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.
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.