Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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10

‘He’s lying! He must be!’ Farina snapped, walking into Triumph’s gallery and marching into his office. Slamming the door behind her, she carried on. ‘I tell you, the old bastard’s lying!’

‘I don’t think so,’ Triumph replied, gazing out of the window into the New York street twenty-seven floors below. ‘I think he was telling the truth—’

‘For a clever man, you can be fucking stupid!’ she hissed. ‘What better way to put all the dealers off the scent than by saying the Titian no longer exists?’

‘It wasn’t just the painting,’ Triumph replied, his tone slow, measured. ‘Apparently there was a murder after it was found—’

‘So what?

He looked back at her. ‘It was the daughter of an old friend of Gaspare Reni’s—’

‘Again, so what?’

‘She was killed in exactly the same way as Angelico Vespucci killed his victims,’ Triumph replied. ‘What if there’s a connection?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Farina demanded, surprised.

Triumph Jones, successful and sleek as a water vole, sounded unusually subdued, pausing between words. ‘It’s such a coincidence.’

‘That a girl was killed in Venice?’

‘She was skinned.’

‘Skinned, fried, diced, roasted on a spit – so what? The portrait’s all I care about, not some girl.’ Farina leaned towards Triumph, dismissing his unease. ‘Gaspare Reni is lying. He still has that portrait – I can feel it, I know it. We have to get it off him.’

The American wasn’t listening to her, just repeating a name to himself. ‘Di Fattori … di Fattori …’

‘What?’

Rising to his feet, Triumph walked over to a row of bookshelves. Taking a moment to scan the titles, he finally pulled down a battered, unbound volume. Carefully turning the pages, he began to read:

Angelico Vespucci, known as The Skin Hunter, was believed to have murdered his wife, and then killed and flayed three other female victims.

He paused, turning over several pages before he began to read aloud again.

One of the victims of The Skin Hunter was the Contessa di Fattori.

‘I knew that name was familiar to me,’ he said, closing the book. ‘What if the murdered girl was related to the Contessa?’

Farina was exasperated. ‘What has this to do with anything?’

He slammed the book down on his desk and leaned towards her.

‘Doesn’t it seem – even to you, my dear – something of a coincidence that the painting turns up, and then the descendant of one of the sitter’s victims gets killed?’ Triumph regained his seat behind the desk, pointing to the volume. ‘You see that? It’s over four hundred years old. Vespucci was notorious in his time, but virtually everything written about him disappeared, just as he did. It was pure chance that I came across that book in Berlin.’

‘So?’

‘It’s one of the few references to Vespucci that still exists.’

She shrugged, irritated. ‘I’m not following.’

‘Doesn’t it seem a little strange that everyone apparently forgot about such a notorious killer?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘That everyone was so afraid of the Vespucci legend that they tried to wipe him from history?’

She shrugged again. ‘I’m not interested in coincidences, spooky goings-on, or any of that fucking rubbish. So Vespucci was a murderer – so what? Maybe his wife deserved to get skinned. God knows she wouldn’t be the only one to get fleeced in this business.’ Her expression was callous as she rose to her feet. ‘I want the portrait for my husband and I know Gaspare Reni still has it. You give up on it if you want to, Triumph, but I’m not convinced. That painting’s out there – and I’m going to get it.’

11

Venice

As good as his word, Nino left London, making for Venice, the place of Seraphina’s murder and the home of Angelico Vespucci. Gaspare had prepared the way for him, but when Nino visited the di Fattori home, he found Seraphina’s parents remote. It wasn’t just the shock of their daughter’s murder, but the details of her death that had felled them.

Subdued, Nino Bergstrom left their home and moved out into the murky November afternoon. It seemed as though he carried their grief with him, the echoing stillness of their house a reminder of a loved one having gone. All around them there were pictures of Seraphina. From babyhood to the full power of her adult beauty, each photographic image underlining the waste and cruelty of a stolen life.

Automatically reaching into his pocket, Nino reminded himself that he no longer smoked. This time Nino Bergstrom wasn’t dealing with ego, but grief. He wasn’t having to be charming, but sympathetic. There was no director to mollify, no location to secure. It was all different. He was different.

Crossing a humped bridge, Nino dipped his head under an arch, then moved into a narrow alleyway, checking the address he had been given – 176, Via Mazzerotti, a house tucked between two others, its door knocker in the shape of a Medusa’s head. Beside the knocker were several pieces of faded paper, with names on them, the third being Morgan, Tom and Seraphina.

Pushing the buzzer, Nino waited, hearing footsteps approaching, a voice coming over the intercom.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Nino Bergstrom.’

‘Oh, yes …’ the man said, opening the door and letting Nino enter.

The hall was vaulted, several suitcases piled on top of one another, a florid opera poster hanging over an ornate iron table. Without a word, Tom Morgan beckoned Nino to follow him into the main room. Low chamber music was playing, a photograph of Seraphina stood on the mantelpiece, and an orchid lay dying on a paint-cracked windowsill. Then, as the rain began outside, Tom flicked on some lamps.

‘Seraphina’s parents asked me to talk to you,’ he said easily enough, although he was jumpy and Nino could just catch a faint scent of marijuana in the room. Fair-haired, over six feet in height, Tom Morgan was dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt. But his feet were bare – surprising on a cold afternoon.

‘So, what d’you want to know?’

‘I’m so sorry about your wife—’

‘Sorry,’ Tom repeated, as though the word was an insult, ‘sorry … yeah, I’m sorry too. I saw her, you see, in the morgue. The Venetians aren’t very good with death. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to see her body, but there was a mix-up …’ He rubbed his eyes as though he could erase the memory. ‘She was … Christ, it was terrible. She was everything to me. And then the fucking police asked me all those questions, making me feel like a suspect.’ He turned to Nino, suddenly angry. ‘Who are you really?’

‘I’m asking questions about Seraphina’s death.’

‘And her parents hired you?’

‘No.’

‘So who did?’ Tom countered, walking over to a cabinet and taking out a joint. He lit it and inhaled, smoke juddering from his lips, his manner veering between confusion and hostility.

‘I’m working for an old friend of Seraphina’s.’

‘Who?’

‘Gaspare Reni.’

‘Never heard of him,’ Tom replied, sitting down and flinging one arm along the back of the sofa. ‘I know all Seraphina’s friends, and I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Gaspare’s an art dealer. I met Seraphina through him. He knew her parents well,’ Nino replied. ‘Seraphina knew him when she was a girl, although he wasn’t a close friend—’

‘So why’s he so interested in her death?’ Tom put his head on one side. ‘If my wife only knew this dealer when she was younger, why does her death matter so much to him?’

The hostility caught Nino off guard. ‘Gaspare took Seraphina’s death hard. He sent me over here to find out if there’s anything which might lead us to her killer.’

Without being invited, Nino sat down. The action surprised Tom Morgan as he inhaled again on the joint, his narrow fingers shaking. Was it guilt? Nino wondered. Was he involved in his wife’s death? Or just jumpy after seeing her body? Looking away, Tom closed his eyes, and Nino took the chance to study his surroundings. Although it wasn’t situated in the most expensive area of the city, the apartment was sumptuous, well furnished with antiques and the ubiquitous modern additions of TV and computer.

Obviously Tom Morgan was successful.

‘What do you do for a living?’

‘Interior designer.’

‘But Seraphina was a scientist?’

‘Yeah,’ Tom replied, ‘scientists can marry artists.’

‘So you think of yourself as an artist?’

‘What the fuck!’ Tom snapped, putting down his joint and leaning towards Nino. ‘Look, I’m only talking to you because Seraphina’s parents asked me to. It’s a favour to them. But I don’t have to answer your questions – the police have asked me plenty already.’

There was a sullen pause, Tom leaning back in the sofa and crossing his legs. His expression was unreadable. At times belligerent, at times emotional – it was, Nino thought, like trying to talk to a firework.

‘Did you know Seraphina?’

‘Yes,’ Nino replied. ‘I only met her once, but I liked her.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘In London.’

‘And this Gaspare Reni, is he based in London?’

‘Yes.’

Recrossing his legs, Tom blinked several times, then inhaled deeply. ‘Seraphina was visiting London on a short trip. She’d been there before with her parents and with me. She wanted to see the sights.’

‘On her own?’

Again, the tilt of the head. ‘Well, go on, ask.’

‘Ask what?’

‘What you’ve been trying to fucking ask ever since you came in. Were we happy? Was our marriage a good one? Did I have girlfriends? Did Seraphina have a lover?’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Have I missed anything out? That’s the usual list, isn’t it? The police have already gone over it with me a number of times.’

‘I’m not your enemy,’ Nino said quietly. ‘I’m only trying to find out what happened.’

‘Seraphina was killed, that’s what happened.’

‘All right,’ Nino said, his tone hardening, ‘I’ll be blunt. Did you have a good marriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have other women?’

‘No.’

‘Did Seraphina have another man?’

He smiled oddly, shrugging his shoulders. ‘No.’

‘Were you happy?’

Without answering, Tom stood up and moved over to his dead wife’s photograph. Picking it up, he traced her face with the tip of his forefinger, pressing it firmly into the glass as if he wanted to break through to the image beneath.

‘We met, fell in love, and got married. My company sent me here to work, and Seraphina was thrilled. After all, it was her birthplace; she loved Venice, knew so much about it.’ He put the picture down and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘For the first six months it was heaven – I couldn’t believe I could be so happy. My first marriage was shit—’

‘You were married before?’

‘Yeah, and before you ask, my ex-wife isn’t dead. She went off with someone else.’ His tone was abrasive. ‘Then, when Seraphina and I moved here, things got even better.’

‘So you didn’t always live in this apartment?’

‘No, she didn’t like the one we first lived in, so we moved. Anything to make the little woman happy, hey?’ He walked over to Nino. ‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘I wondered, what with you being prematurely grey and all.’ He smiled at his own joke, turning to look out of the window. ‘Why was Seraphina visiting this Gaspare Reni?’

Lying wasn’t difficult. ‘She was just looking up an old friend.’

‘She didn’t tell me about it. Seraphina told me about everything else she did in London, but she didn’t mention you or Gaspare Reni. So maybe,’ he said, his tone challenging, ‘I should be suspicious of you. Maybe I should be asking you questions. Like why was she visiting Gaspare Reni?’

‘Just a social visit.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No.’

‘So my wife visited a man she hadn’t seen for years, just to say hello?’

‘That’s right.’

Pausing, Tom Morgan stared down at his bare feet. With his left foot he traced out the pattern in the carpet, his hands still in his pockets. Silent, Nino watched him. Did he know about the painting? Despite Gaspare’s warning, had Seraphina told her husband about it? And had he told someone else? He was an interior designer – a Titian portrait would have fascinated him. And it would have been very profitable if he’d been able to sell it. Perhaps Tom Morgan had been angry, wanting his wife to get the painting off Gaspare Reni so he could sell it on to one of his wealthy customers. Perhaps they had fallen out over it. Fought over it.

‘How’s your business doing?’ Nino asked suddenly.

‘Fine. How’s yours?’

‘This place,’ Nino said, looking around, ‘must cost a lot to maintain. Do you rent it or own it?’

‘Rent it. We still own the other apartment.’

‘You owned the one you moved from?’

‘Yeah.’

Nino didn’t know why he asked the question, it just came out. ‘Why did you move from the other flat?’

‘It had bad vibes …’ Tom said, laughing and regaining his seat. He rummaged around in the ashtray for the stub of his joint and relit what was left. ‘Seraphina found out there’d been a murder there. It was supposed to have happened centuries ago. But then, I reckon every apartment in this city has a past. The place is so old, it must be littered with murders.’ He paused, remembering his dead wife. ‘Seraphina’s just one more, isn’t she? Just one more victim.’ His left hand waved idly in the air. ‘The police tell me that I can’t leave Venice. But I didn’t have anything to do with my wife’s death. I loved Seraphina, I couldn’t have hurt her. Her parents know that. They must know that.’ He turned to Nino anxiously. ‘Do they suspect me?’

‘No.’

‘Do you?’

‘Should I?’ Nino countered. ‘I mean, if what you’ve told me is true, you were both happy. In love, in a new apartment. Why would you kill her? And in such a brutal way?’

‘I couldn’t!’ he snapped. ‘I couldn’t do that to anyone … Only a madman could have done that.’

‘Just one more thing,’ Nino said, following a hunch. ‘Did you ever find out the name of the person who was killed in your old apartment?’

‘Some woman,’ Tom said dismissively. ‘Is it important?’

‘Maybe.’

Sighing, he concentrated, then glanced back at Nino. ‘Claudia Moroni. I remembered it because of the painter Moroni.’

The name meant nothing to Nino, but he made a mental note of it anyway. He had hoped to draw out more information from Tom Morgan, and was disappointed. He had longed for a slip-up, a giveaway word, but it seemed that Morgan had nothing to give away. Or nothing to hide.

‘Why would you do it?’

‘What?’

‘Kill your wife.’

‘I didn’t!’ he snapped. ‘I loved Seraphina – I love her even more now.’

‘Now?’

‘She was pregnant,’ he said sadly. ‘Seraphina was going to have my child.’

12

It was two thirty the following afternoon when Gaspare Reni heard the knocking coming from below. The gallery was closed, but apparently the visitor was either unable to read the sign or unable to take no for an answer. Puzzled, he waited for the knocking to end, but it continued, persistent and unsettling. He had always insisted that customers or dealers make appointments in advance, so that he would know who to expect. After all, he was getting old and the gallery was crammed with expensive pieces. Who knew who might walk in off the street?

Irritated, Gaspare moved to the window and looked down to the pavement below. From his vantage point, he could see the top of a man’s head illuminated in the winter lamplight and ducked back when the figure looked up. But it was too late, he had been spotted. And the knocking began again.

Reluctantly, he moved down the stairs. Then, checking that the chain was on, Gaspare opened the front door.

‘We’re closed!’

‘Mr Reni,’ the figure said, trying to push against the door as Gaspare pushed back, ‘perhaps we could talk?’

Anxious, the dealer put all his weight against the door and slammed it shut. Relocking it, he leaned against the wood, breathing heavily. But the man outside wasn’t going anywhere.

‘That’s hardly polite,’ he said. ‘I only want to talk to you. About the painting.’

‘Go away!’ Gaspare snapped, unsettled. ‘Or you can ring me for an appointment—’

‘Where did you put it, Mr Reni?’ the voice continued. ‘In a bank? In safe storage? No, you’re old school, aren’t you? I think it’s still with you in your gallery …’

Gaspare could feel his heart pounding as the man continued to talk.

‘Hidden where? In the cellar? There are windows down there, Mr Reni, easy enough to break in. Or is the Titian in the attic?’ A soft laugh. ‘Simple to enter from the roof, wouldn’t you say? Anyone could do it. Could creep in and surprise you. You wouldn’t like that. To come across a thief. Why, they might attack you. Even kill you.’ He paused, taunting the old man. ‘You have such a big gallery, haven’t you? So many rooms, so many windows, so many ways to get in.’

‘Go away!’

‘Why risk yourself for a picture, Mr Reni? Even a Titian?’

Stumbling away from the door, Gaspare hurried into the nearest room and grabbed the phone, dialling 999. He could hear it ring out, then there was silence. The line had been cut. Alarmed, he dropped the phone, backing against the wall as he heard footsteps outside the front door. Someone was rattling the handle, shaking it vigorously, the brass knocker vibrating madly against the wood.

His heart seemed to be filling his chest, blood fizzing in his ears, as he thought of the hidden painting. His hands groped at his collar, loosening it as he gulped at the air. The voice called out to him again.

‘You’re on your own, Mr Reni. No one else there, is there? You’re on your own. One old man. You haven’t a chance. Just hand the painting over and I’ll go away. Just give it up, before things get nasty … I know you can hear me, so let’s get this sorted out.’

There was a pause.

‘Mr Reni, don’t be stupid …’

Another pause.

‘Think about it.’

Again, a pause.

‘This isn’t over. I’ll come back.’

Then there was silence.

Tensing, Gaspare listened as the footsteps walked away. Barely breathing, he heard them fade, then relaxed, slumping on to the sofa. Sweat was running down his face, his hands shaking as he leaned back against the cushions. How did anyone know that he had the Titian? How had anyone found out that it was in his possession? Had Seraphina talked before her death? Had Triumph? No, Gaspare thought desperately, he had told the American that the portrait had been destroyed. So who else knew? Had Nino given him away?

No, not Nino. He would never have put him in danger.

Still trying to slow down his breathing, Gaspare realised the danger he was in. The man had been right: he was alone and defenceless, and the capacious gallery was an easy target. If his tormenter had cut the phone line, he would certainly have disabled the burglar alarm … Gaspare listened, but there wasn’t a sound coming from outside the door. The man had gone. He had delivered his threat and gone.

In the semi-darkness Gaspare felt his heart rate finally settle, and a few minutes later he was recovered enough to move. Getting to his feet, the dealer moved into the back kitchen and locked the doors, turning to the stairs and then stopping dead.

There were footsteps overhead.

Whoever had been outside was now inside.

13

It took all of Gaspare’s courage to mount the stairs. His heart hammering, he looked up the stairwell towards the noise above. Where was it coming from? The bedrooms? The attics? His hand gripping the banister rail, Gaspare Reni – seventy-eight years old, born in Milan, art dealer and historian – climbed the stairs. Composure replaced the earlier panic. Now he was enraged at being made to feel a victim in his own home. And determined that no one would get hold of the Titian.

Before Seraphina’s death he might have tried to shrug off his fear, but her murder had confirmed it. The painting was dangerous. He couldn’t allow it to leave his possession. People might mock the legend of Angelico Vespucci, but Gaspare believed it. He was old enough to be able to imagine possibilities he would have sneered at in his youth. Experienced and humble enough to fear what he didn’t understand.

Holding the iron poker he had picked up from the grate downstairs, Gaspare rounded the bend on the landing and paused.

He listened.

There was the noise again.

Footsteps overhead.

From the attics.

Yes, the sound was coming from above. From the place where he had hidden the Titian. True to his word, the man had broken in and was now searching among the grimy eaves of the old convent roof.

Tightening his grip on the poker, Gaspare took the next flight. His steps were noiseless, but when he reached the bottom of the flight which led to the attic, the footsteps overhead suddenly stopped.

Holding his breath, Gaspare looked up.

There was a faint light showing at the head of the narrow attic steps, a torchlight flickering in the dimness. For an instant Gaspare paused and looked back, then, remembering that the phone line was cut, ascended the first stair. If he had wanted he could have left the house, run away, sought help. But Gaspare did what the intruder had never expected – he stayed.

And kept climbing.

One, two, three steps. Four, five, six. The light wasn’t moving any longer – it was static, as though the intruder had put a torch down while they looked at something. Pushing back the door of the attic, Gaspare peered in. A man had his back towards him. He was squatting on his haunches in front of the Titian painting, the torch on a box beside him. He was so engrossed that he didn’t hear the old man coming up behind him. So mesmerised by the image of Angelico Vespucci that he never felt the poker coming down on the back of his skull.

Venice, 1555

Angelico Vespucci is leaving now. Look, there he goes. And here runs Aretino, off to meet his friend. They do much business. The bulk of him seems all the more coarse for Vespucci’s elegance, his bear’s arm slipped proprietorially through the merchant’s. I imagine the friendship will cost both of them more than either can afford. Certainly Titian will suffer. I know that, but it is beyond me to intervene. I will, in time, but for now I watch, compelled to wait on tragedy.

We are deep in winter. The water is grey as a merle, the lamps at the edge of the quay flickering nervously in the wind. From the Jewish Quarter comes the muffled sound of singing, then the echo of someone running. In these bitter days and nights there are always running feet. They say the Devil has his workers out; that the wooden piles which help keep Venice above the water are shaken nightly by the kicking of their cloven hooves. They say the aborted foetuses of a thousand courtesans are come back as vicious water sprites.

It may be true. We live in a city where men like Aretino and Vespucci reign like potentates. Where a man might kill and mutilate his wife and suffer nothing more than stares. And among the vulgar whispers there is always one question: where does Vespucci keep his precious hide? His own Bartholomew? Where does he lock away the skin that once he stroked and kissed? Is it dried out like the meat in the summer? Is it laid out, stiff and macabre, on what was once their marriage bed? Does he look at what once covered his dead wife and witch her back in his dreams?