She was unrecognisable and the only identity her killer had given her was on the label:

The Whore of Venice.

57

Norfolk

Rushing into the yard, Nino was just in time to see a man running down the driveway. Moments later he heard a car start up and watched as the headlights illuminated the lane and then disappeared into the darkness. So there had been someone in the house, someone who had managed to get Harold Greyly drunk or drugged, someone who had wanted him incapacitated. And there could be only one reason for that – the intruder had needed time. Time to search, without being interrupted. But what had he been looking for?

Back in the house, Nino checked on Harold. He was unconscious, snoring loudly, his legs splayed in front of him. Unrecognisable from the arrogant Army man Nino had first met. Walking over to the grate, he damped down the blaze with the water Greyly presumably used to mix his whisky, worried that the chimney night catch fire. Or maybe that was what the intruder had wanted. Intruder? Nino wondered. Or killer?

It was too much of a coincidence to believe this had been a mere break-in. This had been planned by someone who knew Harold Greyly and the house. Someone who had come for a specific reason: to search. Perhaps they had known exactly where to look, and hoped that by banking up the fire so recklessly there might be an accident after they had left. And there would have been if Nino hadn’t turned up.

Instinct told him that the intruder hadn’t found what he wanted. Otherwise he would have left as soon as Nino arrived so as not to risk discovery. If he’d got what he had come for why would he have stayed around, eavesdropping? Perhaps he had hoped that Nino, finding Harold Greyly drunk and insensible, would leave. One thing was certain: he hadn’t expected him to stay. And when he did, there was only one option left to the intruder – to run.

Moving into the library beyond the sitting room, Nino flicked on the lights. The collection was remarkable: antiquarian tomes of notable value rubbing shoulders with copies of modern classics. Fingering an Ian Fleming first edition, he turned to an Agatha Christie, his gaze moving upwards from the lower bookshelves. Using the library steps, he climbed up to the top row of books, where a Boccaccio leant bullishly against a Shakespeare First Folio. Scanning the spines, Nino remembered what Hester Greyly had said about how the family had amassed an impressive number of books over the centuries, some of which were extraordinarily rare.

A noise from the sitting room made Nino freeze, then he heard the unmistakable sound of Harold’s snoring begin again and relaxed. Pushing the library steps to the other side of the room, he climbed up to look at the highest shelf and was surprised to see a collection of plays, written in Russian, Chinese and Italian. Taking a volume down, he glanced at the content, then replaced it, stretching for another book. But in doing so, he overreached and lost his footing on the steps. Slipping, he grabbed at the shelves to stop his fall. But instead of supporting him the top two shelves came away from the wall, falling on top of him.

Several books landed on his head and shoulders before he could scramble back to his feet. Relieved to see that the noise hadn’t roused Harold Greyly in the sitting room, he returned to the library. Picking up the books and putting them on the library table, he rested the broken shelving against the wall and glanced up to look at the damage. There was a gap of about three feet by four feet, and it exposed an area of what appeared to be fresh plasterwork. Something wasn’t right. Climbing back up the library steps, Nino’s hand went out towards the plaster.

Immediately it gave way.

Instead of resisting his pressure, the plasterwork was little more than putty as Nino’s hand pushed through into a cramped cavity behind. Scrambling around the aperture, his fingers closed over several thin volumes.

Surprised, he pulled out the first and saw the title:

Assassini Italiani Famosi

Then he read what followed.

Uno degli assassini Italiani piu malfamati era il commerciante venezian. Angelico Vespucci, ce e stato conosciuto come il cacciatore della pelle.

It was easy to translate: One of the most infamous Italian murderers was the Venetian merchant, Angelico Vespucci, who became known as The Skin Hunter.

Hurriedly, Nino flicked over the first page to look at the frontispiece. And there was an engraving of the Titian painting, Vespucci’s bulbous eyes staring at him. Reaching up again, he felt around the back of the cavity, bringing down two other volumes. One was a bulky, well-worn book entitled:

Assassini, che mutilato le loro vittime. L’Italia, XVº secolo allo XVIº secolo.

‘Murderers, who mutilated their victims. Italy, 15th century to the 16th century.’

But it was the last volume which chilled him. It was barely thirty pages in length, written in longhand, aged, weathered, the paper breaking up around the edges. Climbing down the library steps, Nino moved over to the table and took a seat, reading the following:

Le vittime del cacciatore della pelle erano la suoi moglie, Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti e Melania, Contessa di Fattori

It was a list of Vespucci’s victims. But that wasn’t what jolted Nino, it was what he found in among the pages. Additional notes. Newly written, in a modern hand. A list of The Skin Hunter’s victims together with the list of their modern-day counterparts.

Larissa Vespucci

Seraphina Morgan

Claudia Moroni

Sally Egan

Lena Arranti

Harriet Forbes

Melania di Fattori

Rac

He was just about the read the last name when he was struck from behind. The impact of the blow was so violent that it propelled him forward, his head striking the edge of the library table and knocking him unconscious.

58

The persistent ringing of his mobile brought Nino round as he scrabbled in his pocket to answer it.

‘What?’

‘Mr Bergstrom? This is Louisa Forbes, Harriet Forbes’ sister … Are you OK?’

Nauseated, the blood pumping in his ears, Nino straightened up in his seat and looked around him. Books were scattered all over the floor, but he could see at once that the three volumes he had found were gone. And the name of the last victim had escaped him too. He had had it in his hand and lost it. All but the first letters: Rac.

‘Mr Bergstrom?’ Louisa asked again. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, getting to his feet and locking the house doors front and back. He could see the sleeping figure of Harold Greyly in the sitting room and pulled the door closed so that he wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Why are you ringing?’

‘I’ve found something,’ she said. ‘Look, I can talk to you another time. I shouldn’t have rung – it’s Christmas Day.’

‘Believe me, nothing you could do could make it worse,’ Nino replied, holding some kitchen towel to the wound at the back of his head. ‘Why aren’t you at home with your family?’

‘I am,’ she said quietly. ‘I just sneaked out to call you. I’ve been going through my sister’s belongings. I’ve gone through them repeatedly. To be honest, I don’t want to. I don’t want to let go of her …’

He could imagine her intelligent face, her determination to do something, anything, which would help.

‘Harriet had a stack of papers, like everyone. Accounts, bills. No diaries, I’m afraid – nothing that easy. I checked all her friends and no one could tell me anything that might point to who killed her. Her work colleagues knew her and liked her, and there didn’t seem to be anything unusual about her life. She hadn’t made enemies.’ She paused, dropping her voice so that she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘You know Harriet wrote that piece on Vespucci …’