Текст книги "Isle of the Dead"
Автор книги: Alex Connor
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
28
New York
The body count was now up to three. Three women, all killed in the same way Vespucci’s victims had met their end. The new Skin Hunter was active, inspired by the legend Triumph Jones had created. Had he never set his plan in action he could simply have bought the Titian portrait for himself. That would – should – have been enough for any dealer. His peers would have admired and envied him, his nickname gaining a platinum lustre. The prestige of owning a Titian should have been sufficient for even a mammoth ego.
But not for Triumph.
The same ambition which had cost him his marriage would now cost him his peace of mind. Sleep had deserted him, the lure of his business turned off. Even the pleasure of dining out had somehow become little more than a chilly formality. His friends might still gather about him, still engage him in conversation and gossip, but Triumph’s mind never stayed with them for long. Instead it fixed on the names of the murdered women. It threw up images of their corpses, not seen but imagined in every terrible detail.
It seemed that every few days there was a report in the paper of another murder. In Venice, London, Tokyo. Perhaps only a ghost could travel so easily and so unnoticed? But this was no ghost, no legend that he had callously drawn up. This was reality. A man was killing women. Inspired by the original Skin Hunter someone was seeking to emulate – God forbid, exceed – his murders. It was as though a lunatic was now recreating what Vespucci had done four centuries previously.
Triumph suspected the police were likely to have connected the killings already. The publicity had ensured intense activity, the media demanding answers. What would happen next was inevitable: the news of a woman being skinned would travel quickly from Tokyo and they would remember Sally Egan in London, then, after a while, Seraphina. The police were bound to make the connection because there were too many similarities for the killings not to have been committed by the same man. And although Triumph had not engaged in the act of killing, he was indirectly responsible for the murders. It had been his PR which had drawn a lunatic out. His ego which had brought The Skin Hunter back to life.
He was responsible – and he knew it.
It would not be his buying and selling, his collecting, his numerous coups in the art world by which he would be judged. Triumph Jones would be victorious in something altogether more heinous. Only Gaspare Reni knew the truth – but that didn’t matter to the American. He knew what he had done and every waking moment scorched him with guilt. Overwrought, he became obsessed, developing a fantasy, a means of absolution. He would find the Titian and destroy it. He would send it back to the water. Back into the dark, the deep.
He had no idea if such a deed would stop the killings, but in his confusion Triumph convinced himself that it would prove miraculous. That somehow, if he could destroy the means by which the killer had been inspired, he could also destroy the man.
Having decided on his next course of action, Triumph sent out another message, knowing it would travel around the knotted vines of the art world within hours. Whoever brought him the painting would be rewarded. The man who brought the Titian back would be publicly recompensed, while privately becoming his saviour.
It never occurred to him that he might be summoning up the Devil instead.
29
Norfolk
Only two weeks until Christmas. Nino drove into the village of Little Havensham, parking his car outside a butcher’s shop. Suspended from a row of steel hooks outside were the carcasses of turkeys and geese, inviting early purchase and orders. Next door a traditional greengrocer piled up his window with baskets of clementines, avocados, oranges, lychees and lozenge-shaped packets of dates, the whole presentation surrounded by a kitsch frosting of artificial snow. Walking in, Nino took his place behind a man waiting to be served, then asked for directions to Courtford Hall. Thanking the shopkeeper for his assistance, he made his way back to the car, only to be stopped by an elderly woman carrying a shopping basket.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing – you were asking for Court-ford Hall, weren’t you?’
He smiled. ‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I used to live there. Until the 1990s, when I was widowed and had to move to a flat. One of those modern places by the end of the green.’ She seemed keen to tell her story. ‘My nephew took over – Sir Harold Greyly. I suppose it’s him you want to see?’
Having learnt quickly that listening was more profitable than talking, and that even the most unlikely people had good information, Nino encouraged her.
‘Yeah, I’d like to talk to him. Unfortunately I haven’t got an appointment, because I’ve no phone number for him to call ahead. I’m just dropping by on the off-chance he’ll see me.’
‘I’m Hester Greyly,’ the woman said, putting out her hand. Willing, he took it.
‘I’m Nino Bergstrom.’
‘Unusual name,’ she said, gesturing to his hair. ‘Your appearance is unusual too. So much white hair on a young man.’ She hurried on. ‘I married into the Greyly family, so I was easier to put out to grass. Does that sound bitter? It wasn’t meant to. Are you curious about the house or the family?’
The lie was smooth. ‘Actually I’m a location finder for the film industry. We’re always looking for interesting places to use and I heard about the hall for an E. M. Forster movie. It might be just perfect, but it’s long shot.’
‘The film industry?’ she said, her eyes alert. ‘How exciting. Perhaps I could help you. I was thinking of calling at the hall myself …’
She let the words hang and Nino caught them.
‘D’you want a lift? I can take you there. Your nephew could hardly refuse to talk to me if I was introduced by his aunt.’ He smiled, knowing that she would be a willing companion. ‘Of course I’d understand if you were busy—’
‘Oh no, I’m not busy. Not busy at all.’
Nino followed the directions to Courtford Hall. When they arrived, Hester climbed out of the car and looked around her, sighing longingly. Mullioned windows, bearded with variegated ivy and winter-bitten honeysuckle, caught the last rays of daylight and two stone statues book-ended the double doors of the entrance, the wood worn in parts and studded with iron nails.
Grabbing hold of it, Hester began to rap with a knocker the size of a serving dish. But no one answered the door. Instead a man appeared round the side of the house. He was wearing gardening clothes, cords tucked into Wellingtons, but he had the bearing of a military man and someone well practised in manners.
‘What a surprise!’ he said, kissing his aunt on the cheek and beckoning for them both to come in. ‘How good to see you. I’m only sorry Clare isn’t here, but she’s gone to London to do some shopping and stay with her sister. Christmas, hey – gets worse every year.’ He turned to Nino. ‘Welcome. And you are?’
‘This is Nino Bergstrom,’ Hester said enthusiastically. ‘A new friend of mine. He’s a location finder. Wants to have a look at the hall for a film, something by E. M. Forster.’
Harold Greyly was all smoothness.
‘Really?’ he said, turning to Nino. ‘Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment. You could talk to Mrs Grant, the housekeeper, or my assistant. I’m sure we can arrange a date that would be convenient for both of us.’
Immediately Nino stopped him.
‘Actually I just need a few minutes, Sir Harold. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, could we do it now?’
Having beckoned for his assistant to approach, Greyly waved him away and turned back to Nino. ‘Fine, come on through.’
With the air of the practised host, Harold Greyly ushered them into a comfortable sitting, room where two springer spaniels lay in front of a log fire, the day’s newspapers dumped unceremoniously on the sofa.
Moving them out of the way, Harold turned to his aunt. ‘Glass of sherry?’
‘Lovely,’ she agreed.
‘And you?’ he asked Nino.
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
After pouring the sherry, Harold stood in front of the fire, giving Nino the chance to study him. His frame was upright, trim around the waist, his shoulders wide, his whole body suggesting time spent at a gym. Nino guessed his age at around fifty. Harold Greyly had kept his wavy auburn hair and his skin was weathered and marked with old acne scars around the eyes. He looked well fed and well bred, a country Englishman at one with his august surroundings.
‘Nino wanted to look around the hall, but he was also wondering about our family,’ Hester said, as though they had been talking about it in detail.
Nino was getting the drift quickly: the old woman was a bit of a mischief-maker. Having been ‘put out to grass’ she was eager to get back to her old home, even temporarily, and desperate to know what was going on.
Nino picked up from where she left off. ‘I heard that the hall was one of the grandest properties in Norfolk. And one of the oldest, isn’t it?’
‘The foundations date from the fourteen hundreds—’
‘Thirteen eighty,’ Hester said firmly. ‘Then there were wings and additions in the fifteenth century and more in the eighteenth.’ She dimpled up at Harold, annoyingly helpful. ‘Isn’t that right, dear?’
He smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You know the family history, probably better than I do.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that—’
He cut her off. ‘Hester, don’t be modest.’
‘I’m just trying to help,’ she said, leaning back in her seat and sipping the sherry. ‘Please go on.’
‘I can give you a quick tour of the house,’ Harold offered. ‘We get people coming here pretty often. You know the kind of thing: journalists, people who write those home style magazines. I don’t mind – I’m grateful to own such a wonderful place.’
‘But you don’t own it, do you?’ Hester intervened. ‘We’re all just guardians, looking after the house and the books for the next generation.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Harold replied shortly, raising his eyebrows and turning away.
Having noticed several photographs around the room, Nino changed tack.
‘You were in the Army?’
‘I was. Retired now.’
‘Harold speaks several languages,’ Hester said proudly. ‘And he’s travelled all round the world, haven’t you? And he’s so well read, which helps with us having such a marvellous library. You know, all your travelling used to worry me when you first came here – would you settle into being a country gentleman?’ Her tone was all barbed sweetness. ‘But you have. Hunting, shooting, fishing. He’s especially good at hunting, aren’t you, dear?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘One of the best shots in the county, I’m told. And he’s game for everything – deer, rabbits. Skins them quick as that!’ She snapped her fingers. Harold interrupted the flow as he turned to Nino.
‘Did you want to look around?’
‘I’d love to, thanks.’
Leaving Hester to her sherry, Harold took Nino on a tour. It was something he had often done before, that much was obvious, his enthusiasm a mixture of pride and boredom. Apparently his son was to inherit after him, and the Greyly line would continue as it had done for generations before.
‘A place like this takes a lot of money to keep up, but it’s worth it,’ he went on. ‘I made plenty—’
‘In the Army?’
‘God no!’ he laughed. ‘When I came out I worked as a consultant, putting the right people together with the right people – you know the kind of thing. Contacts. That’s how I got my OBE.’ He pointed to a painting on the landing. ‘That picture’s a Van Dyck. Not a copy, an original.’
‘Must be worth a lot of money.’
‘It’s not a problem. We’re insured and alarmed up to the hilt. We have to be, with the library, the silver and the paintings,’ Harold continued, just in case his visitor was not what he seemed. ‘We’ve not had a break-in since the seventies.’
‘It’s amazing,’ Nino said, looking around at the oak panelling and the carved ceiling above the stairwell. ‘It might be exactly what the film company’s looking for. Can I take some photographs?’
Flattered, Harold allowed him to capture a few shots of the hall and upper landing, culminating in the drawing room. Knowing that he couldn’t keep up the pretence for much longer, Nino pointed to a framed photograph on a side table, a faded picture of a debutante in the 1940s.
‘It that your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s all very English, isn’t it?’ Nino remarked, smiling as he took another photograph. ‘You can tell from my name I’m a bit of a half-breed myself. My mother was Italian, my father Swedish. I suppose Courtford Hall’s never seen any foreign blood? No dilution of the English line?’
Following Nino, Harold watched as he took several more photographs in the hall, finally concentrating all his attention on the ancient front doors.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There’s always a little slip-up here and there in the best of families.’
Pretending to line up a shot, Nino’s voice was casual. ‘Really? Some ancestor you hide away? Some old scandal?’
Pausing, Harold considered his reply.
‘There was an incident a long time ago. My relative was very excitable. She chose to marry a foreigner. She eloped, thank God. Saved us a lot of gossip.’
‘Didn’t the family approve of her choice?’
‘He was a Venetian merchant.’ Harold’s voice was pure scorn. ‘Called Moroni. My relative was christened Catherine, but changed her name to Claudia. To fit into Italy better, I imagine. Claudia Moroni – it would hardly suit Norfolk, would it?’
The name slapped down between them, as unsettling as a firecracker, and Harold’s voice suddenly took on an under-current of suspicion. ‘I thought you were interested in the house?’
‘I am, but it’s good to hear about the family too.’ Nino clicked away, avoiding Greyly’s stare. ‘So she married a Venetian in trade,’ he went on, refusing to acknowledge the insult and taking it as a joke instead. ‘That’s bad. Did she have children?’
‘A daughter.’
‘Hardly a threat to your lot, is it?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Nino could sense the enmity coming off the man.
‘I mean a daughter isn’t the same as a son who could claim some inheritance. Did your ancestor ever come back to England?’
‘No. She died in Venice.’ Harold replied curtly. ‘What exactly has she got to do with a film location?’
Nino shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. I just get bored looking at houses. Sometimes I like to know about the people who lived in them. It makes the place come to life.’ He paused after taking the last photograph. ‘I think I’ve got what I need now.’
‘Really? You do surprise me.’
The words caught Nino off guard. They were said with an unexpected malice Harold Greyly’s expression cold.
‘What exactly do you want, Mr Bergstrom?’
Nino didn’t miss a beat.
‘What do I want? What I got, Sir Harold. Some great shots of a great house.’ He opened the front door and stepped out on to the steps. ‘Will you say goodbye to your aunt for me, and thank her for her kindness? I’ll be in touch.’
Venice, 1555
The rumours have swollen, gross and unconfined. Three nights ago a mob collected outside Vespucci’s house. I counted over thirty men combined, carrying torches in the fog, their voices raised in a frenzy, their hands wrenching at the iron gates to gain admittance. But the gates held. Only later did Vespucci come to the window and look out. The candles illuminated his lean shape, the portrait of his murdered wife hanging on the wall behind him.
All Venice believes him guilty, for what other suspect is there?
At nine the wind picked up, frothing a sea so high it threatened to drown us all. Some spoke of wickedness, that God was meting out punishment where we would not. We had a killer in our number. Behind iron gates, Angelico Vespucci lived like an innocent. Whored, enjoyed the worst depravities. And kept his freedom. The priests spurred us to action: Vespucci was the reason for our suffering. The Skin Hunter was killing Venice herself.
The mob comes each night. They stand at Vespucci’s gates, they chant the names of Larissa and Claudia, summoning up the dead as though they believe the living cannot touch him. Vespucci has hired guards who patrol the railings and shadow the doors.
Later he stands at the balcony window, Aretino beside him. He stands like a martyr before God, demanding understanding, his lean hands pressed to his temples. Aretino might defend him, plead his innocence, Titian might suggest support, the portrait coming more and more to life as Vespucci moves closer and closer towards death.
All but a few of the old priests are refusing to come out at night. They fear the dark and the ghosts of drowned dogs, and although the poor body of Claudia Moroni was buried in a crypt on the Island of St Michael, the grave was desecrated and her corpse stolen. Two days later the body was returned. The undertakers had wrapped her in white silk, but when she came back she was flayed and bound in the darkest of crimson.
30
St Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
Bored, Gaspare stared at the television and then clicked it off. He had worked his way through all the books Nino had brought for him and dismissed the art magazines. His respiratory infection now under control, he was feeling more alert but aching to be home, back at the gallery. He knew that he would have to remain in hospital, but his enforced idleness had made him restless, keen for an update on Nino’s progress.
Having heard nothing from him since the previous day, Gaspare had spent an uneasy night making notes, drawing up a list of possible suspects. He dismissed the idea of a re-appearance of the original Skin Hunter. The killer was no supernatural force, so who was he? Someone copying Vespucci? Someone with a past record of violence? Someone who was known to be obsessed by the Venetian?
Jotting down two names, Gaspare considered them – Tom Morgan and Johnny Ravenscourt. Then he added the name Jobo Kido as an afterthought. Why not? The Japanese dealer was an oddity, his collection depraved. Could he have crossed over? Instead of collecting the memorabilia of killers, might he have started to collect his own? Harriet Forbes had been killed in Tokyo, where Jobo Kido lived. It was possible.
The door opened, interrupting his thoughts, and Nino walked in with a takeaway Italian meal. Putting it down on the bedside table, he split the food between the two of them and passed some to Gaspare.
Smiling, Gaspare looked at it. ‘Rubber pasta.’
‘But pasta nonetheless,’ Nino said, taking a mouthful and then pulling Gaspare’s notes towards him. ‘What’s this?’
‘Suspects.’
He read the names, shaking his head at the last. ‘Jobo Kido? Are you kidding?’
‘The man’s twisted,’ Gaspare said firmly. ‘Years ago I saw his private collection. He’s fascinated by killers. Don’t tell me that’s not relevant. Kido would do anything to get that Titian painting. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, is still out there somewhere.’
‘Unless the killer’s got it,’ Nino replied, pointing to the sheet of paper. ‘You can add another one to that list of suspects – Sir Harold Greyly.’ He wiped some tomato juice off his chin with a paper napkin. ‘His name came up in Ravens-court’s notes and I went to see him yesterday. One of the Greyly ancestors was The Skin Hunter’s second victim.’
Gaspare’s eyebrows rose. ‘Claudia Moroni?’
‘Yeah,’ Nino agreed, taking another mouthful.
‘Did he tell you about her murder?’
‘No. And he got very twitchy when I started asking questions.’
‘But why suspect him of being involved with the current murders?’
‘I dunno,’ Nino replied, putting down his food and staring at the old man. ‘Something about him. Something off-key. He’s travelled a lot, was in the Army and then made a killing with his contacts, arrogant bastard. He’s now inherited a country pile after turfing out his old aunt, and she seemed a bit miffed. She also said something about Harold being a keen hunter.’
‘He lives in the country – most of them hunt.’
‘She said he could skin anything.’
Gaspare paused, putting his fork down and pushing the food away from him. ‘Before you arrived, I was just thinking about the killer. I mean, three women, in three different countries. Who could do that?’
Nino was still eating. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘He’d have to have funds. He’s either rich enough not to need a job, or he’s self-employed. If he had regular employment, he’d have to keep taking time off work.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Nino replied, finishing his food and throwing the containers in the bin. ‘Sally Egan was killed at night. After work hours.’
‘But the killer had already been to Venice and then went on to Japan. A plane ticket to Tokyo costs money—’
‘I agree. But surely the more important question is: why did he choose them? Before we wonder about his means, shouldn’t we try and work out why he picked these particular victims? That’s the key, Gaspare. The women must have something in common.’
‘But if the killer’s copying Vespucci, shouldn’t we look at his victims first?’
‘OK.’ Thoughtful, Nino nodded. ‘I’ve been reading Johnny Ravenscourt’s notes – not finished them yet – and they list Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni and the Contessa di Fattori. But a website dedicated to The Skin Hunter lists a woman called Lena Arranti as the penultimate victim.’ Nino paused for effect. ‘Somebody out there’s been doing their research. This information isn’t readily available. It took Ravenscourt decades to find it. And this website only went up forty-eight hours ago. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? A website glorifying The Skin Hunter appears at the same time as his crimes are being reenacted?’
‘You think the killer created it?’
‘Yes,’ Nino replied. ‘Yes, I do. I think the man who made the website killed the women. Perhaps it all started with him getting curious about Vespucci, then he became obsessed. Then, when he heard about the painting turning up – thanks to Triumph Jones’ PR stunt – he flipped. Took it as a sign and started his own tribute. He wants to copy Angelico Vespucci – he wants to be him, to have his power, his legend.’
‘It makes no sense—’
‘Not to us. But to a fanatic, it would. About five years ago I was working for a company who were making a film about Jack the Ripper. One of the many. I remember that the director said it would make a fortune. Even if it was bad, it would bring in a profit, because everyone wanted to know about a killer. Especially killers who had never been caught. Glamorous murderers. And The Skin Hunter has a kind of sick glamour. He created havoc in his time. He terrorised the Republic of Venice and yet he got away with it. Vespucci disappeared, and a scapegoat took the blame.’
‘I wish we knew who that was.’
Nino turned to Gaspare. ‘You think it’s important?’
‘I think everything we find out about Vespucci’s important. Did the victims have anything in common?’
‘Vespucci killed Larissa because she was unfaithful, but Claudia Moroni was a respectable married woman.’
Nino thought back over his conversation with Harold Greyly, repeating his words.
“My relative was very excitable … She eloped, thank God. Saved us a lot of gossip.” He glanced over at Gaspare. ‘Perhaps she wasn’t quite the innocent she appeared?’
‘And the Contessa di Fattori was a whore.’
‘Yes, everyone agrees on that. And the website said that Lena Arranti was a courtesan, working from the Jewish Quarter in Venice.’ Nino paused. ‘There is a link between the women – sex. Larissa Vespucci was an adulteress. Lena Arranti was a prostitute. The Contessa di Fattori was promiscuous. Perhaps there was some sexual secret about Claudia Moroni? Perhaps that was why her descendant said that her elopement saved them from scandal?’ Nino got to his feet. ‘If the theme is sexual – if Vespucci set out to punish these women – is that why women are being killed now? Does our killer want to punish women too?’ He walked to the door, then turned. ‘I’m going back to the gallery to finish Ravenscourt’s notes. Then I’ll talk to him—’
Gaspare flinched. ‘Don’t be stupid! We’ve just agreed that Ravenscourt could be the killer—’
‘And if he is,’ Nino said simply, ‘someone has to stop him.’
