‘The magazine folded.’

‘Yes, it did. But one of Harriet’s old colleagues knew the proprietor and gave me his name. I phoned him and he remembered Harriet, said she had talent. He remembered the piece very well – “A very erudite article on a very macabre subject.” He recalled my sister because he had wanted to use her again, but had lost her contact details. Poor Harriet, if only she’d known …’

‘Go on.’

‘I asked him if he’d talked to my sister about the Vespucci article, and he said they’d chatted, because he was impressed by Harriet’s research. He asked her which reference books she’d used and who her contacts were. Apparently Harriet told him that there had been a couple of people, a man and a woman, who’d helped with the research.’

Alert, Nino pushed her. ‘Who were they?’

‘He didn’t remember the man’s name. Harriet just said he’d been difficult and she’d never go to him again. But he did remember something about the woman. She was called Rachel.’

Rachel – Rac.

Nino took in a breath. ‘Rachel what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Louisa could tell it meant something. ‘Is it important?’

‘Yes, I think it is.’

‘Apparently Rachel was involved in the theatre, but I don’t know how. She could have worked there, or been an actor, or in management. Or even a financial backer. The publisher didn’t know, but Harriet mentioned to him that this Rachel woman had been involved in a play about Vespucci.’

The words reverberated in Nino’s head. So that was the contact. Not a relative. Not a painting. Not an article. This time it was theatre.

‘She wanted to put on a play about Vespucci?’ Nino shook his head. ‘Jesus, which theatre?’

‘He didn’t know.’

‘But he must have some idea!’

‘No,’ Louisa replied firmly. ‘I pressed him, but he wasn’t being evasive – he really didn’t know. He would have told me, I’m sure of it. He’d liked Harriet and wanted to help and he was shocked by her death … He’s sent me an email with everything he remembers. I was going to send it on to you.’

‘Do.’

‘He also mentioned all the press coverage on Vespucci—’

‘Yes, I saw something this morning,’ Nino replied, dabbing at the back of his head, the wound still bleeding. ‘I was hoping they might leave it alone until after Christmas.’

‘What, a story like that?’ She seemed bitter. ‘You know the press – they couldn’t resist it. My phone’s been ringing off the hook. Apparently they want to know all the details of my sister’s death. It’s big news, Mr Bergstrom – young women skinned in different countries round the world. Some lunatic copying Angelico Vespucci’s work.’

‘And the website’s stirring it all up, whipping everyone into a fever.’

Louisa paused, controlling herself. ‘There’s only a week left, isn’t there?’

‘Until the anniversary of the last victim? Yes.’

‘You can catch him,’ she said emphatically. ‘I know you can.’

He wondered at her confidence. He had a first name and he knew the connection between the mysterious Rachel and Angelico Vespucci. But that was all. He had no surname, no theatre. No country even. She could be anywhere on earth.

‘If only I knew where the theatre was—’

‘It’ll be in a capital city,’ Louisa replied, thinking back. ‘Harriet had been travelling – I didn’t know why then, but she said she had something to find out in London or New York.’

She rushed on. ‘Maybe we could contact this Rachel woman? Or put out a search for her? God knows, there’s enough in the media to catch her interest. She must know about the killings and Vespucci now. So why hasn’t she come forward?’

‘Maybe she hasn’t made the connection,’ Nino replied. ‘People write about the Boston Strangler and Jack the Ripper all the time – it doesn’t mean that they expect someone to come after them—’

‘But she must have read about someone copying Vespucci.’

‘She may have done, but so what? They make films, plays, books about murderers constantly. There’s an industry out there thriving on serial killers. Rachel won’t be overly worried. She probably thinks she’s just another person interested in the Italian. Killers don’t go after everyone who reads about them, otherwise half the population would be wiped out.’

‘You’ve got to find her,’ Louisa went on, her agitation obvious. ‘You have to find her.’

‘I will. Unless—’

‘He’s already got to her?’

‘Or she’s somewhere remote.’

‘You think she’s hiding?’

‘She could be,’ Nino agreed. ‘She might have taken fright. Or she might be spending the holidays away from home. Gone for a break somewhere quiet, away from people.’

‘Perhaps …’ Louise’s voice was questioning, ‘we should go to the police?’

‘And tell them what? They’ll know all about Vespucci now – the press have seen to that. And they must have made the connection between the murders. That last entry on the website made it clear what the killer was up to. He’s even advertising his next performance on the first of January.’

‘But—’

‘I can’t tell the police anything they don’t already know.’

‘Except what we know about the next victim.’

‘And what do we know?’ Nino countered. ‘She’s called Rachel, and she’s involved in a play about Vespucci. That’s all.’ He sighed. ‘The police have plenty of manpower, but they don’t understand what this is all about. I do. I was in it from the start. I’m ahead of the police. I’ve been in contact with the killer—’

He could hear her take in a breath. ‘You know who he is?’

‘I know who he was. Who he is now, I have to find out.’

‘So do it,’ Louisa said firmly. ‘And find Rachel – before he does.’

59

After finishing his conversation with Louisa, Nino went back into the sitting room. Harold Greyly was still sleeping, his breathing drugged, his neck bent awkwardly over the back of his chair. Worried that he might choke if he vomited, Nino slid a cushion under his head and turned off all but a single lamp. As the room darkened, the dogs woke and followed him out into the back garden. Cautious, Nino glanced down the lane. It was empty. He locked the gate, walked back into the house with the spaniels, and bolted the front and back doors.

The freezing winter air had revived his senses, his head clearing as he helped himself to food from the fridge and checked his mobile. Hearing the message left by Patrick Dewick, he immediately rang him back – only to get his voicemail. Disappointed, Nino walked into the sitting room and stared at Harold Greyly. Obviously he wouldn’t be waking any time soon, which gave Nino a welcome opportunity to search the house further. He might have lost the hidden books – and the killer’s notes – but the question uppermost in his mind was why they had been hidden in Courtford Hall in the first place.

Someone had taken a great deal of trouble to conceal the books. Someone with intimate knowledge of the house. Someone with access and time to move the shelves, create their hiding place, and disguise it. No stranger could have pulled off such a coup. It would have taken time and effort. The work of an insider … Nino frowned. Perhaps Hester had investigated Vespucci herself. Or had it been Harold Greyly? He wasn’t the killer, that much was obvious now. He had been unconscious when Nino was attacked. So what was the connection? Simply the relationship between Claudia and The Skin Hunter? The hidden taboo in a respectable family’s past? Or her terrible murder?

The blood was drying on his head. Nino could feel it crusting over and realised how it must look against the pure white of his hair, making him even more conspicuous. But what did that matter now? The killer knew who – and where – he was. In a remote place, with a drugged man, trying to understand why a murderer had chosen to hide his notes in a country house in Norfolk.