Since arriving the previous day she had walked endlessly, enjoying the landscape – such a contrast from built-up Battersea. She had even spent a whole hour watching a farmer rounding up sheep, not noticing that the rain had started and her boots were waterlogged. A peace she hadn’t felt for years came like a salutation to another life, a choice she had long denied herself now possible. Up in the hills, with the rain and the sound of drinkers leaving the village pub at eleven, bathing in a small enamel bath and drinking water that tasted of the mountains, Rachel experienced an epiphany which was long overdue.

She had forgotten the loneliness which had dogged her. Even on her own, she wasn’t as bereft as sitting in her flat and waiting, endlessly waiting, for the phone to ring. It was a relief not to have to think up ways to amuse, seduce, or interest her lover. It was a release not to be terrorised by her silent phone, or urgent text messages. And slowly Rachel came to realise that loving Michael had become a form of penance.

How could she be anything other than an appendage to his life? While she made him the nucleus of her world, he had a wife and children, a career, a dozen social duties and membership of clubs. When he was with her, he loved her. But how much of his attention could she hold when he was elsewhere?

The answer was brutal. But it was only up in the hills of the Lake District, away from pylons and mobile-phone masts, trains, subways and sirens, that she could hear it. And as the days passed Rachel became dislocated from her previous life: her life with Michael. Instead her career slipped back into top gear, her attention moving back to the Hamlet Theatre. Amused, she lay back on the pillows, her hands behind her head, thinking of Angelico Vespucci.

It was a fabulous idea to write a play about him. She knew it, had always known it, but her ambition had waned as her neediness had grown. Ideas, words, images that would once have shimmered inside her had turned to ash and, incredulously, seeing her actions at arm’s length, she did not know herself.

When she returned to Battersea, to the Hamlet Theatre, she would talk to Enright again, get him geed up about the play. She could do it, she could get him back on side. He was already hooked, she could see that. And besides, Rachel thought, there was plenty of interest in Vespucci now … She rolled over on to her side, looking out of the tiny window down into the village below. Since she arrived she hadn’t bought a paper or turned on the television. She had left her mobile behind, and there was no telephone in the cottage. But she could remember only too well reading about The Skin Hunter before she left London. It had been on the news and all over the internet, and the last piece she had read had been sent from the killer – some lunatic taunting the police to find him before he killed again.

Yawning, Rachel pulled the duvet over her and closed her eyes. Soon it would be New Year, and she had already decided on her resolution. She would end the affair, slough it off her body like dead skin, and return to the theatre. There she would hustle and bargain and push until Enright agreed to put on her play. He liked it. He was just nervous about her being a newcomer. So what? Rachel thought confidently. There had to be a beginning for everyone.

She relaxed into the pillows, sliding into sleep. Outside the last of the daylight slunk down into the lifeless trees, the hills snow-tipped and quiet, no cars about, no sounds. Only the drinkers inside the pub, calling last orders at the ringing of the bell.

64

30 December

As he walked up the front steps to the block of flats in Battersea, Nino could see a family watching television in a front room, and rang the ground-floor buzzer. He heard someone curse and an Indian man opened the door and stared at him.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m looking for Rachel Pitt,’ Nino explained. ‘She lives upstairs.’

‘So?’ the man asked as his wife moved into the hall behind him.

Pushing him aside, she smiled at Nino. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Rachel Pitt lives upstairs, doesn’t she? I need to talk to her – it’s urgent.’

‘Such a lovely girl, so very kind. Is it bad news?’ the woman asked as her husband walked back into the front room.

‘Someone in her family’s been taken ill,’ Nino lied. ‘I can’t get her on the phone and she’s not answering her bell.’

‘Oh, she went away. She’s on holiday until New Year—’

‘Until New Year?’ Nino repeated sharply. ‘D’you know where’s she gone?’

She put up her hands for a moment, calling for her husband. ‘Daruka! Daruka!’

He came back into the hall, his expression impatient. ‘What is it?’

‘Do you remember where Rachel said she was going on holiday? This gentleman needs to contact her; someone in the family is ill.’

Shaking his head, he moved closer. ‘She did tell me, but I can’t … the mountains somewhere.’

‘The mountains?’ Nino repeated. ‘In this country?’

‘Yes, yes, in England.’

‘The Peak District?’ Nino offered.

‘No. That is not it.’ He turned to his wife again, speaking Hindi’, then turned back to Nino. ‘Up north—’

‘The Lake District?’

‘Yes!’ he agreed, nodding. ‘That’s it. She’s gone to the Lake District.’

‘D’you know where in the Lakes?’

‘No. She said it was a village. That’s all.’

As her husband moved back into the house the Indian woman looked at Nino sympathetically. ‘I’m so sorry we can’t help you more.’

Frustrated, he hesitated on the doorstep. To have come so far and hit another dead end. Rachel Pitt was up in the Lake District, but where? It was a big place, with God knows how many villages. It would take him days to check them all out. Days he didn’t have.

Changing tack, he asked, ‘D’you know where her family live?’

‘She only has a mother, and she never talks about her. Not lately, anyway.’ The woman paused, suddenly suspicious. ‘I thought you said it was someone in her family who was ill?’

‘It’s a cousin. He lives abroad,’ Nino said, hurrying on. ‘Look, I have to find Rachel. It’s important. You have no idea how important.’ Scribbling his name on a piece of paper he gave it to the woman. ‘Please, help me. I have to find her.’

She looked at him, concerned. ‘Is she in trouble?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Worse. She’s in danger.’

65

His glasses pushed up on his balding head, Gaspare was relaxing in the sitting room, listening to Rachmaninov. No matter how many times he heard the piece, he was moved by it, temporarily taken away from his anxieties, suspended between D flat and middle C. So when he noticed a sound break through the music, he was surprised and went downstairs.

Someone was knocking on the back door. He could see a large figure outlined against the glass and hesitated, remembering his previous heroics.

‘Mr Reni! Mr Reni!’ the voice shouted.

Cautious, Gaspare approached the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘Jonathan Ravenscourt.’

Keeping the chain on, Gaspare opened the door a couple of inches. ‘What d’you want?’

Ravenscourt was flustered and dishevelled. ‘Can I come in?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t know you.’

‘You know of me—’

‘Yes, and I don’t like what I hear,’ Gaspare replied, his tone sharp. ‘You got a friend of mine in trouble with the police – I had to dig him out of it.’

‘I retracted my statement!’ Ravenscourt said, pushing at the door. ‘Look, I’m not going to hurt you, I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. Not physically anyway. What I did to Nino Bergstrom was wrong, but I’ve sorted it out with the police now and I want to help him out. For God’s sake, let me in! On come on, Mr Reni, I ask you – do I look like a maniac?’

Relenting, Gaspare took off the safety chain and Ravens-court moved into the kitchen and took off his cashmere coat. His trousers and shoes were spattered with mud.