‘We can’t be sure—’

‘Of course we can! If the killer’s copied the Venetian’s actions so far, why would he stop until they’re completed? If he’s mad enough to start, he’s mad enough to go on … Have you any idea who he is?’

Pausing, Nino studied her. He was prepared to confide, but he wasn’t about to endanger her.

‘No,’ he said evenly, ‘I don’t know who the killer is.’

She nodded. ‘But you are going to find him, aren’t you?’

It was the first time he had been asked outright. Gaspare had needed help, but it was the sister of one of the victims who put the question directly. You are going to find him, aren’t you? And it was only at that instant that Nino realised exactly what he had taken on.

38

New York

Sitting beside the statue of Hans Christian Andersen, Triumph watched the people moving around in front of him. He hated New York at Christmas time; loathed the continual drinks parties and openings, the relentless gaiety of it all. Weighed down by guilt and riddled with uncertainty, he was hardly sleeping, his usual immaculate appearance muted with exhaustion. Suddenly a child walked in front of him and stopped, staring, fascinated by the black man who was sitting, immobile, in front of the bronze. A moment later, the child’s mother hustled him away as the first light snowfall drizzled down on Central Park.

It was three thirty in the afternoon, the light ready to dip down into the dark beginning of the evening. Triumph huddled further into his coat as a stooped man of around forty came over and took a seat next to him.

‘Cold, isn’t it?’

Triumph sighed. ‘I’m here, let’s get on with it. You said you had the Titian portrait of Vespucci.’

When there was no reply he turned, staring at the Cuban’s grainy face, his eyes narrowed under the snowfall as he lit up. The match flared, ignited the end of his roll-up, and then he blew it out, letting it drop to the ground. Patiently, Triumph watched the performance, his hands pushed deep into his pockets.

‘I haven’t got the painting yet—’

Triumph stood up.

‘But I can get it!’ the man went on, jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve got a good lead. I just need cash to get some more information.’

‘I’m getting nothing here but a cold,’ Triumph replied, walking off, the man following him.

‘Fucking bastard!’ he shouted. ‘You need me! You need me!’

No, Triumph thought, I don’t need you. Or the woman who stopped me outside the restaurant last night. I don’t need the dealer from Sweden who called by the gallery, or the junkie who stumbled into my path when I was walking to my car.

The news that he was looking for the Titian had certainly spread; there wasn’t a day that Triumph hadn’t been approached, the police questioning the wisdom of his action in offering a reward. But every offer, suggestion or deal had been bogus, and when he was unexpectedly tapped on the shoulder, he jumped.

‘Christ, Triumph!’ Farina said, laughing. ‘Your nerves are shot!’

She was wearing a ranch mink, the collar turned up, her hair hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. The snow which had seemed so out of place in the park flattered her, making a translucent backdrop. Smiling, she slid her arm through Triumph’s. If she found him tense, she didn’t allude to it. Instead she walked with him for several yards until she got down to the matter in hand.

‘That was very naughty of you, Triumph, putting out a reward for the painting. You’ll get every loser on earth coming out of the woodwork.’

He walked on, letting her talk.

‘Of course, you could get lucky; someone might know about the Titian. And they might tell you.’ She twinkled up at him. ‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

Tell you what? he thought. That I’m going to destroy it? No, I don’t think I’ll tell you that.

‘Of course,’ he lied.

‘My husband could make it worth your while,’ she continued, her gloved hand clinging to his arm. ‘You know how much I want him to have this painting. I’m sure you and I could come to some arrangement.’

‘An arrangement?’

‘We’re the biggest dealers in New York,’ Farina went on blithely. ‘We should get the goodies. We deserve them. No point letting other dealers – lesser dealers – have a go. You know how I admire you.’

‘You do?’ he asked, inwardly mocking her.

‘I always have,’ she replied, pausing when Triumph stopped walking.

‘This arrangement,’ he said. ‘I never thought of that, Farina. Never realised you were so attracted to me. Never thought of you and me …’

She was so taken aback she couldn’t speak. Surely this man, this African-American, wasn’t suggesting an affair?

‘To be honest, I’ve always admired you, Farina,’ he said, putting out his hand and stroking her cheek. ‘And now I’m wondering exactly what you would do for the Titian. How far would you go?’

He was staring at her so intently she flushed.

‘What the hell—’

Gently he slid her hand out from the crook of his arm, patting her shoulder in a paternal gesture. ‘Go home, my dear. You’re a great dealer, but a lousy whore.’

Then he turned, walking into the falling snow.

Without looking back, he could imagine the expression on Farina Ahmadi’s face – the outrage. She would seethe with humiliation. At having been regarded as a whore – and rejected as a woman. Of course Triumph knew he had made an implacable enemy, but he didn’t need Farina any more. He was tired of the deals, the hustling. Tired of a world which dealt in beauty, and employed all kinds of ugliness.

Preoccupied, he walked on, letting the snow fall on him as he rounded a bend in the park. But he never anticipated what would happened next. Wasn’t expecting the blow to the back of his head which sent him reeling against the side of the bridge over the pathway. Staggering backwards, he felt the blood pour from a scalp wound, but had no time to react. When he was struck again, his legs buckled. Caught off guard, the elegant Triumph Jones fell clumsily to the ground, the side of his head striking the stonework, his hands scrambling for purchase on the snowy ground.

And all the time he was thinking of the women, the three women who had died for a painting. The three deaths he had inadvertently caused. And wondering if his would be the fourth.

39

London

Picking up the post, Nino walked back upstairs into the sitting room. The cold was stinging, the old-fashioned gas fire hissing into the room, its blue flames spluttering as he opened the letter addressed to him. Surprised, he read the signature, then looked back to the beginning.

Dear Mr Bergstrom,

I thought I would send you a little note in case we didn’t have the chance to meet up. Life is so strange, and one can never leave things to chance, or so I find.

You were asking about our family and I overheard you talking to Harold about our ancestor, Claudia Moroni. He was rather evasive, for reasons which will become obvious. My nephew is a snob and very defensive about the family reputation. Charlotte – later Claudia – did not elope, she was thrown out of the family. With her brother.

Signor Moroni married her, but theirs was not a love match. Claudia did not love her husband, but her brother. There had been gossip in Norfolk about the incest, so she had to be exiled, along with him. She was sent to Venice. I believe there is a painting of her and Matthew. People think it portrays her and her husband, but that’s not true.

I’m sure you know what happened to her. Her death was terrible; as big a scandal as her life.

My nephew would do anything to prevent this information being dredged up again. But I think your enquiries were made for some other reason than simple curiosity. I hope I’m right, but I feel certain that you need to know about this.

Use the information wisely. It caused much suffering once and I would hate to think such unhappiness could happen again.