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biting their own tails. Piazzas, wide and open, huddle under their pelt of fog, and streets that should lead inwards take the stranger instead to the steps of the sea. The mists distort sounds too. Voices curl from unseen windows, running feet and shouts reverberate like bagatelle balls. What you hear, you think you hear. What you see, you guess at.
    In the horrific winter of 1555 the fog had come down, and stayed. At the time, the Venetian artist Titian had been painting one of his most notorious works,
the likeness of a merchant famous in Venice. Then, as the temperature had plummeted and the mist rolled in, the Doge had become critically ill. Word went out that it was an omen, that the Father of the Republic was in peril. If the Doge died, the city would be doomed.
    But it wasn’t the winter, or the Doge’s sickness, that doomed Venice. It was one man. A man who had gone about his work on the deserted, freezing streets. Who had crossed and recrossed bridges in the early hours. Who had used the fog as camouflage as he killed. It was the merchant Angelico Vespucci, the man who became known as ‘The Skin Hunter’. In the time it took Titian to complete his portrait, four women had been murdered and flayed, their hides hidden. Never found then, never found since.
    Now tell me, do you know
that
Venice?
    *
    Disembarking at the quayside, Mr Deacon rushed away from the launch. His desire to escape the sympathetic attentions of his fellow passengers made him hurry, his feet soon damp, his raincoat small protection from the niggardly drizzle. Walking too fast had overheated him and he paused, taking off his hat as he entered a cafe and ordered a coffee.
    The surly waiter enchanted him, such a change was he from Mr Deacon’s garrulous fellow passengers.
    “Can you help me with some directions?”
    He shrugged. “You speak Italian?”
    “A little,” Mr Deacon replied, saying slowly, “I was wondering where Titian’s house is. He had previously studied the route, but the fog had completely disorientated him and time was limited. “Where do I go from the Fondamenta Nuova—”
    “Then the Vaporetto steps, turn down Calle de le Tre Crosse …” The waiter paused, thought for a moment, struggling with his basic English. “… Calle Botteri, there – Titian’s house.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Long way. Troppo lontano a piedi.”
    Mr Deacon frowned.
    “Long way,” the waiter explained in English.
    “But I’ve only got two hours before I have to go back to the boat.”
    “No good,” the waiter said dismissively. “Another time maybe?”
    Sorry, Mr Deacon thought. Sorry, Abigail. If we’d come when you were still alive we would have had time. All the time we needed. I was selfish … He stared into his coffee, thinking of the gallery back in London. He had been a good provider – but of what? Money, not time. Perhaps Abigail had needed less in her bank and more in her camera.
    Outside the cafe window he watched the fog thicken. He finished his coffee then made his way into the street. It was a pity he wouldn’t make it to Titian’s house, but he would visit some of the artist’s paintings instead. There was a church nearby, he was sure of it. He would go there.
    Remembering what he had plotted on the map, Mr Deacon turned left, took a second right, and began to cross a bridge. A lonely ribbon of sunshine came through the clouds and lit his way, throwing its half-hearted light on to the canal below.
    And then he saw it.
    Stopped dead.
    Leaned over and looked into the water.
    But the sun had gone, the fog rolling over like a fat man in bed, and the water was now only white soup. Perplexed, Mr Deacon moved along the bridge, waiting for another break in the cloud, his attention fixed on the water.
There was something down there.
Christ! Was it a body? He jumped back, started, then looked around him. But the alleyways on both sides of the bridge were empty, and he could hear no footsteps.