Put the library in order, he had demanded, passing it over to the amiable, well-spoken Edward.

Greyly had been stupid too – not like his aunt. Hester Greyly was anything but stupid. She had been Edward’s first real deviation. But he had had to stop her talking to Nino Bergstrom about Claudia Moroni. The old woman might well have said something which could lead to him. Her death had been inevitable and had succeeded in throwing Bergstrom off his scent – at least for a while. Until Bergstrom had revisited Courtford Hall to talk to Harold Greyly. The squire was out of it by then. Edward’s anonymous letter to his wife explaining how their family was going to be exposed in the media had done the trick. The taboo of incest and the red tops had beached the marriage and, once alone, Harold Greyly turned a hobby into a career. Within a month he was sodden with booze.

Edward leaned against the wall, staring at Rachel’s flat. Angelico Vespucci might have had some limited reputation in Venice, but he, Edward Hillstone, would go global.

It was so close now. So very close … When he had finally got back to London, Edward had shaved, taken a shower and changed his clothes, then eaten a light meal, but drunk no wine. After a short sleep, a little music had filled the rest of the time and it was ten p.m. when he finally left Spital-fields in search of Rachel Pitt. He had checked out the Kensington gallery first, but the place had been deserted and in darkness, not even the old man around. When he looked in the window, Edward could see the red light flickering on the alarm. No one was there, which meant that Bergstrom had taken Rachel to her place.

Of course he could have hidden her somewhere else, but Edward didn’t think so. Not for a minute. He was getting to know his pursuer now, even getting to admire him a little. And he suspected Nino of having an ego – a desire to win. Having found himself drawn into the whole business by accident, Bergstrom wasn’t a man to shy from a challenge. He had been ill, Edward knew – as always, he had done his research. Perhaps Bergstrom was trying to prove something, especially to himself? A man who had been weakened and made vulnerable would want his power back.

Edward Hillstone did not underestimate Nino Bergstrom. Not any more.

Suddenly a light came on and Edward checked the time – 11.44 p.m. It was in the sitting room in the basement of the flat, a small side lamp on the computer table. So Rachel Pitt had thought she was safe, had she? Had locked her doors and windows and drawn her blinds. He knew there were no police in there, but Bergstrom was there, maybe. Likely, in fact.

Smiling, Edward watched as Rachel sat down in front of the computer. She had obviously just bathed – she had a thick bathrobe on and a towel wrapped round her hair, her head and shoulders silhouetted against the queasy glow of the computer screen. Excited, Edward wriggled his fingers, feeling the itch in his palms. There were only a few minutes to go and he was hot with arousal … He leaned forward, peering through the blind. It blocked out some of his view, but he could see Rachel’s silhouette, imagine how she would scream when he grabbed her, how the knife would slide into her neck and severe the jugular vein. How the blood would run over his gloves and how she would jerk uncontrollably. They all did that.

In that instant another thought occurred to Edward. Perhaps Bergstrom hadn’t told Rachel Pitt that she was a victim. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to scare her. Perhaps he was now hiding somewhere. Waiting for the killer to make his move … Uneasy, Edward looked around. But there was no sign of Bergstrom. And then he spotted something through the wrought iron gate which led to the street – Bergstrom’s car. It was a little way off, but he recognised it immediately and could just make out the familiar, unmistakable white head of hair. Bergstrom! Where the hell was he going?

Edward didn’t hesitate. Wherever he was going, Nino Bergstrom wasn’t in the flat with Rachel Pitt. This was his chance … Noiselessly, he ran down the alleyway between the houses, jumped the gate, and then paused by the back door. Like so many other people, Rachel had hidden a second key in case she locked herself out. It had taken Edward a while to find, but in the end he had discovered it tucked in among the dying plants in the window box. He had then copied it, so she would never know.

It was the copy he slid in the back door now, turning the lock, pushing it slightly ajar. Silently he walked in. He could hear faint music, and see the light from the computer coming through the partly opened door of the sitting room.

His breath caught in his throat as he reached into his pocket and brought out the hunting knife. It felt familiar and heavy in his hand as he gripped it and moved further into the room. For one second he relished the thought of the kill – then he rushed her. He rushed towards the computer and the seated figure, lunging at Rachel, the impact throwing her off the seat and on to the floor.

The last thing Edward Hillstone expected was the punch to his throat, his head exploding as he struggled for breath. Gasping, he rolled over, crawling on all fours, wrenching at his collar in an effort to breathe. The first kick hit him full in the ribs, sending him backwards, the second landed in his solar plexus, rendering him helpless. Caught by surprise, winded, struggling for air, Edward Hillstone stared up at his attacker in disbelief.

In the struggle the head towel had come off – and instead of Rachel Pitt standing there, it was Nino Bergstrom.

74

Securely tied to a chair, Edward Hillstone was still gasping for breath, trying to form his words, spittle drooling from the left side of his mouth. Nino had taken off the towelling robe and was standing in his jeans and shirt, facing the killer. Despite Hillstone’s temporary dishevelment, it was obvious why he had been so successful. He was personable, almost refined, a man who could have easily blended into the art world or worked at a country gentleman’s retreat.

The knife that he had dropped was now on the sideboard, out of reach, and Nino had phoned the police. Watching him, Edward shook his head to try to clear his thoughts, his hands working against the rope which held him.

‘Where is she?’

‘In my car.’

He nodded, almost amused. ‘It was a wig?’

‘Rachel works in a theatre,’ Nino replied. ‘It was easy for her to get hold of a prop. I knew you’d be fooled by the white hair – it’s what everyone notices. You were no different.’ He checked the rope, winding some more around Hillstone’s neck before finally knotting it at the back of the chair. ‘If you struggle, you’ll strangle yourself. If I were you, I’d keep still and plead insanity.’

Reaching into Edward’s pocket, he took out his keys and wallet, checking the address on his driver’s licence. Then he walked over to the window, waiting. Only minutes later a police car pulled up outside.

And as the police entered by the front, Nino left by the back.

75

‘Make your way to the gallery now,’ Nino said, leaning down to talk to Rachel in the driver’s seat. ‘Gaspare’s expecting you.’

‘Where are you going?’

He ignored the question, tapping the top of the car. ‘Go on, go now. I’ll be over later.’

Waiting until he saw the car disappear down the street, Nino hailed a cab, arriving outside Edward Hillstone’s home twenty minutes later. It was one of the Georgian silk merchant’s houses, narrow, on four storeys, its paintwork freshly done. Glancing up, Nino looked for any lights turned on, but there were none and he opened the door, moving into an unlit hallway. The walls were painted dark green, the cornice picked out in gold, the effect luxurious and oppressive at the same time.

First he checked the front room, which was empty and well furnished. Next he moved into a snug, again empty, and then went further into a modernised, galley-style kitchen. Everything was lavish, the fridge stocked with food, wine in a pantry beyond. But what caught Nino’s eye was a woman’s handbag on the table. He wondered fleetingly if it had belonged to one of Edward Hillstone’s victims, but his attention was distracted when he turned and spotted a slatted wooden door beside the main exit.