Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"
Автор книги: Alex Connor
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
17
Ginza, Japan
The alarm had gone off again at two thirty in the morning. But Jobo Kido, preoccupied and unable to sleep, had been more than willing to leave his bed and drive to his company premises. Within a few moments he had turned off the alarm and then made himself a coffee in the staff quarters off the main gallery. His wife’s constant bad temper had worn away at his feelings and when she had threatened to go and stay with her mother he had been ecstatic. With his son also away, the house would be his for a while. It would be peaceful, uninterrupted by shouting and slamming doors, a temporary haven he would relish. Of course Jobo wouldn’t admit to enjoying his wife’s absence, or she would be sure never to leave again. Instead he would affect a sadness at her leaving and relief at her return and hope further arguments would result in further hiatuses from her tirades.
Fully awake now, Jobo glanced at the clock – nearly 3 a.m. He wondered momentarily if he should go for a walk, but instead sat down at his computer. Seconds later he was looking at a reproduction of Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci …
What he wouldn’t do to get that painting! Jobo thought. As for Farina Ahmadi trying to fob him off! Stupid woman, of course she knew about the Titian. He could tell just from looking into her sly little eyes that she was already imagining it on the walls of the Alim Collection.
He was disappointed at not having found out more in New York. Perhaps it had been too much to hope, but he had longed from some crumb of scandal to drop at his ready feet. And pumping Triumph Jones had been a tiring business. From his lofty height, the American had batted away Jobo’s enquiries like a giant swatting summer wasps. It always irked Jobo that although he was taller than the average Japanese man he always felt diminutive around Triumph Jones. He had also noticed that every conversation they had was conducted with them standing up, the American giving Jobo a prolonged view of his impressive jawline.
But if Triumph Jones had the Titian he wasn’t admitting it … Walking over to his safe, Jobo gave in to the temptation he had tried, feebly, to resist. It was the early hours of the morning – what better time to indulge himself? Fifteen minutes later he was letting himself into another building, double-locking the doors behind him and flicking on the lights.
The gallery was arranged in the normal way, but the exhibits presented a terrifying and disturbing vision. Portraits of known killers hung side by side with the work of John Wayne Gacy, the grotesque clown heads leering out in all their primary heat. And further along was a garish portrait of Jeffrey Dahmer, his stern gaze averted from the viewer, life size, the yellow pigments sour, the red the colour of a tomato, wrongly benign against the image of a killer. On the opposite wall, lit by a searching overhead portrait light, was a photograph of Albert Fish, the child killer and cannibal. And underneath were written his words:
I like children, they are tasty …
Jobo’s eyes moved down the line of monsters, lingering for a second on the drawings of Burke and Hare, the grave robbers, and beside them, a photograph of the dashing Victorian murderer Frederick Deeming, posing as Lord Dunn. The dealer’s gaze rested on the next exhibit with a morose curiosity: Ed Gein, 1906–1984, murderer and grave robber from Wisconsin.
As ever, the monstrous nature of the sitters did not repel but rather intrigued Jobo. He was sure that there was a clue in their appearance, some insinuation of violence in the features. But although he had looked at his exhibits for many years the explanation continued to elude him. Every image was well known, studied minutely, the dealer’s obsession increasing with every purchase, every image of a killer. But in among the photographs, pictures and drawings he knew something vital was missing for a notable collection. Skill.
His collection might display the skills of the killer, but not those of the artist.
The photographs Jobo had collected were press fodder – nothing remarkable, and certainly nothing to rival Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci. He stared at the images intently. It was true that his collection was impressive, but it lacked the definitive piece – a portrait of a famous killer, painted by a famous artist. He ached for the Titian. Staring at the display, Jobo mentally moved the resident images to make space for the Vespucci portrait. Owning a masterpiece would make his collection respectable; no longer to be sneered at but admired. After all, who could belittle a Titian?
Unfortunately the unknown caller had not got back in touch. Jobo had waited for a week for further contact, but there had been none, and he was getting impatient. Obviously the man had gone elsewhere and unless Jobo was careful he would find himself sidelined. He had two choices – he could either take a risk and wait for further developments, or set his own personal cat to put a flurry in the dovecotes.
Once decided, Jobo moved into the office at the back of the gallery and tapped out a number on the phone. His desire for the Titian had made him unusually reckless, determined to force action.
‘Hello?’
Jobo’s voice was all sweet concern. ‘Triumph, is that you?’
‘Jobo?’ the American replied, drawing out the name like a piece of ribbon. ‘What are you calling me for? It must be the middle of the night in Tokyo.’
‘I couldn’t sleep. And neither could you – if you knew what I do,’ Jobo said enigmatically. ‘I’ve just seen the Titian.’
There was a silence on the other end. ‘Where?’
‘Well, I’ve not actually seen it, I’ve just seen a photograph.’ Jobo was making it up as he went along, trying to draw Triumph out and discover what he knew. ‘Someone sent me a note in the mail.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. But it said that they’d also approached you about the portrait …’ He paused, sly to a fault. When Triumph didn’t respond, he threw the dice again … ‘and Farina Ahmadi.’
‘No one’s been in touch with me, Jobo.’
Jobo didn’t believe that for an instant. ‘What about Farina?’
‘She hasn’t mentioned it.’
Jobo sighed expansively. ‘Oh, that’s all right then. I’m so glad I talked to you, Triumph. You know what I think, don’t you? The painting’s a hoax – someone’s just trying to scam the dealers. Well, I’m not going to be taken in,’ he said, his tone light. ‘Sorry I disturbed you.’
For several minutes after they had concluded the call, Jobo sat in his office with the door open, gazing at his private gallery, his own personal assembly of freaks. He might have found out nothing, but he knew that his call would have immense repercussions. The American would realise that the news was out, and that it had travelled as far as Japan. There was no doubt that Triumph Jones had earned his sobriquet and his impressive cunning would ensure that he investigated any trail, even a false one.
What would happen next was anybody’s guess, but the Titian was up for grabs and at least three dealers were after it. With such a coterie of egos nothing – not even Angelico Vespucci’s portrait – could remain hidden for long.
18
At one time there had been some sort of order to Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes, but as time went by the precise jottings had been replaced with slips of paper and reminders etched on the back of serviettes and empty cigarette packages. Old, barely decipherable newspaper cuttings were shuffled in among reproductions of Angelico Vespucci’s portrait, along with contemporary engravings. In every one of them the same bulbous, heavy-lidded eyes gazed out, the eyes Nino remembered seeing the night Seraphina brought the portrait to Kensington. The eyes which had been covered by a blanket when the painting had been lodged, temporarily, in the eaves above the convent gallery.
Concerned for Gaspare’s safety, Nino was pleased that the dealer had to stay in hospital for further tests. Nothing serious, the doctor reassured him – ‘just to be on the safe side’. He didn’t know how true the words were. Back at the Kensington gallery, Nino discovered where the thief had broken in and had the window repaired, changing the door locks as an added precaution.
But when he visited Gaspare in hospital that afternoon, Nino was unprepared for the dealer’s refusal to involve the police.
‘Keep them out of it!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want anyone to know about the painting. No one knows about the break-in – and no one will.’
‘You were attacked—’
‘For the painting!’ Gaspare remonstrated. ‘Now they’ve got it, why would they bother to come back? There’s no danger for us.’ He pointed to the newspaper which reported Sally Egan’s death. ‘We have other things to think about. That girl, for instance. Why was she killed in that way? Not another coincidence, surely. She must have some connection to the Titian portrait or Vespucci himself.’
Nino shrugged. ‘Why? It’s rare, but victims have been skinned before—’
Gaspare cut him off.
‘But why would it happen now? Just when the painting of The Skin Hunter’s come to light? No. There’s a connection, there has to be.’ He looked around the private room, grateful that no one could overhear them. ‘Did you talk to the Raven-scourt man?’
‘Yes, I did, and he gave me his research, all his notes, everything he’d ever found out about Vespucci.’
‘Really?’ Gaspare replied, wary. ‘What’s in them?’
‘I dunno, I haven’t had a chance to read them yet. I’m going to look at them when I get back to the gallery.’
Picking up the newspaper, Gaspare read the headline again.
‘First Seraphina, now this woman … You think they had something in common? I do. I’m sure something connects them.’
‘Like Vespucci?’
Gaspare nodded thoughtfully. ‘We need to go back to where it all began – in Venice. We need to know about Vespucci’s victims. See if they had any connection to each other. Then we can see if they have any connection to Seraphina and Sally Egan.’
Nino paused, thinking back.
‘You told me that Vespucci got away with the murders because there was another suspect—’
‘But I don’t know who. No one does.’
‘Unless he’s named in Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes,’ Nino suggested.
The old man leaned forward in his hospital bed, suddenly alert. ‘Read them!’ he said urgently. ‘Read them!’
‘And what do we do about the painting?’
‘Forget about that for now! It’s gone. It could well have been stolen to order – that’s not unknown in the art world. It might be on its way to New York or Berlin as we speak. God knows how many dealers went after it—’
‘But how would they know about it?’
‘Seraphina?’
‘She only told Johnny Ravenscourt.’
‘And how many people did he tell?’ Gaspare asked perceptively. ‘What kind of a man is he?’
‘Scared. He was very close to Seraphina.’
‘D’you think he could have stolen the Titian?’
‘No,’ Nino said confidently. ‘Johnny Ravenscourt isn’t like that. He’s no thug, just a rich man with time to indulge his interests. His obsession with The Skin Hunter came from his research into serial killers. The fact that there’s a portrait in the mix means little to him – except for the legend that its emergence would bring back Vespucci.’
‘He believes that?’
‘Oh yes,’ Nino said emphatically. ‘He believes it – and it scares the shit out of him. I reckon the reason he gave me his notes was to get them off his hands. I’d say that Johnny Ravenscourt wants to put some distance between himself and his subject.’
‘But Vespucci’s victims were women—’
‘That makes no difference – logic doesn’t come into this. Johnny Ravenscourt’s spooked. The moment he gave me his research I could see him relax. It was like watching a man jump over a gate to escape a charging bull.’ Nino paused for an instant. ‘His notes connected him to The Skin Hunter. By getting rid of them he severed that connection.’
‘And?’
‘I think he also believes that if the legend is true, Vespucci will come after me now, not him.’
19
There is a passageway from Kensington Church Street that leads through an archway to a scruffy path around the back of the church. Over the years the figure of Christ has hung in a shrine there, crucified and on view to the passing traffic. At times yobs have thrown paint over Him, others have laid flowers at His feet, and at Christmas tinsel is wound gently around the brutal crown of thorns. He has stood under the wind, under the snow, and hung His head when summer sun cracked His painted face. And He was still standing as Nino cut through the passageway, heading for the convent gallery.
Unlocking the back door and turning off the repaired alarm, Nino made himself a drink and then moved to the drawing room on the first floor. In Gaspare’s absence he flicked on all the lights, spreading out Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes on the table and sitting down. Above him loomed the caramel angels, the Japanese suit of armour on duty by the door, a globe – dented in the Horn of Africa – holding up a Turkish rug.
Painstakingly Nino began to sort out Johnny Ravenscourt’s research. On his left he placed all the scraps of paper and hasty notes, on his right the photographs and reproductions, and in the centre he put the two notepads. He then started to read, choosing the journals first. Ravenscourt’s handwriting was surprisingly small for a big man, but every word was readable.
Angelico Vespucci b. 1510 – not known where he died. Last heard of February, 1556. His list of victims is open to debate, but there are records in the chapel of the Mazzerotti church. (The priest was so difficult, I had to donate to the renovations before he would even talk to me and then he was evasive. No one wants to talk about Angelico Vespucci. They pretend he never existed, until you come along with proof or asking questions. He’s like Venice’s dirty little secret.) Anyway, their records list the deaths of Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni …
Nino paused. Claudia Moroni. He knew about her. The woman who had once lived in the house where Seraphina had owned an apartment and lost her baby. Claudia Moroni, the second of The Skin’s Hunter’s victims … He scribbled down a note of his own, and continued to read.
The Moroni family were respectable, long established in Venice.* They were merchants, notable for the quality of their silks. Claudia Moroni came from a wealthy family and had one – or two, the accounts differ – sons, neither of whom survived infancy. Apparently her brother came to live in the household soon after she was married.
Weirdly, when I visited the Moroni house I knew I’d been there before. It turned out to be Seraphina’s first flat after she married Tom Morgan.
Nino scanned down the page to a note at the bottom.
*N.B. There is a painting of Claudia Moroni and her husband in the house.
Johnny Ravenscourt had pinned a photocopy of a portrait on to the page and Nino studied the couple depicted. The man was vulgarly handsome, the woman blonde, diffident, rather unremarkable except for the richness of her clothes. She certainly bore no resemblance to Seraphina, he thought, turning back to the notes.
I wanted to find out about the victims, but after spending two months searching for clues in 2008, I hit a brick wall. So I changed emphasis and looked at Angelico Vespucci himself.
Nino turned the page to find the familiar face looking up at him, in a variety of depictions of The Skin Hunter. As well as a copy of Titian’s portrait, there were several reproductions of engravings and a sepia sketch. Curious, Nino studied it. The sketch was high quality, even he could see that. Vespucci was turned towards the artist, his expression extraordinary. He had the same unreadable, heavy-lidded eyes, but there was a tremor about the mouth, a look of unease which bordered on instability. The sketch seemed to catch the man in an unguarded moment, when his features could not fully contain his character.
It was chilling.
Vespucci’s origins are unclear, Johnny’s notes continued. He seemed to come to Venice out of the ether. But he came with a great fortune around 1539, and was living on the Grand Canal by 1541, in a magnificent palazzo. Throwing extravagant parties, with the finest wines and foods imported, he became a popular figure. Generous and affable, he was well liked, but apparently he had a servant flogged publicly for serving bad oysters. Vespucci was very generous to the Church and worshipped at the San Salvatore, marrying Larissa Fiorsetti in 1546. (This much is in the records. After that it gets more difficult.) Nothing else is heard of him until 1549, when his daughter was born. His wife Larissa was, by all accounts, a great beauty. (See photos of contemporary paintings.)
Nino paused, picking up the images of the glorious Larissa Vespucci. She had been an opulent beauty, full-fleshed, redhaired, her mouth tilting up at the corners. He could see at once why Angelico Vespucci would have fallen in love with her. And why he might well have been possessive. How could he not have been? She would have drawn attention anywhere. How difficult would that have been for a unprepossessing man like Vespucci to endure?
Stretching his arms above his head, Nino yawned, then finished his coffee. Outside it was now fully dark and he drew the curtains, locking the doors front and back before returning to the notes.
The next mention of Vespucci is in 1555, when he is referred to by Pietro Aretino. Known as ‘The Scourge of Kings’, this heavyweight had considerable influence in Venice, his friendship with Titian alone making him a powerful figure in the city. What Titian liked about Aretino is anyone’s guess; he was a crude man, but he was very productive in the promotion of the artist’s work. He travelled abroad, spoke to kings and courtiers, and generally acted as Titian’s agent. So it’s not surprising when Aretino mentions that he has arranged for Titian to paint Angelico Vespucci’s portrait.
Vespucci was respectable at this time. Larissa was still alive. (I had some difficulty accessing the records. There is mention of a boy dying and a girl surviving. All my efforts to trace any living descendants of Vespucci have come to nothing. Either there are none, or they changed their name to avoid scandal.) It was in October 1555 that the contract for the portrait was drawn up, the sittings to be commenced in November. See notebook 2.
Sighing, Nino reached for the second volume. The writing picked up immediately from where the first had left off, only this time the notes were different – short, without the conversational tone. It was as though Johnny Ravenscourt was trying to distance himself in his writing.
4th November 1555 – Larissa Vespucci found murdered and skinned.
Suspicion fell on Vespucci, but his protectors rallied round him. Larissa had been unfaithful.
Aretino stands up for Vespucci.
Titian continues painting the portrait.
November 26th 1555 – Claudia Moroni found murdered and skinned.
Venice in the worst winter for over a century. Fogs constant, temperatures below zero. The legend of The Skin Hunter begins.
Thoughtful, Nino put the portraits of Claudia Moroni and Larissa Vespucci side by side. There were no physical similarities between the two women, the unremarkable Claudia looking more like a housewife than an adulteress. Stretching across the table, Nino then placed the images of Seraphina and Sally Egan above the two murdered Venetian women. Again, no similarities, not obvious ones anyway. Disappointed, he frowned. Perhaps there wasn’t a connection between a killer in the sixteenth century and another in the twenty-first century. Perhaps it was just coincidence.
And then again, perhaps it wasn’t.
Taking a deep breath, Nino read on. Outside, it grew dark. In its shrine, the figure of Christ bent His head to the traffic, and as the lights changed on Kensington High Street a plane came in to land at Heathrow Airport. It carried one hundred and seventy-five passengers.
And one of them was a killer.
20
Six o’clock and the tide was in, nuzzling the Thames Embankment, as Triumph Jones sat on one of the benches overlooking the river. He had felt compelled to come to London, his guilt forcing his hand. Such vanity, he thought – how could he have had such vanity? His eyes closed momentarily, then opened again, stinging in the December wind. His ego had overridden his sense, his morals, and now the plan he had set in motion had spun out of control.
Leaning forward, he watched the river, remembering how, days earlier, he had taken a taxi and asked to be dropped off at Grosvenor Bridge. There he had paused, looking around and waiting. Finally he spotted a woman a little way off, and ducked behind one of the struts of the bridge to avoid being seen. He waited, certain that she was coming closer, then threw the portrait of Angelico Vespucci over the railings and into the ebbing tide. It hit the water with a hefty splash, the woman turning as Triumph watched.
He knew it had still been something of a gamble. What if there had been some alteration in the flow? Or some boat causing a wake that spun the Titian away from the bank? Or worse, what if it had remained in the water and been irrevocably damaged?
Still hiding, Triumph had seen the woman react. Surprised, she looked into the water, the Titian following a sudden push of tide and washing up on to the shingle. Relieved, Triumph had then seen the slight figure scramble down the grit towards it. Once she nearly lost her balance on the wet silt, but she recovered and, after looking carefully at the package, had picked it up.
Exhaling, Triumph had walked off in the opposite direction. His plan had been set in motion. Let the games begin …
Taking in a breath, he clasped his hands together, trying to stop them shaking. It had been a ploy to excite the interest of the art world, to push up the price of a notorious painting. A painting which had come his way via a thief in Madrid and a forger in San Francisco. A Titian everyone would be after. What better way to get a notorious work back on to the market than to have it found by accident? How much publicity could be generated by such a story?
Like many in the art world, Triumph had known about The Skin Hunter and was now relying on its gory reputation to start up a media scramble. Everyone knew that serial killers sold copy.
It hadn’t mattered to Triumph who found the portrait or where it had ended up. The fact that it came to rest with Gaspare Reni was a bonus, unexpected but irrelevant. He had calculated that whoever found the Titian would sell to a gallery or put it in an auction – where he would buy it. It might cost him more, but after a little while he would sell it on and make an impressive profit while bolstering his own reputation at the same time.
Of course he had known that it could go another way. But if anyone tried to organise a sale illegally, Triumph would hear of that too. He hadn’t earned his sobriquet by relying on the good nature of mankind. Over the years he had employed staff to run his gallery and his home, and hired a few others who lurked in the swamp of the art world, privy to unsavoury and dangerous secrets.
It should have been so simple.
And then Seraphina Morgan, aka Seraphina di Fattori, was murdered and flayed. The woman who had found the painting was dead – and the portrait was gone … Triumph hadn’t believed what Gaspare Reni had told him. The old dealer would never have destroyed a Titian. What he hadn’t expected was that Gaspare would keep it and hide it. Far from the portrait coming on to the market in a blast of notoriety, it had been concealed again.
Worse was to follow. Having set someone to watch Gaspare’s gallery, his scrutiny had been too late. Gaspare Reni had already been admitted to hospital, after ‘a fall’. It wasn’t difficult to read the subtext. Somehow Triumph had been outwitted; before he could buy the Titian from Gaspare Reni the picture had been stolen. And worse, in a matter of days another woman had been killed. Another woman murdered in exactly the same manner as the first.
No one had to tell him that there was a connection.
For the first time in his life, Triumph Jones felt cursed. Everything he had wanted, he had achieved. The art world was becoming giddy with the leaking news of the Titian. How long before it was common knowledge? He had wanted that, but not what followed. How long before some hack made the front page by pairing the legend of The Skin Hunter with the deaths of Seraphina Morgan and Sally Egan?
And it was his fault. He’d built up the rumour, nourished the seed. There had been a killer called Angelico Vespucci, and a legend. Along with a shattering threat – when the portrait emerges, so will the man. That had been Triumph’s plan, to utilise the fable when he had the cursed painting in his possession.
Ashamed, he thought back. God, he had hardly been able to believe his luck, that the infamous portrait should end up in his hands. But then greed had entered the equation. How could he ensure that the picture got on to the front pages, his coup publicised globally, adding another victory to his roll-call of triumphs? And so he resurrected a legend. Polished, embellished, refined, the tale taking its time to marinate, so that its revelation would be all the more newsworthy when the portrait came to light …
Shivering, Triumph wrapped his coat around him, still staring into the water. What had he done? What had he called up? The thought unnerved him. Of course Angelico Vespucci couldn’t come back from the dead. It was absurd. And yet two women had been murdered by the same means The Skin Hunter had employed over four hundred years earlier. So something had happened. Triumph’s actions had triggered something.
Unsettled, he grabbed at the comfort of a human villain. Maybe a killer copying The Skin Hunter? It was possible, Triumph thought, God knows, it was possible.
But it was still his fault. Two young women were dead. And his conscience floundered under the weight of their deaths.