‘Everything he said is fantasy,’ Nino insisted. ‘Get Ravenscourt here. Let him face me, then we’ll see who’s lying.’

‘I’d really like to do that, Mr Bergstrom,’ Steiner said evenly. ‘But unfortunately Mr Ravenscourt seems to have disappeared.’

34

Tokyo

Jobo Kido waited until his wife was asleep, then crept into his study and locked the door. Turning on the computer, he went on to the internet, looking for angelicovespucci.1555. com. The site came up immediately and he pressed ENTER. Almost as soon as he had typed hello a reply came up.

Mr Kido, how are you today?

Jobo: How do you know me?

Answer: Everyone knows everyone. Are you wondering about the painting?

Jobo: You know I am.

Answer: In time you’ll see it. But not yet, Mr Kido. Perhaps you’d like to ask me another question?

Jobo: You mentioned three women.

Answer: Three dead women.

Unnerved, Jobo pressed on.

Jobo: Are they connected?

Answer: You’ve disappointed me. I was expecting more from you.

Jobo: Don’t sign off!

Answer: Then make it worth my while to talk to you. I can’t tell you how the women are connected – you have to find that out for yourself. If you do, I’ll give you the painting.

Hands sweating, Jobo stared at the screen. He could get the Titian! Sod Farina Ahmadi, he wasn’t going to have to share it after all. He could have the portrait all to himself. Hang it next to his other exhibits, stare at it, enjoy it. Relish it. It was the culmination of all his hopes: the depiction of a maniac, painted by one of the Old Masters. It would be worth millions. And it would be his.

Giddy, Jobo calmed himself, thinking of the implications of this correspondence. If the man on the computer knew who he was, did he also know where he lived? The thought made his flesh creep. Jobo might argue with his wife constantly, but he had no wish to see anything happen to her. Or himself. He would have to be very clever. Somehow manage to get hold of the painting – and expose the killer at the same time.

The picture would be his, but safely.

He turned back to the computer.

Jobo: Are we talking about Vespucci’s victims, or the recent killings?

Answer: The recent murders. The new Skin Hunter.

Jobo: There’s a new Skin Hunter?

Answer: What do you think this is all about, Mr Kido?

Hesitating, Jobo wanted to ask the obvious question, but resisted. Perhaps the man wasn’t the killer and would be offended by the presumption. He might sign off, never contact Jobo again. And take the Titian with him.

Jobo: Did the same man kill all three women?

Answer: You know he did. He skinned them.

Jobo: They were killed in three different countries. How did he do that?

Answer: Use your imagination.

Jobo: Is he as clever as The Skin Hunter?

There was a long pause, moments passing before the answer came up.

Answer: He won’t be caught. The Skin Hunter is never caught.

Jobo: Do you know what happened to Angelico Vespucci?

Answer: Yes. He became me.

And with that, he logged off, breaking the connection, and Jobo was left staring at the empty screen.

35

London

It was twelve days to Christmas. Lights were strung across Regent Street and around Oxford Circus, shop windows dragging buyers into their clammy interiors. Thick with the scent of candles and perfume, the stores grew sticky under the plastic mistletoe, shoppers overheated as the temperature plunged outside. Snow was forecast, a breakdown at several set of lights holding up the traffic from Piccadilly to Park Lane.

Having been discharged from hospital, Gaspare was back at the Kensington gallery, struggling to remember the code as he turned off the alarm. For a moment he stood in the hallway looking upwards, thinking of the break-in, listening for the sound of footsteps. Then, annoyed at his own timidity, he walked into the sitting room and flicked on a solitary lamp. The old familiar shapes came back in all their dim glory: the painted ceiling, the suit of Japanese armour, the set of kettledrums he had bought in an auction. All so random, like disparate friends greeting him for a surprise party.

Walking over to the central table, Gaspare noticed a jumbled assortment of notes. Some were in Nino’s handwriting, others he presumed belonged to Johnny Ravenscourt. He knew that Nino hadn’t shown them to the police, and touched them gingerly, as though they were contaminated, before gathering them together and putting them into a plastic bag.

Moments later, footsteps announced the arrival of Nino, Gaspare feigning horror as he entered the sitting room.

‘Ah, the Devil is loose. The killer is at large! Please spare me, don’t hurt me!’

Ignoring the comments, Nino stared at his old friend. ‘You got back from the hospital all right then?’

‘Well, when I heard of your predicament I thought you might never get out alive.’ He patted Nino’s shoulder affectionately. ‘You didn’t think I’d let the police keep you in there, did you?’

‘I don’t know how you got me out. Detective Steiner seemed very eager to keep hold of me.’

‘The police had nothing concrete. The benefit of living a long time is that you make contacts over the years. None of us were born old; some of us had very influential positions in our prime. And even long-term friends have debts to pay back. Let’s just say that I made a phone call.’

‘And that was it?’

Gaspare shrugged. ‘I’d love to say I had that much power, but apparently the police were only trying to scare you. They didn’t really believe what Johnny Ravenscourt said, but they’d lost touch with him – thought he was up to something – and put pressure on you to find out what it was.’

‘Up to something?’

‘Mr Ravenscourt’s known to the Art Fraud department. He has a record for smuggling fakes,’ Gaspare said, smiling. ‘It was a long time ago, and he’s not been active since, but it’s still on record.’ He paused. ‘How much did you tell the police?’

Quickly Nino filled Gaspare in, pouring two glasses of brandy and passing one to the older man.

‘Ravenscourt tried to land me in it – which makes him look even more suspicious. If he’s copying Vespucci I reckon he picked me to be his scapegoat.’

‘Or he was just stirring up trouble,’ Gaspare offered, passing Nino a letter with his name on it. ‘When I got home, this had arrived.’

Taking it, Nino read.

Dear Mr Bergstrom,

We met the other day and I would very much like to speak with you again – concerning Claudia Moroni. Perhaps you would like to call me on Tel. Norfolk 845 - 9851.

Kindest regards,

Hester Greyly (Mrs)

Gaspare was looking at Nino with curiosity. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘It’s from Harold Greyly’s aunt. Perhaps she wants to tell me something he wouldn’t.’

‘Or perhaps she’s working with him to get you back to Norfolk?’

‘She asked me to ring her. Not visit.’

Gaspare shrugged. ‘So ring. But don’t go back there.’

Half an hour later Nino finally managed to get an answer on Hester Greyly’s phone. The receiver was picked up, but there was no greeting, just soft breathing down the line.

‘Hello?’ he said, concerned. ‘Mrs Greyly?’

‘Who’s this?’

Nino hesitated, not recognising the man’s voice. ‘Mrs Greyly asked me to call her. Can I speak to her, please?’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Is she ill?’ Nino asked, uneasy. ‘I need to talk to her. She sent me a letter—’

There was a rusting sound on the phone and someone else spoke. This time Nino recognised the voice immediately – it was Harold Greyly.

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Nino Bergstrom. Your aunt sent me a letter asking me to get in touch. Can I talk to her, please?’