Opening it, Nino flicked on the light. At once he could see a number of stone steps leading down to a cellar beyond. Wary, he moved downwards, turning on another light as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The space surprised him: it extended to half the length of the house. At the far end was a sink, a table in the centre, and beside it what looked like an operating trolley. But this – unlike the house – was decrepit, the surgical instruments well used and filthy.

Everywhere was the sight of fresh, and dried, blood. Gore caked the scalpels and the plastic sheeting on the floor and across the table. The smell was there too, the stink of blood catching on the back of Nino’s throat as he moved further into the private slaughterhouse of Edward Hillstone. Unnerved, he glanced around, spotting a pair of surgical gloves thrown on the floor, used and bloodied; a waste bin piled high with swabs; and patches of torn clothing, stained with faecal matter. Along the sides of the table were grooves like those on a morgue slab, where the blood could run and be filtered into a bucket at the end. And the bucket was still there, the blood congealed, dark red, turning to brown.

Fighting a gag reflex, Nino moved away, catching sight of an imposing, ebonised cupboard. It was like a kitchen cupboard, but locked, without door handles. Using one of the knives from the table, he levered the lock open. And there, inside an old cupboard lined with floral wallpaper from the 1950s, was Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci.

Nino was about to reach for it but stopped when he heard a sound overhead. Flicking off the main light, he hurried to the bottom of the cellar steps and turned off that light too. In the darkness he could hear someone moving around, ascending the stairs from the hallway to the first landing. Pressing himself further under the steps, Nino listened in the dark. Could Edward Hillstone have escaped? And if it wasn’t Hillstone, did he have an accomplice?

Were there two killers? Did one kill and the other mutilate the bodies? Stepping on to the bottom stair, Nino moved upwards. After every step he took, he paused, listening, before taking another one. He could see a faint glow at the top of the steps coming from under the cellar door. Someone had turned on the hall light … Silently, Nino continued to climb, finally reaching the top of the steps and moving out into the hall.

He glanced towards the front door, but it was still bolted. Then he looked into the kitchen, staring at the table. The handbag had gone.

Gripping the banister rail, Nino mounted the stairs. He still had the knife he had picked up in the cellar, and was holding it in his hand, ready to strike. But no one jumped him. No one came out from any of the upstairs rooms. No one confronted him on the landing. It was only when he reached the top of the staircase that he saw a light coming from a bedroom at the end of the corridor.

Tightening his grip on the knife, Nino walked towards the room, reaching the door and slamming it backwards against the wall.

He had wanted to startle the intruder.

But she wasn’t startled at all.

Seraphina Morgan, formerly Seraphina di Fattori, looked into the mirror and smiled at him.

76

‘Eddie’s been caught,’ she said simply. ‘But then you know that, don’t you?’

Transfixed, Nino stared at her. ‘You’re dead. You were murdered in Venice—’

‘Was I?’ she replied, swivelling round in her seat, lush and bronzed. ‘I don’t think so.’

He remembered her coming to Gaspare’s studio with the painting. Remembered the old man’s grief at her murder. Remembered his own dedication to find out who had killed her.

‘What the hell is going on?’

‘Have you found the Titian?’ she asked, ignoring his question. ‘I heard you downstairs, so I suppose you have.’

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, approaching her. ‘What are you playing at? Why would you let everyone think you were dead? Why would you do that?’ He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Were you working with him? With Hillstone?’ She said nothing and Nino continued. ‘You planned all this?’

‘The night we met you seemed very unsure of yourself. I put that down to your having been so ill. I must say, I never thought it would be you that caught us.’ She put down the hairbrush in her hand, smiling. ‘You’re trying to work it out, aren’t you? Thinking really hard … I can see that in your face.’

‘So why don’t you explain it? Or shall we just wait for the police to come and you can talk to them?’

‘But then you’d never find out the truth, because I’d hardly tell them, would I?’ she countered. ‘Shall I start? I met Edward Hillstone a few years ago—’

‘On the Italy trip?’

‘Yes!’ she said happily. ‘The same trip that Rachel Pitt was on. I know you’ve found out about that – you must have done. Anyway, where was I? They do this in films, don’t they, Mr Bergstrom? Always confess at the end, tell the audience how it was done. You would know, you being in the movie industry—’

‘So how did you do it?’

‘Eddie and I had a fling. He wanted me more than I wanted him, and he was obsessed with Angelico Vespucci. It turned him on to think that I was a descendant of one of The Skin Hunter’s victims. He’s a very good lover, you know. But then men that don’t really feel too much always are. They can lose themselves in the moment. A very cold fish, is Eddie. It’s what makes him so attractive.’

‘He’s a killer.’

‘Not then – that came later, although he was always fantasising about killing women. He’d talk about it in bed, describe what he’d do, how he’d mutilate them. I thought it was just sex talk …’ Her tone was light. ‘We met up quite often and he talked more and more about Vespucci, and then something strange happened.’

‘Go on.’

‘My family are into the arts. Well, you know that from Gaspare Reni. I knew about the art world, and I heard the gossip—’

‘But you’re a scientist—’

‘With a wide circle of friends,’ she said mockingly. ‘Offspring of the rich and well-connected. They hear things and someone heard about the Titian painting re-emerging. You can’t keep that kind of thing a secret in art circles, Mr Bergstrom. It’s a business that feeds off gossip.’

‘So?’

‘I heard about Triumph Jones being involved and about his being in London when I was. In fact, I was going to talk to him about the Titian, but when I arrived at his hotel they said he was out. That was bad manners.’ Her tone was curt, offended. ‘I knew he was there, so when he left, I followed him. He has a sly reputation, does Mr Jones. His actions had piqued my interest. I followed him in a taxi and he got out on Grosvenor Bridge, with a parcel. About the right shape and size for a painting … You are following all this, aren’t you?’

‘Every word.’

‘He was looking around to see that no one was watching. He didn’t see me, obviously, and then he threw it into the river!’ She shook her head, incredulous. ‘It came up on the bank pretty quickly and I picked it up … I don’t know if he saw me … I looked at it and knew what it was … Then of course I asked myself, what should I do?’ She put her head on one side. ‘It was the portrait of Angelico Vespucci. The rumours had been right, but I’d never expected to be the one who found it.’

‘So why did you come to Gaspare Reni’s gallery?’

‘I needed somewhere to hide it in London. With someone respectable. I knew the old man would never destroy it, but he would look after it until I worked out how to get it home.’

‘But you were so frightened that night,’ Nino said, remembering. ‘You were afraid of the painting when Gaspare told you the story about Vespucci.’

‘Just acting,’ she replied deftly. ‘I knew the story already. How could I not know? I just wanted to make it all look believable. And it did. When I left the gallery I contacted Eddie. He was hardly able to talk he was so excited, and when I told him about the rumour Triumph Jones had set in motion he went frantic. “When the portrait emerges, so will the man.” She smiled, cold eyes. ‘That was his excuse to kill. That’s what set Eddie off.’