Under the water he will go. Down with the dead soldiers, dogs and devils. Down with Vespucci, caught up in all the green weeds of his lies. Down with the suicides, the lusty priests, the cripples and the damned. Down with all the other traitors.

But Aretino suspects nothing. He walks like a man who has rid himself of a threat, and is now sure of forgiveness. For Titian loves him still. In time he would, against judgement and logic, allow Aretino to return. Against reason, and tempting destruction, he would let him in.

He would.

But I will not.

62

29 December

In Kensington, Nino Bergstrom was on his computer, looking for Rachel. Working his way through newspaper art pages and internet listings, he turned to the Spotlight magazine for actors. But there was only one Rachel who was white, young and pretty.

He rang her, but a man answered, apparently her husband. Without alarming anyone, Nino asked if she would be available for an interview, only to be told that Rachel was in hospital preparing for the birth of her second child, in two weeks’ time.

Wrong Rachel.

Checking Spotlight, and the US version of the actors’ magazine, he looked for any reference to productions about Vespucci being cast. Nothing. Then he turned to The Stage and searched that paper. Again, there was nothing referring to The Skin Hunter, Angelico Vespucci, or even plays set in Venice. In desperation, Nino trailed through every forthcoming play about murderers and their crimes – of which there were many.

It seemed that every town, city or state was putting on some play about a killer. But none of them were about Angelico Vespucci. The morning came and went, Gaspare made lunch and Nino kept working. At three, the dealer went to a hospital appointment and Nino returned to the archives in the London Central Library, looking back into the past. Perhaps something had been written before, and was being rewritten? Again, he drew a blank. He worked through every listing he could find about theatre staff in the UK and the USA, looking for Rachel. But Nino knew it was a long shot. The theatrical world was a movable feast – people came and went monthly, or changed their names, or moved into different areas. And he didn’t know what the elusive Rachel actually did. Actor, manager, agent, painter, costume designer or stage doorman. His request to discover the names of angels – the backers who put up money for shows – was met with silence. Most wanted to remain anonymous.

December 28 had passed, December 29 was coming in, and still Nino had nothing to go on. At one point he even wondered if he was completely off target, if the victim had simply been photographed in front of a theatre without having any connection to it. Deflated, he then checked his last search – and this time there was a result: three theatres whose names began with HA.

HAMPTON THEATRE

HAILSTONE THEATRE

THE HAMLET THEATRE

The first was in Basingstoke, the second in Dorset and the third in Battersea.

Tapping out the name of The Hamlet Theatre, Nino entered their website. At the top of the home page was a list of reviews, all favourable and widespread in the press, some of the theatre’s actors surprisingly well known.

Welcome!

We are a small company, but one of the most innovative in the UK. Although we have only been in existence for seven years, our play on W. H. Auden – Salut, Salut – was a hit on Broadway in New York, and in the West End, London.

At present we are working on several new ideas, one of which might be an investigation into a charismatic, but murderous, figure from the past.

A charismatic, but murderous, figure from the past … Nino couldn’t think of a better way to describe Angelico Vespucci. Checking the phone number, he rang the theatre and a young woman answered.

‘Hello?’

‘I was wondering if I could speak with …’ Nino glanced at the computer, ‘Harvey Enright.’

‘Who’s speaking, please?’

‘My name’s Nino Bergstrom and I think I might want to invest in your theatre,’ Nino lied, knowing it would get him put through. And it did.

Within an instant an affected English voice came over the line. ‘Hello? Can I help you?’

‘I’m thinking of becoming an angel,’ Nino said, glancing repeatedly at his notes. ‘I don’t know much about any of this, forgive me. But I’ve come into some money and shares hardly seem the way to go at the moment.’ He blundered on, wondering how convincing he sounded. ‘I’d like to invest. Perhaps in your theatre. Well, your productions anyway. I’m very interested in new companies, and yours seems to be very …’

‘Thrusting.’

‘Yes,’ Nino replied, ‘that’s the word … I know very little about the theatrical world. You see, I’ve been working in the film business for a long time, but want to change tack.’ He checked his notes again. ‘On your website you talk about a new production you might be undertaking, about a murderer from the past?’

‘Yes,’ Enright agreed. ‘We have two plays in mind. The one we most want to pursue at the moment is about a woman who works in engineering and discovers a talent for invention.’

Nino grimaced. ‘And the other one?’

‘Well, it was a good idea, unique. But lately the character in question has been getting a lot of press.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A man called Angelico Vespucci,’ Enright replied, and as Nino heard the name he let out a long, relieved breath. ‘Unfortunately there have been some murders recently, copies of his crimes. You might have read about it?’

‘Yes, I think I have. Fascinating character. Were you writing the play yourself?’

‘No, I’m no wordsmith. Directing is my forte.’

‘So who’s writing the play?’

‘Rachel—’ he replied.

Nino was hardly breathing. ‘Oh, Rachel! I know her, I think. Rachel Andrews? Came from Brighton originally?’

‘No,’ Enright replied. ‘Rachel Pitt. She’s from up north, Lake District. Smashing girl. Anyway, she’s actually our Assistant Stage Manager, but she had this idea for a play. Apparently she’s been working on it for a long time. Ran it past me, and frankly it sounded interesting … Would you like to come in and talk, Mr Bergstrom? We’d be delighted to chat to any angel, existing or prospective.’

Making a non-committal remark, Nino rang off. The name hummed in his head – Rachel Pitt, from up north, the Lake District. Rachel Pitt … Grabbing the London telephone directory, he found three people called R. Pitt. After phoning the first two – Ronald Pitt and Rita Pitt – he tried the last number.

This was it. This had to be Rachel Pitt. He had found her. Now he could warn her. He could prevent her death … The number rang. Again, and again. It rang out, then finally was answered.

Hi, this is Rachel. Sorry, there’s no one here at the moment. If you want to leave me a message and number, feel free.

Distraught that she hadn’t picked up, he left a message.

This is Nino Bergstrom. Please call me as soon as possible, it is urgent. Please, Ms Pitt, call me when you get this message.

Leaving his number, he put down the phone, and realised his hand was shaking.

63

Lake District, 30 December

Waking late, Rachel turned over in bed and opened her eyes. Where the hell was she? And then she remembered and stretched lazily. She had managed – by the sheer fluke of someone cancelling at the last minute – to rent a tiny cottage for Christmas and New Year, close to where her father had been born. It was in a village called Crook – a stone house hardly large enough for a hobbit, but cosy. ‘El dar la bienvenida,’ Michael would have said, curling the Spanish vowels around his tongue … She shook off the thought of him, unwilling to let him in. The cottage was hers, filled with provisions, wine and plenty of cut logs for the fire. She did have neighbours, but it seemed that on both sides they were away for the festivities, which left Rachel pretty much alone. Only this was a different type of aloneness. This was away from London and the flat and it smelt, looked, and even felt different. It felt hopeful.