‘Why d’you think the killer’s badly educated?’

‘Not badly educated, self-educated,’ Nino replied. ‘He’s meticulous, pedantic, obsessive – all traits of someone with a chip on their shoulder. He wants to be the equal of the dealers, because they impress him. But if he was their equal, it would never have occurred to him to seek their approval. He admires and fears them. He feels inferior, he hasn’t the imagination to be an original, so he copies.’ Nino paused, before adding: ‘I think the killer’s solitary, bookish. I’d be surprised if he was married, or had a family.’

‘Violent men have families.’

‘Yeah, but they’re usually opportunistic killers, men who act spontaneously. Not men who plan murders. That takes time, and skinning the victims takes time and space. You couldn’t do that in a modern semi with kids running a round.’

‘Thank God,’ Gaspare said quietly. ‘But what happens when it’s over? After he kills the four women, what then?’

‘He won’t kill four women,’ Nino replied. ‘He won’t succeed in copying Vespucci, because he’ll be stopped. I’ll stop him. And you know why? Because the killer’s fixed his attention on the elite, the dealers. He’s not looking in my direction. To him, I’m a no-account, an amateur, a hick. And that’s my protection.’

Venice, 1555

It was nearing midday when the priest came by, trailing a wary look. He came with a notepad under his arm, pausing outside the studio of Titian. His manner was hesitant, his black robes sodden about the hem where he had crossed St Mark’s. The rain had added to the sitting water, and now no one traversed the piazza and stayed dry.

He was still standing outside when the rain began again, his face baffled, with the look of someone pressed to a duty they dreaded. I felt little pity for him, for the Church has stayed remote, Venetians resenting its distance. It was meant to give succour, people said, but the victims were never mentioned in prayers, and the killer has kept the city clean of priests.

But now another rumour has sprung up. As the victims increase and Vespucci shirks from his guilt, Aretino comes forth to shield the beast again. He has put it aboard that there is another suspect. That The Skin Hunter is not, nor ever has been, Angelico Vespucci. We heard this news just after dawn, when the death of Lena Arranti was still fresh, the little Jewish girl cut down but still hanging in memory, forever hanging, from the rope which had held her corpse.

Her body has long gone, but men shudder when they walk under the lamp which held her, and someone has thrown flowers on the bridge, and ivy in remembrance. There was talk of her skin being found, but no one would say where. Or maybe no one knew. Finally one of the Doge’s confidants pinned a paper to the doors of St Mark’s proclaiming that her skin was found, and would be blessed and buried. The note satisfied no one, and later messages cursed Vespucci and foretold that Venice would be damned until his punishment came.

There was talk of hanging him by the same lamp which had held the Jewish girl. Of stripping off his flesh and laying it under the paw of the Lion of St Mark’s. He became the Devil who had committed unspeakable acts and brought the city to its knees.

And this unwholesome man, this font of pus, has all of Aretino’s great protection. While Titian continues the portrait which will become famous throughout the world, Aretino picks up his handful of shit and throws it in the face of all Venetians.

He says:

‘There is another suspect. Another man has done these dreadful deeds.’

He will reveal this person to us all, in time.

‘Look away from Vespucci!’ he says. ‘There is no villain there.’

And now I am watching as the priest knocks at the door of Titian’s studio. I have heard rumours of what he is to say. Of words formed by Aretino, but spoken by this cleric. Words with which the artist’s friend will rip out his heart and make a scapegoat of an innocent man. He will name this man, this son, this blood tie, offer him up to take Vespucci’s place. He will do it to protect his interests, his wealth. Aretino, bribed into silence by so many in the past, will bribe another to quieten a tongue that otherwise will destroy him.

Titian is occupied. See, he paints. He lights more candles, turns the canvas to them to extend his working hours. The effigy of Vespucci grows on the easel. He is coming to life in snatches, like a hanged man grabbing at the air. In the background of the portrait is an object no one can decipher. No one but me.

For all the rouge redness of the colours, the ebony blackness of Vespucci’s clothes, the majesty of sleeping Venice behind, for all of this, there is some intimation in the pigment. A way the artist hints at what he knows. A token accusation in the paint. Behind the sitter’s bulbous eyes and venal mouth, behind Vespucci’s sloping back, is a shape defying interpretation.

I saw the master paint this. This object, this limp spectacle, this mordant shape of nothingness. He caught me watching him, turned and held my gaze, then turned away. And I knew he understood the evil of the image, but was committed to its depiction, painting the dissolution of a man, a record of goodness soured.

It was to be a masterpiece. A history of depravity, a warning. That others might look upon it and repent. Or so I thought.

We did not know the scapegoat’s name. Not then, that came soon after. It came like the wind across Venice, cold and relentless, driving the damage home. It came from Aretino’s mouth into the ears of his friend. Words no man should suffer to hear.

I am leaving now, taking one last look at the portrait of Angelico Vespucci. He is sleek, clever and terrifying, and in the candlelight the shape behind him makes more than a little sense. Titian has painted a hide.

A skin, emptied of life.

42

Ginza, Tokyo

The gallery had become a kind of prison. It wasn’t a place of business any more, but of dread. It had taken Jobo Kido almost an hour to leave the previous night. Whoever it was who had broken into the gallery had so unnerved him that he couldn’t stop shaking when he thought of it. He had watched the handle of his office door rattling, wondering if the intruder would get to him. Knowing – knowing – that it was the killer. The person he had been communicating with over the internet.

And then the rattling of the door handle had stopped. There was nothing else. No knocking, no calling out. Just a horrible and prolonged silence. Still pressed against the office wall, Jobo had waited, finally hearing the footsteps moving off, and then a car engine starting up. It had taken him several moments to move, he had been so terrified, and then he groped his way towards his office chair and collapsed into it.

In the semi-darkness he had stared blankly ahead, hardly able to gather his thoughts. This wasn’t some game over the internet. He had called up the killer as surely as sending him an invitation. Startled, Jobo had then thought of home and rang his wife, almost relieved to be shouted at. At least she was still alive. Questions as to the whereabouts of his son had been met with hostile accusations. Since when did he care about his son?

Pulling on his coat as his wife kept haranguing him, Jobo had made for his car, arriving home fifteen minutes later to be told that it was dangerous to drive while he was talking on his mobile. He could have laughed, but he didn’t. And his insistence that his family should make sure they were safe – that the doors were locked and any approaches by strangers rejected – had only inflamed matters.