‘I came to ask you something,’ he said, ‘something about the Titian—’

‘Not that bloody painting again,’ Gaspare said dismissively. ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on the thing. It’s been nothing but trouble—’

‘Of course you know all about it.’

‘Everything.’

‘About there being another murder?’

‘Yes, and Nino’s on a wild goose chase, trying to find the last victim. The police can’t find the killer, so God knows why he thinks he can.’ He looked at Ravenscourt’s dirtied clothes. ‘What happened to you?’

‘It’s raining.’

‘Mud?’

‘What?’

‘You look like you’ve been rolling in mud.’ Gaspare tilted his head to one side. ‘I don’t want to offend you, Mr Ravens-court, but I don’t believe a word of what you’re telling me. I don’t think you’re trying to make up for what you did to Nino. I think,’ he paused, wily to a fault, ‘that you’re trying to find out what’s going on. If we know anything. And if the Titian’s been found—’

‘Am I that transparent?’

‘You’re a dealer. I’m a dealer. So yes, to me you’re that transparent,’ Gaspare replied, as he moved away and began to prepare some coffee.

His instinct told him not to throw Johnny Ravenscourt out. He had every right to suspect him – and his motives. But there had to be a reason why Ravenscourt had come back to London. And Gaspare wanted to know what it was.

Passing him a cup of coffee, Gaspare poured himself another and took a seat at the kitchen table. Surprised, Ravenscourt followed his lead, loading two spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee and stirring it idly.

‘So the police aren’t after you any more?’

‘I’ve satisfied them.’

‘Lucky boy,’ Gaspare said drily, regarding Ravenscourt over the rim of his cup. ‘Did someone attack you?’ He gestured to his clothes. ‘You can’t have got that dirty walking in the rain.’

‘I fell over,’ Ravenscourt replied shortly.

‘Fell or pushed?’

He smiled, sighing. ‘I had a ridiculous idea … er … I thought that if I went back to where the Titian was originally found …’ He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I’m not light-footed and I fell over on the shingle—’

‘You went back to where Seraphina found the Titian? What for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ravenscourt admitted. ‘Returning to the scene of the crime – something like that. Maybe I wanted to play amateur sleuth. Maybe I wanted to see what she saw. Be where she’d been. We were very close. Seraphina confided everything to me …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Didn’t it ever strike you as odd that she was so conveniently there? Just when the Titian washed up?’ He sighed, frowning at the mud on his trousers. ‘If only someone else had found it, she’d still be alive. If only it had been some other person, some other woman.’

Thoughtful, Gaspare stared at him. ‘It was just a fluke that Seraphina found it—’

‘A fluke that killed her. A fluke that took away my best friend,’ Ravenscourt replied pettishly, sipping his coffee. ‘Have you seen the papers today? Angelico Vespucci’s becoming the piatta del giorno.’ Gaspare smiled at the remark, but said nothing and let Ravenscourt continue. ‘You know, I made a very interesting purchase lately. I bought a portrait of Claudia Moroni—’

‘The second victim?’

Ravenscourt nodded. ‘Yes, it’s of her and her brother. A testimony to their incest – quite sensational. I’ve had several dealers already asking to buy it. Anything connected to Vespucci is much sought after. I expect a call from Jobo Kido any time now.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Have you seen the Vespucci website today?’

‘No. Why?’

‘The killer’s crowing again. Such an ego! If they catch him no doubt he’ll make another fortune—’

Gaspare wasn’t giving anything away. He and Nino might know the identity of the killer, but he wasn’t about to tell Johnny Ravenscourt. He didn’t trust him. Suspected he was, in some way, complicit. Did he know who the killer was? Or was he trying to find out if anyone else did?

‘What d’you mean, another fortune?’

‘Well, the killer has the Titian, hasn’t he?’ Ravenscourt continued. ‘Put it up as a reward for his capture. It’s very Mission Impossible. I imagine they’ll make a film of it – The Skin Hunter II. I mean, Vespucci was the original, but the new man’s modern, available for interview. If he pleads not guilty it will go to court, all the revolting details will come out—’

‘And you’ll be able to sell your book.’

‘Yes, I’ve been talking to an agent already,’ Ravenscourt agreed, moving on. ‘But of course there has to be a good ending. In the book – and in life.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That there are only two days left. Today and tomorrow.’ He paused, holding Gaspare’s gaze. ‘Two days before he kills the last victim. Now, be honest, Mr Reni, what are the chances of Nino Bergstrom finding the last victim in two days? No one knows who she is. And even if he did find her, how could he stop the murder?’

Ravenscourt stood up, rinsed out his coffee cup and put on his coat. His heavy face was pink from the kitchen warmth, the mud drying on his trousers and shoes.

Turning round in his seat, Gaspare looked up at him, puzzled. ‘You said you wanted to help. How?’

‘I’ve found the skins, Mr Reni—’

The words had all the force of a bullet.

‘You’ve done what?’

‘I told you, I bought the painting of Claudia Moroni. It looked very dirty and heavy when I got it home. Being an oil painting, I was surprised to find there was a wooden back nailed on to the canvas. As you know, they normally only do that with panel paintings. When I removed it there were four folded skins inside. Dried up, quite brown, like wrinkled old apples …’ Stunned, Gaspare watched him as he rubbed his hands together. ‘Each was labelled: Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti and Melania, Contessa di Fattori. They were tied with ribbon into tight little bundles – so tiny for human skins. I bought the painting on a whim – I never realised that it hid The Skin Hunter’s victims.’ He drew on his gloves languidly. ‘It was very lucky – and I wondered if they might not make a useful bargaining tool.’

Gaspare was scarcely breathing. ‘For what?’

‘I was the first person to research Angelico Vespucci. I spent years on it. Only to be cheated by some murderer and any halfwit with a computer who calls themselves an expert. I am the expert on Angelico Vespucci!’ His high voice dropped, cunning replacing outrage. ‘I want to know who killed my friend, who murdered Seraphina … But I also want to profit from the situation.’

Contemptuous, Gaspare stared at him. ‘Are you in your right mind? What kind of person would suggest—’

Ravenscourt put up his hands to stop him continuing.

‘Don’t lecture me, I’ve no morals – you’d be wasting your breath. I’m merely offering assistance for Mr Bergstrom, something which might come in useful. The killer’s obsessed by Vespucci – don’t tell me he wouldn’t long to get hold of the skins of his victims. Who knows, he might put them with his own collection and make a real show of it.’ Ravenscourt walked to the door and paused. ‘Berg-strom has two days to save the last woman – he might need something to bargain with, a way to make the killer stay his hand.’

‘And in return?’

‘My inclusion in the whole fanfare which will follow – as the paramount expert on The Skin Hunter. I want involvement in press interviews, TV, books – and the money all that will bring.’

‘You’d make money from corpses?’

‘Why not? The dead don’t need it.’

Gaspare was so shocked that it took him a moment to reply.

‘And what if Nino fails? If he doesn’t find the victim and stop the murder?’ His voice was barely audible. ‘Or worse, what if Nino’s killed and the murderer escapes?’

‘Then I keep the skins,’ Ravenscourt said, opening the door. ‘Come on, Mr Reni, you know as well as I do that no one can afford to be sentimental in business.’