‘… 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.
4
Kensington, London
‘I found it in the Thames,’ Seraphina said, glancing back at the painting. ‘Well, not quite found. Actually, it was washed up by the Embankment – and I took it.’ She shrugged, looking at Gaspare. ‘I suppose it was a terrible thing to do, almost like stealing – but I thought I should bring it to you. After all, you’re a dealer. You, of all people, would know what to do with it.’ She winked mischievously. ‘Besides, it might be valuable and make you a fortune.’
In the burning overhead light the portrait, released from its covering, glowed malignantly, the man’s face arresting, his eyes as brilliant and merciless as a water snake’s.
‘It is a Titian,’ Gaspare said quietly. ‘I know this painting. Or rather, I know of it.’
‘It is valuable?’ Seraphina asked.
‘Invaluable.’
As Gaspare turned to examine the wrapping, Nino stared at the portrait. His left hand moved towards the brass plate underneath and he wiped away the grime, revealing the name Angelico Vespucci.
‘It says the sitter was Angelico—’
‘Vespucci,’ Gaspare finished.
Seraphina’s eyebrows rose. ‘You know who he was?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid I do,’ Gaspare replied, turning back to her. ‘Did you see someone drop the painting in the river?’
‘No. As I said, it washed up on the bank.’
‘There’s no writing on the wrappings,’ Gaspare continued irritably, tossing the brown paper aside. ‘No name, no address – nothing. So it wasn’t sent from anywhere. Or delivered. Which means that it must have been dumped deliberately. And anonymously.’ He studied the picture for several minutes, then turned to Nino. ‘It’s by Titian all right. Even without his signature, you can tell. The brushstroke, the flesh tones, the glazes, and that red colouring in Vespucci’s cloak. Magnificent.’ He touched the back of the canvas. ‘And this painting wasn’t in the Thames for long. There’s no real, lasting damage, nothing that won’t dry out gradually over a few hours … Someone expected it to be found.’
‘Expected it?’ Seraphina echoed. ‘How?’
‘They relied on the tide.’ Nino turned to her. ‘Someone who knows the city and the river would know the ebb and flow of the Thames – that it would soon be washed up.’
‘But how could they know I’d pick it up?’
‘Oh, they didn’t know that,’ Nino continued. ‘But they knew there would be plenty of people about. Tourists, office workers. And if one of those didn’t pick it up, there are scavengers along the Thames on the lookout for booty every time the tide goes out. Whoever threw this in the river knew it wouldn’t be there for long. The question is, why…’ He glanced over at Gaspare, but the dealer said nothing. ‘Why wouldn’t they just take it to Bond Street? Or an auction house? It’s not complicated – you can just walk in off the street and get a valuation or a sale.’ He kept staring at Gaspare. ‘You said it was valuable.’
‘Invaluable,’ the old man corrected him.
‘So a lot of dealers would want it?’
‘Some would. Some would do anything to be rid of it.’
Surprised, Nino stared at the dealer. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘During his life, the sitter – Angelico Vespucci – was known as The Skin Hunter.’
Seraphina took in a breath. ‘What?’
‘It was never proved, but it was believed that he killed his wife. And then three other women in Venice. He murdered them, then flayed them and took their skins. Which were never found.’ He shrugged. ‘If you’re someone with a taste for the macabre – and let’s face it, people buy Nazi memorabilia all the time – then you’d want this portrait. It’s unique, in its own twisted way. Some people would long to own the likeness of a killer. It’s scandalous, sensational, corrupt.’ He voice was bitter. ‘Who wouldn’t want the equivalent of Jack the Ripper on their wall?’
‘I’m sorry …’ Seraphina stammered. ‘… I should never have brought it here.’
Clicking his tongue, Gaspare touched the back of her hand. He could feel the coolness of her skin and a faint tremor. ‘Are you cold?’
She nodded and the old man reached for a throw and placed it around her shoulders.