‘How long have you been working on it?’

‘I had the idea about four years ago. I heard about Angelico Vespucci and thought it would be a good subject.’

‘Where did you hear about him?’

She was getting agitated, her mind wandering. Fear, cold and encroaching, was making its presence felt.

‘I … I … don’t remember … maybe at … I can’t remember!’

‘Take your time.’

‘I don’t have much of that, do I?’ she snapped back, her eyes filling. ‘D’you know why I came up here for the holidays? To get away from London, to get away and clear my head. I made a resolution to end my relationship and move on. Make a new life. And now you’ve come here and told me I don’t have a bloody life left—’

‘You do,’ Nino assured her, ‘if you help me. Come on, Rachel, think. When and where did you first hear about Angelico Vespucci?’

She tossed back her head and focused. ‘I went to university, where I read English. I learned Italian when I worked in Rome for a while. I was a nanny … Then I came back to London and entered the theatre. The Hamlet Theatre …’ She was getting desperate. ‘I can’t remember! I can’t remember how I heard about The Skin Hunter—’

‘A book?’

‘No.’

‘A film?’

‘No!’

‘Did you hear about him at a party? At a dinner?’ Nino pressed her. ‘On a holiday?’

‘A holiday …’

‘What about a holiday?’

‘Wait a minute,’ she said, glancing away and forcing herself to remember. ‘I took a trip five years ago. It was when I was in Italy, and it was a cultural tour of Venice. Some passengers had dropped out and the tickets were really cheap, so I said we’d go.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘I took the kids I was nanny for. They weren’t babies, and I thought it would do them good. Actually, to be honest, I had second thoughts about it as soon as I’d got the tickets. I thought it was going to be a lousy trip, hauling the kids along. But it was a mixed group, and there were some people of my own age. I suppose they grabbed the chance, like I did.’

‘Were they Italian?’

‘Most of them,’ she sighed, trying to remember. ‘We didn’t get close. I was busy with the kids and it was only two days. But there was a group of Italian girls who were flirting all the time and an Englishman who was very reserved.’

Nino heard the word Englishman.

‘Did you get on with him?’

‘No, not really. He asked me out and I said no. He was pissed off about it, but he wasn’t my type.’ She paused, remembering. ‘Oh God …’

‘What?’

‘… I remember now. We’d been talking. That’s how it started. It was him that told me about The Skin Hunter. We chatted, then one of the kids was sick and I had to leave …’ She turned to Nino, ashen. ‘Oh God, was it him?’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall, attractive, well-spoken, easy to talk to. All the girls were trying to get his attention … Was it him?’

‘Maybe. Can you remember anything else?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I asked what his name was and he said Jex. I remembered it because I’d never heard it before and I thought he was making it up.’

Jex. The name of the creator of the Vespucci website. Jex. Aka Edward Ketch. Aka Edward Hillstone …

Badly shaken, Rachel held Nino’s gaze. ‘Who is he?’

‘His name’s Edward Hillstone.’

She nodded, holding on. ‘So you know who he is – but you don’t know where he is?’

‘No.’

‘I want to go home,’ Rachel said suddenly. ‘I want to go back to London. It’s where my flat is, where my things are. If I’m going to die, I want to die there.’

‘You’re not going to die—’

‘How d’you know? You said there had been three other murders. You didn’t save those women, so what makes you think you’re going save me?’ She paused, clenching her fists, losing control. ‘What do I do? Oh, Jesus, what do I do?’

‘I’ll stay with you—’

She brushed him off.

‘I don’t want you! I want Michael. I want the man I love. I want him.’ Panic was making her frantic. ‘Get out!’

‘I’m not leaving you,’ Nino said firmly. ‘If you want to go back home, fine, I’ll go back to London with you. But you can’t be on your own—’

‘I won’t be alone! I’ll call Michael …’

She trailed off. Who was she kidding? He would be busy, or out. Leave a message, I’ll call back. He’d be with his wife and kids. He’d not be there for her, even if she was going to die. Not available. Sorry … Slowly she looked at Nino. He was a stranger, but he was trying to save her. He had driven all the way from London to the Lakes to help … Jesus, what the hell was she thinking?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘Sorry for what I said.’

He nodded. ‘D’you still want to go home?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, go and pack – I’ll drive you back.’

‘I hired a car,’ she said, frowning. ‘I can’t just leave it here.’

He didn’t like to say that the car was the least of her worries.

‘I’ll sort that out for you. Just get yourself ready and we’ll leave.’

Making for the stairs, Rachel turned and looked back at him.

‘Why does he want to kill me?’

‘He’s copying Angelico Vespucci. You have a connection because of the play you’ve written.’

‘That’s it?’ she asked, incredulous. ‘That’s all there is to it? I don’t believe you.’ She shook her head. ‘There must be another reason he picked me.’

A moment shimmered between them.

‘The Skin Hunter killed women he thought were immoral. His imitator is doing the same.’

It took her a moment to process the words. To remember Michael. To remember that she was a man’s mistress. To realise why she had been singled out for murder.

‘Oh,’ she said, turning away. ‘I see.’

Snow made the journey slow and hazardous. At times the motorway traffic slowed down to thirty miles an hour, the landscape a blurred furring of white. In the passenger seat beside Nino, her bag on the back seat behind them, Rachel sat motionless. The seat belt was fastened across her chest, an inky band against the red of her jacket, her hair tied back, the scarlet scarf still around her neck. She looked like Christmas, all rosy warmth, all wool and softness, and yet her skin was icy. Deathly cold.

At times she would speak, but most of the journey she was silent, staring ahead. Sitting beside her, Nino wanted to talk, to say something to distract her but there was a terrible distance between them. She was longing for another man, afraid of her future, of the death prophesied on the internet – the death she now knew as her own. And meanwhile Nino was trying desperately to convince himself that he would save her.

Without knowing if, or how, he could.

70

Gaspare glanced back at the newspaper and reread the small piece at the bottom of the third column on page five. He had got a message from Nino to say that he had found Rachel and was returning to the capital with her. He wasn’t going to tell Nino what he had just seen. In fact, he had almost overlooked it, but the name had caught his attention.

It read:

Mr Patrick Dewick, 59, a psychiatric nurse at Green-field’s Hospital, Ealing, was found murdered yesterday. He had been missing for several days and his body was found in woodland, partially buried. He leaves a widow and two sons.

Gaspare threw down the paper. Patrick Dewick, the man who had put Nino on to Eddie Ketch, was dead.

Nino was wrong – the killer did kill men. He must have realised that Dewick had tipped Nino off and murdered him to prevent him saying any more. Gaspare shivered, unnerved. If the killer had been watching Rachel Pitt, he must have seen Nino up in the Lakes. Must have known that he was going to try and stop him. And that was the last thing he wanted.

Gaspare glanced over at the clock – twelve thirty already. The morning gone, the afternoon hot on its heels. Only thirty-six hours until the New Year – the first of January that everyone was waiting for … He sat down at the table, watching the traffic outside. Kensington Church Street was busy, the Christmas lights due to come on when the daylight faded, the statue of Christ alone and forgotten in His urban shrine.