We are to consider Pomponio The Skin Hunter. A mediocre man, a reluctant priest, to set the mob talking. And thinking. Perhaps Titian had banished him because he suspected his son? Perhaps he was privy to horrors committed and exiled Pomponio to ensure his child’s escape? Perhaps this mild and vapid man could kill and fool us by his calf-soft ways?

By choosing the artist’s son Aretino picks himself a lamb. But the lamb was raised with lions. The lions of St Mark’s. While Aretino holds his suspect high to take the coming arrows, he shows his unclothed hand. Ruthless and unloving, he miscalculates. Loyalty lies with blood, not friendship.

He has betrayed his friend, and Titian knows it. Knows not of the monetary thefts but of Aretino’s wickedness of heart. While Titian hears the mob outside his gates, while I hear people calling for Pomponio, while Vespucci slides through the mire of his own making, Titian grieves. He grieves for his child, and in grieving might rear up like a lion to strike against those who would injure his own.

I know it. Only I.

The accusation will not stand. But Aretino has made it, and in doing so, has marked his own demise.

The city is tormented. Cloud, heavy with fog, disguises the buildings and hides the water’s edge. There is even talk of snow.

And, in silence, we await another death.

49

Greenfield’s Hospital, London

Patrick Dewick was pushing a teenager in a wheelchair, the boy talking to himself quietly as he trailed his hand along the wall. Dewick was in his fifties, his hair thin and buzz cut, a gold stud in his left ear. It struck an incongruous note, out of character with the rest of his appearance.

Walking over to him, Nino smiled a welcome.

‘Patrick Dewick?’

‘Yep.’

‘Can I have a word?’

Wheeling the patient into the next ward, Dewick parked him by the nurses’ station and then moved back into the passageway. Jerking his head for Nino to follow him, he led him into the parking bays at the back of the hospital. Once there, he lit up, inhaling and coughing vigorously.

‘Are you enjoying that?’

He gave Nino a bleak look. ‘So, what d’you want?’

‘I was told—’

‘I don’t like that.’

‘What?’

‘Sentences that begin “I was told” – it’s always trouble.’ He winked, mocking him. ‘Go on, I was just playing with you.’

‘You’re a nurse here?’

‘For fifteen years.’

‘Long time,’ Nino said, glancing around. ‘Hard work, I suppose?’

‘Not to me. I like it here … So what’s this all about?’

‘I’m looking into something for a friend. He was talking to Professor Lombardo in Italy, who said that you were interested in Angelico Vespucci.’

Dewick’s expression didn’t change. After a moment’s pause he nodded his head. ‘Oh yes, I remember … God, that was a while ago.’

‘What was?’

‘I was doing some research for a patient.’

‘For a patient?’

‘Yeah, she was a very troubled woman. Really sick. She came from … I can’t remember now, but I could look it up.’ He inhaled again. ‘She’d been a teacher, I think, some kind of tutor, and then she’d gone into history and was writing a book about the Italian Renaissance.’ He said the word and laughed, rolling it on his tongue. ‘I said I’d help her. We do that sort of thing – it keeps them quiet, and it breaks the monotony for us.’

‘What was her name?’

Dewick blew out his cheeks. ‘You’ve got me there. She came in after she’d had a breakdown. Pretty woman, very smart but scared.’

‘What was she scared of?’

‘Her family, the world, herself.’ He shrugged. ‘What are most people scared of? Everything … Anyway, I did some looking up for her, and spoke to Professor Lombardo—’

‘He speaks English?’

‘Well, I don’t speak Italian,’ Dewick replied, laughing, ‘and then I passed on what he told me to her. Susan Coates! That was her name. I knew I’d remember it.’

Nino made a mental note. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She was discharged and I haven’t heard from her since. She was depressed, but you felt she could find her way round it. I think she had a good chance to get well, but who knows? You can never tell, you just hope for them.’

‘And what about Vespucci?’

He stared at Nino, baffled. ‘Who?’

‘Angelico Vespucci, The Skin Hunter, the man you were researching for her. What d’you remember about him?’

‘You are joking? I don’t remember a bit of it. He was some nutter in the past, but it goes in one ear and out the other. I’ve got enough to cope with – I don’t need to fill my head with any more crazy stuff.’

Disappointed, Nino turned to go, but Dewick called him back. ‘You should have spoken to the volunteer—’

‘What?’

‘Now, he was a weirdo, that one,’ Dewick continued. ‘He and Susan got very thick, and he cut me out – said he’d help her with her writing. He was in her room day in, day out. I told the Sister about it. Didn’t like the guy—’

‘Can you remember what he was called?

‘Eddie Ketch.’

‘D’you know where he is now?’

Dewick shook his head. ‘He was sacked, chucked out for behaving in “an unsuitable manner” with the female patients.’

Nino could feel his heart rate pick up. ‘Would Personnel have a record?’

‘I doubt it,’ Dewick replied, almost apologetically. ‘Ketch was a volunteer, like I said. They can be a bit half-hearted about checking up on volunteers – or they used to be. It was only when he starting acting odd that they chucked him out. Ketch might not even be his real name.’

Certain he was on to something, Nino pressed him. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘Because there was something funny about Ketch. I’ve got a bit of a sixth sense for it. And he was odd, unemotional. Not like any other volunteer I’ve ever met. He could pretend, could Ketch, but he didn’t feel anything. I could see it in the way he talked to the patients. He was listening, but not caring. I asked him why he volunteered once and he said that he was “between careers”. Stupid prick. Between careers – what kind of a comment was that?’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Late twenties. He’d be thirty-one, thirty-two now. Slim, good-looking in a whey-faced way. Very well-spoken, I remember that – he sounded posh.’

‘Did he talk about his family, friends?’

‘Nothing,’ Dewick replied, shaking his head. ‘He came here like a lost soul, but it was like he found something.’

‘In the patients?’

‘No, in what Susan Coates was working on. Some Italian killer. I don’t know much about it, but Ketch was fascinated, asking her all sorts of questions. I thought it was just the usual – you know, people like murders and stuff, but Ketch was taking it seriously. Like he was going to give a bloody talk. Not that it was new to him—’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘It was obvious he’d heard about the killer before – he said so. He used to swap stories with Susan Coates. She knew more than he did and he drew her out. It was like she wanted to please him.’ Dewick paused, thinking back. ‘Strange thing was that women liked him, I remember that. It was unusual, you see – vulnerable female patients can be jumpy around men, but all the women liked Ketch. The men didn’t – you’d be hard put to find any man with a good word to say for him, but women – they took to him, trusted him, which surprised me because frankly I wouldn’t have trusted that fucker as far as I could have thrown him.’

Personnel had the file on Susan Coates, but were unable to tell Nino anything about her whereabouts. It was illegal to give out patient information, the woman said. Perhaps you should talk to her doctor? But the doctor was even less forthcoming. As Nino walked past Personnel Reception again he caught the eye of the clerk. Aware that he had hit a brick wall, she said nothing, but lifted Susan Coates’ file up quickly to show him the word DECEASED printed across it.