It was to be a masterpiece. A history of depravity, a warning. That others might look upon it and repent. Or so I thought.
We did not know the scapegoat’s name. Not then, that came soon after. It came like the wind across Venice, cold and relentless, driving the damage home. It came from Aretino’s mouth into the ears of his friend. Words no man should suffer to hear.
I am leaving now, taking one last look at the portrait of Angelico Vespucci. He is sleek, clever and terrifying, and in the candlelight the shape behind him makes more than a little sense. Titian has painted a hide.
A skin, emptied of life.
42
Ginza, Tokyo
The gallery had become a kind of prison. It wasn’t a place of business any more, but of dread. It had taken Jobo Kido almost an hour to leave the previous night. Whoever it was who had broken into the gallery had so unnerved him that he couldn’t stop shaking when he thought of it. He had watched the handle of his office door rattling, wondering if the intruder would get to him. Knowing – knowing – that it was the killer. The person he had been communicating with over the internet.
And then the rattling of the door handle had stopped. There was nothing else. No knocking, no calling out. Just a horrible and prolonged silence. Still pressed against the office wall, Jobo had waited, finally hearing the footsteps moving off, and then a car engine starting up. It had taken him several moments to move, he had been so terrified, and then he groped his way towards his office chair and collapsed into it.
In the semi-darkness he had stared blankly ahead, hardly able to gather his thoughts. This wasn’t some game over the internet. He had called up the killer as surely as sending him an invitation. Startled, Jobo had then thought of home and rang his wife, almost relieved to be shouted at. At least she was still alive. Questions as to the whereabouts of his son had been met with hostile accusations. Since when did he care about his son?
Pulling on his coat as his wife kept haranguing him, Jobo had made for his car, arriving home fifteen minutes later to be told that it was dangerous to drive while he was talking on his mobile. He could have laughed, but he didn’t. And his insistence that his family should make sure they were safe – that the doors were locked and any approaches by strangers rejected – had only inflamed matters.
‘What have you done?’ his wife had asked, arms folded, fierce in a blue housecoat. ‘What have you done?’
What had he done? It was a good question. One that had left him sleepless that night, and one that was still resounding in his head the following morning. What had he done? He had managed to endanger himself and his family. His plotting had been amateur in the face of a professional. Jobo Kido might collect the images of murderers and tingle at their crimes, but the reality was altogether different. And he had no stomach for it.
The Japanese lithographs were selling well, the exhibition a success, as he walked into the gallery and nodded to a collector he knew. At any other time Jobo would have cornered the man, worked on him until a sale was assured, but not this morning. This morning it was taking Jobo Kido every inch of his control to function.
So when his secretary arrived with the post, Jobo was agitated, impatient, his usual even temper suspended. Snatching the letters from her, he moved back to his desk, opening the first two and then tearing into a small package. His mind was preoccupied, his gaze constantly returning to the computer, the blank screen hostile. Ripping off the brown paper, Jobo lifted the lid of the narrow box.
Then he screamed.
He screamed and stepped back as the secretary hurried in.
‘Get out!’ he shouted to the anxious woman.
Then he turned back to his desk and looked into the box again.
The skin was folded neatly, a nipple placed centrally among the ghastly folds, the flesh darkening, almost mummified. He sobbed under his breath, pushing his fist into his mouth to stop himself. Then, taking hold of the paperknife he lifted the lid and dropped it back over the box, covering the object inside.
Heaving, he struggled to stop himself vomiting, his throat burning with bile. His breathing was short, urgent, so panicked that he soon felt light-headed and walked to the window to lean out. It was five minutes before Jobo Kido could breathe regularly again and moved to the intercom to buzz his secretary outside.
‘Did you see who delivered the package?’
‘It was the usual mailman, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, adding, ‘Forgive me for my behaviour this morning. I’m a little unwell.’
‘Can I get you anything, sir?’
‘No, no, thank you,’ Kido said, clicking off the intercom and glancing back at the package.
He wondered if he should look for a note, but realised he couldn’t even touch the box, and certainly not its contents. Events had escalated from there simply being an intruder in his gallery: now the killer was including him in his work, drawing Jobo further and further in. What had started as a desire to get the Titian had turned into a folie à deux. Jobo Kido, respected art dealer, was being made complicit in murder.
The package was sitting on his desk, glowering at him. He felt like weeping, he was so afraid. And there was no one he could go to for help. Triumph Jones was still in hospital recovering, and Farina would relish a chance of getting the portrait off him. Dear God, Jobo thought impatiently, what was he talking about? This wasn’t just the Titian, this was more. Much, much more. He might long for the portrait, but at this cost?
Still holding the paperknife, he jabbed at the box, then slid it along the desk, tipping it over the edge into the waste-paper basket. He then put the bin in his private washroom and locked the door. The idea of calling the police had already been dismissed. What ructions might be caused if Jobo brought them in on it? What chance of getting the Titian? And worse, what if, by bringing the police in, he enraged the killer? It wasn’t just about him any more, Jobo realised – it was about his family too. The murderer had taken him under his wing, had adopted him, and any betrayal now might cost him more than he could imagine.
For the rest of the morning the dealer avoided contact with anyone. He kept to his office, made a few half-hearted business calls, and repeatedly looked at the clock. Eleven thirty snaked into twelve noon and his secretary brought him a drink of tea. Jobo thanked her then slumped back into his stupor. He was insensible, transfixed, incapable of knowing what he should do. Incapable of action. Just waiting for what was going to come next.
So when a white-haired man walked into the gallery off the street and began to look at the exhibits, Jobo remained in his office, watching him. The man was obviously European. He looked tough. And young, even though his hair was white. … Who was he? Jobo wondered, his imagination flaring into life. It couldn’t be. Could it?
He stared through a glass partition disguised from the gallery, a means by which he could watch his customers without being seen, assess their clothes and manner and judge if they looked prosperous enough to warrant his attention. But this man didn’t look like an art lover, Jobo thought anxiously. He was Caucasian – maybe the killer was too? The first victim had been killed in Venice, the second in London, and even though the third had been murdered in Tokyo, she had been an English woman. So had this man been the person who had sent the disgusting package to him? The man who had terrorised him the other night? Was he the killer?
And if he was, why was he here?
There was a sudden knock on his door.
‘Yes, what is it?’