So for now Nino could relax a little. Just a little. In the morning he would talk to Rachel, explain what was happening and get her to safety. Whatever Eddie Hillstone said, whatever he bragged on his website, he wasn’t going to get her. He wasn’t going to emulate The Skin Hunter. He was going to fail and the world was going to see what a craven bastard he really was. Taking in a slow breath, Nino imagined Eddie Hillstone in jail, reading the headlines which mocked his failure. No fanfare for him, no misplaced glamour of the serial killer. He had failed, fallen short. Lost out to a sixteenth-century Venetian.

His eyes closed, his body heavy with exhaustion, his breathing slowing down, Nino slid into sleep.

68

Edward Hillstone was finding the whole experience even more thrilling than he had hoped. To see Nino Bergstrom up in the Lakes, watching over Rachel Pitt like a guardian angel, was a revelation. What on earth was he doing? Bergstrom didn’t even know the woman. If he had been a sentimental man, it would have been touching. But then again, Edward wasn’t a sentimental man, and he decided that Nino was not so much interested in saving the victim as catching the killer.

Shifting his position, Edward looked down on the village from inside his parked vehicle, a nondescript white van with no markings. Even more nondescript under the first falling of snow. He clapped his hands to warm them, then drank some stewed tea from his thermos flask. He had to admit that he not been expecting his victim to run off to the Lakes. That had been an unexpected development, especially as he had worked out precisely how he would break into her Battersea flat.

But Edward liked to think of himself as adaptable. Reaching for his laptop he went online. The BBC news was talking about him, but not as its top story. Fuck it, Edward thought. Come January the first they’d have him on top. He’d be front-page news then all right.

He sighed, entered his website and typed an update:

Tomorrow is 31st of December – which leaves one day to go until the last victim is killed on the 1st January.

Beneath this, a timer counted down to that glorious day.

In a way it would be sad when it was all over, Edward thought, trying to conjure up some feeling of regret. But he couldn’t manage it. His feelings extended only to Vespucci and killing, nothing else. And even that was waning a little … He stretched his arms in the cramped van, and stared out into the village beyond. Movement, Edward thought. There he was – the hero, Mr Bergstrom. As if he would let that white-headed bastard steal his thunder. He was the hero. He was The Skin Hunter. Bergstrom was just an amateur.

But a persistent amateur, Edward thought, watching as Nino walked across the narrow road towards the cottage where Rachel was staying. He looked anxious, knocking at the door and waiting, waiting for an answer. Of course, Edward thought, he could have killed her already. Had thought about it – for a nanosecond – the previous night. The idea of Nino Bergstrom running up to the Lakes just to find a body was enticing. But not that enticing. No meddler was going to upset Edward’s plan. The death was planned for the first of January.

Not a moment before.

69

31 December

‘Just a minute! Just a minute!’ Rachel called out, running down the stairs a little after eight o’clock in the morning. Opening the front door of the cottage she looked dishevelled – and surprised. ‘Oh, hi …’

‘Rachel Pitt …?’

She nodded.

Can I come in?’

Pausing, she looked Nino up and down. ‘Who are you?’

‘Can we talk inside, please? It’s very important.’

She let him in, walking into the tiny sitting room and stoking up the fire. The snow had made the temperatures plunge and although she was warmly dressed she had also wrapped a scarf around her neck. It was dark red, fringed, making her skin translucent, her hands in mittens. Unlike Seraphina, she was tall and athletic, with striking good looks.

As her visitor sat down she watched him, standing by the fireplace to put distance between them.

‘Who are you?’

‘Nino Bergstrom. You don’t know me, but I’m here to help you.’

‘Help me?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t need help.’

‘You do,’ Nino replied, keeping his voice calm. ‘I’ve been trying to find you for days. Your friend Vicky told me where you were—’

She looked blank, almost irritated. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I don’t want to scare you—’

Her eyes widened. ‘But you are.’

‘Just hear me out, please. You know about the murders that have been happening lately? The man who’s imitating Angelico Vespucci?’

Now she was listening.

‘I’ve written a play about him.’

‘I know. That’s why I’m here. There have been three murders, and all the women killed had some connection to Vespucci.’ He could see her turn pale, and hurried on. ‘One was connected by a relative, another by copying Vespucci’s portrait, another by writing an article about The Skin Hunter—’

‘What?’ she said hoarsely.

‘And you’ve written a play about him.’

Incredulous, she snapped.

‘So what? I can’t be the only person on earth who’s done that. There must be dozens of people writing about Vespucci, especially now. I don’t see why you had to come up here and frighten the hell out of me—’

‘It’s you that he’s picked.’

The words shook her.

‘How d’you know that?’

‘I’m sorry—’

‘You’re wrong!’ she replied, but her voice caught on the words.

‘I wish I was. But I’m not. He’s after you.’

‘Really?’ she said, trying to compose herself. ‘Have you got any evidence?’

‘I’ve seen photographs of you in his possession. I’ve seen your name on a list.’

She flinched. ‘What?’

‘I’ve been after this man for weeks. Police in Italy, Japan and London are after him too, but every time he’s got away. I’ve only just found out who he is—’

‘So catch him!’

‘I’m trying to,’ Nino assured her. ‘He’s got a website about Vespucci and he’s trailing the next killing on the first of January.’

He could see her grip the mantelpiece. ‘Jesus … why are you telling me all this?’

‘I have to warn you.’

She was fighting panic. ‘But it’s the thirty-first now!’

‘That’s why I’m here. I’m going to stop him. I swear, he won’t get to you …’

Bewildered, she turned away. The fire was crackling – she could feel its warmth – but it was making no impact on the cold inside her.

‘… I think you know him.’

Turning, she stared at Nino. ‘What?’

‘Have you any enemies? Someone you had an argument with? A man you rejected?’

‘But you said he was coming after me because of Vespucci—’

‘He is. But he must know of you, or what you were doing, because your play hasn’t been performed yet.’ Nino paused, then continued. ‘I was thinking about it all the time I was driving up here last night. The killer could have found out about the first victim’s connection through a relative – that would be easy. He could have found out about the portrait copy. It was for an exhibition, after all. Likewise, the article. That was published on the internet. But your play? Hardly anyone knows about that – apart from the people at the theatre.’

She shook her head. ‘Not even them. Only Enright knows about it there, and he’s no killer.’

‘You must have told someone else,’ Nino persisted. ‘Think, Rachel. Who did you talk to?’

‘Michael, the man in my life …’ She trailed off, thinking of her lover. ‘No, it wouldn’t be him. I’ve known him for years. Not him.’

‘So, who else? What about friends? You must have told a friend about it?’

‘Not really. I was superstitious. I thought it was bad luck to talk about the play until it was going to be performed. So I kept quiet about it.’ She shivered, rubbing her mittened hands together. Her nails were bloodless.