Clicking off his mobile, Patrick ground out his cigarette stub under his foot and went back to work. He would remember the woman’s name.

But before he had time to pass it on, Eddie Ketch would have caught up with him.

54

24 December

In New York, Triumph Jones was watching the television news, dumbstruck. Meanwhile, in London, Farina Ahmadi had been about to catch a plane for Turkey to meet up with her husband and sons, but was staring, incredulous, at her iPad. In Tokyo, Jobo Kido was hunched over his computer, ignoring his wife’s phone calls and staring at the screen.

All three dealers were reacting to the new entry on the Vespucci site, an entry which had now become breaking news worldwide, the police caught off guard in the USA, Italy and Japan –

PRICELESS TITIAN PAINTING OF ANGELICO

VESPUCCI OFFERED AS REWARD FOR

IDENTITY OF SERIAL KILLER …

‘Look at this!’ Gaspare shouted, calling for Nino. ‘God, you won’t believe it.’

Staring at the TV screen, Nino blew out his cheeks. ‘He’s upped the bloody ante. The bastard thinks he’s untouchable. You know what he’s doing, don’t you? He’s got bored with just copying Vespucci – he wants to outdo him.’

‘But he’s putting the reward on his own head!’ Gaspare replied, his tone baffled. ‘Everyone will be after it.’

‘Yeah, but he’s got the Titian, so he figures that no one can find it.’ Nino moved over to the computer and typed in angelicovespucci.1555.com. Immediately the press release came up, followed by a banner headline.

The last murder committed by Angelico Vespucci was on the 1st January 1556

Turning the computer towards Gaspare, he pointed to the screen. ‘Look at that. He’s advertising. He’s tipping everyone off, telling them he’s going to kill again. And when he’s going to kill again. No one’s going to miss this now. Not with that press release. It’ll go worldwide.’

‘And someone will connect the murders.’

‘I’m amazed they haven’t already,’ Nino remarked. ‘It was only because they were committed in different countries that the connection wasn’t made before. But they’ll join up the dots now.’

‘It might help,’ Gaspare said hopefully. ‘It might put women on their guard.’

‘Every woman on earth?’ Nino queried. ‘It might have worked if it had just been London but the murder could take place anywhere. It could be Italy, Tokyo, London. It could be one of the places he’s hit before, or somewhere new. The woman he’s got in mind could be working, travelling, or asleep in bed. She could be anyone.’ Exasperated, he ran his hands through his hair. ‘One week to go, and I’m no nearer to knowing who she is. Someone must be able to tell me something.’

‘Forget Vespucci for a moment,’ Gaspare said calmly. ‘Think of what else they have in common.’

‘The victims were all young and white. They all had jobs.’

‘Go on.’

‘Go on?’ Nino snapped. ‘That’s it! That’s all I know.’

‘So think about the ways they differed.’

‘What?’

‘Just do it!’

Nino closed his eyes to concentrate. ‘Seraphina was married, and pregnant—’

‘With a child that wasn’t her husband’s.’

‘Yeah. Sally Egan was single, childless and promiscuous. Harriet Forbes was single, childless and gay.’ He opened his eyes and turned to Gaspare, thinking aloud. ‘What if our killer’s judging them like Vespucci would have done?’

‘Go on.’

‘Then he’d see them as adulteress, whore, deviant.’

‘What’s missing?’

‘Happily married?’

Gaspare shook his head impatiently. ‘No, that wouldn’t be immoral! He’s copying the Italian, he thinks the victims are all whores, so what else would he consider immoral? Don’t think about it as we do now, think about it as it was in the past. What would have been judged immoral then?’

Sitting down, Nino thought back over everything he’d discovered, then nodded.

‘She’s a mistress. A woman who sleeps with another woman’s husband—’

‘Yes, that would make sense!’

‘Our next victim’s a kept woman, Gaspare. Bought and paid for.’ His excitement rose. ‘She’s young, she has a job, she’s white, and she’s someone’s mistress. And unless I find her, she’s only got seven days left to live.’

55

Norfolk, 25 December

It was uncharitably cold as Nino arrived in Norfolk and headed for Courtford Hall, parking the car outside the gates and walking up to the house. Ice crackled under his feet and the imposing front door was bleached with frost as he lifted the knocker and rapped loudly.

It was Christmas Day, but there was no sign of it – no festive wreath, no tree, no decorations or lights, and when a lamp went on inside it shone disconsolately through the glass bullseye in the door. Finally there was a shuffle of feet, then the sound of the bolt being drawn back, and suddenly Nino was face to face with Sir Harold Greyly.

‘What?’ he asked, his tone slurred, his usual composure giving way to the demeanour of a drunk. ‘What d’you want?’ He blinked, standing up straight and staring at Nino as he pointed to his head. ‘I know you. You’re the man with all that white hair. You came here before …’ He was holding a glass in his hand, tilting it so that some of the whisky dripped on to the flagstone floor.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure, sure,’ Greyly said, too drunk to remember their previous acrimony.

Nudging Nino’s back, he pushed him towards the sitting room, a fire banked high in the grate, fruitwood logs smelling of summer. But the walls were bare of cards or any other ornament and several dirty plates lay by the fire. Sir Harold Greyly had eaten, obviously, but not cleared up, the same fork pressed into service for every meal.

‘Happy Christmas. It is Christmas Day, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, it’s Christmas Day.’

‘You got nowhere to go?’ he asked, his speech haphazard as he gestured to the drinks cupboard. ‘Fancy a tipple?’

Surprised, Nino shook his head. Was Harold Greyly really so drunk that he couldn’t remember what had happened when they last met?

‘Are you on your own?’

‘All on my own,’ Greyly snorted. ‘Christmas and all on my own. My wife and I – we had a fight you see …’

‘No staff here either?’

‘I gave them Christmas off,’ Greyly replied, smiling at his own largesse. ‘I didn’t need them anyway.’

He poured himself another drink and flopped into an armchair. At his feet, the springer spaniels shuffled about for room, finally curling up again closer to the fire. The wood crackled, sparks shooting up the chimney, the logs piled precariously high.

‘My wife left me. Said she hated me … Up and went. Kids all grown up, so now there’s no one left. ’Cept me,’ Greyly droned on, narrowing his eyes at Nino. ‘What did you come for?’

‘Now?’

‘Now, and back then. I know you’ve been here before, but I can’t remember why.’

Sighing, he slopped some of the booze on to his shirt and brushed it away. Despite the fire, the temperature in the room was chill, due to a draught coming from under the doorway which led into another room. A draught which suggested an open door beyond. Wary, Nino glanced around him, his gaze coming to rest on the drinks trolley. There were five bottles of whisky, three empty – and beside them was another glass which had been used recently.

‘You’ve had company?’

Greyly belched, patting his stomach, and pointed to a photograph of his wife and two sons. ‘They’ve gone—’

‘When?’

‘A week ago.’

‘Why did they go?’

‘Apparently I’m a pig. Come from a long line of pigs. Pig family. Only I’m a titled pig … A swine with a gong …’ Greyly replied insanely, slurring his words. But although he was drunk there was something else about him. Drugged? Nino wondered. Was he on drugs?

‘Are you ill?’

‘Pissed.’