At present we are working on several new ideas, one of which might be an investigation into a charismatic, but murderous, figure from the past.
A charismatic, but murderous, figure from the past … Nino couldn’t think of a better way to describe Angelico Vespucci. Checking the phone number, he rang the theatre and a young woman answered.
‘Hello?’
‘I was wondering if I could speak with …’ Nino glanced at the computer, ‘Harvey Enright.’
‘Who’s speaking, please?’
‘My name’s Nino Bergstrom and I think I might want to invest in your theatre,’ Nino lied, knowing it would get him put through. And it did.
Within an instant an affected English voice came over the line. ‘Hello? Can I help you?’
‘I’m thinking of becoming an angel,’ Nino said, glancing repeatedly at his notes. ‘I don’t know much about any of this, forgive me. But I’ve come into some money and shares hardly seem the way to go at the moment.’ He blundered on, wondering how convincing he sounded. ‘I’d like to invest. Perhaps in your theatre. Well, your productions anyway. I’m very interested in new companies, and yours seems to be very …’
‘Thrusting.’
‘Yes,’ Nino replied, ‘that’s the word … I know very little about the theatrical world. You see, I’ve been working in the film business for a long time, but want to change tack.’ He checked his notes again. ‘On your website you talk about a new production you might be undertaking, about a murderer from the past?’
‘Yes,’ Enright agreed. ‘We have two plays in mind. The one we most want to pursue at the moment is about a woman who works in engineering and discovers a talent for invention.’
Nino grimaced. ‘And the other one?’
‘Well, it was a good idea, unique. But lately the character in question has been getting a lot of press.’
‘Who was he?’
‘A man called Angelico Vespucci,’ Enright replied, and as Nino heard the name he let out a long, relieved breath. ‘Unfortunately there have been some murders recently, copies of his crimes. You might have read about it?’
‘Yes, I think I have. Fascinating character. Were you writing the play yourself?’
‘No, I’m no wordsmith. Directing is my forte.’
‘So who’s writing the play?’
‘Rachel—’ he replied.
Nino was hardly breathing. ‘Oh, Rachel! I know her, I think. Rachel Andrews? Came from Brighton originally?’
‘No,’ Enright replied. ‘Rachel Pitt. She’s from up north, Lake District. Smashing girl. Anyway, she’s actually our Assistant Stage Manager, but she had this idea for a play. Apparently she’s been working on it for a long time. Ran it past me, and frankly it sounded interesting … Would you like to come in and talk, Mr Bergstrom? We’d be delighted to chat to any angel, existing or prospective.’
Making a non-committal remark, Nino rang off. The name hummed in his head – Rachel Pitt, from up north, the Lake District. Rachel Pitt … Grabbing the London telephone directory, he found three people called R. Pitt. After phoning the first two – Ronald Pitt and Rita Pitt – he tried the last number.
This was it. This had to be Rachel Pitt. He had found her. Now he could warn her. He could prevent her death … The number rang. Again, and again. It rang out, then finally was answered.
Hi, this is Rachel. Sorry, there’s no one here at the moment. If you want to leave me a message and number, feel free.
Distraught that she hadn’t picked up, he left a message.
This is Nino Bergstrom. Please call me as soon as possible, it is urgent. Please, Ms Pitt, call me when you get this message.
Leaving his number, he put down the phone, and realised his hand was shaking.
63
Lake District, 30 December
Waking late, Rachel turned over in bed and opened her eyes. Where the hell was she? And then she remembered and stretched lazily. She had managed – by the sheer fluke of someone cancelling at the last minute – to rent a tiny cottage for Christmas and New Year, close to where her father had been born. It was in a village called Crook – a stone house hardly large enough for a hobbit, but cosy. ‘El dar la bienvenida,’ Michael would have said, curling the Spanish vowels around his tongue … She shook off the thought of him, unwilling to let him in. The cottage was hers, filled with provisions, wine and plenty of cut logs for the fire. She did have neighbours, but it seemed that on both sides they were away for the festivities, which left Rachel pretty much alone. Only this was a different type of aloneness. This was away from London and the flat and it smelt, looked, and even felt different. It felt hopeful.
Since arriving the previous day she had walked endlessly, enjoying the landscape – such a contrast from built-up Battersea. She had even spent a whole hour watching a farmer rounding up sheep, not noticing that the rain had started and her boots were waterlogged. A peace she hadn’t felt for years came like a salutation to another life, a choice she had long denied herself now possible. Up in the hills, with the rain and the sound of drinkers leaving the village pub at eleven, bathing in a small enamel bath and drinking water that tasted of the mountains, Rachel experienced an epiphany which was long overdue.
She had forgotten the loneliness which had dogged her. Even on her own, she wasn’t as bereft as sitting in her flat and waiting, endlessly waiting, for the phone to ring. It was a relief not to have to think up ways to amuse, seduce, or interest her lover. It was a release not to be terrorised by her silent phone, or urgent text messages. And slowly Rachel came to realise that loving Michael had become a form of penance.
How could she be anything other than an appendage to his life? While she made him the nucleus of her world, he had a wife and children, a career, a dozen social duties and membership of clubs. When he was with her, he loved her. But how much of his attention could she hold when he was elsewhere?
The answer was brutal. But it was only up in the hills of the Lake District, away from pylons and mobile-phone masts, trains, subways and sirens, that she could hear it. And as the days passed Rachel became dislocated from her previous life: her life with Michael. Instead her career slipped back into top gear, her attention moving back to the Hamlet Theatre. Amused, she lay back on the pillows, her hands behind her head, thinking of Angelico Vespucci.
It was a fabulous idea to write a play about him. She knew it, had always known it, but her ambition had waned as her neediness had grown. Ideas, words, images that would once have shimmered inside her had turned to ash and, incredulously, seeing her actions at arm’s length, she did not know herself.
When she returned to Battersea, to the Hamlet Theatre, she would talk to Enright again, get him geed up about the play. She could do it, she could get him back on side. He was already hooked, she could see that. And besides, Rachel thought, there was plenty of interest in Vespucci now … She rolled over on to her side, looking out of the tiny window down into the village below. Since she arrived she hadn’t bought a paper or turned on the television. She had left her mobile behind, and there was no telephone in the cottage. But she could remember only too well reading about The Skin Hunter before she left London. It had been on the news and all over the internet, and the last piece she had read had been sent from the killer – some lunatic taunting the police to find him before he killed again.
Yawning, Rachel pulled the duvet over her and closed her eyes. Soon it would be New Year, and she had already decided on her resolution. She would end the affair, slough it off her body like dead skin, and return to the theatre. There she would hustle and bargain and push until Enright agreed to put on her play. He liked it. He was just nervous about her being a newcomer. So what? Rachel thought confidently. There had to be a beginning for everyone.