‘Can’t you think of anything that might help?’

‘How would I know who the next victim is?’ Triumph replied, his voice dropping at the end of the line. He sounded lethargic, wavering. ‘Maybe there won’t be another killing.’

‘You believe that?’

‘No …’

‘So help me. Have you had any further contact about the Titian?’

‘I think we both know the answer to that,’ Triumph replied. ‘The painting’s gone to ground. If any dealer in the art world had it, I’d have heard. If anyone else has it, they’re not telling me – even for a reward.’

‘You don’t think that your mugging was connected?’

‘I think a man who’s a big enough fool to walk in Central Park after dark deserves everything that’s coming to him.’ He sounded defeated. ‘But, Mr Bergstrom, if you’re asking me where I think the Titian is now, I think the killer has it.’

‘But how could he keep it quiet?’

‘Maybe it’s in another country. Maybe it’s in your country. Maybe someone destroyed it.’

‘No, it’s too valuable.’

‘Really?’ Triumph said, ringing off.

Moving back to the computer, Nino typed in the name Vespucci and then looked at the listings. He had investigated every entry several times before and learnt nothing he didn’t already know. Flicking on the table lamp, he glanced over at Gaspare. The dealer was reading again, concentrating, his glasses magnifying his eyes.

‘Gaspare?’

He looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘We have to go through this, step by step.’

‘All right,’ the old man said patiently.

‘Seraphina had the painting, and she was related to the Contessa di Fattori.’

Exasperated, Gaspare slammed his book shut.

‘Dear God, not again! We’ve gone through this a hundred times.’

‘And we’re missing something!’ Nino retorted. ‘Sally Egan did a copy of the Vespucci portrait—’

‘Which no longer exists. Or so Farina Ahmadi says.’

‘You think she’s lying?’

‘She’s breathing,’ Gaspare said, raising his eyebrows, ‘so she could be lying.’

‘Harriet Forbes wrote an article on Vespucci.’

‘Did you read it?’

‘Yeah, it was interesting.’

‘For him or against him?’

‘She’s dead. What do you think?’ Nino remarked wryly. ‘So what other areas could there be?’

Taking off his glasses, Gaspare yawned. Then he straightened up in his seat, turning to Nino.

‘History.’

‘I’ve researched the time that Vespucci lived, but not found anything written about him that we haven’t already seen. Nothing particular—’

‘Did you look in Italy? The Italian universities have History departments. Maybe they’d have something extra on Vespucci?’

Nino shook his head. ‘There’s nothing online.’

‘I don’t mean on the internet! Let’s do it the old-fashioned way,’ Gaspare admonished him. ‘Let’s pick the brains of tutors, scholars, historians.’ He reached for his address book and thumbed through the pages, throwing it down and picking up another from his desk drawer. Peering through his glasses, he made a clucking sound with his tongue and then waved the book in front of Nino. ‘Professor Cesare Lombardo!’

‘Who is?’

‘About ninety,’ Gaspare replied, pulling a face. ‘But when I knew him he was the foremost authority on the Renaissance painters in Venice.’

‘He’s an art historian. Vespucci was a merchant—’

‘Who was painted by Titian. If Lombardo’s still alive, he’ll be worth talking to.’

Reaching for the phone, Gaspare put in a call to Rome, his voice rising with impatience as he talked. Fluent in Italian, Nino could follow what he was saying – that the Professor had been moved into a nursing home. He was fit, if frail. Writing down the number, Gaspare dialled again.

Asking for Professor Lombardo, he was gentle when he was put through.

‘How are you, sir?’ he asked, his tone respectful. ‘This is Gaspare, Gaspare Reni … Yes, I’m well … living in London. You sound good, very good …’ He laughed, amused. ‘Yes, we are both still alive. I need some help, Professor. I’m looking for information on a man who was painted by Titian – his name was Angelico Vespucci. And it’s your speciality, that period …’ There was a pause, then more conversation, and Gaspare made notes. ‘Yes, yes, I know all that. I was thinking of anything more in-depth about The Skin Hunter. Perhaps you know of someone with specialised knowledge? … I see, Mr Patrick Dewick. He had a special interest … And where is he? … A hospital in London? Most illuminating …’ He glanced at Nino, his expression incredulous. ‘And Jonathan Ravenscourt wanted to talk to him. Yes, I know of Mr Ravenscourt. Did he speak with Mr Dewick? Did you pass this information on to him? …’

Nino was holding his breath without knowing why.

‘… No … As you say, Professor, there are people we confide in and people we mistrust … I thank you for your help … grazie. Grazie. Ciao.’

Replacing the phone in its cradle, Gaspare glanced at Nino. ‘He gave me the name of a male nurse who works in Ealing – Patrick Dewick. Mean anything?’

‘No, but Sally Egan was a care worker. They could have met that way. He lives in London, so did she.’ Nino paused, trying to contain his excitement. ‘But why would a nurse study Vespucci?’

‘Patrick Dewick is a psychiatric nurse,’ Gaspare replied. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

BOOK FIVE

Venice, December 1555

They found part of the skin at noon on Sunday, hanging outside the church, fluttering like a bloodied flag in the east wind. The priest cut it down and took it away, we do not know where. Some say it is a new victim, but I hear the hide fits part of the portion taken from Claudia Moroni.

But there is more. The scapegoat has been named, at last. The suspect who will absolve Vespucci’s guilt. I heard it spoken outside the studio of Titian, saw how the crowd mumbled the name, then fell hushed. Aretino came out to talk, his eyes lowered as though he could not bear to be the carrier of such news.

He said my friend is innocent, and the man who has done these deeds is Pomponio.

Pomponio, son of Titian. Pomponio, brother of Octavio. Pomponio, priest of the Catholic church, estranged from his father. Pomponio, feckless, a wanton spendthrift, cut off from his family as a waster. Pomponio, the braggart, the idle, but The Skin Hunter?

The rumour traversed Venice within the hour, Aretino visiting his friend, pleading with Titian to listen to him. That it grieved him to impart such news. That he was forced to speak to protect an innocent man …

I watched him talk, puffed up with bile and cunning, Titian motionless, without words. His hand gripped the paintbrush he held, his eyes turning to the man he had counted as his dearest friend.

‘Pomponio is my son …’

Dropping his head, Aretino glanced down. I watched him. As ever, he did not see me, but I saw him. Saw him nail the foolish Pomponio to a scapegoat’s cross.

All of Venice knew of the bad blood between the father and the son, but he was Titian’s child, for all his carelessness. For all his idleness, his greed, for all his loathing of the priestly vestments that he was made to wear, he was the artist’s son. Less than his brother in talent, no match for his father’s genius, a reluctant and unsteady priest.

But still his father’s son.

And Aretino thought him worth the sacrifice. Throw Pomponio to the mob, to let Vespucci be … I knew his reasoning: his callousness would justify his claim. Pomponio was no credit to his father, what loss so poor an heir? I could imagine how easy Aretino would have come upon his plan, picking a powerless victim to shield his own interests.

Nothing would be allowed to harm the merchant. Vespucci could take us all to hell and Aretino would stand apologist for him. And all to save exposure. To save the artist knowing of his deceit. To save a fall from grace as great as that of Icarus.