‘I never meant for any of this to happen,’ Triumph began, his head bowed. ‘Someone came to me with the Titian portrait. I paid a reasonable sum – the man was no dealer and glad of what he got. I should have stopped then, but my ego didn’t let me.’ He wouldn’t look up, didn’t dare. ‘I thought it would be amusing to hold back on it for a while, work up some real publicity for the painting. So I resurrected the story, the so-called legend – “When the portrait emerges, so will the man.”’ It was bound to catch on.’

Gaspare’s face was expressionless. ‘And all this publicity would drive up the value of the work.’

Triumph paused, his voice catching. ‘I didn’t know Seraphina di Fattori would find it. I didn’t know she would take it to you. You of all people! What was the chance of that?’

Gaspare shrugged. ‘You said yourself, whoever found it would take it to a gallery or a dealer. Why’s that so surprising? Anyway, the painting’s gone. Stolen. You’ve lost. Is that what’s eating away at you?’

‘It’s not that!’ Triumph replied. ‘Seraphina was killed in Venice. And now another woman’s been killed in London. In exactly the same way as Vespucci killed his victims.’

‘In the sixteenth century! You’re not believing your own publicity now, are you? Dear me, Mr Jones, I wouldn’t have thought you were the gullible type.’ Gaspare’s voice had a hard edge. ‘I admit that I fell for it. But then again, I’m Italian – superstitious. I believe in legends. I was even a little afraid. You fooled me – well done. For a moment I thought that the Titian could summon up something, or someone, from the grave. It was a stroke of genius, Triumph, and you deserve your success. Your imagination and flair for publicity is second to none.’ He clapped his hands sardonically, then paused. ‘Unfortunately it’s backfired, and it’s going to cost you. Worse than that, it’s already cost two women their lives.’

‘You can’t be sure of that—’

‘You know I’m right,’ Gaspare replied, cutting him off. ‘There are some unstable people in this world. People who admire killers. People who read about them, write about them. Some even emulate them.’

Taking in a breath, Triumph looked at the dealer. Someone’s copying Vespucci, aren’t they?’

‘How would I know? You created your own Frankenstein’s monster – how can I predict what it will do? Maybe your greed made you meddle with a dangerous ghost. Maybe it just brought the memory of a killer back to life. But it tripped someone into action.’

The elegant American was sweating, his hands pressed together. ‘How do we stop it?’

‘It? Or him?’ Gaspare queried. ‘Why ask me? You started something. You did it. You live with it.’

And as Triumph Jones rose to his feet the news broke over the Internet that a woman had been killed in the lavatory of Tokyo Airport. She had been stripped, stabbed, and partially flayed.

BOOK THREE

… I am so fond of brothels, that the large amount of time I don’t spend in them almost kills me …

Pietro Aretino

What really makes me marvel is that … [Titian] … fondles them, makes a to-do of kissing them, and entertains with a thousand juvenile pranks. Yet he never takes it further …

Pietro Aretino

23

Pausing as she applied her lipstick, Farina Ahmadi lost patience and threw it to one side. She couldn’t remember where she had heard it – apart from on the news – but the name Sally Egan seemed familiar to her. She ran it over on her tongue … Egan, Sally Egan … but nothing came to her. Surely this murder victim – this care-home worker – hadn’t been a client of hers? Farina paused, pressing her memory into service as she reached for the lipstick again. Had Sally Egan worked for her? No, Farina thought – she didn’t even know the names of the cleaners, she left that to the housekeeper, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe she had worked in the London gallery?

But the thought didn’t gel. Farina filled in her lips with the coral gloss. Satisfied, she smiled at her own reflection, but the name wouldn’t budge. How could she have known Sally Egan? A woman who worked in a care home wouldn’t be working in an art gallery. After smoothing her eyebrows and fastening on her earrings, Farina finally remembered.

It had been several years earlier when she had been trying to mount an exhibition of famous portraits. Angelico Vespucci’s image was at the top of her list, but Farina had only been able to get hold of engravings, and photographs of an old copy. A chance encounter with another dealer had brought Sally Egan into her sphere.

To all intents and purposes the Egan woman had been a talented artist, forced into menial work to pay the bills. So she had been more than pleased to do a competent oil copy of Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci. It wasn’t supposed to deceive anyone, merely to be exhibited to show what the original had been like. Sally Egan had taken several months to complete it and when she had delivered it to the gallery, Farina had been impressed and paid her well, even promising that she might send other work her way … Farina’s smile dimmed, her pleasure at having remembered the woman overturned by the circumstances of Sally Egan’s death.

Christ! Farina thought. She was the woman who’d been murdered and skinned. Like the woman in Venice before her … For several moments Farina toyed with the idea that there might be some connection, jumping when the phone rang.

‘Farina! a familiar voice greeted her. ‘How are you?’

She rolled her eyes at Jobo’s cloying tone. ‘Well. And you?’

‘Thriving. I take it your husband and sons are well also?’

‘The whole fucking family is just peachy,’ she replied. ‘Get to the point.’

He was used to her manner, and carried on.

‘Something incredible has just happened. Over here, in Tokyo,’ he said, pausing to create the maximum effect. ‘There’s been a murder at the airport. Hardly that shocking usually, but there’s something very odd about this one. The victim was stabbed and partially skinned.’

‘So?’

‘Well, it’s the third, isn’t it?’

‘The third?’

‘The third victim,’ he said chillingly. ‘First there was Seraphina di Fattori, then Sally Egan—’

Farina cut across him immediately. ‘I was just thinking about what happened to her. How did you hear about her murder in Japan?’

‘The internet. And besides, we have a bloodthirsty interest in such things.’

‘You mean you do,’ she retorted. ‘I bet you’ve got a Google Alert out on violent murders. I wouldn’t put it past you. God knows, you spend long enough drooling over those sick pictures of yours.’ She doodled the women’s names on a piece of paper, then paused. ‘What’s the name of the last victim? The one in the airport?’

‘Harriet Forbes.’

Farina shrugged. ‘Means nothing to me, but then again, why should it?’

‘Well, we all knew – or knew of – Seraphina di Fattori, because her parents were collectors. I was just wondering if you knew the other victims.’

Hesitating, Farina took a moment to consider if it was in her best interests to admit that she had known Sally Egan. Was it worth mentioning to the Japanese dealer? But then again, perhaps some shared confidence might strengthen their relationship? Make it more likely Jobo Kido could share information about the missing Titian?

‘Oddly enough,’ she began, ‘I did know Sally Egan. Well, I didn’t know her, I commissioned her. And you’ll never guess what she did for me – she copied the Vespucci portrait.’

Her tone was light, but it rankled Jobo. ‘She did what?’

‘Copied the Titian.’

‘And now she’s been murdered and skinned.’

Farina paused, uncomfortable. ‘It could be a coincidence—’

‘That she painted The Skin Hunter and was killed like that?’ His voice rose. ‘Don’t be stupid, Farina, this is more than any coincidence. So, does the name Harriet Forbes ring any bells?’