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Since the murders Triumph Jones had aged. To everyone’s surprise, the mugging had not been co
He had been responsible for four deaths. And he would die knowing it.
*
The alarm went off again at two thirty, and again Jobo Kido rose from his bed and drove to his offices to turn it off. When he had done so, he paused by his desk, looking at the computer and thinking of the exchanges he had had with a murderer.
The thought horrified and thrilled him at the same time. To think that he, Jobo Kido, had been involved with a serial killer. A man who had threatened him, come to his door, sent the vile package through the mail. Terrifying and unbelievable as it was, it had happened. And it had changed the Japanese dealer.
He would never admit to anyone, least of all his wife and son, that he was exhilarated to have been – indirectly – a part of Edward Hillstone’s crimes. It thrilled him to think of it; made him believe that he had a better insight into his exhibits. That when he visited his private collection and looked at Jeffrey Dahmer or Son of Sam he was just a little closer to understanding them. Not too close, but close enough to satisfy his ego, while keeping him safe.
Of course the unfilled gap on the wall a
Jobo paused, thinking of his new exhibit. A piece of skin. Part of the hide of a murdered woman. The piece which had been sent through the mail weeks earlier … At first he had intended to destroy it, but he couldn’t bring himself to commit such a violation. So he displayed it instead. Without a label, obviously. No point bringing the police down on his head. It was Jobo’s private pleasure. A reminder of his dabbling with a lunatic. A concrete image of an insane mind.
Or, to put it another way, a gift from Edward Hillstone to an admirer.
*
Having lost any chance of getting hold of the infamous Titian, Farina Ahmadi feigned total indifference. It was a weak portrait anyway, she said imperiously – in appalling condition. Not one of Titian’s finest works. And besides, who wanted the image of a serial killer hanging on their gallery wall?
The whole matter had been fucking disgusting, she told everyone. It had made her despair of the art world and the people who populated it. And besides, everyone knew that the Alim Collection would never dream of exhibiting such a painting.
She told her husband the same.
He told her she was a fool and that he was seeing another woman.
The following day Farina filed for a massive divorce settlement.
And a week later Sally Egan’s copy of the Vespucci portrait was sold at auction for an undisclosed sum.
Triumphant, Farina made a bid for the Alim Collection. The fight is ongoing.
*
The only person who really triumphed was Joh
However, it was the discovery of the victims’ skins which propelled Joh
People in numerous countries around the globe came to gawp at the flayed hides and read the stories of the murdered women. Larissa Vespucci, Claudia Moroni, Lena Arranti and the Contessa di Fattori became household names, their lives and deaths the subject of numerous programmes and articles. A film was mooted as Hollywood took up their cause, tying together the co
He flourished. Lived as sumptuously as Vespucci had once done. Had no end of boys at his bidding, and the grudging respect of the art world. His smuggling days were no longer regarded as a disgrace, but as cavalier roistering, and the police watched with disbelief as their one-time irritant shimmered in the glow of public opprobrium.
And then, one morning, Joh
The day before Ravenscourt’s death the skins of Vespucci’s victims had been put on a boat to be shipped over to the USA for a controversial exhibition in New York. Later it was discovered that at the very time Joh
The hides of The Skin Hunter’s victims were lost forever.
79
Edward Hillstone, aged 34, of Spitalfields, London, committed suicide in Wormwood Scrubs Prison on 14 January. He had been charged on numerous counts and had pleaded not guilty to all of them, forcing a jury trial. Although Hillstone had not been considered a suicide threat, he had hanged himself in the early hours.
He left no suicide note, just a brief letter to Nino Bergstrom.
It read:
I couldn’t leave without giving you the answer you most wanted. I was The Skin Hunter, and you asked where I hid the skins. You know they weren’t in the Spitalfields house, and I wouldn’t have put them with the Titian. So I leave you with a puzzle, Mr Bergstrom.
You’re clever, you beat me. Now solve this.
The skins are where they should be.
Regards,
Edward Hillstone
‘The skins are where they should be …’ Puzzled, Nino read the letter to Gaspare for the third time, both of them weighing the words.
‘Where should skins be?’
Gaspare shrugged. ‘Does he mean it literally? Like the skin on an animal?’
‘Or on fruit?’
‘Or on milk?’
Nino raised his eyebrows. ‘On milk?’
‘So you make some better suggestions,’ Gaspare retorted. ‘I’m doing my best.’
‘“They are where they should be.”’ Nino repeated the words. ‘A skin should be on a body. But the skins were taken off the women’s bodies. So does he mean that they’re in a grave, perhaps?’
Gaspare shook his head. ‘Nah, that would be too difficult. There are millions of graves – where would you look? Italy? Japan? London?’
‘Skins … where should they be?’
‘Hillstone wants you to find them,’ Gaspare said. ‘That much is obvious. So the clue must be solvable.’
They sat in silence, both preoccupied with their own thoughts. At times Nino would think he had the solution, then slump back in his seat, disappointed. A wind blew up outside, making peevish darts at the gallery windows, a car alarm going off just after six. Another hour droned on, then, suddenly, he rose to his feet.