Isle of the Dead by Alex Connor

overhead portrait light, was a photograph of Albert Fish, the child killer and cannibal. And underneath were written his words:
    I like children, they are tasty …
    Jobo’s eyes moved down the line of monsters, lingering for a second on the drawings of Burke and Hare, the grave robbers, and beside them, a photograph of the dashing Victorian murderer Frederick Deeming, posing as Lord Dunn. The dealer’s gaze rested on the next exhibit with a morose curiosity: Ed Gein, 1906–1984, murderer and grave robber from Wisconsin.
    As ever, the monstrous nature of the sitters did not repel but rather intrigued Jobo. He was sure that there was a clue in their appearance, some insinuation of violence in the features. But although he had looked at his exhibits for many years the explanation continued to elude him. Every image was well known, studied minutely, the dealer’s obsession increasing with every purchase, every image of a killer. But in among the photographs, pictures and drawings he knew something vital was missing for a notable collection. Skill.
    His collection might display the skills of the killer, but not those of the artist.
    The photographs Jobo had collected were press fodder – nothing remarkable, and certainly nothing to rival Titian’s portrait of Angelico Vespucci. He stared at the images intently. It was true that his collection was impressive, but it lacked the definitive piece – a portrait of a famous killer, painted by a famous artist. He ached for the Titian. Staring at the display, Jobo mentally moved the resident images to make space for the Vespucci portrait. Owning a masterpiece would make his collection respectable; no longer to be sneered at but admired. After all, who could belittle a Titian?
    Unfortunately the unknown caller had not got back in touch. Jobo had waited for a week for further contact, but there had been none, and he was getting impatient. Obviously the man had gone elsewhere and unless Jobo was careful he would find himself sidelined. He had two choices – he could either take a risk and wait for further developments, or set his own personal cat to put a flurry in the dovecotes.
    Once decided, Jobo moved into the office at the back of the gallery and tapped out a number on the phone. His desire for the Titian had made him unusually reckless, determined to force action.
    â€˜Hello?’
    Jobo’s voice was all sweet concern. ‘Triumph, is that you?’
    â€˜Jobo?’ the American replied, drawing out the name like a piece of ribbon. ‘What are you calling me for? It must be the middle of the night in Tokyo.’
    â€˜I couldn’t sleep. And neither could you – if you knew what I do,’ Jobo said enigmatically. ‘I’ve just seen the Titian.’
    There was a silence on the other end. ‘Where?’
    â€˜Well, I’ve not actually
seen
it, I’ve just seen a photograph.’ Jobo was making it up as he went along, trying to draw Triumph out and discover what he knew. ‘Someone sent me a note in the mail.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜I don’t know. But it said that they’d also approached you about the portrait …’ He paused, sly to a fault. When Triumph didn’t respond, he threw the dice again … ‘and Farina Ahmadi.’
    â€˜No one’s been in touch with me, Jobo.’
    Jobo didn’t believe that for an instant. ‘What about Farina?’
    â€˜She hasn’t mentioned it.’
    Jobo sighed expansively. ‘Oh, that’s all right then. I’m so glad I talked to you, Triumph. You know what I think, don’t you? The painting’s a hoax – someone’s just trying to scam the dealers. Well, I’m not going to be taken in,’ he said, his tone light. ‘Sorry I disturbed you.’
    For several minutes after they had concluded the call, Jobo sat in his office with the door open, gazing at his private