‘So why don’t you sell some of your stuff?’
‘My stuff,’ Gaspare replied crisply, ‘is important to me. I know every piece, and what it’s worth.’
‘Then let me pay the electricity bill—’
‘You’re broke, Nino. You know that, and I know that. Anyway, what’s with all the electricity? I don’t need to have the place lit up like a supermarket! I don’t need to see it to know it’s beautiful.’
Thoughtful, Nino studied the dealer. What he said was true: virtually all of Nino Bergstrom’s money had gone. Not that he had ever saved that much in the first place. His life in Los Angeles, on the periphery of the movie business, had been well paid and Nino had spent extravagantly, expecting the largesse to continue. Hired to find film locations round the world, he had travelled from Australia to Sri Lanka, London to Tripoli, Hong Kong to Africa. His ease with people, and his skill at spotting unique locations, kept him in constant work. And the money rolled in. So did the parties – and the opportunities.
A brief, unhappy marriage had dented Nino’s confidence, but an attractive man working in the film industry was never likely to be lonely for long. The clichés of glamour – sex, top-range cars and clothes bought from Rodeo Drive – became commonplace. It was difficult to appreciate plenty when it was readily available. And in the maelstrom of success prescience was for fools. Just as tomorrow was for the old.
And then Nino collapsed.
He had been scouting in London, on the Isle of Dogs, and a pain had gone off in his head like a car backfiring. Like a pistol shot. Like a window shattered by the impact of an extreme and violent blow. In the nanosecond the sound reverberated in his head Nino had stared ahead, looking for the source of the noise, then felt the muscles of his neck tighten with an involuntary spasm, his forehead engulfed by lacerating heat, his brain punctured and peeled by a dozen nails driven into his skull. His hands flew upwards, trying to protect his head, to hold together the breaking, bleeding mass.
He remembered falling … but nothing else, until he woke up in hospital and Gaspare Reni was sitting by his bed …
The memory was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing in the gallery below.
Surprised, Gaspare glanced over at his companion, his expression questioning. They had few visitors in the day, none at night.
‘Who the hell’s that?’ he said, moving over to the intercom, his voice brusque as he spoke. ‘Who’s there?’
In the street outside, Seraphina paused, momentarily taken aback. ‘Mr Reni? It’s Seraphina Morgan.’ Knowing that her married name would mean nothing to him, she added, ‘I used to be Seraphina di Fattori—’
‘Di Fattori?’
‘You knew my parents in Venice.’
Smiling, Gaspare buzzed her in, moving out into the hallway to greet her. Under the sullen gaze of a low-wattage light she seemed surprisingly young, holding a package tightly in her arms. Unused to the dim candlelight, Seraphina allowed herself to be guided into the sitting room and led over to a round table, Gaspare reluctantly turning on the chandelier suspended above them.
As it blazed into life, Seraphina blinked, laying her package down and turning to the dealer.
‘So you remember me?’
He nodded, studying her. ‘I do. You were always pretty.’
‘You were always charming,’ she countered, her Italian accent pronounced. ‘My mother used to say you could flatter a saint into an indiscretion.’
‘How is she?’
‘Older, but well enough … My father had a stroke. He’s making progress, but it’s slow.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Gaspare said, his tone genuine. ‘Give them my regards and tell them I think of them often. And how are you?’
‘Married. To an American. I came to London to do some research on gene therapy—’
‘A scientist in the family?’
‘Not all of us are cultured,’ she said in a mocking tone.
Gaspare gestured for Nino to approach. The introduction was light-hearted. ‘This is my closest friend, my borrowed son, Nino Bergstrom.’ He grimaced. ‘Italian mother, Swedish father, hence the name. What can you do? Nino’s a location finder—’
‘A what?’
‘I find locations for movies. Or rather I used to.’ Uncomfortable, Nino moved the conversation away from himself and gestured to the package on the table. ‘What’s that?’
‘A painting—’
‘A painting?’ Gaspare echoed, curious.
Smiling, Seraphina looked at each of the men in turn. ‘Can I take off my coat? It’s a bit wet,’ she explained, draping it over the back of a chair and glancing at Gaspare. ‘You see, I’ve been splashing about in the river.’
Amused, Gaspare teased her.
‘I haven’t seen you for years, and that was in Venice. And now you just arrive out of the blue with a picture. A wet picture.’
Intrigued, he unwrapped the package and then caught his breath. What he was looking at was notorious – and priceless.
3
Ginza, Tokyo
For years afterwards Jobo Kido would remember the moment when the call came through. Having just lost out at an auction in New York, he had returned home to a disagreeable wife and a problem with the alarm system at his gallery. An unexpected heatwave had added to his discomfort and, exasperated, he had retired to his office and locked the door. When the phone rang he had been tempted to ignore it, but then snatched it up before his secretary could answer.
The man’s voice that came over the line was elegant, verging on cultured. For a moment Jobo had thought he was English, then realised that the caller was, in fact, an American with a Boston accent.
‘Mr Kido, I have something of interest to tell you.’
The same old line, Jobo thought; always the same few words intended to elicit curiosity and hopefully a sale. Disgruntled, he turned up the air conditioning in the office, his voice impatient.
‘What are you trying to sell me?’
‘I have nothing to sell,’ the man replied coolly. ‘I’m merely passing on information which I think will be of value to you. Are you still interested in adding to your private pieces?’
Hesitating, Jobo thought about his personal collection. The collection which was not shown in the gallery or at his private abode, but housed in an undisclosed location, several miles away. The pieces in this ‘unique’ collection had been acquired over the years from many – and disparate – sources, and while their existence was not a secret it was not generally known outside the art world.
It had begun when he was a child, taken by his school on a trip to London. But the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and even Madame Tussauds had not cast their usual spell and instead Jobo had been fascinated by the exhibits in the Hunterian Museum. His curiosity had been caught by the images collected there. Mementos of cruelty had become mixed in his mind with Japanese legends of the samurai and Ronin. Jobo wasn’t interested in torture so much as the depictions of the criminals themselves. Some obsession with their physiognomy captivated him and led to a lifetime fascination with the essence of evil. His question was always the same: could evil be read in a face? It was the same question Shakespeare had asked. The same question phrenologists and reconstructors had pursued for years.
The same unanswered, elusive question.
‘Mr Kido, are you still there?’
‘Who am I talking to?’
‘My name’s irrelevant. My information is all that matters,’ the man replied. ‘Have you heard of Angelico Vespucci?’
The name fired its malignant arrow down the phone line. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. He was known as The Skin Hunter.’
‘And Titian painted his portrait.’
‘He did,’ Jobo replied cautiously, ‘but the painting went missing soon after it was completed—’
‘What if I were to tell you that it’s just surfaced …’
Jobo could feel his skin prickle with excitement.
‘… and that the infamous portrait of a killer is now in London?’ The man paused to let the information work its magic. ‘There will be dealers who won’t handle it. The piece has a dark reputation, after all, but it would be a wonderful addition to your personal collection.’
Jobo tried to swallow. ‘Do you have it?’
‘No, but I know where it is.’
‘Is it coming up in a sale?’
‘Who knows?’
‘London?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is it a private seller?’ Jobo pressed the man hurriedly. ‘Are you working as a broker?’
‘All I can tell you is that the portrait of Angelico Vespucci has re-emerged. And if you want it, I would suggest you start putting out some feelers now, before another collector beats you to it.’
Before Jobo Kido could answer, the line went dead.
Light-headed, he put down the phone and slumped into the chair behind his desk. Outside he could see the unnatural blue of the Japanese sky, the hustle of buildings yammering upwards to the risen sun. The painting was in London, the caller had said. London, Jobo thought to himself. Was it worth a trip to England? Perhaps not until he knew more. But how could he find out more? The caller had left no contact details; perhaps he wouldn’t ring again. Perhaps another dealer would get the prize … No, Jobo thought, calming himself, the man knew he had a ready buyer in Jobo Kido. Knew he would pay handsomely for the portrait.
An unsettling thought followed. What if the caller had contacted another dealer? Or several other dealers? Perhaps he was trying to drum up interest and, by extension, value? Everyone in the art world knew that competition dictated the price paid. Perhaps the planting of interest in several ears, and several countries, would ensure a more lucrative sale. To his surprise Jobo found himself sweating, even though the air conditioning was turned on full. He felt a morbid sense of anxiety, a panicky fear that he might lose. That something he would prize more than any other man might elude him.
Only five minutes earlier Angelico Vespucci had been little more than a footnote in Jobo Kido’s mind. An intangible mirage, a half-remembered story he had heard many years earlier. But now this remarkable, feared work, this image of evil, had re-emerged. Melodramatically, mysteriously. Like a vampire it had come back to life and, like a vampire, it had the capacity to haunt him.
Thoughtful, Jobo unlocked his safe and picked up a creased leather pouch. He gazed at it for a moment and then shook out a key. It was the only one in his possession. There was a copy, but that was in his bank, to prevent his wife, son or business colleagues gaining access. Holding the key against his cheek, Jobo thought of his private collection.
Outside, Tokyo might be unreal, greasy with heat, leaves falling from autumnal trees even as the temperature hit ninety degrees. At home, his wife might sulk, and at the gallery the burglar alarm might trip again at dawn – but what did it matter to him? All he could focus on was the thought of the Vespucci portrait.
Found again.
In London.
For now.
Soon in Japan. Soon his.
Smiling to himself, Jobo imagined where he would place the painting in his collection. He had no fear of its reputation. Superstition was only for the gullible. What interested him was not the crimes, but the sitter. He longed to see what The Skin Hunter had really looked like. Yearned to own Titian’s magnificent portrait of the man who had murdered and mutilated four women. Ached to study the features of Angelico Vespucci and test them against other, later killers. To see if there was some likeness in evil, some repetition of feature or expression.
Jobo Kido had no fear of Angelico Vespucci. That would come later.