… It was said that if the portrait of Angelico Vespucci ever emerged, so would the man.

Hadn’t he said those words? Repeated the old belief? Not knowing if he truly believed the superstition, but wary enough to accept the possibility? He had had two people to consider. Two young people. One of whom was now dead. Closing his eyes, Gaspare fought grief. If only Seraphina hadn’t seen the painting, hadn’t picked it up, hadn’t brought it to him. If only she had been looking the other way, or the tide had been going out, not coming in.

‘Gaspare?’ He turned to see Nino approach. ‘What is it?’

‘Seraphina’s dead.’

Shaken, Nino moved over to the old man and touched his shoulder. He had only met Seraphina once, but he had liked her. ‘A car accident?’

‘No.’

‘So what happened?’

Gaspare turned slowly in his seat. Above his head the portrait was propped up against one of the roof’s rafters, a blanket thrown over the canvas to protect – and cover – it.

‘She was murdered—’

Nino stared at him. ‘What?’

‘They found her in the Lido …’

Nino could see from the old man’s face that there was more to it. ‘How did she die?’

‘I suppose they’ll have more details when the pathologist has examined her—’

‘But you know, don’t you? Tell me.’

‘She was found murdered. Her body was flayed …’ Gaspare said, turning away. ‘I should have stopped her leaving. I should have done something.’

‘How could you have known what would happen?’

‘Because I knew something would!’ Gaspare snapped. ‘I knew as soon as I saw that painting of Angelico Vespucci. For centuries people believed that if the painting re-emerged, he would too.’

‘That’s nonsense!’ Nino said shortly. ‘Dead men don’t resurrect themselves. It was a story, Gaspare, nothing but a story—’

‘Yet Seraphina found the portrait and now she’s dead.’

‘But Vespucci didn’t do it! Gaspare, someone killed Seraphina, but not someone – or something – supernatural. It’s not possible … You know that, don’t you?’ He paused, wary. ‘Where’s the painting now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Nino replied, looking around him. ‘You could have hidden that bloody thing in this place and no one would find it for years.’

‘I dumped it,’ Gaspare said, the lie smooth.

‘Where?’

‘In a skip. On Kensington High Street,’ Gaspare replied. ‘I dumped it the night Seraphina came here. When I looked this morning, the skip had gone.’

‘I don’t believe you. You’d never have got rid of that Titian.’ He poured two whiskies, passing one to Gaspare and then sitting down. ‘Go on, drink it, then we’ll talk about what we’re going to do.’

Obediently, the dealer sipped his drink. His panic had subsided; in the face of Nino’s logic the idea of Vespucci’s resurrection seemed ridiculous. But then again, Seraphina had found the picture. And now she was dead.

‘Why would someone kill her?’ he asked Nino.

‘A robbery gone bad?’

‘Maybe … But why was she killed like that?’ Gaspare countered, finally glancing back at him. ‘And why now, when the portrait’s re-emerged?’

‘Coincidence?’

‘That she might have been followed from London and murdered in Venice after she had found a portrait of a man who had killed in exactly the same way?’ Gaspare clicked his tongue. ‘Coincidence, no. No, I don’t believe it.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know,’ Gaspare admitted. ‘Maybe Seraphina told someone she’d found the portrait.’

‘You told her not to.’

‘She was a woman and women talk – they can’t help it sometimes,’ Gaspare said, taking another drink of the whisky. ‘Seraphina had gone home to Venice. It would have been hard to put the story out of her mind in the city where Vespucci had once lived. Could you keep it a secret? I doubt she could. Seraphina’s parents are cultured; it would have been fascinating for them. Perhaps she couldn’t resist confiding …’ He paused, shaking his head, remembering the phone conversation. ‘No, her mother knew nothing. She was asking me what I knew.’

‘What about Seraphina’s husband?’ Nino queried. ‘Wives talk to their husbands. She could have easily told him. Asked him to keep it a secret, but then he slipped up.’

‘Maybe.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘She said he was American. Perhaps he talked about the portrait to a dealer back home and the dealer confronted Seraphina about it?’

‘No, not a dealer,’ Gaspare replied thoughtfully. ‘A runner more like. There are hundreds of small-time crooks in the art world, all hustling each other and scrabbling after the latest rumour or find. They live off the scraps dealers throw them for tips or information. Italy, in particular, has a massive trade in art crime. Paintings change hands or are stolen to order and then exported all over the world. Only recently a member of the mob confessed that the famous Caravaggio in Palermo was taken by the Mafia in the seventies.’

‘So someone could have challenged Seraphina – but she wouldn’t tell them anything. Wouldn’t admit to finding the portrait. Or tell them where it was.’

‘And they killed her?’

‘Maybe that part was an accident.’

‘So why do that to her body?’

Nino finished his drink and shrugged. ‘You’re the art dealer, I’m just guessing. But if this was a film, what better way to bring the painting to the forefront of everyone’s imagination than by copying the murder method of the infamous sitter?’

‘What?’

‘You’ve often said that to raise the interest and value of a picture you need publicity—’

‘Not murder.’

‘It wouldn’t work for you or me, but for some it would. You said yourself, people collect sick stuff. And this portrait is a Titian. It could be that the murder was an accident and the killer made use of the Vespucci legend to reignite the story.’

Nino could see Gaspare shift in his seat, and pressed him. ‘You still have it, don’t you?’

‘I—’

‘Don’t bother denying it, Gaspare, but think about it. Perhaps having the portrait puts you in danger.’

‘I’m an old man. Why should I care what happens to me?’

‘I care. I care about Seraphina too. She didn’t deserve to die.’ Nino paused, thinking. ‘You should back off. You’re too old. I need your brain – the brawn I can supply.’

Puzzled, the dealer stared at him. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I know about the painting and Vespucci – probably as much as anyone else does now. I speak three languages, including Italian. I’ve been all over the world, travel comes easy, and people talk to me. Let me try to find out what happened.’

Immediately, Gaspare put up his hands.

‘Let the police handle it—’

‘I’m not going to interfere with the Italian police. I just want to ask around a bit.’

‘You’ve been seriously ill—’

‘I’m fit now,’ Nino persisted.

‘It’s dangerous.’

‘Is it? Maybe so, maybe not. There might be no connection between Seraphina’s death and the portrait. But if there is, we need to find out what.’

‘Leave it to the experts—’

‘There are no experts in this! It’s about Seraphina, her death, a painting and Angelico Vespucci.’ He put down his glass, turning to the dealer. ‘I’m fit again and I need to work. You won’t let me pay for my keep – or repay you for what you’ve done for me – so let me repay you this way.’ He pulled his chair closer to the old man. ‘I’m a quick learner, you know that. I’m used to dealing with people and I don’t scare easily. That picture came here. You can’t undo that. It came to you – and now Seraphina’s dead. I want to know why.’ He held the dealer’s gaze. ‘Tell me you don’t want the same.’

Venice, 1555

There was a rumour that the plague was returning to Venice, but this time we were spared, the merchants and the rich leaving their palaces and strutting about the piazzas like cockerels spared the knife. There is a fashion here for the men: at night the cloth covering their genitals is transparent, and some hang bells and tie ribbons on their appendages.