Thinking of Seraphina, Gaspare remembered. She was back in his sitting room again, her coat and feet wet from scrabbling in the shingle, handing him the Titian painting. Then later, afraid, asking him to destroy it. And then he remembered the news from Venice, recording her death. She had been the first.

God only knew who would be the last.

71

The flat was chilly because the heating had been switched off, and although there had been no snow in London it had been raining heavily. At the doorway, Rachel hesitated, Nino walking in before her and looking around. Reassured, she had followed him but now stood, aimless, in the sitting room. Her hands were restless, moving from her face to her hair, her gaze moving round the room as though she hardly knew the place.

‘D’you want me to get the police?’

‘No!’ she said shortly. ‘I want you to be here. I trust you. You catch him, OK? You catch him. You can – I know you can. I don’t want the police.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What would they do? Take me to the station and interview me, then let me go … then what? Don’t tell me they’ll be able to stop the killer. Don’t say they’ll be able to protect me – they didn’t protect the other girls. You found me. They didn’t.’ She started pacing, five steps one way, five steps the other. ‘Even if the police kept me in overnight, he’d still get me when I came out. And he’d be mad then, because I’d messed up his plan.’ Still pacing, her voice was staccato. ‘No, I want to be here. I want you to stay with me … When he comes, you can stop him.’

Nino touched her shoulder. For a moment she looked as though she might cry, then rallied.

‘I’m OK,’ she reassured him. ‘I’m OK …’

‘Good. I’m going to look round the flat, check the windows and doors. Get to know the place.’

He didn’t add that he was worried about the layout. The flat was old and on two floors – ground floor and basement – with a landing in between. A landing with a window. Beginning in the basement, Nino checked that the front door was locked and bolted and saw – to his relief – that the windows were barred. No chance of anyone getting in there.

On the landing Nino checked the window and glanced out into a small communal garden beyond, where the back gate swung in a sulky breeze. Hurrying outside, he locked the gate, then turned, looking into the flat. There was a clear view into the sitting room from all sides. The killer would have been able to watch Rachel for some time, would have seen her in the kitchen and also in the sitting room. Had he watched her talking on the phone? Or working on her computer? Nino paused, looking around. Yes, there it was – the computer on a work table under the far window. The killer would have seen Rachel there, her back to him, not knowing she was being hand-picked for a kill.

Thoughtful, Nino returned to the flat, bolting the door after him. The first floor was the next to get his scrutiny – Rachel’s bedroom and a guest room opposite. He tried the windows of the guest room, relieved that they had been painted over and were resistant to opening, then walked into the master bedroom. It was untidy, but the windows were closed and locked. Likewise the bathroom. To all intents and purposes – unless the killer had a key – he couldn’t get in.

Returning to the kitchen, he found Rachel making tea. In silence, she passed him a mug and a cheese sandwich.

‘Sorry, it was all I had.’

Looks good. Thanks. Aren’t you eating?

‘No, no appetite … Are all the doors locked?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the windows?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s going so fast.’

‘What is?’

‘The time.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s two o’clock now. Before long it will be dark again, day over. Year over … Jesus, what a mess … Will he come tomorrow? Tomorrow’s the first … But he could come just after midnight, couldn’t he? He could – it would be the first then, wouldn’t it?’ She bit down on her lip, fighting panic. ‘All those people in Piccadilly Square celebrating, counting down the seconds to the New Year …’ She was shaking uncontrollably. ‘He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?’

Nino shook his head.

‘No. He’s not going to kill you, Rachel. You’re going to have a long, happy life. You’re going to see in at least another fifty New Years. And one day, when you’re old, you’ll tell your grandchildren all about it. They won’t believe you, of course, but you’ll tell them anyway. It’s not the end, Rachel.’

She stared at him intently. ‘You can’t be sure of that.’

‘Oh yes I can,’ Nino replied. ‘In fact, I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.’

72

The traffic was the one thing Edward Hillstone hadn’t made allowances for. For the first hour it had been easy to follow Bergstrom’s car. Enjoyable, in fact. The van was anonymous, with nothing to give it away – he could have followed Bergstrom for days without drawing suspicion to himself. But then some idiot had pulled out without signalling, making him swerve on to the hard shoulder. It had taken Edward almost four minutes to get back onto the road, four minutes in which he had lost track of Bergstrom and Rachel Pitt.

He suspected that they were going to Bergstrom’s temporary home at the Kensington gallery, or Rachel’s flat in Battersea, Bergstrom playing the hero and making it easy for Edward to fall into his trap. He smiled at the idea, at Bergstrom’s arrogance. Either place would suit him, Edward thought. Both places were familiar to him. After all, he had stolen the Titian from Gaspare Reni’s gallery, and he knew Rachel’s flat almost as well as his own. But it still irked him that he had lost contact with them, and he felt a sullen annoyance as he drove the remaining hours alone.

It wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

But then again, everything else had gone so smoothly, it was just a blip. Tonight was the real climax. Let Rachel Pitt think she might have another full day to live. Let her long to see another morning, afternoon and evening. Let her think she had twenty-four hours, another one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes – when, in reality, what she had was a second.

On the last chime of Big Ben, when TV, radio and internet connections everywhere welcomed the New Year, he would kill her.

And after that, he would be famous.

73

11.20 p.m.

Standing outside Rachel’s flat, Edward savoured the murder to come. He would kill her, then take her back to his home in Spitalfields. There he would make an announcement of her death on the website, proclaim his success – The Skin Hunter brought back to life. A 21st-century Vespucci to be celebrated. Anonymous, but triumphant … Edward breathed in to steady himself. After he had killed Rachel Pitt, he would take his time, relish the New Year’s Day spent removing her skin from her body. Then he would take photographs – of the flayed Rachel, and the skin of Rachel. Two Rachels for the price of one. The images would be over the internet in seconds, the world seeing what he had achieved. From continent to continent he would be famous. And feared.

It wasn’t difficult to image the reactions of the dealers. Jobo Kido would despair, realising he was never going to get the Titian; Farina Ahmadi would burn at being outclassed; and Triumph Jones – not so Triumphant now – would slip into a guilty old age. Bested. Beaten. All his machinations coming to nothing. And the pompous dealers who had belittled Edward Hillstone in the past would be seen for what they were – fools.

His journey was almost over, Edward thought, looking back. He had been dedicated – no one could deny that. From his first interest in Angelico Vespucci to his growing obsession, he had never veered from his route. Even if it had taken him off-course occasionally. Poor Susan Coates. Clever, but quite mad. It had been worth volunteering at Greenfield’s Hospital just to talk to her. What she knew about Vespucci was second to none. Edward had even begun to like her – before he was moved on. And then he remembered Sir Harold Greyly. So rich, so lazy, so full of his own importance that he had jumped at the chance of help.