Nino glanced over at Jobo. ‘That’s why you have to talk to him. If you don’t he’ll suss me out and that’ll be the end of it. The end of your Titian and God knows what else.’ He pointed at the computer. ‘Get on it with. And make it sound convincing.’

Jobo: Sorry, I was just wanting to know more about what you were doing. I haven’t told anyone anything.

Answer: Good. Are you any closer to finding out the link between the women?

Nino shook his head to direct the dealer’s answer and Jobo typed the reply.

Jobo: No.

Answer: You’ll have to try harder. The link is there, you have all the information you need to find it.

Jobo: Can’t you give me a clue?

There was a long pause before the response came back.

Answer: You have to prove that you’re worthy of owning the Titian. The answer is there if you’re clever enough.

Confused, Nino tapped Jobo on the shoulder. ‘What he’s asking you to do?’

‘Guess the link between the recent murders.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why?’ Nino repeated impatiently.

‘If I solve the connection, he’ll give me the Titian.’

Incredulous, Nino stared at the dealer. ‘And you think he’ll keep his word? He’s playing with you. He’ll get you running around and then he’ll pull the rug out from under your feet. The killer isn’t going to give you the Titian. He’s going to make a fool out of you, if you’re lucky. If you’re not, he might do something much worse.’

‘I want that portrait!’ Jobo said, nearly shouting.

‘You’ll never get it. He’s got it and he’s keeping it. Think about it: the killer’s hardly going to give up the likeness of his hero, is he? It’s a taster, that’s all. It’s to keep you on the hook. The man’s killed on every anniversary of Vespucci’s crimes. Three killings so far – you really want to see a fourth? We have to stop him.’ Nino shook his head disbelievingly. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you fucking crazy?’

Breathing heavily, Jobo stared at the screen, his thoughts clearing. What was he doing? How could he think of going on with it? Even if he got the Titian, how could he look at it with anything other than distaste, knowing that it had cost three lives?

Ashamed, he turned to Nino. ‘What can I do?’

‘Answer him. Get back on the computer and talk to him. Draw him out.’

Jobo: Are you still there?

Answer: I’m always here. I thought you’d gone.

Jobo: I’ve worked out some of it. The killings are on the same dates as Vespucci’s murders.

Answer: Very good.

Jobo: So there’s another one to come?

Answer: You know there is. On the 1st of January.

Anxious, Jobo turned to Nino again. ‘What do I say now?’

‘Ask him who the victim is.’

‘He won’t tell us that!’ Jobo replied. ‘He knows we’d stop it if he told us.’

‘Just keep him online. We have to get him to slip up, give us something.’ Nino pointed to the computer. ‘Go on, ask him the woman’s name.’

Jobo: Who’s the victim going to be?

Answer: You’re getting lazy, Mr Kido. You have to work for your reward. I do. The fourth victim is already chosen.

Jobo: Is she in Tokyo?

Answer: Maybe.

Jobo: London?

Answer: Or Venice?

Jobo: What if I guess who she is?

Answer: You don’t want to do that, Mr Kido. If you guess I’d have to kill you too.

And with that he cut the connection.

Badly shaken, Jobo wrenched out the lead from the back of the computer. The light flicked off, the white noise was silenced. The package was still on the desk in front of him. Nino gestured to it.

‘Have you called the police about that?’

‘No. I haven’t told them anything.’ He looked at Nino slyly. ‘You want to call them? Get them to examine the skin? Take fingerprints off the door handle? Or maybe you know some computer buff who can trace the website, see if the killer’s communicating with us from London or from around the corner?’ He paused, shaking. ‘How long does it take to do forensic tests?’

‘Too long,’ Nino replied. ‘We only have a week left. And if we call in the police they’ll impound everything, take possession of your computer – and our contact to the site will be broken. You think there’s a hope in hell of finding the next victim if we do that?’

Jobo shook his head. ‘No. So what do we do?’

‘You keep in contact—’

‘But—’

‘Listen to me. Keep in contact online and tell me everything he says.’

‘But how will you find out who he is?’

‘I don’t know, but the site might lead me to him. It’s all I’ve got.’ He stood up to leave. ‘I’ll stay in touch—’

Panicked, Jobo swivelled round in his seat. ‘Where are you going!’

‘To find the next victim,’ Nino replied, composed. ‘Stop worrying. The killer isn’t after you, Mr Kido. You might think he is, but it’s not your skin he wants. He’s scared you enough to keep quiet and he thinks that you’re greedy enough to play along with him for the painting. Let him keep thinking that.’

‘But he broke into the gallery!’

‘And if he’d wanted to hurt you, he would have done. He’s killed before and not got caught. It’s easy for him.’ Nino paused. ‘He doesn’t want to kill you. You’re not a big part of his plan. You’re a bit player. Vespucci’s the hero, the women are the stars. You represent the art world, the elite he despises. He just wants to get one over on you to prove how clever he is.’

Jobo looked unconvinced. ‘How d’you know what he’s thinking? What if you’re wrong?’

‘I might be,’ Nino admitted. ‘But remember, my life’s on the line too. You think you’re under threat? Well, you’re not going after him, I am.’

43

Venice

Tom Morgan was looking around the old apartment, where he and Seraphina had once lived, apartment for the last time. His argument with Johnny Ravenscourt had been enlightening. The Titian wasn’t with him, and judging by his reaction, Ravenscourt had no inkling where it was. Frowning, Tom glanced around the rooms, his gaze coming to rest on the painting of Claudia Moroni and her brother. It had never been of any real interest to him. But now it was. Although he had agreed to sell the apartment with all fittings, fixtures and furniture, he was damned if he was going to leave it behind. His knowledge of the art world wasn’t great – that had been his wife’s forte – but an old oil painting had to be worth money. And Tom needed money.

Taking it down, he placed an old print over the empty space on the wall and took the painting out into the hallway of the flats as the burly figure of Ravenscourt loomed up from the floor below. He had a florid look about his jowls and was breathing heavily.

‘You look fucked,’ Tom said, watching him.

‘I heard you were leaving,’ Ravenscourt gasped. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Only to the other apartment. I’ve sold this one; I can’t stay here.’

‘You must have made a fortune.’

‘Not as much as I’d have made with the Titian,’ Tom replied, gripping the painting.

Recognising it, Ravenscourt blustered. ‘You can’t take that—’

‘I can and I will,’ Tom snapped. ‘The buyer got a good deal on the sale. He won’t miss one painting.’

‘But that one?’

‘What?’ Tom asked, holding the picture at arm’s length and looking at it. ‘What’s so great about this one?’

‘It’s Claudia Moroni.’

‘And that’s supposed to mean something?’

‘Look,’ Ravenscourt said, his tone mollifying. ‘Let me buy it off you. I’ll give you a good price.’

‘I don’t think so. The Italian currency’s failing. If I was going to sell it, I’d want US dollars.’

Ravenscourt nodded. ‘OK, OK.’

‘I said if I was going to sell it,’ Tom continued, staring at the painting intently. ‘Because you wanting it so badly makes me wonder why. Perhaps it’s valuable?’