‘Oh, but that’s not true, is it?’ Tom said. ‘I saw you in Venice the following day. You could easily have come back the night before … Of course, I could get the police to check it out.’
Ravenscourt’s natural guile came back into play.
‘And bring more attention on yourself? I don’t think so. Remember the husband’s always the prime suspect.’ Standing up, he moved to the door. ‘I’m leaving now.’
‘I would. It’s beginning to get dark and it’s easy to get lost in Venice.’ Tom turned back to the window. ‘Oh, and mind the fog, Johnny. They say it’s going to be bad tonight.’
37
London, 14 December
It wasn’t going to be the usual kind of Christmas. It wasn’t going to be any kind of Christmas because Harriet Forbes was dead and her family couldn’t come to terms with her loss. There was to be no tree, no celebration dinner, no festive decoration of the house. Christmas cards would not be sent, presents not bought, because none of it mattered. Besides, there were no grandchildren to cater for – Harriet had never married and Louisa was not the maternal type.
Unable to cope with the despair in her parents’ house, Louisa Forbes took action. Applying for compassionate leave from work, she waited until the police – working with the Japanese force – had inspected her sister’s flat and then, painstakingly, she went through every item herself. The action calmed her, and when it was done she rang all of Harriet’s business contacts and friends. Someone knew something – it was just a question of finding out who. One letter, one note, one book, one article of clothing, one word – she didn’t know what it would be, but something would lead her to Harriet’s killer.
Louisa Forbes didn’t believe that it had been a chance murder, a crime or killer peculiar to Tokyo. She didn’t believe it because she had looked into the death of Sally Egan and the killings were too similar for chance. The man who had killed Sally Egan had killed her sister. That was all she had. It was all she needed.
So when Louisa was approached by Nino Bergstrom she was more than willing to listen. Together they walked to a nearby bar, and having chosen drinks and taken a seat, Louisa looked curiously at Nino.
‘You’re not connected to the police, are you?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m working for someone privately.’
‘Can I ask who?’
‘Gaspare Reni.’
She shrugged. ‘The name means nothing to me. Did he know Harriet?’
‘No, but he thinks that the deaths of your sister and a friend of his might be connected.’
She was intelligent, obviously so, her intense grey eyes fixing on his.
‘Do you know anything about Harriet’s death? The Japanese police don’t tell us a thing. They treat us like fools, make us feel bad just for asking questions. They won’t even release her body.’
She paused, sipping at the wine Nino had bought her. He had been expecting someone emotional but she was resolutely still. He imagined that she would be a loyal friend, a good wife, and she had a quality he admired – a kind of grace. The bar was already full of workers going home, grabbing a pint before the 6.57 train.
‘Can I talk to your parents?’ Nino requested.
‘They won’t talk to you – they’re in shock. If you want to talk, talk to me.’
Nodding, he leaned closer towards her and dropped his voice so that he wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Your sister had a flat in London, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to see it. Could you take me there?’
‘Now?’ She bent down and picked up her bag. ‘All right, we’ll go now.’ Her voice was composed. ‘It’s OK, Mr Bergstrom, I can cope. I want to help. Let’s get on with it, please.’
When they entered the Highgate flat it smelt like any place closed up in cold weather. It wasn’t damp but chilly, uninviting. Louisa turned on the lights and checked the post.
‘I should stop the mail. How d’you do that?’ She answered her own question. ‘Post Office, I suppose.’ Her long fingers rifled through the envelopes, then she dropped the pile on to the hall table and walked into the sitting room.
Nino followed her, looking at a wall of photographs. Harriet Forbes had been a traveller, that much was obvious. There were prints of the Far East, New York and Milan, Post-it notes stuck next to them, with the dates written in red. And on the space over her computer was her timetable – seven countries to visit over twenty days.
‘Did she always travel so much?’
Louisa nodded. ‘Since her twenties. Harriet was the restless sort, never liked to be in the same place for long.’
‘Did she get on with her employers?’
‘They were always changing. She would take on a project to do PR for one company, then go on to something else. It was a movable feast; the beauty business launches new projects all the time.’
‘What about her private life?’
‘Harriet wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment.’
‘There was no ex-boyfriend who might bear a grudge? No one rejected?’
‘No. The police asked me the same question, but there was no boyfriend.’
He could feel the hesitation in her voice, and pressed on. ‘Was there someone?’
‘Harriet was gay,’ Louisa said simply. ‘She didn’t think I knew. I kept waiting for her to confide in me, but she didn’t. She did have a partner a few years ago, but it broke up, amicably. They stayed friends.’
‘D’you know her name?’
‘I’ve forgotten it now, but I saw a Christmas card once. The message was very loving, very sweet … Harriet seemed to be ashamed of being gay. At least she kept it a secret, so I imagine she wasn’t comfortable with it. She used to cringe when Mum and Dad teased her about getting married and giving them kids.’ She breathed in, holding on to herself. ‘My sister’s work took up more and more of her life, until there wasn’t room for anyone.’
Nino was reading the spines on books arranged on rows of white painted shelving.
‘Your sister certainly liked reading.’ Surprised he pointed to one volume. ‘Machiavelli’s The Prince – that’s quite a switch from promoting make-up.’
‘Harriet was smart, much too smart for PR,’ Louisa said, folding her slim arms, her face composed. ‘She used to say that she’d make a killing, put away a load of money, and then do what she really wanted to do.’
‘Which was?’
‘Harriet wanted to be a journalist, in the arts.’
An alarm went off in Nino’s brain.
‘What branch of the arts?’
‘Painting.’ Putting her head on one side, Louisa studied him. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Please don’t lie to me, Mr Bergstrom. I can handle anything you tell me.’
He nodded. ‘All right. The first victim, Sally Egan, was a painter. A very gifted one.’
‘And?’
‘She was commissioned by a London dealer to paint a man called Angelico Vespucci.’ He caught a flicker of recognition at the name. ‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘It rings a bell,’ Louisa said, concentrating. ‘A while back Harriet wrote a piece for an art magazine. She was so thrilled she’d been commissioned.’ Moving over to her sister’s filing cabinet, she pulled out the top drawer and flicked through the papers. ‘My sister said it was very difficult finding out the information, so she was disappointed when they only published it on the internet.’
‘What was the magazine?’
‘I can’t remember,’ Louisa replied, still searching through her dead sister’s files. ‘But Harriet was angry about it. Said that they didn’t treat her seriously because she was a PR agent, and not someone trained in the history of art. I remember it well because it really upset her, and Harriet wasn’t someone who often showed her feelings.’ Finally she drew out a slim file marked VESPUCCI. ‘Here it is,’ she said, handing it over to Nino. ‘It took her weeks to write – she was so proud of it.’
Flipping open the file, Nino was confronted with a photograph of a face he knew only too well, together with a thoroughly researched and well written article. Her sister was right, Harriet Forbes had been wasted in PR.