Smuggling the Titian out of the country would have been relatively easy for Johnny Ravenscourt. He had contacts from the old days and could press anyone into committing a minor crime for a major reward. Seraphina’s deception had surprised him, but then again, he had only Tom Morgan’s account of what she had said. Seraphina could hardly speak for herself.

He had always suspected Tom Morgan. Maybe he had pressurised his wife against her will, knowing how easy it would be for her to get her old friend on board. Everyone knew that Johnny Ravenscourt was immoral, greedy. Everyone knew he liked to mix with a rough crowd, the criminal element adding a frisson to his sex life. There had been more than a few thieves invited into Johnny Ravenscourt’s bed over the years.

But to have lost out on the Titian portrait of Angelico Vespucci, his obsession! It was almost too much to bear … He thought of Tom Morgan, uncertain of the American’s motives and curious as to why he had taken such a sudden interest in the Barmantino painting. God knows it had been hanging in the Morgan apartment the whole time they had lived there, and he never even remarked on it before. Except to say that Claudia Moroni had been a plain woman.

Of course Seraphina had always liked the picture. She thought Claudia Moroni had had a fascinating face, a look which almost prophesied her death. She had often commented that she would make sure to keep the painting in the family, and talked of moving it into the new flat. And she wasn’t blind to the fact that it was also a pretty good investment … Ravenscourt frowned. If Seraphina was alive now she wouldn’t have approved of her husband selling the apartment, or the painting.

Restlessly, he fiddled with the beaded chain on his reading glasses, uncertain of what to do next. He wasn’t intending to return to England for a while – the police would be only too interested in his re-appearance – but in Venice he had no way of discovering what was going on in London. He was out of the loop and afraid that he might suffer for it.

Taking a breath, Ravenscourt realised that there was only one course of action open to him, and put in a phone call.

Nino answered on the third ring. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Johnny Ravenscourt—’

‘You bastard!’

‘Hear me out!’ he pleaded, his tone plaintive. ‘I had to get the police off my back—’

‘And on to mine?’

‘They let you go,’ Ravenscourt said dismissively. ‘What are you complaining about? Gaspare pulled in an old favour and I retracted my statement. Besides, you must have done well out of this. And I haven’t asked for my retainer back. Have you spent all of it?’

At the other end of the line Nino shook his head in disbelief, and lied. ‘Yes. All of it.’

‘Whatever did you do with it?’

‘I went to Japan on a wild goose chase. Which pretty much sums up everything about you and your story.’

‘You saw Jobo Kido in Japan?’

‘I saw him, but I’m none the wiser,’ Nino lied again, mistrusting Ravenscourt and determined that he would give him no information. ‘What d’you want?’

‘I want you to carry on working for me—’

‘Like hell.’

‘Mr Bergstrom, I’ll pay you whatever you want. You can go to Japan, New York – wherever you like. I just need to know what’s going on – and I can’t do that stuck here in Venice.’

‘Go on the internet.’

‘I don’t see why you’re so defensive,’ Ravenscourt replied, his tone honeyed…. ‘You should snatch my hand off. I’ve money to burn, so why not relieve me of some of it? I brought you in on this—’

‘No, you didn’t. I got involved because of Gaspare Reni’s friendship with Seraphina.’

‘I was much closer to her!’ Ravenscourt snapped. ‘And I gave you all my notes on The Skin Hunter. I gave you a head start, and now I want some feedback. I want to know who killed Seraphina—’

‘And you want to know where the Titian is.’

‘I’m a dealer – what’s wrong with that?’ he replied, then softened his tone. ‘I admit, I’d like the painting. But so would a number of other dealers – that doesn’t make me a suspect.’

‘It doesn’t clear you either.’

‘You can’t believe that I killed Seraphina, or the other women!’

‘I don’t know who killed them.’

‘But you’re still trying to find out?’

Nino paused, deciding to string Ravenscourt along. The dealer was stuck in Venice, so he could tell him anything and he had no way of knowing if it was true or not. And besides, if he carried on talking to Johnny Ravenscourt, the dealer might let something slip.

‘Have you seen Tom Morgan lately?’

Ravenscourt relaxed, sure that Nino was back on board. Sure that he could deceive him again. He was tired of the skittish Tom Morgan and wanted him corralled.

‘Actually, I saw Morgan today …’ Ravenscourt began, thinking of all the American’s vicious jibes and his nosy interest in the Barmantino. ‘He was acting very strangely.’

‘How?’

‘Jumpy, on the defensive.’

‘About what?’

‘Well, I hate to be the one to say it,’ the dealer paused, then took aim, ‘but I think he might have something to do with his wife’s death after all.’

53

Greenfield’s Hospital, London

In between shifts, Patrick Dewick lit up a cigarette at the back of the hospital, drawing in the tobacco smoke and relishing the sensation. Then he started coughing, finally spitting out a gob of phlegm which landed in the puddle at his feet. Sniffing, he leaned against the wall and stared upwards into the sky. It was going to snow again. Bugger it, he would have a hell of a time getting home. The car was unreliable and whatever his wife had said, Patrick wasn’t convinced that she had put in antifreeze. He should leave her to it, see how she liked it when the bloody car wouldn’t start at the supermarket. It would be another matter then – she wouldn’t forget the sodding antifreeze next time.

His thoughts drifted, suddenly alighting on Nino Bergstrom. It had been peculiar talking about Eddie Ketch after so long – the man had always left a sour taste in his mouth – but oddly enough, once reminded, he couldn’t stop thinking about him. The upset with Susan Coates had been uppermost in his mind, but there had been something else about Ketch which eluded him.

Inhaling again, Patrick screwed up his eyes against the cigarette smoke and peered into the falling snow. Under the overhang of the porch leading to the car park, he was sheltered from the worst of it, snow landing morosely on the concrete at his feet. Nino Bergstrom had asked him about Ketch’s family. And he’d said that he never talked about them. But that wasn’t true, Patrick remembered – there had been one instance when Ketch had slipped up, and mentioned a woman. A beautiful woman.

But Patrick was damned if he could remember her name.

Ketch had been angry that day, unusually emotional. He had left the ward and slammed into the men’s toilet, where Patrick had found him, his face flushed, his hands flat against the wall, repeating a woman’s name over and over again. His attractive face had been distorted with rage, but as soon as he spotted Patrick, Ketch had controlled himself. A moment later he looked normal – so normal Patrick had wondered if he’d imagined the whole incident. But he knew he hadn’t. And he knew Ketch’s rage had been directed at a woman. A woman he had known well. A woman he had obviously cared about.

After finishing his cigarette, Patrick was just about to re-enter the hospital and go back to work, when he paused. On a whim, he phoned the number Nino had given him, leaving a message on the answerphone.

‘’Lo there. This is Patrick Dewick, at Greenfield’s Hospital. We spoke the other day, about Eddie Ketch. Well, I just remembered something about him. He had a girlfriend, a woman he was keen on. I can’t remember her name – but I will, and then I’ll call you again. I just wondered if it was important, that’s all. Cheers.’