‘Like hell.’
‘Mr Bergstrom, I’ll pay you whatever you want. You can go to Japan, New York – wherever you like. I just need to know what’s going on – and I can’t do that stuck here in Venice.’
‘Go on the internet.’
‘I don’t see why you’re so defensive,’ Ravenscourt replied, his tone honeyed…. ‘You should snatch my hand off. I’ve money to burn, so why not relieve me of some of it? I brought you in on this—’
‘No, you didn’t. I got involved because of Gaspare Reni’s friendship with Seraphina.’
‘I was much closer to her!’ Ravenscourt snapped. ‘And I gave you all my notes on The Skin Hunter. I gave you a head start, and now I want some feedback. I want to know who killed Seraphina—’
‘And you want to know where the Titian is.’
‘I’m a dealer – what’s wrong with that?’ he replied, then softened his tone. ‘I admit, I’d like the painting. But so would a number of other dealers – that doesn’t make me a suspect.’
‘It doesn’t clear you either.’
‘You can’t believe that I killed Seraphina, or the other women!’
‘I don’t know who killed them.’
‘But you’re still trying to find out?’
Nino paused, deciding to string Ravenscourt along. The dealer was stuck in Venice, so he could tell him anything and he had no way of knowing if it was true or not. And besides, if he carried on talking to Johnny Ravenscourt, the dealer might let something slip.
‘Have you seen Tom Morgan lately?’
Ravenscourt relaxed, sure that Nino was back on board. Sure that he could deceive him again. He was tired of the skittish Tom Morgan and wanted him corralled.
‘Actually, I saw Morgan today …’ Ravenscourt began, thinking of all the American’s vicious jibes and his nosy interest in the Barmantino. ‘He was acting very strangely.’
‘How?’
‘Jumpy, on the defensive.’
‘About what?’
‘Well, I hate to be the one to say it,’ the dealer paused, then took aim, ‘but I think he might have something to do with his wife’s death after all.’
53
Greenfield’s Hospital, London
In between shifts, Patrick Dewick lit up a cigarette at the back of the hospital, drawing in the tobacco smoke and relishing the sensation. Then he started coughing, finally spitting out a gob of phlegm which landed in the puddle at his feet. Sniffing, he leaned against the wall and stared upwards into the sky. It was going to snow again. Bugger it, he would have a hell of a time getting home. The car was unreliable and whatever his wife had said, Patrick wasn’t convinced that she had put in antifreeze. He should leave her to it, see how she liked it when the bloody car wouldn’t start at the supermarket. It would be another matter then – she wouldn’t forget the sodding antifreeze next time.
His thoughts drifted, suddenly alighting on Nino Bergstrom. It had been peculiar talking about Eddie Ketch after so long – the man had always left a sour taste in his mouth – but oddly enough, once reminded, he couldn’t stop thinking about him. The upset with Susan Coates had been uppermost in his mind, but there had been something else about Ketch which eluded him.
Inhaling again, Patrick screwed up his eyes against the cigarette smoke and peered into the falling snow. Under the overhang of the porch leading to the car park, he was sheltered from the worst of it, snow landing morosely on the concrete at his feet. Nino Bergstrom had asked him about Ketch’s family. And he’d said that he never talked about them. But that wasn’t true, Patrick remembered – there had been one instance when Ketch had slipped up, and mentioned a woman. A beautiful woman.
But Patrick was damned if he could remember her name.
Ketch had been angry that day, unusually emotional. He had left the ward and slammed into the men’s toilet, where Patrick had found him, his face flushed, his hands flat against the wall, repeating a woman’s name over and over again. His attractive face had been distorted with rage, but as soon as he spotted Patrick, Ketch had controlled himself. A moment later he looked normal – so normal Patrick had wondered if he’d imagined the whole incident. But he knew he hadn’t. And he knew Ketch’s rage had been directed at a woman. A woman he had known well. A woman he had obviously cared about.
After finishing his cigarette, Patrick was just about to re-enter the hospital and go back to work, when he paused. On a whim, he phoned the number Nino had given him, leaving a message on the answerphone.
‘’Lo there. This is Patrick Dewick, at Greenfield’s Hospital. We spoke the other day, about Eddie Ketch. Well, I just remembered something about him. He had a girlfriend, a woman he was keen on. I can’t remember her name – but I will, and then I’ll call you again. I just wondered if it was important, that’s all. Cheers.’
Clicking off his mobile, Patrick ground out his cigarette stub under his foot and went back to work. He would remember the woman’s name.
But before he had time to pass it on, Eddie Ketch would have caught up with him.
54
24 December
In New York, Triumph Jones was watching the television news, dumbstruck. Meanwhile, in London, Farina Ahmadi had been about to catch a plane for Turkey to meet up with her husband and sons, but was staring, incredulous, at her iPad. In Tokyo, Jobo Kido was hunched over his computer, ignoring his wife’s phone calls and staring at the screen.
All three dealers were reacting to the new entry on the Vespucci site, an entry which had now become breaking news worldwide, the police caught off guard in the USA, Italy and Japan –
PRICELESS TITIAN PAINTING OF ANGELICO
VESPUCCI OFFERED AS REWARD FOR
IDENTITY OF SERIAL KILLER …
‘Look at this!’ Gaspare shouted, calling for Nino. ‘God, you won’t believe it.’
Staring at the TV screen, Nino blew out his cheeks. ‘He’s upped the bloody ante. The bastard thinks he’s untouchable. You know what he’s doing, don’t you? He’s got bored with just copying Vespucci – he wants to outdo him.’
‘But he’s putting the reward on his own head!’ Gaspare replied, his tone baffled. ‘Everyone will be after it.’
‘Yeah, but he’s got the Titian, so he figures that no one can find it.’ Nino moved over to the computer and typed in angelicovespucci.1555.com. Immediately the press release came up, followed by a banner headline.
The last murder committed by Angelico Vespucci was on the 1st January 1556
Turning the computer towards Gaspare, he pointed to the screen. ‘Look at that. He’s advertising. He’s tipping everyone off, telling them he’s going to kill again. And when he’s going to kill again. No one’s going to miss this now. Not with that press release. It’ll go worldwide.’
‘And someone will connect the murders.’
‘I’m amazed they haven’t already,’ Nino remarked. ‘It was only because they were committed in different countries that the connection wasn’t made before. But they’ll join up the dots now.’
‘It might help,’ Gaspare said hopefully. ‘It might put women on their guard.’
‘Every woman on earth?’ Nino queried. ‘It might have worked if it had just been London but the murder could take place anywhere. It could be Italy, Tokyo, London. It could be one of the places he’s hit before, or somewhere new. The woman he’s got in mind could be working, travelling, or asleep in bed. She could be anyone.’ Exasperated, he ran his hands through his hair. ‘One week to go, and I’m no nearer to knowing who she is. Someone must be able to tell me something.’
‘Forget Vespucci for a moment,’ Gaspare said calmly. ‘Think of what else they have in common.’
‘The victims were all young and white. They all had jobs.’
‘Go on.’
‘Go on?’ Nino snapped. ‘That’s it! That’s all I know.’