Finally, he sat down on a Regency settee and looked over at Nino. ‘So?’

‘So,’ Nino replied, bemused.

‘You came to talk?’ Johnny said, jumping to his feet again and pouring them both a gin and tonic. Smiling, he passed one to Nino and regained his seat. His nerves were obvious and surprising. ‘How do we start?’

‘You wanted to talk to me.’

‘Oh yes,’ Johnny replied, crossing his weighty legs and smoothing the crease on his trousers. ‘About murder.’

‘About Angelico Vespucci.’

Johnny sipped his drink, pausing for effect. ‘Yes, Vespucci.’

‘I couldn’t find out much about him,’ Nino went on. The room felt overheated and stuffy, the towering Italian furniture dwarfing its modest proportions. ‘Is there anything I can read? Any books?’

‘Mostly hearsay.’

‘But?’

‘You’ve guessed, haven’t you?’ Johnny said, getting up again and placing a thick sheaf of papers on the table in front of his guest. ‘Those’ he said, jabbing at them with a stubby forefinger, ‘are all about The Skin Hunter.’

Wary, Nino looked at the notes. ‘I’m very grateful – but why are you helping me?’

‘I heard that you’d been hired to look into the death of Seraphina di Fattori. That’s why. Are you being paid well?’

Hesitating, Nino paused. He had used up the last of his savings on the Venice trip and was beginning to wonder how he could continue his investigation without financial support. He could approach Gaspare, but the dealer had already done more than enough for him. Asking for a fee seemed like insulting Gaspare, who was mourning Seraphina and himself a victim of an attack.

‘I could use some cash,’ Nino admitted at last.

‘Then it’s yours,’ Ravenscourt said, his tone indifferent, as befitted a wealthy man. ‘I’ll give you a retainer now and you let me know how much you need as you go along. Oh, and keep this between us, will you? I’d rather people didn’t know of my interest.’ He shifted in his seat, his figure bulky on the elegant sofa. ‘Seraphina was my friend. She was very kind to me when I had a little … upset … with a gentleman in a bar. I mean, I’m gay.’ He regarded Nino for a moment as though daring him to challenge the words. When he didn’t, Johnny continued. ‘Seraphina was a rare creature who didn’t judge people. I find that a remarkable quality, don’t you?’ Before Nino had time to answer, Johnny hurried on. ‘But I don’t like her husband. I think Tom Morgan’s a bad lot.’

‘You think he had something to do with her death?’

‘No, but I think he had a lot to do with her life,’ Johnny replied enigmatically.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Seraphina went to London to get away from him. She loved him, but she needed a break. She was pregnant, you see, and worried about it.’

Nino made no show of having already known. ‘Didn’t she want the baby?’

‘She did. Tom didn’t.’

‘Did they argue about it?’

‘Constantly. Seraphina had been pregnant before, in their old apartment. She was never happy there, hated the place, but Tom wanted to stay there. Said it was impressive – but when Seraphina lost the baby she insisted they move. A little while later, she asked me to find out about the history of the old building.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. It had once belonged to the Moroni family. And – would you believe it? – Claudia Moroni was murdered. And partially skinned.’ He waited for a response, but when Nino didn’t give him one, he continued. ‘I told Seraphina what I’d found out – and now I can’t stop wondering about what happened to her. To die in the same way … It can’t be a coincidence. It just can’t. And then you came to Venice and started asking questions and I knew that if I went to the police, they would brush me off. Laugh at any connection with the house, or Vespucci.’

‘But you think there’s one?’

‘Mr Bergstrom, I’m not a fool,’ Johnny replied curtly. ‘Seraphina came back from her trip to London and she was upset. Really upset. I thought it was because of her hormones. You know, pregnant women get tearful about the slightest thing—’

‘She didn’t strike me as the tearful kind.’

‘She wasn’t usually, but she was scared.’ He paused, looking back and remembering. ‘Eventually she told me about the painting …’

Nino blew out his cheeks.

‘… I haven’t told anyone else!’ Johnny said hurriedly. ‘Seraphina made me promise and I’ve kept that promise. I know you met up in London. I know she found the Titian. And I know she’s dead and I want to understand why.’ He pushed the notes closer to Nino. ‘Go on, read about him, about Vespucci. It’s taken me nearly fourteen years to get all that information together. Cost me a lot of money too. I found out who and what he was, what he did, and what he tried to do to avoid punishment. I read about his cronies, his murders, and about the folklore which grew up around him.’

‘Which was?’

‘When the portrait emerges, so will the man,’ Johnny laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, it’s fantastic, of course! That’s what I thought anyway. Until Seraphina, my friend, came back from London and told me that the portrait had turned up. And then I started to worry …’ He stroked one of his dogs, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Somehow she had found out about her ancestor, the Contessa di Fattori. And the fact that she’d been murdered by Vespucci.’

‘How did she find out?’

‘I don’t know who told her. Her parents maybe.’

Nino frowned. ‘Why would they?’

‘Seraphina could have talked about the Titian she’d found and they could have offered up the family connection.’ He clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘How do I know who told her! She just knew, that was all. It scared me—’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Johnny replied. He looked at Nino, his gaze surprisingly intense, then glanced away. ‘For the next two days I phoned her continually. We met up, went shopping. Ate out together. You see, I wanted to be with her, to watch out for her. Then, on Wednesday morning, she was found dead.’ He paused, alert. ‘What is it?’

Without answering, Nino took the newspaper out of his pocket and handed it over. Frowning, Johnny Ravenscourt read the headlines. A moment passed, then he pointed to his notes, lying on the table between them.

‘I’m not a brave man, I think that’s obvious. I’m a rich, spoilt old queen, with no taste for danger. But I loved Seraphina and I want to know who killed her.’ He pushed the notes further towards Nino. ‘Please take the help I offer you, Mr Bergstrom. In those papers is everything I know about Angelico Vespucci. Everything I think there is to know about The Skin Hunter.’ His voice was insistent. ‘Take them. You don’t have to bring them back. I don’t want them back. Just read them – and remember Seraphina.’

Nodding, Nino picked up the notes.

‘I think this is just the beginning,’ Johnny said, as he stared at the photograph of Sally Egan, ‘so perhaps now is the time for you to start reading?’

Venice, 1555

Did I tell you I was afraid of water?

The tide is rising now, higher than it has ever done, over the steps behind the houses, lapping on to the stone floors, making lazy pools under tables, silk rugs floating like bladderwrack. And with it comes the mist. The Doge is ill; some say it is another omen, some intimation of disaster coming with the freezing tides.

Not that Aretino feels any trepidation. He has a new lover, a woman as amoral as he. The Contessa di Fattori. A whore all Venice knows. Her husband encourages her excesses, wills her to try new lusts. It is said he derives his pleasure from the recalling of it. She is tall, this di Fattori, hair red as a night fox, eyes eerily blue under the triumphant arches of her brows. Cosseted by her husband’s wealth, she revels in her hedonism. Luxuries are imported for her, carpets from India, perfumes from France, and in her bedchamber there are flowers sent from Holland weekly, daring the winter tides.