‘The second victim?’
Ravenscourt nodded. ‘Yes, it’s of her and her brother. A testimony to their incest – quite sensational. I’ve had several dealers already asking to buy it. Anything connected to Vespucci is much sought after. I expect a call from Jobo Kido any time now.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Have you seen the Vespucci website today?’
‘No. Why?’
‘The killer’s crowing again. Such an ego! If they catch him no doubt he’ll make another fortune—’
Gaspare wasn’t giving anything away. He and Nino might know the identity of the killer, but he wasn’t about to tell Johnny Ravenscourt. He didn’t trust him. Suspected he was, in some way, complicit. Did he know who the killer was? Or was he trying to find out if anyone else did?
‘What d’you mean, another fortune?’
‘Well, the killer has the Titian, hasn’t he?’ Ravenscourt continued. ‘Put it up as a reward for his capture. It’s very Mission Impossible. I imagine they’ll make a film of it – The Skin Hunter II. I mean, Vespucci was the original, but the new man’s modern, available for interview. If he pleads not guilty it will go to court, all the revolting details will come out—’
‘And you’ll be able to sell your book.’
‘Yes, I’ve been talking to an agent already,’ Ravenscourt agreed, moving on. ‘But of course there has to be a good ending. In the book – and in life.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That there are only two days left. Today and tomorrow.’ He paused, holding Gaspare’s gaze. ‘Two days before he kills the last victim. Now, be honest, Mr Reni, what are the chances of Nino Bergstrom finding the last victim in two days? No one knows who she is. And even if he did find her, how could he stop the murder?’
Ravenscourt stood up, rinsed out his coffee cup and put on his coat. His heavy face was pink from the kitchen warmth, the mud drying on his trousers and shoes.
Turning round in his seat, Gaspare looked up at him, puzzled. ‘You said you wanted to help. How?’
‘I’ve found the skins, Mr Reni—’
The words had all the force of a bullet.
‘You’ve done what?’
‘I told you, I bought the painting of Claudia Moroni. It looked very dirty and heavy when I got it home. Being an oil painting, I was surprised to find there was a wooden back nailed on to the canvas. As you know, they normally only do that with panel paintings. When I removed it there were four folded skins inside. Dried up, quite brown, like wrinkled old apples …’ Stunned, Gaspare watched him as he rubbed his hands together. ‘Each was labelled: Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti and Melania, Contessa di Fattori. They were tied with ribbon into tight little bundles – so tiny for human skins. I bought the painting on a whim – I never realised that it hid The Skin Hunter’s victims.’ He drew on his gloves languidly. ‘It was very lucky – and I wondered if they might not make a useful bargaining tool.’
Gaspare was scarcely breathing. ‘For what?’
‘I was the first person to research Angelico Vespucci. I spent years on it. Only to be cheated by some murderer and any halfwit with a computer who calls themselves an expert. I am the expert on Angelico Vespucci!’ His high voice dropped, cunning replacing outrage. ‘I want to know who killed my friend, who murdered Seraphina … But I also want to profit from the situation.’
Contemptuous, Gaspare stared at him. ‘Are you in your right mind? What kind of person would suggest—’
Ravenscourt put up his hands to stop him continuing.
‘Don’t lecture me, I’ve no morals – you’d be wasting your breath. I’m merely offering assistance for Mr Bergstrom, something which might come in useful. The killer’s obsessed by Vespucci – don’t tell me he wouldn’t long to get hold of the skins of his victims. Who knows, he might put them with his own collection and make a real show of it.’ Ravenscourt walked to the door and paused. ‘Berg-strom has two days to save the last woman – he might need something to bargain with, a way to make the killer stay his hand.’
‘And in return?’
‘My inclusion in the whole fanfare which will follow – as the paramount expert on The Skin Hunter. I want involvement in press interviews, TV, books – and the money all that will bring.’
‘You’d make money from corpses?’
‘Why not? The dead don’t need it.’
Gaspare was so shocked that it took him a moment to reply.
‘And what if Nino fails? If he doesn’t find the victim and stop the murder?’ His voice was barely audible. ‘Or worse, what if Nino’s killed and the murderer escapes?’
‘Then I keep the skins,’ Ravenscourt said, opening the door. ‘Come on, Mr Reni, you know as well as I do that no one can afford to be sentimental in business.’
66
Only an hour after Nino had talked to Rachel Pitt’s neighbours, his mobile rang.
‘Hello?’
A small, embarrassed voice came down the line. ‘I’m Vicky, a friend of Rachel’s … I just picked up your message. Look, I know I shouldn’t have listened to her calls, but Rachel’s got some secret man stashed away and I wanted to find out who he was, so I listened to her answerphone. But he didn’t leave a message – you did. And you don’t sound like a boyfriend. You sounded really worried, and I had to ring you back—’
Nino interrupted the flow. ‘Are you in Rachel’s flat now?’
‘Yeah, I come to water the plants. She does mine and I do hers when she’s away—’
‘D’you know where she is?’
‘A place called Crook, up in the South Lakes. It’s a hamlet between Windermere and Kendal. Her dad came from there originally, and she said she was going back for—’
‘Have you got her mobile number?’
‘Nah, she left the phone here. Would you believe it?’ Vicky replied, obviously amazed. ‘It’s on the table in the bedroom.’
‘What about the Lakes? D’you have a telephone number up there?’
‘Nothing, sorry. What’s it all about? Is she in trouble?’
He skirted the question. ‘If Rachel rings you, give her my message and number. Tell her to call me. Fast—’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Go up to Crook and find her,’ Nino replied, about to ring off.
She caught him just in time.
‘Hey, Mr Bergstrom! Do me a favour when you talk to Rachel, will you? Don’t tell I listened to her messages. I mean, she might think I’m nosy or something.’
Walking to his car, Nino checked his phone and returned a message from Gaspare. The old man took a while to answer; Nino could picture him making his way downstairs from the sitting room to the telephone in the hall. It was no good telling him to get an extension or a hands-free phone – Gaspare liked things just the way they were.
‘Hello!’ He was out of breath, Nino could hear it.
‘Why don’t you get another phone?’
‘I like this one,’ the dealer replied, smiling to himself. ‘You got my message then? That bastard Johnny Ravenscourt was here this afternoon—’
Nino stopped walking. ‘What the hell did he want?’
‘To deal. He’s found the skins of Vespucci’s victims.’
‘God Almighty … where?’
‘In the back of the painting of Claudia Moroni, in a panel. They were dried up, folded into parcels, and labelled.’ Gaspare paused. ‘This is deep water, Nino. You should get the police on your side.’
‘And then what? They’d haul me in, interview me, and before I knew it another day would have passed.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done what I can – I’ve left an anonymous message, giving them the name of Edward Hillstone.’
‘If he’s still using that name.’
‘It’s the best I can do …’ Nino hurried on. ‘I’ve found out where Rachel went. She’s up in the Lake District. I’m going—’