But Nino knew one thing: Edward Hillstone wasn’t going to let himself be caught yet. Not until after the last murder. Then he might even give himself up, surrender to the notoriety which would be his by rights. When Rachel was dead – when he had mutiliated and killed her – then he would stop. In the meantime he was deliberately raising the price on his head. Putting up the Titian as a reward for his capture. Tainting the world with his promise of the bloodletting to come.

Of course there was no sign of the Titian portrait. Edward Hillstone would hardly risk having that in his possession. The painting was somewhere else entirely. Glancing around the bedroom, Nino looked at the upheaval he had caused – the overturned bed, the photographs scattered over the floorboards – and then he leaned forward, taking a closer look.

His gaze fixed on one of the pictures in which the face of the young woman had been blacked out. But across her chest was written one word:

JEX

He recognised the name at once. It was the name used by the creator of the Vespucci website. But it wasn’t the name that caught Nino’s eye, it was the background of the photograph. The image was grainy, hard to make out, but he could decipher a few letters on what seemed to be a hoarding. The last word was THEATRE. The first word was half blocked by the woman’s figure, only the first syllable visible – HA.

Nino held his breath. He was certain that the woman in the picture was Rachel, and that he was now looking at a part of the name of the very theatre where she worked. HA … THEATRE. How many theatres had names which began with HA? Not that many. Nino’s hopes lifted for the first time in days. He had a lead, a chance to find the last victim.

He had a week.

A week to save her.

A week to stop Hillstone.

60

Ginza, Tokyo, 27 December

That morning there had been a new entry on the website angelicovespucci.1555.com. It read:

Angelico Vespucci’s triumph is close. Only five days left. Only one victim remains.

As he had done repeatedly over the previous nine days, Jobo Kido entered the chat room of the site, trying vainly to conjure up a reply.

Jobo: Why don’t you respond?

There was no answer, just the taunting message, making the killer’s intention clear to everyone who visited the site. And his work wasn’t confined to the internet any longer. Newspapers, magazines and television had picked up on the story and were running with it. It made the police look foolish. There were so many officers in so many different countries, but they couldn’t find one man.

The lack of forensic evidence didn’t help. The killer had left some DNA, but he wasn’t on file in Italy, USA, Japan or the UK. His blood group was O, the most common, and as he had had no sexual relations with the victims, there was no sperm. He had committed the murders, taken the skins, and – to all intents and purposes – disappeared.

In five days the last victim would be dead, and Jobo still hadn’t worked out the connection which would ensure that the Titian became his … The killer’s silence chided him. Obviously his failure merited no communication. Jobo Kido had had his chance, and failed. He would never hang the Titian in his Rogues’ Gallery, never use it make his gory collection respectable. Instead it would go to someone who didn’t understand and appreciate it.

His only consolation was the agony of his rivals. Triumph Jones was melting like an ice cream in July, his composure soggy. As for the foul-mouthed Farina Ahmadi, she was sulking in Turkey, cheated out of her victory. She might have twisted and coiled herself into a variety of modes and moods, but all her machinations had got her precisely nowhere.

The killer had the Titian, and apparently he was keeping it … Jobo wondered about that, feeling a momentary shiver of hope. What would happen when the murderer was caught? Who would get the painting then? The answer was unpalatable – it would be impounded as evidence. Locked away with DNA samples and carpet fibres.

Desperate, he turned back to the computer.

Jobo: Are you there?

Silence.

Jobo: Why don’t you talk to me?

To his amazement, he finally got a response.

Answer: Welcome, Mr Kido. Have you solved the puzzle yet?

Jobo: I thought you’d gone.

Answer: Gone where? I told you, I’m everywhere. So tell me, have you solved my little riddle? Have you made the connection?

Jobo: How long have I got?

Answer: I think that’s a no, isn’t it? What if I were to say that I’d give you as long as my last victim has to live? Solve the puzzle by the 1st January and the painting’s yours.

Jobo: Do I have your word on that?

Answer: Don’t be tiresome, Mr Kido. Solve it, or lose it.

61

Edward Hillstone felt so powerful he had an erection. Every newspaper he had seen over the past two days had borne some reference to him. On the television news he was discussed, and there was even a debate about him on Newsnight. He’d enjoyed that, even laughed, which wasn’t something that came easily to him.

As for Nino Bergstrom, his intervention had been aggravating. Hillstone had been so close to getting everything out of Courtford Hall, the sodden Harold Greyly letting him and then realising that his obedient minion wasn’t quite what he had seemed. Hillstone hadn’t been threatened by his employer’s bluster. Harold Greyly might think of himself as an Army man, but he was an ice soldier. A little heat and he was finished … Of course Hillstone knew that Nino Bergstrom would have found his room, and his belongings. And the photographs. In fact, he was relying on that, laying down a mosaic of clues which would develop into a shrine to his ingenuity.

Hillstone might admire, even worship, Angelico Vespucci, but as time went by he had found ways to enhance his devotion. Simple imitation wasn’t going to be enough – he was developing his own embellishments. Hillstone would never deny that the Italian had been his inspiration, but his appetite for violence had increased along with his desire for recognition. If he stuck to The Skin Hunter’s brief, he would merely be regarded as a copycat, always playing second fiddle to the hero.

Hillstone didn’t like the idea. Didn’t like to think that the last four years of dedication and research would result in Vespucci becoming famous, and him overshadowed. An imitator, nothing more. He wanted his own stab at notoriety, his own turn on the media merry-go-round. The Venetian had prompted him to murder, but Edward Hillstone was expanding its possibilities.

Like what he would do with the skins.

Musing, he wondered if Nino Bergstrom would uncover their hiding place and realised that he had misjudged the man. Dismissed him as an amateur sleuth, easy to dupe. His attention had been too focused on the dealers, in an effort to impress the people he despised. But Bergstrom had surprised him, gradually slotting together the disparate pieces – like Jobo Kido and Harold Greyly. But he would never find the next victim. Nino Bergstrom had only four days left, and the unsuspecting Rachel Pitt was lined up, ready for the kill. It didn’t worry him that his cache of photographs might have been found – it would only underline to whoever found it what they were up against.

Hillstone breathed in, imagining the sleek feel of her skin, the intricate peeling away from the red muscle underneath, the sticky blood flowing from all the nicked vessels as he took away her hide. He would do as he had done before, following Vespucci’s lead. First he would rinse the skin and hang it over a basin, then let it dry until it was stiffened. Only then would he take it down and knead some flexibility back into it, gently working the skin until it became pliable and easy to fold.