Several books landed on his head and shoulders before he could scramble back to his feet. Relieved to see that the noise hadn’t roused Harold Greyly in the sitting room, he returned to the library. Picking up the books and putting them on the library table, he rested the broken shelving against the wall and glanced up to look at the damage. There was a gap of about three feet by four feet, and it exposed an area of what appeared to be fresh plasterwork. Something wasn’t right. Climbing back up the library steps, Nino’s hand went out towards the plaster.
Immediately it gave way.
Instead of resisting his pressure, the plasterwork was little more than putty as Nino’s hand pushed through into a cramped cavity behind. Scrambling around the aperture, his fingers closed over several thin volumes.
Surprised, he pulled out the first and saw the title:
Assassini Italiani Famosi
Then he read what followed.
Uno degli assassini Italiani piu malfamati era il commerciante venezian. Angelico Vespucci, ce e stato conosciuto come il cacciatore della pelle.
It was easy to translate: One of the most infamous Italian murderers was the Venetian merchant, Angelico Vespucci, who became known as The Skin Hunter.
Hurriedly, Nino flicked over the first page to look at the frontispiece. And there was an engraving of the Titian painting, Vespucci’s bulbous eyes staring at him. Reaching up again, he felt around the back of the cavity, bringing down two other volumes. One was a bulky, well-worn book entitled:
Assassini, che mutilato le loro vittime. L’Italia, XVº secolo allo XVIº secolo.
‘Murderers, who mutilated their victims. Italy, 15th century to the 16th century.’
But it was the last volume which chilled him. It was barely thirty pages in length, written in longhand, aged, weathered, the paper breaking up around the edges. Climbing down the library steps, Nino moved over to the table and took a seat, reading the following:
Le vittime del cacciatore della pelle erano la suoi moglie, Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti e Melania, Contessa di Fattori
It was a list of Vespucci’s victims. But that wasn’t what jolted Nino, it was what he found in among the pages. Additional notes. Newly written, in a modern hand. A list of The Skin Hunter’s victims together with the list of their modern-day counterparts.
Larissa Vespucci
Seraphina Morgan
Claudia Moroni
Sally Egan
Lena Arranti
Harriet Forbes
Melania di Fattori
Rac
He was just about the read the last name when he was struck from behind. The impact of the blow was so violent that it propelled him forward, his head striking the edge of the library table and knocking him unconscious.
58
The persistent ringing of his mobile brought Nino round as he scrabbled in his pocket to answer it.
‘What?’
‘Mr Bergstrom? This is Louisa Forbes, Harriet Forbes’ sister … Are you OK?’
Nauseated, the blood pumping in his ears, Nino straightened up in his seat and looked around him. Books were scattered all over the floor, but he could see at once that the three volumes he had found were gone. And the name of the last victim had escaped him too. He had had it in his hand and lost it. All but the first letters: Rac.
‘Mr Bergstrom?’ Louisa asked again. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, getting to his feet and locking the house doors front and back. He could see the sleeping figure of Harold Greyly in the sitting room and pulled the door closed so that he wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Why are you ringing?’
‘I’ve found something,’ she said. ‘Look, I can talk to you another time. I shouldn’t have rung – it’s Christmas Day.’
‘Believe me, nothing you could do could make it worse,’ Nino replied, holding some kitchen towel to the wound at the back of his head. ‘Why aren’t you at home with your family?’
‘I am,’ she said quietly. ‘I just sneaked out to call you. I’ve been going through my sister’s belongings. I’ve gone through them repeatedly. To be honest, I don’t want to. I don’t want to let go of her …’
He could imagine her intelligent face, her determination to do something, anything, which would help.
‘Harriet had a stack of papers, like everyone. Accounts, bills. No diaries, I’m afraid – nothing that easy. I checked all her friends and no one could tell me anything that might point to who killed her. Her work colleagues knew her and liked her, and there didn’t seem to be anything unusual about her life. She hadn’t made enemies.’ She paused, dropping her voice so that she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘You know Harriet wrote that piece on Vespucci …’
‘The magazine folded.’
‘Yes, it did. But one of Harriet’s old colleagues knew the proprietor and gave me his name. I phoned him and he remembered Harriet, said she had talent. He remembered the piece very well – “A very erudite article on a very macabre subject.” He recalled my sister because he had wanted to use her again, but had lost her contact details. Poor Harriet, if only she’d known …’
‘Go on.’
‘I asked him if he’d talked to my sister about the Vespucci article, and he said they’d chatted, because he was impressed by Harriet’s research. He asked her which reference books she’d used and who her contacts were. Apparently Harriet told him that there had been a couple of people, a man and a woman, who’d helped with the research.’
Alert, Nino pushed her. ‘Who were they?’
‘He didn’t remember the man’s name. Harriet just said he’d been difficult and she’d never go to him again. But he did remember something about the woman. She was called Rachel.’
Rachel – Rac.
Nino took in a breath. ‘Rachel what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Louisa could tell it meant something. ‘Is it important?’
‘Yes, I think it is.’
‘Apparently Rachel was involved in the theatre, but I don’t know how. She could have worked there, or been an actor, or in management. Or even a financial backer. The publisher didn’t know, but Harriet mentioned to him that this Rachel woman had been involved in a play about Vespucci.’
The words reverberated in Nino’s head. So that was the contact. Not a relative. Not a painting. Not an article. This time it was theatre.
‘She wanted to put on a play about Vespucci?’ Nino shook his head. ‘Jesus, which theatre?’
‘He didn’t know.’
‘But he must have some idea!’
‘No,’ Louisa replied firmly. ‘I pressed him, but he wasn’t being evasive – he really didn’t know. He would have told me, I’m sure of it. He’d liked Harriet and wanted to help and he was shocked by her death … He’s sent me an email with everything he remembers. I was going to send it on to you.’
‘Do.’
‘He also mentioned all the press coverage on Vespucci—’
‘Yes, I saw something this morning,’ Nino replied, dabbing at the back of his head, the wound still bleeding. ‘I was hoping they might leave it alone until after Christmas.’
‘What, a story like that?’ She seemed bitter. ‘You know the press – they couldn’t resist it. My phone’s been ringing off the hook. Apparently they want to know all the details of my sister’s death. It’s big news, Mr Bergstrom – young women skinned in different countries round the world. Some lunatic copying Angelico Vespucci’s work.’
‘And the website’s stirring it all up, whipping everyone into a fever.’
Louisa paused, controlling herself. ‘There’s only a week left, isn’t there?’
‘Until the anniversary of the last victim? Yes.’
‘You can catch him,’ she said emphatically. ‘I know you can.’
He wondered at her confidence. He had a first name and he knew the connection between the mysterious Rachel and Angelico Vespucci. But that was all. He had no surname, no theatre. No country even. She could be anywhere on earth.
‘If only I knew where the theatre was—’