‘All the more reason why you should stop now,’ Gaspare said, his thumb and forefinger closing over the crucifix. ‘Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe the police should sort it out—’

‘How can they?’ Nino snapped. ‘They don’t know as much as we do. They certainly won’t connect the painting with the women’s deaths. Why should they?’

‘But if they ask around—’

‘You know the art world, Gaspare. They’ll close ranks if they’re questioned. No business on earth can hide a secret better, especially when there’s money at stake. And who else would talk? Triumph Jones? Never – he’s not going to admit his part in this publicly.’

Taking a breath, Gaspare watched him. He wondered fleetingly how different everything would have been if Nino Bergstrom had collapsed in France or New York. Wondered if the chance which had cemented their friendship might turn out to break them apart.

‘Believe me,’ Nino continued, ‘the police will only ever get half the story. Let them carry on, but let me carry on too. I liked Seraphina and I want to pay you back for what you did for me.’ He smiled, tapping his temple. ‘My brain’s active again, I feel fit. I can solve this, I know I can. Someone has to. Don’t take this opportunity away from me, Gaspare. I need it.’

25

It was past seven when Louisa Forbes arrived at her sister’s flat, standing in the doorway for a long moment before entering. She was pretending that Harriet was still alive, that at any moment her mobile would ring and she would start talking. But she knew this time was different, this time her sister wasn’t phoning, or returning. She had been stopped in Tokyo, outside a toilet cubicle – killed within reach of a thousand people, within sight of a dozen cafés and bureaux de change. Only metres from the admirable Japanese plumbing, Harriet Forbes had died. And worse, she had been disfigured. It hadn’t been enough that her clothes had been taken off her – the killer had wanted her skin too.

The thought made the hair stand up on the back of Louisa’s neck. Who could have killed Harriet? That was the question the family were asking, the police were asking, and she was asking. Her sister had been a PR agent specialising in health and beauty, a freelancer dealing in nothing more provocative than lipgloss.

Walking into the flat, Louisa turned on the light and glanced around. The place was familiar, although she hadn’t visited for several weeks after they had an argument about their parents. Louisa had loved her sister, but Harriet had been difficult to like at times, brusque, with a habit of dismissing other people’s problems. Had she been a little callous with someone outside the family? Someone who took offence? A man perhaps? God knows, Harriet could attract any man – not that she was interested.

Many times over the years Louisa had expected her sister to confide in her about being gay. She had waited, not wanting to push the issue, but it had never been raised. Perhaps Harriet thought she had fooled her sister? Conned her into believing that she genuinely wasn’t interested in getting married and having children, while all the time Louisa had known there had never been any chance of that. Why hadn’t she talked to her? Hadn’t she trusted her sister? Why live with a secret like that, as though it was something shameful?

Moving further into the flat, Louisa stared at the mess. Always running late, Harriet had left her home in a hurry and the kitchen still showed signs of her last breakfast, the cushions on the sofa in the sitting room scattered. She had drawn the blinds, but there was still a half-finished cup of coffee near the window where she had stood, waiting for her cab to arrive. Turning, Louisa remembered their last meeting in a wine bar. Harriet had been complaining about all the travelling she had to do, and Louisa had felt a flicker of jealousy. She was a bank manager – no exotic locations for her. Only a flat in Highgate and a husband working in IT.

But now the flat and the husband seemed precious. Louisa moved into her sister’s bedroom and noticed the unmade bed and the laundry on a chair by the door. The family had been informed that the body would be held in Tokyo for forensic examination, after Harriet’s father had flown over to identify her. It would be allowed home, but they didn’t know when. And suddenly the thought of Harriet lying in some morgue, bloodless and mutilated, was too much for Louisa.

She sat down heavily, her hands trembling as she noticed her sister’s laptop in the corner. Surprised that Harriet would have left it behind, she moved over and switched it on, waiting for the Microsoft welcome. And then the home page came up, with a photograph of her and her sister, arms around each other, smiling as though they had all the time in the world …

In that instant Louisa knew that she had misjudged her sister, and failed her. Had been too jealous to make allowances, to see another point of view. Perhaps Harriet had envied her. After all, she was married and secure, able to express herself, not hiding any part of her character. It was obvious that their parents would never have been able to cope with Harriet being a lesbian, but Louisa could have. It wouldn’t have made any difference to her. The shared confidence might even have brought them closer.

It was no use blaming Harriet for being secretive and dismissive. Perhaps she hadn’t felt secure enough to confide? And now it was too late. Their parents were ageing, and Louisa felt a sudden and terrible grief for a sister who wouldn’t be around when they were gone. For the loss of her, the shutting down of a shared past. For the companion she would never have again. For the blood link which some maniac had severed in a toilet in the middle of Tokyo airport.

Shaken, Louisa made a decision. She might have failed her sister in life, but she wouldn’t repeat the mistake in death.

26

Staring at his computer screen, Jobo Kido remembered what Farina, the bitch, had told him and typed into Google search Angelico Vespucci – The Skin Hunter. Outside his office, he could hear the new exhibition being arranged: a series of Japanese lithographs. Not to his taste, but popular and always good sellers. He jabbed his fingers on the SEARCH button impatiently, then watched as a website listing came up.

The Skin Hunter – Vespucci, 16th century, Venice

Good God, he thought, she was right. Pressing the entry, he watched as an image of the glorious Grand Canal in Venice came on to the screen.

It was like a normal picture postcard, until, suddenly, a crude image of a body fell from the grand architecture and plummeted into the water below, to the accompaniment of Sting’s ‘Murder by Numbers’. Disgusted but curious, Jobo pressed the ENTRY TO SITE sign and then watched as the Venetian panorama closed down into a narrow, dark tunnel. At the far end was an exit, a figure standing there. But just as Jobo saw it the figure rushed towards him, the screen filling with a splash of artificial blood.

‘God!’ he snapped, jumping in his seat.

Looking round to check that no one had been watching him, Jobo glanced back at the screen. What kind of a lunatic would build a site like this? he wondered, with a grudging admiration for its shock tactics. He scrolled down the table on the home page, clicking CONTACT, and waiting for a moment before the details were flashed on the screen.

You want to know about The Skin Hunter?

Join the Angelico Vespucci Admiration Society today – only $100.

As if! Jobo thought, returning to Google and checking if there were any other entries. There was just one, entitled angelicovespucci.1555.com

This site was altogether different. No cheap visuals, no crass music, just a very professional-looking biography of Vespucci, and a copy of an engraving of him. But, most importantly, across the top was written in copperplate: