It took him over a year to penetrate the vacuum around Triumph Jones. Twelve months of serving, dogsbodying, eating humble pie like a duke would eat swan. He learnt, because he read the dealer’s impressive book collection; he researched, because he was trusted; and no one – no one – expected the diffident Englishman would want to scurry endlessly through the forgotten archives. By the time he left Triumph Jones, he had darned most of the holes in his impressive body of research on Angelico Vespucci.
And then fate – the pretty witch – took an interest. On returning to England he was looking for employment and found it working at a country house. A country house with an old library, and an even older connection to Angelico Vespucci. A family connection, a blood tie.
He was singing, even in his sleep.
When he moved on from Norfolk he was ready, and all the little tendrils he had laid twitched with the music of knowledge. Having impregnated the art world through the thin skin of its belly, he was privy to information on the street. The porters talked. The receptionists gossiped. He heard of the Titian surfacing but did not know who had it. Rumours flourished like mushrooms in muck, Triumph Jones laying a PR trail to whip up a frenzy, an orgasm of desire. And when the American had finished churning up the art world, he resurrected the legend. When the portrait emerges, so will the man.
It was genius, fucking genius, he thought. It sent a tingle up the spines from New York to London, London to Dubai, Dubai to Venice. And it let him in. What better time to copy the works of Vespucci? What better time to bring him back from death? He had an excuse now. He had permission. He had a ready audience. Superstition was potent; even the most stolid could not fail to wonder if some demon had been roused.
He slipped up once. Suddenly the trail of the painting dried up. He even thought he had lost it. But within a day he had picked up clues which led to Gaspare Reni. The dealer had been old, but feisty. And when he left the convent gallery he brought the Titian home and hung it in his cupboard. At night he opened the doors and stared at it. His knives were sharpened, his wits also. He watched Seraphina Morgan and thought of her ancestor, the Whore of Venice, and was obsessed.
His first victim was a revelation. That surprised him, as did the amount of blood which came from her when he punctured the skin. He had mutilated her in Venice in a rented cellar next to an abandoned warehouse, then put her in the hired launch and taken her over to St Michael at night. It seemed the right place – in with the dead. The work had been hard, taking a long time, exhausting him so much that once he drove a knife deep into her stomach, churning it around the organs in fury. When he pulled it out again, he was ashamed. The skin was spoilt.
He would not do that again.
48
Pushing aside one book, Nino reached for another, avoiding Gaspare’s intense stare. Together they had worked through most of the dealer’s extensive art history collection, the bulk of which covered the Italian Renaissance, and the time when Titian and Angelico Vespucci had been active. Nino had known from the start that it was a long shot, more than a little doubtful that he would come across some fact in among the academic theories. But he had hoped.
And had been disappointed.
Exasperated, he had then turned to the internet. The email he had sent to the chat room of the Vespucci site had been ignored, and Jobo Kido had not been in touch since they’d parted. Instinctively mistrusting the dealer, Nino’s attention turned to Triumph Jones. But although he was out of hospital, the American had not been forthcoming when he’d called him earlier.
‘Can’t you think of anything that might help?’
‘How would I know who the next victim is?’ Triumph replied, his voice dropping at the end of the line. He sounded lethargic, wavering. ‘Maybe there won’t be another killing.’
‘You believe that?’
‘No …’
‘So help me. Have you had any further contact about the Titian?’
‘I think we both know the answer to that,’ Triumph replied. ‘The painting’s gone to ground. If any dealer in the art world had it, I’d have heard. If anyone else has it, they’re not telling me – even for a reward.’
‘You don’t think that your mugging was connected?’
‘I think a man who’s a big enough fool to walk in Central Park after dark deserves everything that’s coming to him.’ He sounded defeated. ‘But, Mr Bergstrom, if you’re asking me where I think the Titian is now, I think the killer has it.’
‘But how could he keep it quiet?’
‘Maybe it’s in another country. Maybe it’s in your country. Maybe someone destroyed it.’
‘No, it’s too valuable.’
‘Really?’ Triumph said, ringing off.
Moving back to the computer, Nino typed in the name Vespucci and then looked at the listings. He had investigated every entry several times before and learnt nothing he didn’t already know. Flicking on the table lamp, he glanced over at Gaspare. The dealer was reading again, concentrating, his glasses magnifying his eyes.
‘Gaspare?’
He looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘We have to go through this, step by step.’
‘All right,’ the old man said patiently.
‘Seraphina had the painting, and she was related to the Contessa di Fattori.’
Exasperated, Gaspare slammed his book shut.
‘Dear God, not again! We’ve gone through this a hundred times.’
‘And we’re missing something!’ Nino retorted. ‘Sally Egan did a copy of the Vespucci portrait—’
‘Which no longer exists. Or so Farina Ahmadi says.’
‘You think she’s lying?’
‘She’s breathing,’ Gaspare said, raising his eyebrows, ‘so she could be lying.’
‘Harriet Forbes wrote an article on Vespucci.’
‘Did you read it?’
‘Yeah, it was interesting.’
‘For him or against him?’
‘She’s dead. What do you think?’ Nino remarked wryly. ‘So what other areas could there be?’
Taking off his glasses, Gaspare yawned. Then he straightened up in his seat, turning to Nino.
‘History.’
‘I’ve researched the time that Vespucci lived, but not found anything written about him that we haven’t already seen. Nothing particular—’
‘Did you look in Italy? The Italian universities have History departments. Maybe they’d have something extra on Vespucci?’
Nino shook his head. ‘There’s nothing online.’
‘I don’t mean on the internet! Let’s do it the old-fashioned way,’ Gaspare admonished him. ‘Let’s pick the brains of tutors, scholars, historians.’ He reached for his address book and thumbed through the pages, throwing it down and picking up another from his desk drawer. Peering through his glasses, he made a clucking sound with his tongue and then waved the book in front of Nino. ‘Professor Cesare Lombardo!’
‘Who is?’
‘About ninety,’ Gaspare replied, pulling a face. ‘But when I knew him he was the foremost authority on the Renaissance painters in Venice.’
‘He’s an art historian. Vespucci was a merchant—’
‘Who was painted by Titian. If Lombardo’s still alive, he’ll be worth talking to.’
Reaching for the phone, Gaspare put in a call to Rome, his voice rising with impatience as he talked. Fluent in Italian, Nino could follow what he was saying – that the Professor had been moved into a nursing home. He was fit, if frail. Writing down the number, Gaspare dialled again.
Asking for Professor Lombardo, he was gentle when he was put through.
‘How are you, sir?’ he asked, his tone respectful. ‘This is Gaspare, Gaspare Reni … Yes, I’m well … living in London. You sound good, very good …’ He laughed, amused. ‘Yes, we are both still alive. I need some help, Professor. I’m looking for information on a man who was painted by Titian – his name was Angelico Vespucci. And it’s your speciality, that period …’ There was a pause, then more conversation, and Gaspare made notes. ‘Yes, yes, I know all that. I was thinking of anything more in-depth about The Skin Hunter. Perhaps you know of someone with specialised knowledge? … I see, Mr Patrick Dewick. He had a special interest … And where is he? … A hospital in London? Most illuminating …’ He glanced at Nino, his expression incredulous. ‘And Jonathan Ravenscourt wanted to talk to him. Yes, I know of Mr Ravenscourt. Did he speak with Mr Dewick? Did you pass this information on to him? …’