‘You’re not connected to the police, are you?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I’m working for someone privately.’

‘Can I ask who?’

‘Gaspare Reni.’

She shrugged. ‘The name means nothing to me. Did he know Harriet?’

‘No, but he thinks that the deaths of your sister and a friend of his might be connected.’

She was intelligent, obviously so, her intense grey eyes fixing on his.

‘Do you know anything about Harriet’s death? The Japanese police don’t tell us a thing. They treat us like fools, make us feel bad just for asking questions. They won’t even release her body.’

She paused, sipping at the wine Nino had bought her. He had been expecting someone emotional but she was resolutely still. He imagined that she would be a loyal friend, a good wife, and she had a quality he admired – a kind of grace. The bar was already full of workers going home, grabbing a pint before the 6.57 train.

‘Can I talk to your parents?’ Nino requested.

‘They won’t talk to you – they’re in shock. If you want to talk, talk to me.’

Nodding, he leaned closer towards her and dropped his voice so that he wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Your sister had a flat in London, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to see it. Could you take me there?’

‘Now?’ She bent down and picked up her bag. ‘All right, we’ll go now.’ Her voice was composed. ‘It’s OK, Mr Bergstrom, I can cope. I want to help. Let’s get on with it, please.’

When they entered the Highgate flat it smelt like any place closed up in cold weather. It wasn’t damp but chilly, uninviting. Louisa turned on the lights and checked the post.

‘I should stop the mail. How d’you do that?’ She answered her own question. ‘Post Office, I suppose.’ Her long fingers rifled through the envelopes, then she dropped the pile on to the hall table and walked into the sitting room.

Nino followed her, looking at a wall of photographs. Harriet Forbes had been a traveller, that much was obvious. There were prints of the Far East, New York and Milan, Post-it notes stuck next to them, with the dates written in red. And on the space over her computer was her timetable – seven countries to visit over twenty days.

‘Did she always travel so much?’

Louisa nodded. ‘Since her twenties. Harriet was the restless sort, never liked to be in the same place for long.’

‘Did she get on with her employers?’

‘They were always changing. She would take on a project to do PR for one company, then go on to something else. It was a movable feast; the beauty business launches new projects all the time.’

‘What about her private life?’

‘Harriet wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment.’

‘There was no ex-boyfriend who might bear a grudge? No one rejected?’

‘No. The police asked me the same question, but there was no boyfriend.’

He could feel the hesitation in her voice, and pressed on. ‘Was there someone?’

‘Harriet was gay,’ Louisa said simply. ‘She didn’t think I knew. I kept waiting for her to confide in me, but she didn’t. She did have a partner a few years ago, but it broke up, amicably. They stayed friends.’

‘D’you know her name?’

‘I’ve forgotten it now, but I saw a Christmas card once. The message was very loving, very sweet … Harriet seemed to be ashamed of being gay. At least she kept it a secret, so I imagine she wasn’t comfortable with it. She used to cringe when Mum and Dad teased her about getting married and giving them kids.’ She breathed in, holding on to herself. ‘My sister’s work took up more and more of her life, until there wasn’t room for anyone.’

Nino was reading the spines on books arranged on rows of white painted shelving.

‘Your sister certainly liked reading.’ Surprised he pointed to one volume. ‘Machiavelli’s The Prince – that’s quite a switch from promoting make-up.’

‘Harriet was smart, much too smart for PR,’ Louisa said, folding her slim arms, her face composed. ‘She used to say that she’d make a killing, put away a load of money, and then do what she really wanted to do.’

‘Which was?’

‘Harriet wanted to be a journalist, in the arts.’

An alarm went off in Nino’s brain.

‘What branch of the arts?’

‘Painting.’ Putting her head on one side, Louisa studied him. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Please don’t lie to me, Mr Bergstrom. I can handle anything you tell me.’

He nodded. ‘All right. The first victim, Sally Egan, was a painter. A very gifted one.’

‘And?’

‘She was commissioned by a London dealer to paint a man called Angelico Vespucci.’ He caught a flicker of recognition at the name. ‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘It rings a bell,’ Louisa said, concentrating. ‘A while back Harriet wrote a piece for an art magazine. She was so thrilled she’d been commissioned.’ Moving over to her sister’s filing cabinet, she pulled out the top drawer and flicked through the papers. ‘My sister said it was very difficult finding out the information, so she was disappointed when they only published it on the internet.’

‘What was the magazine?’

‘I can’t remember,’ Louisa replied, still searching through her dead sister’s files. ‘But Harriet was angry about it. Said that they didn’t treat her seriously because she was a PR agent, and not someone trained in the history of art. I remember it well because it really upset her, and Harriet wasn’t someone who often showed her feelings.’ Finally she drew out a slim file marked VESPUCCI. ‘Here it is,’ she said, handing it over to Nino. ‘It took her weeks to write – she was so proud of it.’

Flipping open the file, Nino was confronted with a photograph of a face he knew only too well, together with a thoroughly researched and well written article. Her sister was right, Harriet Forbes had been wasted in PR.

‘Why did she want to write about Angelico Vespucci?’

Louisa shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She said something about him being painted by one of the Old Masters—’

‘Titian.’

‘Yes, Titian,’ she agreed, ‘but otherwise she didn’t talk about it. Is it important that both Harriet and Sally Egan had a connection with Vespucci?’ Her eyes fixed on Nino. ‘Or should I put it another way – it must be important that both of them had a connection. But why?’ She took the reproduction out of the file and studied it. ‘Who is Angelico Vespucci?’

‘He lived in Venice in the sixteenth century. He was a merchant.’

‘And?’ she said, pushing him. ‘What else about him, Mr Bergstrom? You have to tell me, otherwise I’ll just look it up on the internet and find out myself.’

‘He was a murderer, known as The Skin Hunter.’

She took the words full force, her fingers touching her mouth for an instant, her eyes closing then reopening. A moment passed, then another.

Finally she spoke. ‘How many women did he kill?’

‘Four.’

‘How many women – apart from Harriet and Sally Egan – have been killed now?’

‘Three,’ Nino replied, watching as she sat down. After getting her a glass of water from the kitchen, he handed it to her. Her breathing was rapid, but her control was impressive.

‘Was this other victim … Did she have any connection to Vespucci?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she mutilated?’

‘Yes.’

She looked up, holding Nino’s gaze. ‘Someone’s copying Vespucci, aren’t they?’

‘I think so.’

‘And his name – The Skin Hunter. Does it mean what I think it does?’

‘He flayed, or partially skinned, his victims.’

‘Like Harriet.’

‘Yes,’ Nino agreed. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t be! I want to know. I need to know what this is all about … Has anyone else connected the murders?’

He shook his head.

‘Not that I know of. The victims were all killed in different countries. The Japanese police haven’t connected Harriet’s killer with Sally Egan. I’m surprised you did.’

‘He skins women! How likely is it that there are two people doing that? Of course I made the connection,’ she replied, looking back at him. ‘You said Vespucci killed four women. So there’s one left.’