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be enough to save her. He had been wrong.
    And now, here was her mother, an old friend of his, trying to make sense out of the insensible. ‘Her body was—’
    She spoke quickly, almost as though she thought he could catch her distress.
    â€˜â€”the skin was taken off her.’
    No! thought Gaspare, taking in a breath. No.
    â€˜They skinned her.’
    No.
    â€˜I don’t know why …’ The woman, the mother, paused. Her words came from another place inside her. Raw from the heart. ‘When you saw her, was Seraphina worried about anything?’
    What do I say? Gaspare wondered. Confess? Tell an old friend, a grieving mother, that her child had found a painting which had indirectly killed her? How could he tell her that? What difference would it make? Seraphina would still be dead, still in a Venetian morgue with the water lapping at the city’s wooden supports underneath her. And even if he told her mother about the Titian, how would he explain? Talk to her of rumours, old stories long buried? Or maybe he should tell her of The Skin Hunter. Maybe comfort her with the memory of a man who had once terrorised Venice.
    â€˜Seraphina said she had visited you in London,’ her mother continued. ‘I know she enjoyed herself but she was glad to be home, glad to be back with her husband … I wondered if there was anything you had to tell me? Tell any of us? Is there anything, Gaspare?’
    He said no.
    Negative.
    Nothing to tell.
    He said no because there was nothing else he could say that would help or give any comfort. But when Gaspare had put down the phone, severed the frail, terrible connection to Venice, he stared out of the window at the walled garden and thought of the portrait he had hidden in the rafters, high above his head. Looking upwards, his gaze scanned the painted ceiling, his pulse quickening.
    â€¦
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.
    â€˜Gaspare?’ He turned to see Nino approach. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜She was murdered—’
    Nino stared at him. ‘What?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜I suppose they’ll have more details when the pathologist has examined her—’
    â€˜But you know, don’t you? Tell me.’
    â€˜She was found murdered. Her body was flayed …’ Gaspare said, turning away. ‘I should have stopped her leaving. I should have done something.’
    â€˜How could you have known what would happen?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜That’s nonsense!’ Nino said shortly. ‘Dead men don’t resurrect themselves. It was a story, Gaspare, nothing but a story—’
    â€˜Yet Seraphina found the portrait and now she’s