The thought was like cream on his tongue.
Moving back to the computer, he entered the chat room of the Vespucci website, expecting to find an entry from Jobo Kido. Of course there was one; the Japanese dealer was practically salivating at the thought of getting the Titian. He moved down the other entries, ignoring another approach from Johnny Ravenscourt, and fixing on the message from Nino Bergstrom.
He had always known who the white-haired man was; it had simply amused him to push Jobo Kido, to discover just how far he would go to get the portrait. Apparently Kido would betray anyone. Which was just what he had expected.
Although he had no intention of replying to Nino Bergstrom, he was interested to see a new message from him. But a flutter of rage went through him as he read it.
Nino: I’ve been following your website for some time. I’m also an admirer of Angelico Vespucci and his crimes. But he was mad, and I’m not. In fact, I’m responsible for the deaths of three women already, and will commit a fourth. On 1 January.
Answer: You don’t know what you’re talking about!
Nino: Of course I do. Your site’s good, but the real thing’s better.
He was incensed. Surely this Bergstrom man couldn’t think he was going to take credit for the murders? Bergstrom was a joke, a Hollywood lapdog. What the hell would he know, or care, about Angelico Vespucci?
Answer: You’re lying.
Nino: I’m Vespucci’s true follower. You’re just a copyist. Everyone knows that I killed those women.
Answer: It wasn’t you!
Nino: Prove it.
The man paused, staring at the words on the screen, suddenly realising that he was being played. Bergstrom wanted to get him to confess.
Clever, but not clever enough …
Slowly, he typed his reply.
Answer: If you’re the killer, who’s the next victim?
Nino: You know who it is.
Answer: Tell me her name.
Nino: On the internet? Are you kidding?
Answer: You don’t know.
Nino: Oh, but I do. And I’m going to stop you, Mr Ketch. Is it Ketch?
The man jumped, startled by the words.
Nino: Or are you someone else now? Should I call you Mr Vespucci? After all, you’ve copied his work, it seems only right you should take his name too.
Answer: You’re crazy!
Nino: So tell me your name. Who are you? Deny you’re the killer of these women. At the moment it seems that the only crazy one is you.
Answer: You don’t know who I am. Where I am. Or who the next victim is. And if you’re thinking of trying to trace this connection, don’t bother, it’s been rigged.
Nino: All right, we’ll try another tack. Why are you killing these women?
Answer: Are you trying to understand me now? Trying to create a rapport? You can’t see me, Mr Bergstrom, but I’m laughing.
Nino: Maybe I can see you. I’m closer than you think.
Answer: You’re bluffing. If the police in the UK, Italy and Japan can’t find me, what makes you think you can?
Nino: I’m supposed to find you.
Answer: I don’t think so.
Nino: I do. I’m not going to let you kill another woman.
Answer: You’ve no choice. In fact, you’ve only got nine days left, Mr Bergstrom, nine days to run around trying to find a woman you have no hope of saving. She’ll die. She has to … I hope you’re a good loser.
Nino: Why don’t you stop? Stop now and save her. The authorities would look on that as co-operation, even a show of remorse.
There was a pause before the man replied.
Answer: You think I should stop now? And ruin the whole plan?
Nino: You made the plan, you can change it.
Answer: You think the police would take it into consideration?
Nino: Yes, I think they would. It would help you.
Answer: And if I told them where the skins were? You think that would help too?
Nino: Yes, I do. I think that if you stop now, you can redeem yourself.
Answer: Redeem myself? Be forgiven?
Nino: If you save this woman and stop the killing, yes. Let her have her life.
Answer: But what if she doesn’t deserve it?
Nino: Who made you God?
Answer: There was a vacancy.
Nino: You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to kill this woman.
The man paused on the end of the connection, smiling, then typed:
But I want to.
51
Venice
It had been playing on Tom Morgan’s mind how much Johnny Ravenscourt had wanted the painting from the old flat. For once sober as a magistrate, Tom realised that he might have missed a trick, and that the portrait had been worth more than he had at first thought. Admittedly, he had helped himself to a couple of thousand out of Ravenscourt’s wallet, but the fat bastard hadn’t protested, had even believed himself – unless Tom was imagining it – to have got off lightly.
Having sold the old flat, and now settled in the rented apartment he had shared with Seraphina, Tom had relaxed into a state that only people with money in the bank can enjoy. Able to indulge himself, he spent a couple of days in a fug of highest quality marijuana and drank several bottles of champagne, but his thoughts kept turning to Ravenscourt and he wondered what Seraphina would have done.
If only their plan had worked. They would have been millionaires. Not just comfortable, fucking cushy … The high-ceilinged apartment was cold and Tom shivered and turned up the heating, the pipes juddering as it stirred into life. His life had not turned out the way he had anticipated; his existence had improved with the money made from the property sale, but his lack of interest at work guaranteed another plunge in profits.
Perhaps he should leave Venice? The company was making allowances for his condition – as the widower of a murdered woman – but for how long? How long before his arse was pushed into action again? He wasn’t made for work, Tom realised – not really. It was all too brutal, too coarse for him … His mind went back to the painting and, irritated, he left the flat, making for the piazza where Ravenscourt lived.
The sight of its magnificence inflamed his self-pity further. What had a shit like Ravenscourt done to deserve such luxury? By rights, if everything had gone to plan, he and Seraphina should have been enjoying the proceeds from the Titian sale.
But instead Tom was being shown into the drawing room where Ravenscourt was sitting reading a magazine.
He looked up. ‘Spent all the money already?’
‘I was thinking,’ Tom replied, helping himself to some wine and sitting down by the window. ‘Why did you want that painting so much?’
‘The Titian?’
‘Nah, the other one. The one with the couple in it. Who painted it anyway?’
‘Some minor artist.’
Looking around, Tom turned back to Ravenscourt. ‘I don’t see it. Where have you put it?’
‘Being restored.’
He nodded, thoughtful. ‘That’s expensive, or so Seraphina’s parents always used to say. They said it wasn’t worth having any picture restored unless it was valuable.’ He paused, but Ravenscourt was still flicking through his magazine, forcing him to continue. ‘So, was it?’
‘What?’
‘Valuable.’
‘So-so.’
‘So-so to you or so-so to me?’
Ravenscourt laid the magazine down, his reading glasses swinging from a chain around his neck. ‘What d’you want to know?’
‘Who painted it?’