‘What the bloody hell are you playing at?’ she snapped, infuriated to find herself talking to Triumph Jones’ recorded message. Severing the connection, she then dialled Tokyo, knowing she would wake Jobo Kido in the middle of the night and hopefully catch him off guard.
‘What!!!’ a voice answered, and Farina smiled to herself. He had been asleep. Good.
‘Jobo, it’s Farina.’
‘It’s one in the morning. What d’you want?’
‘Triumph’s drumming up help to find the Titian.’ She could hear the dealer take in a breath and could imagine him sitting up in bed, shocked out of sleep. ‘You know what that means, don’t you, Jobo? Every fucking lunatic will come out of the woodwork. And now everyone will know about the Titian portrait. I mean everyone.’ Her voice plunged. ‘Are you listening to me?’
‘Every word,’ Jobo said, getting to his feet, his wife grumbling as she turned over in bed. Walking downstairs, he made for the kitchen, closing the door behind him. ‘You woke my wife—’
‘I woke your wife!’ Farina snapped. ‘Jesus! You moron, this is more important than your wife’s beauty sleep!’
‘Farina, calm down,’ Jobo said, tying the dressing-gown cord round his waist and getting himself some water. ‘Why did he do it? It doesn’t seem like Triumph to advertise something like that. He’s crazy—’
‘Oh, he’s crazy like a snake!’ she snorted. ‘He wants that bloody painting so much he’s going to stoop to any depths to get it. And you know what that means, don’t you? We lose.’
‘We lose?’ Jobo repeated. ‘Why exactly are you letting me in on this, Farina?’
‘The Titian’s out there, hanging its arse in the wind. We have to get hold of it before it disappears again. Or worse, Triumph gets it. He can’t win, not this time.’ She thought of his steely confidence and cringed. ‘I refuse to let him add one more scalp to his belt – particularly that Titian. I want it. And I know you want it. But the way I see it, our joining forces would double our chances. We could share it.’
‘Share it?’
‘Stop repeating everything I fucking say!’ she roared. ‘Think about it. If we keep quiet, then who’s to know that we’re sharing it? We have to act! Triumph’s calling on all sorts – thieves, villains, and all the loser dealers out to make a buck. He’ll be up to his knees in fakes within a week. And even if he does manage to flush out the Titian, he’ll lose it when we offer a better deal.’
‘If we hear of it.’
‘Let it be known that we’re willing to top his offer and we’ll hear of it.’ She paused, confident. ‘Come on, Jobo, it’s a good idea. You could have the Titian half the time and I could have it the other half. East meet West – it would be a cultural gesture.’
‘It would be a two-fingered gesture to Triumph,’ Jobo replied, amused. ‘But I want the painting for my collection.’
‘And I want the painting for my husband. So what? We both want it, but Triumph wants it more.’ She paused, her tone softening. ‘He’s rich, but I’m richer. And you’re no pauper, Jobo. Together we could match – and top – any amount Triumph can offer. Naturally we would have to draw up a contract.’
‘But to share the painting—’
‘It’s your choice, Jobo,’ she said succinctly. ‘Go halves, or get sod all.’
32
It was nearly eleven at the Kensington gallery as Nino finished reading the last of Ravenscourt’s notes. There was no mention of the scapegoat, the man who had been the alternative suspect to Vespucci. And although the notes were detailed, most of the information was now available on the internet site, the creator of which was uploading new data continuously. Facts which had been long suppressed were now emblazoned for the world to read about. Only an hour earlier another copy of the portrait had been added, but this time there was an engraving of Vespucci’s house in the background.
Nino knew that the house had long since been destroyed, that no evidence of the piazza remained. A hotel had been built on the site instead, The Skin Hunter’s legend buried under four floors of bedrooms and power showers. Looking back at Ravenscourt’s notes, Nino came across a later entry for Lena Arranti, matching it to the website. The date was the same: 8 December 1555.
Thoughtfully he jotted down the names of the victims, placing the dates of their death next to them.
Larissa Vespucci
4 November, 1555
Claudia Moroni
26 November, 1555
Lena Arranti
8 December, 1555
Contessa di Fattori
1 January, 1556
Surprised, he stared at the dates, then reached for his own notes and compared them.
Seraphina Morgan
4 November
Sally Egan
26 November
Harriet Forbes
8 December
His heart raced. The killer was copying Angelico Vespucci, using his methods, on the anniversaries of the Venetian murders. There was only one date left unfilled – 1 January. On that day another woman would be killed and mutilated, another tribute offered up to The Skin Hunter. Someone would die. But who? And where?
It could be in London, Tokyo or Venice. It could be any woman, anywhere. And until Nino worked out how the women were connected, he had no way of finding the next victim.
Or saving her.
Suddenly the phone rang, an unfamiliar, friendly voice greeting him. ‘Is that Nino Bergstrom?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Jean Netherton. You left me a message and asked me to get in touch. It’s about Sally. Sally Egan.’
Relieved, Nino nodded. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. I’m investigating Sally’s death—’
‘Are you the police?’
‘No, this is a private investigation.’ He thought of Gaspare Reni. ‘I can give you a name if you want to check me out.’
She hurried on. ‘No, it’s all right. I want you to look into Sally’s death. The police don’t seem to have anything and it’s been two weeks since she died.’ Her voice picked up. ‘I rowed with her that night. I’ll never forgive myself.’
‘What did you argue about?’
‘I used to help look after Sally’s father when she had a night out. Dear God, she deserved a break, but she was drunk when she got home and I overreacted.’ She paused, struggling with her conscience. ‘Sally liked to have a good time.’
‘Sorry to be blunt, but was she promiscuous?’
‘Yes,’ Jean agreed. ‘She liked men, liked sex. Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe she just wanted to feel loved. Poor Sally had no one but her dad and lately even he didn’t recognise her.’
‘Did she ever tell you she was being followed? That she’d had any strange visitors? Any odd phone calls?’
‘No, nothing. She just got on with her life. Looking after her dad was hard work and she had a job at a care home in the daytime. I don’t suppose it was what she expected with all her talent—’
‘She was talented? How?’
‘Sally could paint, Mr Bergstrom. I don’t mean dabble – she could really paint. She’d wanted to go to art school when she was younger, but what with her dad being ill, and her being his only relative, she had to give it up.’ Jean paused, remembering. ‘She showed me a photograph once of a picture she’d done for someone. It was a copy of one of the Old Masters.’
‘D’you remember which one?’
‘No.’
‘D’you remember the painting?’
‘Oh yes,’ Jean said eagerly. ‘It was a portrait of a man. Not a good-looking man – big, rather puffy eyes, wearing black clothes. It was old-fashioned. You know what I mean. The original must have been done centuries ago. Sally told me she’d been commissioned by a London dealer.’