He liked that part the best: the folding of the hide, the careful arranging of it. Then he would secrete it, along with the other three skins … Thoughtful, Hillstone remembered the package he had sent to Jobo Kido. That had been a sensational move but reckless in hindsight, as it had left his collection incomplete. He had, once or twice, even thought of asking Kido to return it, but suspected that the dealer had either handed it over to the police or destroyed it.

No, Hillstone thought dismissively, Kido would never have gone to the police, because that would have meant questions, interference, the whole story of the Titian exposed. And then the painting impounded, lost to the courts. Not that Hillstone was going to let Jobo Kido have the portrait. He was just playing with him, teasing him, drawing the dealer into a combat which had only one winner: Hillstone. But it amused him to think of the Japanese connoisseur’s panicked outpourings in the chat room. He had been so frightened the night Hillstone had visited his gallery, pressing himself against the wall as he peered into the window. And later, almost wetting himself when Hillstone had rattled the door handle.

It had pleased him to see the aesthetic Jobo Kido squeal like a girl. So much for learning, for artistic excellence – so much for all his pompous posturing. He had been scared. Just like Triumph Jones … Rolling his head to loosen his neck muscles, Hillstone thought of the American. Of the ease with which he had been fooled. Of how, nudged in the required direction, he had followed like a farm dog working sheep. And how glamorous those sheep had been – Jobo Kido, Farina Ahmadi. Brilliant and wealthy and respected. And manipulated.

Hillstone enjoyed that, loved knowing that in London, New York and Tokyo his victims were panicking, with no idea what they were doing. So much for education, money and power – they were all chasing the same thing, mistrusting each other, and outsmarted by an amateur.

But in four days it would all be over. Rachel Pitt would round off the victims, his imitation of Vespucci complete. After that, he would disappear. Emulate the Venetian utterly. Dissolve into thin air as he had done. No one – not even Hillstone – knew where Vespucci had gone. If he had lived, or been murdered. Or if he had died of natural causes, old and silent, at ninety. All his painstaking research had failed on two counts. He had failed to discover how Angelico Vespucci died, or where The Skin Hunter had hidden his trophies.

Hillstone reached for the photographs in front of him, his gaze idling over the woman’s features for a moment before he gathered up his knives and scalpels and put the kettle on the hob. Rachel Pitt was curvaceous, sensual, attractive, he thought as he waited for the water to boil and then poured it over the metal instruments. He wanted them to be very clean, very sharp, so they wouldn’t tear her flesh. They had to cut evenly, so he could make a perfect job of her skinning.

She was pretty, Hillstone thought again. Perhaps, if he was particularly dextrous, he could peel off her face in one piece. He had always had so much trouble before, could never avoid tearing the flesh of the cheek or nose. But this was to be his last act, and it would have to be immaculate. He would take his time. Prepare himself and relax, to avoid any shaking hands. Give himself time to set up the table and lamps. Time to get the plastic sheeting on the floor. Time for everything to be perfect.

It was such a pity. He would have liked to pick someone else, but Rachel Pitt was corrupt. She was the mistress of another woman’s husband. Supported financially like so many other whores. Stealing another woman’s man, another family’s father. It was wrong, inexcusable, immoral – anyone could see that.

In fact, Edward Hillstone wondered how she could live with herself. Even if it wouldn’t be for much longer.

BOOK SIX

Venice, 1556

Aretino keeps to his house. Takes the passage from the back entrance across his private bridge to enter the city. He puffs with exertion, for worry has made him even more gross; he sweats with the weight of his sins and sends presents to Titian’s studio, pleading for forgiveness.

Pomponio is innocent, Aretino says, I was wrong. So misguided, so duped by the merchant.

And what of the merchant, Vespucci? Aretino fears no exposure now. His championing of the killer is done with; and he will tell anyone with a mind to hear that Vespucci is no more. The mob which bayed outside the merchant’s house is told of a disappearance. Vespucci has cheated the judge, the prison, the rope. The Skin Hunter has gone, and taken his prizes with him.

I was wrong, says Aretino, deceived as we all were.

But Titian will have none of it. Pomponio, still smarting from the accusations, plans to leave, but not before he rails against his father for being the writer’s dupe. It does no good for Titian to respond; each word is taken as a blow, one more sliver of malice driven into the priest’s tight heart.

Titian has lost his son. Again. And his friend. His closest ally levered from his side by treachery.

Vespucci gone, they showed the portrait in the church, Titian ordering where it should be placed. They suspended the merchant’s likeness as they would have hanged the man himself. I heard some talk that the artist was offering it for penance. For payment of Vespucci’s sins. That Titian’s genius might atone for all the winter’s butchery. Yet the night after it was exhibited, a fire started in the vestry. It burned the rafters, tore through half the roof, and every pew was rendered black as an imp’s hand.

Only the painting was untouched.

On Titian’s orders a notice was hung up in St Mark’s Square, saying the portrait would be destroyed. Someone sent news to Aretino, who came to beg for it. He mourns his loss of influence with the painter, he fears his loss of revenue from Titian, as once he feared exposure from the merchant.

But Vespucci will not speak against him. For Vespucci will not speak again … He has gone, disappeared, leaving no trace. There is no body. None has come up from the water, surfacing, bloated on a late tide. There is no carcass left flayed for the birds to peck at, no music coming across the water, no sounds of a hundred lurid couplings, no grumblings from misers, gluttons, deviants and their whores.

The fogs of Venice lifted when the portrait disappeared. When it was gone the winds dispersed, and clouds as wide as continents gave way to the sun’s return.

They say we have our city back. The darkness has left us; gone with Vespucci and his likeness. Gone with the merchant and the merchant’s image. Gone on some nether tide, out to the sea, to the slithering depths of all damnation. They say we are no longer bewitched.

Look how the Doge recovers, the ships coming back to land.

They say the coldest and most terrible of winters is passed; that God is back among us. Some even tell of flowers come to blossom, of fruit ripening out of season, and angels settling on the bell tower of St Mark’s.

But Titian sees no angels, paints no flowers. He grieves. A lesser man would seek out some revenge, but his regret is contained, and swells like a boil in the heart. He walks Venice like a man without his shadow and a hollow grows inside him.

And I watch him. As I watch Aretino. I see what others see, but Venice is not delivered yet.

Aretino might have picked the merchant’s grave and made him own it, but another waits. The water sits beneath us, its cold wet mouth yawning in the darkness, its gills moving with the tide. It waits for the bloated carcass of Aretino to fall, panicked and gasping, into the muddy hollow of its lair.