Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

63

Lake District, 30 December

Waking late, Rachel turned over in bed and opened her eyes. Where the hell was she? And then she remembered and stretched lazily. She had managed – by the sheer fluke of someone cancelling at the last minute – to rent a tiny cottage for Christmas and New Year, close to where her father had been born. It was in a village called Crook – a stone house hardly large enough for a hobbit, but cosy. ‘El dar la bienvenida,’ Michael would have said, curling the Spanish vowels around his tongue … She shook off the thought of him, unwilling to let him in. The cottage was hers, filled with provisions, wine and plenty of cut logs for the fire. She did have neighbours, but it seemed that on both sides they were away for the festivities, which left Rachel pretty much alone. Only this was a different type of aloneness. This was away from London and the flat and it smelt, looked, and even felt different. It felt hopeful.

Since arriving the previous day she had walked endlessly, enjoying the landscape – such a contrast from built-up Battersea. She had even spent a whole hour watching a farmer rounding up sheep, not noticing that the rain had started and her boots were waterlogged. A peace she hadn’t felt for years came like a salutation to another life, a choice she had long denied herself now possible. Up in the hills, with the rain and the sound of drinkers leaving the village pub at eleven, bathing in a small enamel bath and drinking water that tasted of the mountains, Rachel experienced an epiphany which was long overdue.

She had forgotten the loneliness which had dogged her. Even on her own, she wasn’t as bereft as sitting in her flat and waiting, endlessly waiting, for the phone to ring. It was a relief not to have to think up ways to amuse, seduce, or interest her lover. It was a release not to be terrorised by her silent phone, or urgent text messages. And slowly Rachel came to realise that loving Michael had become a form of penance.

How could she be anything other than an appendage to his life? While she made him the nucleus of her world, he had a wife and children, a career, a dozen social duties and membership of clubs. When he was with her, he loved her. But how much of his attention could she hold when he was elsewhere?

The answer was brutal. But it was only up in the hills of the Lake District, away from pylons and mobile-phone masts, trains, subways and sirens, that she could hear it. And as the days passed Rachel became dislocated from her previous life: her life with Michael. Instead her career slipped back into top gear, her attention moving back to the Hamlet Theatre. Amused, she lay back on the pillows, her hands behind her head, thinking of Angelico Vespucci.

It was a fabulous idea to write a play about him. She knew it, had always known it, but her ambition had waned as her neediness had grown. Ideas, words, images that would once have shimmered inside her had turned to ash and, incredulously, seeing her actions at arm’s length, she did not know herself.

When she returned to Battersea, to the Hamlet Theatre, she would talk to Enright again, get him geed up about the play. She could do it, she could get him back on side. He was already hooked, she could see that. And besides, Rachel thought, there was plenty of interest in Vespucci now … She rolled over on to her side, looking out of the tiny window down into the village below. Since she arrived she hadn’t bought a paper or turned on the television. She had left her mobile behind, and there was no telephone in the cottage. But she could remember only too well reading about The Skin Hunter before she left London. It had been on the news and all over the internet, and the last piece she had read had been sent from the killer – some lunatic taunting the police to find him before he killed again.

Yawning, Rachel pulled the duvet over her and closed her eyes. Soon it would be New Year, and she had already decided on her resolution. She would end the affair, slough it off her body like dead skin, and return to the theatre. There she would hustle and bargain and push until Enright agreed to put on her play. He liked it. He was just nervous about her being a newcomer. So what? Rachel thought confidently. There had to be a beginning for everyone.

She relaxed into the pillows, sliding into sleep. Outside the last of the daylight slunk down into the lifeless trees, the hills snow-tipped and quiet, no cars about, no sounds. Only the drinkers inside the pub, calling last orders at the ringing of the bell.

64

30 December

As he walked up the front steps to the block of flats in Battersea, Nino could see a family watching television in a front room, and rang the ground-floor buzzer. He heard someone curse and an Indian man opened the door and stared at him.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m looking for Rachel Pitt,’ Nino explained. ‘She lives upstairs.’

‘So?’ the man asked as his wife moved into the hall behind him.

Pushing him aside, she smiled at Nino. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Rachel Pitt lives upstairs, doesn’t she? I need to talk to her – it’s urgent.’

‘Such a lovely girl, so very kind. Is it bad news?’ the woman asked as her husband walked back into the front room.

‘Someone in her family’s been taken ill,’ Nino lied. ‘I can’t get her on the phone and she’s not answering her bell.’

‘Oh, she went away. She’s on holiday until New Year—’

‘Until New Year?’ Nino repeated sharply. ‘D’you know where’s she gone?’

She put up her hands for a moment, calling for her husband. ‘Daruka! Daruka!’

He came back into the hall, his expression impatient. ‘What is it?’

‘Do you remember where Rachel said she was going on holiday? This gentleman needs to contact her; someone in the family is ill.’

Shaking his head, he moved closer. ‘She did tell me, but I can’t … the mountains somewhere.’

‘The mountains?’ Nino repeated. ‘In this country?’

‘Yes, yes, in England.’

‘The Peak District?’ Nino offered.

‘No. That is not it.’ He turned to his wife again, speaking Hindi’, then turned back to Nino. ‘Up north—’

‘The Lake District?’

‘Yes!’ he agreed, nodding. ‘That’s it. She’s gone to the Lake District.’

‘D’you know where in the Lakes?’

‘No. She said it was a village. That’s all.’

As her husband moved back into the house the Indian woman looked at Nino sympathetically. ‘I’m so sorry we can’t help you more.’

Frustrated, he hesitated on the doorstep. To have come so far and hit another dead end. Rachel Pitt was up in the Lake District, but where? It was a big place, with God knows how many villages. It would take him days to check them all out. Days he didn’t have.

Changing tack, he asked, ‘D’you know where her family live?’

‘She only has a mother, and she never talks about her. Not lately, anyway.’ The woman paused, suddenly suspicious. ‘I thought you said it was someone in her family who was ill?’

‘It’s a cousin. He lives abroad,’ Nino said, hurrying on. ‘Look, I have to find Rachel. It’s important. You have no idea how important.’ Scribbling his name on a piece of paper he gave it to the woman. ‘Please, help me. I have to find her.’

She looked at him, concerned. ‘Is she in trouble?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Worse. She’s in danger.’

65

His glasses pushed up on his balding head, Gaspare was relaxing in the sitting room, listening to Rachmaninov. No matter how many times he heard the piece, he was moved by it, temporarily taken away from his anxieties, suspended between D flat and middle C. So when he noticed a sound break through the music, he was surprised and went downstairs.

Someone was knocking on the back door. He could see a large figure outlined against the glass and hesitated, remembering his previous heroics.

‘Mr Reni! Mr Reni!’ the voice shouted.

Cautious, Gaspare approached the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘Jonathan Ravenscourt.’

Keeping the chain on, Gaspare opened the door a couple of inches. ‘What d’you want?’

Ravenscourt was flustered and dishevelled. ‘Can I come in?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t know you.’

‘You know of me—’

‘Yes, and I don’t like what I hear,’ Gaspare replied, his tone sharp. ‘You got a friend of mine in trouble with the police – I had to dig him out of it.’

‘I retracted my statement!’ Ravenscourt said, pushing at the door. ‘Look, I’m not going to hurt you, I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. Not physically anyway. What I did to Nino Bergstrom was wrong, but I’ve sorted it out with the police now and I want to help him out. For God’s sake, let me in! On come on, Mr Reni, I ask you – do I look like a maniac?’

Relenting, Gaspare took off the safety chain and Ravens-court moved into the kitchen and took off his cashmere coat. His trousers and shoes were spattered with mud.

‘I came to ask you something,’ he said, ‘something about the Titian—’

‘Not that bloody painting again,’ Gaspare said dismissively. ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on the thing. It’s been nothing but trouble—’

‘Of course you know all about it.’

‘Everything.’

‘About there being another murder?’

‘Yes, and Nino’s on a wild goose chase, trying to find the last victim. The police can’t find the killer, so God knows why he thinks he can.’ He looked at Ravenscourt’s dirtied clothes. ‘What happened to you?’

‘It’s raining.’

‘Mud?’

‘What?’

‘You look like you’ve been rolling in mud.’ Gaspare tilted his head to one side. ‘I don’t want to offend you, Mr Ravens-court, but I don’t believe a word of what you’re telling me. I don’t think you’re trying to make up for what you did to Nino. I think,’ he paused, wily to a fault, ‘that you’re trying to find out what’s going on. If we know anything. And if the Titian’s been found—’

‘Am I that transparent?’

‘You’re a dealer. I’m a dealer. So yes, to me you’re that transparent,’ Gaspare replied, as he moved away and began to prepare some coffee.

His instinct told him not to throw Johnny Ravenscourt out. He had every right to suspect him – and his motives. But there had to be a reason why Ravenscourt had come back to London. And Gaspare wanted to know what it was.

Passing him a cup of coffee, Gaspare poured himself another and took a seat at the kitchen table. Surprised, Ravenscourt followed his lead, loading two spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee and stirring it idly.

‘So the police aren’t after you any more?’

‘I’ve satisfied them.’

‘Lucky boy,’ Gaspare said drily, regarding Ravenscourt over the rim of his cup. ‘Did someone attack you?’ He gestured to his clothes. ‘You can’t have got that dirty walking in the rain.’

‘I fell over,’ Ravenscourt replied shortly.

‘Fell or pushed?’

He smiled, sighing. ‘I had a ridiculous idea … er … I thought that if I went back to where the Titian was originally found …’ He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I’m not light-footed and I fell over on the shingle—’

‘You went back to where Seraphina found the Titian? What for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ravenscourt admitted. ‘Returning to the scene of the crime – something like that. Maybe I wanted to play amateur sleuth. Maybe I wanted to see what she saw. Be where she’d been. We were very close. Seraphina confided everything to me …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Didn’t it ever strike you as odd that she was so conveniently there? Just when the Titian washed up?’ He sighed, frowning at the mud on his trousers. ‘If only someone else had found it, she’d still be alive. If only it had been some other person, some other woman.’

Thoughtful, Gaspare stared at him. ‘It was just a fluke that Seraphina found it—’

‘A fluke that killed her. A fluke that took away my best friend,’ Ravenscourt replied pettishly, sipping his coffee. ‘Have you seen the papers today? Angelico Vespucci’s becoming the piatta del giorno.’ Gaspare smiled at the remark, but said nothing and let Ravenscourt continue. ‘You know, I made a very interesting purchase lately. I bought a portrait of Claudia Moroni—’

‘The second victim?’

Ravenscourt nodded. ‘Yes, it’s of her and her brother. A testimony to their incest – quite sensational. I’ve had several dealers already asking to buy it. Anything connected to Vespucci is much sought after. I expect a call from Jobo Kido any time now.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Have you seen the Vespucci website today?’

‘No. Why?’

‘The killer’s crowing again. Such an ego! If they catch him no doubt he’ll make another fortune—’

Gaspare wasn’t giving anything away. He and Nino might know the identity of the killer, but he wasn’t about to tell Johnny Ravenscourt. He didn’t trust him. Suspected he was, in some way, complicit. Did he know who the killer was? Or was he trying to find out if anyone else did?

‘What d’you mean, another fortune?’

‘Well, the killer has the Titian, hasn’t he?’ Ravenscourt continued. ‘Put it up as a reward for his capture. It’s very Mission Impossible. I imagine they’ll make a film of it – The Skin Hunter II. I mean, Vespucci was the original, but the new man’s modern, available for interview. If he pleads not guilty it will go to court, all the revolting details will come out—’

‘And you’ll be able to sell your book.’

‘Yes, I’ve been talking to an agent already,’ Ravenscourt agreed, moving on. ‘But of course there has to be a good ending. In the book – and in life.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That there are only two days left. Today and tomorrow.’ He paused, holding Gaspare’s gaze. ‘Two days before he kills the last victim. Now, be honest, Mr Reni, what are the chances of Nino Bergstrom finding the last victim in two days? No one knows who she is. And even if he did find her, how could he stop the murder?’

Ravenscourt stood up, rinsed out his coffee cup and put on his coat. His heavy face was pink from the kitchen warmth, the mud drying on his trousers and shoes.

Turning round in his seat, Gaspare looked up at him, puzzled. ‘You said you wanted to help. How?’

‘I’ve found the skins, Mr Reni—’

The words had all the force of a bullet.

‘You’ve done what?’

‘I told you, I bought the painting of Claudia Moroni. It looked very dirty and heavy when I got it home. Being an oil painting, I was surprised to find there was a wooden back nailed on to the canvas. As you know, they normally only do that with panel paintings. When I removed it there were four folded skins inside. Dried up, quite brown, like wrinkled old apples …’ Stunned, Gaspare watched him as he rubbed his hands together. ‘Each was labelled: Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti and Melania, Contessa di Fattori. They were tied with ribbon into tight little bundles – so tiny for human skins. I bought the painting on a whim – I never realised that it hid The Skin Hunter’s victims.’ He drew on his gloves languidly. ‘It was very lucky – and I wondered if they might not make a useful bargaining tool.’

Gaspare was scarcely breathing. ‘For what?’

‘I was the first person to research Angelico Vespucci. I spent years on it. Only to be cheated by some murderer and any halfwit with a computer who calls themselves an expert. I am the expert on Angelico Vespucci!’ His high voice dropped, cunning replacing outrage. ‘I want to know who killed my friend, who murdered Seraphina … But I also want to profit from the situation.’

Contemptuous, Gaspare stared at him. ‘Are you in your right mind? What kind of person would suggest—’

Ravenscourt put up his hands to stop him continuing.

‘Don’t lecture me, I’ve no morals – you’d be wasting your breath. I’m merely offering assistance for Mr Bergstrom, something which might come in useful. The killer’s obsessed by Vespucci – don’t tell me he wouldn’t long to get hold of the skins of his victims. Who knows, he might put them with his own collection and make a real show of it.’ Ravenscourt walked to the door and paused. ‘Berg-strom has two days to save the last woman – he might need something to bargain with, a way to make the killer stay his hand.’

‘And in return?’

‘My inclusion in the whole fanfare which will follow – as the paramount expert on The Skin Hunter. I want involvement in press interviews, TV, books – and the money all that will bring.’

‘You’d make money from corpses?’

‘Why not? The dead don’t need it.’

Gaspare was so shocked that it took him a moment to reply.

‘And what if Nino fails? If he doesn’t find the victim and stop the murder?’ His voice was barely audible. ‘Or worse, what if Nino’s killed and the murderer escapes?’

‘Then I keep the skins,’ Ravenscourt said, opening the door. ‘Come on, Mr Reni, you know as well as I do that no one can afford to be sentimental in business.’

66

Only an hour after Nino had talked to Rachel Pitt’s neighbours, his mobile rang.

‘Hello?’

A small, embarrassed voice came down the line. ‘I’m Vicky, a friend of Rachel’s … I just picked up your message. Look, I know I shouldn’t have listened to her calls, but Rachel’s got some secret man stashed away and I wanted to find out who he was, so I listened to her answerphone. But he didn’t leave a message – you did. And you don’t sound like a boyfriend. You sounded really worried, and I had to ring you back—’

Nino interrupted the flow. ‘Are you in Rachel’s flat now?’

‘Yeah, I come to water the plants. She does mine and I do hers when she’s away—’

‘D’you know where she is?’

‘A place called Crook, up in the South Lakes. It’s a hamlet between Windermere and Kendal. Her dad came from there originally, and she said she was going back for—’

‘Have you got her mobile number?’

‘Nah, she left the phone here. Would you believe it?’ Vicky replied, obviously amazed. ‘It’s on the table in the bedroom.’

‘What about the Lakes? D’you have a telephone number up there?’

‘Nothing, sorry. What’s it all about? Is she in trouble?’

He skirted the question. ‘If Rachel rings you, give her my message and number. Tell her to call me. Fast—’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Go up to Crook and find her,’ Nino replied, about to ring off.

She caught him just in time.

‘Hey, Mr Bergstrom! Do me a favour when you talk to Rachel, will you? Don’t tell I listened to her messages. I mean, she might think I’m nosy or something.’

Walking to his car, Nino checked his phone and returned a message from Gaspare. The old man took a while to answer; Nino could picture him making his way downstairs from the sitting room to the telephone in the hall. It was no good telling him to get an extension or a hands-free phone – Gaspare liked things just the way they were.

‘Hello!’ He was out of breath, Nino could hear it.

‘Why don’t you get another phone?’

‘I like this one,’ the dealer replied, smiling to himself. ‘You got my message then? That bastard Johnny Ravenscourt was here this afternoon—’

Nino stopped walking. ‘What the hell did he want?’

‘To deal. He’s found the skins of Vespucci’s victims.’

‘God Almighty … where?’

‘In the back of the painting of Claudia Moroni, in a panel. They were dried up, folded into parcels, and labelled.’ Gaspare paused. ‘This is deep water, Nino. You should get the police on your side.’

‘And then what? They’d haul me in, interview me, and before I knew it another day would have passed.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done what I can – I’ve left an anonymous message, giving them the name of Edward Hillstone.’

‘If he’s still using that name.’

‘It’s the best I can do …’ Nino hurried on. ‘I’ve found out where Rachel went. She’s up in the Lake District. I’m going—’

‘It’ll take hours to get there!’ Gaspare replied, anxious and trying to warn him off. ‘You’ve done enough. Let someone else take over.’

‘I can’t,’ Nino replied, arriving at his car and getting into the driver’s seat. ‘Don’t worry about me—’

‘Don’t be stupid! How can I not worry about you? I should never have let you get involved in the first place. I know why you wanted to – but stop thinking you owe me. You don’t. The only thing you owe me is your safety, your life.’

Turning on the engine, Nino tried to reassure him. ‘Relax. Eddie Hillstone kills women, not men.’

‘Perhaps he’d make an exception for you. He’s fixed on his purpose. He won’t let anything, or anyone, stop him now. How can he? He’s all over the internet, the news. He’ll have changed his name again. He’s been Eddie Ketch and Edward Hillstone – by now he could be someone else entirely.’

‘I can find him—’

Gaspare doubted it.

‘Can you? He’s clever. Remember, he’s been plotting this for a long time … You don’t know what you’re up against. He has to kill this last time, to prove himself. He has to, because he’s been advertising the killing. Getting the media revved up and the police looking like fools. He’s running on adrenalin and the whole world’s watching. How can he let anyone steal his thunder?’ Gaspare’s voice wavered. ‘Please stop. While you still can—’

‘I can’t let him kill her.’

‘Kill who?’ Gaspare countered, his tone desperate. ‘Rachel Pitt is a stranger. I’m sorry for her, believe me. I don’t want her to die. But I don’t want you to die either. Don’t risk your life for someone you don’t even know. She’s not your responsibility—’

‘If not mine, whose?’