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?’