‘Thanks,’ he mouthed, walking over. Dropping his voice so that he wouldn’t be overheard, he said, ‘You don’t remember a volunteer called Eddie Ketch, do you? Good-looking, well-spoken—’

‘He was fired,’ she whispered back, looking around to check no one was listening. ‘What about him?’

‘D’you know where he is now?’

‘No … But hang on a minute,’ she said, moving into the storage backroom and returning with an old photograph. It was a picture of a group of people sitting outside a pub, obviously hospital staff. Jabbing her finger on the left-hand side, she glanced at Nino. ‘That’s Eddie Ketch.’

Ketch was in the background, the only person not holding a glass. He was standing full on to the camera, his expression composed, emotionless … Smiling gratefully, Nino took the photograph and walked out.

He had his man. He knew it, could feel it: some shudder of recognition. This was the killer. Eddie Ketch – or whatever he was called – knew about The Skin Hunter. Had been fascinated, had grown close to Susan Coates, even became intimate with his tutor. And women liked Ketch, they trusted him. He was a man women would relax with. A man women would find attractive. A man who could be anything for anyone. Composed enough to calculate. Composed enough to kill.

He had murdered three women so far. Three down, one to go. And Nino had no idea who, or where, she was.

50

22 December

Snow seemed to be falling around most of the northern half of the world. It stopped the traffic on the A1 and M5, it grounded the planes at Heathrow and Kennedy Airport, and stamped its feet over a million suburban homes in France. In Venice the fog returned, and the snow spread further afield, trailing continents in its smothering grip. Soon the city of Tokyo winced under ice showers. From the side of buildings icicles dangled like malignant Christmas decorations, the water from burst pipes freezing in mid-air, and in the quiet back room of a flat in London a man sat in front of a computer screen.

He had made his choice.

Picked his last victim.

Only nine days to go before he would kill her.

The thought intoxicated him, made him wonder if Angelico Vespucci had felt the same sense of expectation and arousal. If he had also planned the murder ahead of time. Chosen di Fattori and then waited for the inevitable conclusion. Did Vespucci revel in watching his victim live out her last days, knowing that he would be the one to end her life? Did he see fear in her eyes, or mock her ignorance?

He didn’t know, but dismissed the rumours of Vespucci’s madness. The Italian had been inspired, not insane. He did wonder about the skins though, had thought about them a great deal, because he loved the skins he had hunted. Surely Vespucci wouldn’t have destroyed his own collection? Surely the hides were still out there somewhere? Hidden, as poignant as the desiccated mummies from the past. Perhaps they had been wrapped in cloth? Or placed in metal vessels? Maybe secreted under floorboards, maybe between bookshelves? Or in some chilly Italian vault no living person visited? Maybe.

But they were somewhere.

It was the only loose end, and having no guidance from Vespucci on the matter he didn’t know what to do with his skins. He had followed the Venetian faithfully, but after every murder he was left with the question of what to do with the hide. Where to hide the trophy.

Getting to his feet, he walked over to the wardrobe and opened the doors, gazing in at the portrait of The Skin Hunter. His head tilted to one side, his thoughts sliding. When the last murder was completed, he would decide what to do with the painting and the skins. It would be his choice, his decision – something in which Vespucci would have no part. The realisation thrilled him, left him short of breath. Perhaps he would – in the final analysis – outdo The Skin Hunter? Improve on his acts, even embellish them?

The thought was like cream on his tongue.

Moving back to the computer, he entered the chat room of the Vespucci website, expecting to find an entry from Jobo Kido. Of course there was one; the Japanese dealer was practically salivating at the thought of getting the Titian. He moved down the other entries, ignoring another approach from Johnny Ravenscourt, and fixing on the message from Nino Bergstrom.

He had always known who the white-haired man was; it had simply amused him to push Jobo Kido, to discover just how far he would go to get the portrait. Apparently Kido would betray anyone. Which was just what he had expected.

Although he had no intention of replying to Nino Bergstrom, he was interested to see a new message from him. But a flutter of rage went through him as he read it.

Nino: I’ve been following your website for some time. I’m also an admirer of Angelico Vespucci and his crimes. But he was mad, and I’m not. In fact, I’m responsible for the deaths of three women already, and will commit a fourth. On 1 January.

Answer: You don’t know what you’re talking about!

Nino: Of course I do. Your site’s good, but the real thing’s better.

He was incensed. Surely this Bergstrom man couldn’t think he was going to take credit for the murders? Bergstrom was a joke, a Hollywood lapdog. What the hell would he know, or care, about Angelico Vespucci?

Answer: You’re lying.

Nino: I’m Vespucci’s true follower. You’re just a copyist. Everyone knows that I killed those women.

Answer: It wasn’t you!

Nino: Prove it.

The man paused, staring at the words on the screen, suddenly realising that he was being played. Bergstrom wanted to get him to confess.

Clever, but not clever enough …

Slowly, he typed his reply.

Answer: If you’re the killer, who’s the next victim?

Nino: You know who it is.

Answer: Tell me her name.

Nino: On the internet? Are you kidding?

Answer: You don’t know.

Nino: Oh, but I do. And I’m going to stop you, Mr Ketch. Is it Ketch?

The man jumped, startled by the words.

Nino: Or are you someone else now? Should I call you Mr Vespucci? After all, you’ve copied his work, it seems only right you should take his name too.

Answer: You’re crazy!

Nino: So tell me your name. Who are you? Deny you’re the killer of these women. At the moment it seems that the only crazy one is you.

Answer: You don’t know who I am. Where I am. Or who the next victim is. And if you’re thinking of trying to trace this connection, don’t bother, it’s been rigged.

Nino: All right, we’ll try another tack. Why are you killing these women?

Answer: Are you trying to understand me now? Trying to create a rapport? You can’t see me, Mr Bergstrom, but I’m laughing.

Nino: Maybe I can see you. I’m closer than you think.

Answer: You’re bluffing. If the police in the UK, Italy and Japan can’t find me, what makes you think you can?

Nino: I’m supposed to find you.

Answer: I don’t think so.

Nino: I do. I’m not going to let you kill another woman.

Answer: You’ve no choice. In fact, you’ve only got nine days left, Mr Bergstrom, nine days to run around trying to find a woman you have no hope of saving. She’ll die. She has to … I hope you’re a good loser.

Nino: Why don’t you stop? Stop now and save her. The authorities would look on that as co-operation, even a show of remorse.

There was a pause before the man replied.

Answer: You think I should stop now? And ruin the whole plan?

Nino: You made the plan, you can change it.

Answer: You think the police would take it into consideration?

Nino: Yes, I think they would. It would help you.

Answer: And if I told them where the skins were? You think that would help too?