Kindest regards,

Hester Greyly (Mrs)

Nino read the letter twice, now certain that Hester Greyly had been murdered. Incest was taboo, as much in the twenty-first century as ever. A prominent family might ride out murder, even criminal links, but not incest. He could imagine Harold Greyly’s fear of exposure. His status would plummet: he – and his family – would be censored, reviled. The news would make the red-top papers, smut for gossip, the local pub and shop pointing him out. A man as proud as Harold Greyly could never have handled the fallout. His golf club, his shooting colleagues and his powerful friends would drift away and Courtford Hall would become a mockery without the applause of the admiring.

The incest between brother and sister had to be hidden at all costs. And it had been, for centuries. Until, suddenly, someone emerged and started asking questions about the exiled Claudia … Nino could imagine the shock, the blow to the ego. Men killed for small change – how easy would it be for Harold Greyly to justify the murder of his aunt to protect his family name?

Nino remembered Hester only too well, and the provocative baiting of her nephew. She could never have imagined the reaction to her teasing, her poke to the pompous ribs. Never believe that Harold Greyly would kill her to keep her quiet. And it had all been for nothing, Nino thought dully. Because, acting on some impulse, Hester had put the family history down on paper and posted it. Making sure that even if the words were never spoken, Nino would read the truth.

Claudia Moroni’s love of her brother was the link between her and The Skin Hunter. Incest would have made her a target, her immorality only temporarily hidden under the guise of being a respectable merchant’s wife. Somehow Vespucci had uncovered her weakness, a sin which would have damned her in the eyes of society and of God. The perfect victim.

But if the links were obvious between the women in the past, what of the women in the present? It was true that Sally Egan had been promiscuous, and that Harriet Forbes had been gay, but Seraphina? She was happily married, pregnant. Was her connection with Vespucci merely a familial one? Or because she had found the portrait?

Walking back to the table, Nino looked over his earlier notes. He had spent the previous hour tracking down London dealers called Ahmadi. There were four in total, in various districts. He had duly called them all, discovering that the first three dealt in Turkish, Islamic, Dutch and American art, but the fourth dealt in Italian Renaissance painting. Ms Farina Ahmadi.

Putting in a call to her, Nino was met with the supercilious tones of her male secretary.

‘What is this concerning?’

‘My name’s Nino Bergstrom and it’s a private matter.’

He was condescending, arrogant. ‘I’m afraid I can’t connect you to Ms Ahmadi without knowing who you are.’

‘Perhaps you could tell her that unless she comes on the phone I’ll make a call to the press about Angelico Vespucci,’ Nino said calmly. ‘I think that should get me through.’

Seconds later, Farina came on the phone.

‘What is it? Want d’you want? I should tell you that I’m not used to being threatened.’

‘Who threatened you?’

‘You did, Mr Bergstrom!’ she snapped. ‘We don’t do business this way.’

‘What kind of a way do you do business, Ms Ahmadi?’ he replied coolly. ‘Or perhaps I should talk to Triumph Jones instead?’

‘All right! What d’you want? You mentioned Angelico Vespucci. Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

‘You, and quite a few others in the art world.’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Oh, you’ve heard of him. You commissioned a woman called Sally Egan to do a copy of his portrait. Ring any bells?’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Nino Bergstrom. I’m privately employed. Undertaking an investigation for Mr Gaspare Reni.’

She snorted. ‘Hah! Investigating what?’

‘The death of Seraphina Morgan, who used to be Seraphina di Fattori.’

There was a long silence, Nino waiting for a response that didn’t come. Finally, he spoke again. ‘She was murdered in Venice—’

‘I know!’

‘Oh, good. That’ll save time. I suppose you’ve also heard that Sally Egan was killed? Well, I was wondering why you hired her to copy the Vespucci portrait?’

‘I wanted it for an exhibition we were doing – Lost Old Master Portraits. Obviously, because they were lost, we had to get copies done.’

‘And after the exhibition, what happened to the painting?’

Her voice was impatient. ‘I don’t know! It’s probably in store somewhere.’

He took a shot in the dark.

‘So the painting that’s suddenly turned up in London might not be Titian after all. In fact, it could be your copy.’ He paused. ‘Don’t say you haven’t heard about the Titian re-emerging.’

‘How d’you know about it?’

‘I saw it.’

‘You saw it?’ She was breathless. ‘Christ, have you got it?’

‘No. It was stolen from Gaspare Reni. I don’t know where it is now, but I know Triumph Jones is after it, and others.’

‘Jobo Kido,’ she said under her breath, Nino smiling to himself as she continued. ‘The painting you saw – did Reni see it too? Because if he said it was genuine, it was. Reni’s no mug – he knows his stuff.’

‘But the copy was very good.’

‘How would you know?’

‘I saw a photograph,’ Nino replied. ‘It looked like a Titian to me—’

‘Not to an expert!’ she retorted, nettled. ‘And, like I said, I don’t know where it is now. It might be in storage, or we might have got rid of it. If the copy’s what you wanted to know about, I can’t help you. It was worthless.’

‘It cost Sally Egan her life.’

She ignored the comment.

‘I suppose Gaspare Reni wants you to get the Titian back for him?’

There was silence down the line.

‘OK, Mr Bergstrom, whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it. Work for me instead.’

‘I think,’ Nino replied smoothly, ‘that there isn’t enough money on earth to make that sound attractive.’

40

Ginza, Tokyo

Jobo Kido was shocked to hear about Triumph being mugged in Central Park. He made some trite comment about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was anxious. What had possessed his old adversary? Triumph Jones’ behaviour was totally out of character. He was taking ridiculous chances. He must have known that his reward would have drawn out every runner and gofer in the art world. Petty criminals, forgers and failed artists would leap at the chance of relieving Triumph of some of his wealth. Why invite such lunacy? And why, thought Jobo for the hundredth time, would he be walking in Central Park after dark?

Perhaps his rival had a death wish? His actions were certainly provocative, courting danger … Jobo looked over to the window. The heatwave had finally broken, the temperature falling, the rain at its curdling best … Was it all to do with the Titian? he wondered. After all, Triumph’s change in behaviour had started after the Vespucci portrait had been found. Was there some connection? Some reckless impetus which was driving him?

Giving the computer a sidelong glance, Jobo wondered if the American had also been in touch with angelicovespucci.1555.com. Had Triumph been communicating with the site’s creator too? Was that the reason for the sudden and brutal attack? Unnerved, he stared at the dead screen. Was he taking a terrible risk? Was he walking into something he might come to regret? Perhaps Triumph’s mugging should act as a warning?

But as he thought it, Jobo knew he wouldn’t – couldn’t – stop. The contact had promised him the Titian. All he had to do was to discover how the victims were connected to Vespucci. After that, the painting would belong to him. Not Triumph Jones or Farina Ahmadi, not even Gaspare Reni. He would have it. The pride of his collection.