Nino: Yes, I do. I think that if you stop now, you can redeem yourself.

Answer: Redeem myself? Be forgiven?

Nino: If you save this woman and stop the killing, yes. Let her have her life.

Answer: But what if she doesn’t deserve it?

Nino: Who made you God?

Answer: There was a vacancy.

Nino: You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to kill this woman.

The man paused on the end of the connection, smiling, then typed:

But I want to.

51

Venice

It had been playing on Tom Morgan’s mind how much Johnny Ravenscourt had wanted the painting from the old flat. For once sober as a magistrate, Tom realised that he might have missed a trick, and that the portrait had been worth more than he had at first thought. Admittedly, he had helped himself to a couple of thousand out of Ravenscourt’s wallet, but the fat bastard hadn’t protested, had even believed himself – unless Tom was imagining it – to have got off lightly.

Having sold the old flat, and now settled in the rented apartment he had shared with Seraphina, Tom had relaxed into a state that only people with money in the bank can enjoy. Able to indulge himself, he spent a couple of days in a fug of highest quality marijuana and drank several bottles of champagne, but his thoughts kept turning to Ravenscourt and he wondered what Seraphina would have done.

If only their plan had worked. They would have been millionaires. Not just comfortable, fucking cushy … The high-ceilinged apartment was cold and Tom shivered and turned up the heating, the pipes juddering as it stirred into life. His life had not turned out the way he had anticipated; his existence had improved with the money made from the property sale, but his lack of interest at work guaranteed another plunge in profits.

Perhaps he should leave Venice? The company was making allowances for his condition – as the widower of a murdered woman – but for how long? How long before his arse was pushed into action again? He wasn’t made for work, Tom realised – not really. It was all too brutal, too coarse for him … His mind went back to the painting and, irritated, he left the flat, making for the piazza where Ravenscourt lived.

The sight of its magnificence inflamed his self-pity further. What had a shit like Ravenscourt done to deserve such luxury? By rights, if everything had gone to plan, he and Seraphina should have been enjoying the proceeds from the Titian sale.

But instead Tom was being shown into the drawing room where Ravenscourt was sitting reading a magazine.

He looked up. ‘Spent all the money already?’

‘I was thinking,’ Tom replied, helping himself to some wine and sitting down by the window. ‘Why did you want that painting so much?’

‘The Titian?’

‘Nah, the other one. The one with the couple in it. Who painted it anyway?’

‘Some minor artist.’

Looking around, Tom turned back to Ravenscourt. ‘I don’t see it. Where have you put it?’

‘Being restored.’

He nodded, thoughtful. ‘That’s expensive, or so Seraphina’s parents always used to say. They said it wasn’t worth having any picture restored unless it was valuable.’ He paused, but Ravenscourt was still flicking through his magazine, forcing him to continue. ‘So, was it?’

‘What?’

‘Valuable.’

‘So-so.’

‘So-so to you or so-so to me?’

Ravenscourt laid the magazine down, his reading glasses swinging from a chain around his neck. ‘What d’you want to know?’

‘Who painted it?’

‘A man called Barmantino, a good artist but not a great one. It was one of his earlier works. And it was in bad condition—’

‘Looked OK to me.’

‘Yes, but you don’t know much about art, do you? That was Seraphina’s strong suit.’ Ravenscourt leaned back in his seat. In the room beyond a uniformed Italian boy no more than eighteen was arranging some flowers. ‘What’s the matter anyway? You were happy enough to sell it.’

‘Yeah, and you were very keen to get it. Why?’

‘I’m an art dealer. It’s what I do.’

‘So why hadn’t you wanted it before? God knows, you’d seen it often enough.’ Tom paused, walking around, his gaze travelling to the canal outside. ‘Water, water everywhere … don’t you get sick of it?’

‘It’s Venice.’

Tom ignored the comment.

‘The company sent me here, you know. I wouldn’t have chosen it.’

Taking an orange from the fruit bowl, Tom began to peel it. He did so with dexterity, keeping the peel intact then dropping it, unbroken, into a large Murano vase.

Exasperated, Ravenscourt stared at him. ‘What d’you want, Morgan? You and I aren’t friends, we have nothing in common—’

‘Not since Seraphina died.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘I’ve been thinking … Seraphina was afraid of water.’

‘I know.’

‘She never walked near the edge of pathways or bridges. Seems like a strange way to die, being chucked in the Lido.’ He paused, chewing a segment of orange. ‘And mutilated like that. Like Vespucci’s victims. It made me wonder about why it had all started up. The Titian portrait of Vespucci, then the skinning of Seraphina, then the other women being killed.’

‘Are you accusing me?’

‘Of the murders?’ Tom shook his head. ‘I thought you might have killed Seraphina, but not the others. Why would you? There was no money in it. Anyway, I can’t imagine you getting involved in anything so butch.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’

‘I don’t know really. You could say I’m just feeling my way around.’ He winked, taunting Ravenscourt. ‘But you were always obsessed by Angelico Vespucci. You used to talk to Seraphina about it.’

‘She was born and raised in Venice, with artistic parents, and her ancestor was the Contessa di Fattori – it would have been unusual not to talk about him.’

‘But Seraphina finding the Titian – that was incredible.’

‘Paintings turn up in the most unlikely places, in all manner of ways,’ Ravenscourt replied, unfazed. ‘But she should never have left it with Gaspare Reni. God knows why she didn’t bring it home—’

‘You know why. We had to find a way to smuggle it back to Venice. She could hardly bring it back in her fucking hand luggage, could she? You were going to help us get it back – but then she got killed … God knows where the Titian is now.’

Ravenscourt shrugged.

‘Who knows? Everyone’s looking for it, in Japan, New York, London, but it’s disappeared—’

‘D’you think the killer has it?’

Frowning, Ravenscourt turned in his seat to look over his shoulder. ‘How would he get it?’

‘Steal it off Gaspare Reni. Someone did. Why not the murderer?’

‘But how did he know it was with Reni? There were only two people who knew that – Seraphina and you.’

Tom smiled at the lie.

‘Don’t count yourself out, Johnny – you knew too. You can deny it all you like, but I’ll never believe my wife didn’t tell you about the Titian—’

Bristling, Ravenscourt threw down his magazine. ‘You can fling accusations around all you like, but it doesn’t make them true.’

‘When’s it coming back?’

‘What?’

‘The Barmantino painting that’s being restored. The one you bought off me.’

Standing up, Ravenscourt moved over to him.

‘You’re right there – I bought it. It’s mine now. So what I do with it has nothing to do with you.’

52

Infuriated, Ravenscourt watched the American walk out, listened as he heard his footsteps echo down the stairs and on to the piazza beyond. Curious, he then moved to the window in time to see Tom Morgan crossing the bridge which connected the houses on one side of the canal with the other. When he was certain the American had gone, Ravenscourt dismissed the servant and then closed the drawing room doors.

Anger had taken its toll on him. Anger that he had been cheated out of the Titian when he had been so close. That Seraphina’s death had occurred before she had included him in a plan which would have netted all three of them a fortune. Why hadn’t she confided in him sooner? Ravenscourt asked himself, surprised that Seraphina had been so sly. But maybe it had taken a while to connect the plan, and she had been killed before she could approach him. Or maybe it had taken time for her to be persuaded.