W. H. Auden – Salut, Salut – was a hit on Broadway in New York, and in the West End, London.

At present we are working on several new ideas, one of which might be an investigation into a charismatic, but murderous, figure from the past.

A charismatic, but murderous, figure from the past … Nino couldn’t think of a better way to describe Angelico Vespucci. Checking the phone number, he rang the theatre and a young woman answered.

‘Hello?’

‘I was wondering if I could speak with …’ Nino glanced at the computer, ‘Harvey Enright.’

‘Who’s speaking, please?’

‘My name’s Nino Bergstrom and I think I might want to invest in your theatre,’ Nino lied, knowing it would get him put through. And it did.

Within an instant an affected English voice came over the line. ‘Hello? Can I help you?’

‘I’m thinking of becoming an angel,’ Nino said, glancing repeatedly at his notes. ‘I don’t know much about any of this, forgive me. But I’ve come into some money and shares hardly seem the way to go at the moment.’ He blundered on, wondering how convincing he sounded. ‘I’d like to invest. Perhaps in your theatre. Well, your productions anyway. I’m very interested in new companies, and yours seems to be very …’

‘Thrusting.’

‘Yes,’ Nino replied, ‘that’s the word … I know very little about the theatrical world. You see, I’ve been working in the film business for a long time, but want to change tack.’ He checked his notes again. ‘On your website you talk about a new production you might be undertaking, about a murderer from the past?’

‘Yes,’ Enright agreed. ‘We have two plays in mind. The one we most want to pursue at the moment is about a woman who works in engineering and discovers a talent for invention.’

Nino grimaced. ‘And the other one?’

‘Well, it was a good idea, unique. But lately the character in question has been getting a lot of press.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A man called Angelico Vespucci,’ Enright replied, and as Nino heard the name he let out a long, relieved breath. ‘Unfortunately there have been some murders recently, copies of his crimes. You might have read about it?’

‘Yes, I think I have. Fascinating character. Were you writing the play yourself?’

‘No, I’m no wordsmith. Directing is my forte.’

‘So who’s writing the play?’

‘Rachel—’ he replied.

Nino was hardly breathing. ‘Oh, Rachel! I know her, I think. Rachel Andrews? Came from Brighton originally?’

‘No,’ Enright replied. ‘Rachel Pitt. She’s from up north, Lake District. Smashing girl. Anyway, she’s actually our Assistant Stage Manager, but she had this idea for a play. Apparently she’s been working on it for a long time. Ran it past me, and frankly it sounded interesting … Would you like to come in and talk, Mr Bergstrom? We’d be delighted to chat to any angel, existing or prospective.’

Making a non-committal remark, Nino rang off. The name hummed in his head – Rachel Pitt, from up north, the Lake District. Rachel Pitt … Grabbing the London telephone directory, he found three people called R. Pitt. After phoning the first two – Ronald Pitt and Rita Pitt – he tried the last number.

This was it. This had to be Rachel Pitt. He had found her. Now he could warn her. He could prevent her death … The number rang. Again, and again. It rang out, then finally was answered.

Hi, this is Rachel. Sorry, there’s no one here at the moment. If you want to leave me a message and number, feel free.

Distraught that she hadn’t picked up, he left a message.

This is Nino Bergstrom. Please call me as soon as possible, it is urgent. Please, Ms Pitt, call me when you get this message.

Leaving his number, he put down the phone, and realised his hand was shaking.