‘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.
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.