Free Isle of the Dead by Alex Connor

line had been cut. Alarmed, he dropped the phone, backing against the wall as he heard footsteps outside the front door. Someone was rattling the handle, shaking it vigorously, the brass knocker vibrating madly against the wood.
    His heart seemed to be filling his chest, blood fizzing in his ears, as he thought of the hidden painting. His hands groped at his collar, loosening it as he gulped at the air. The voice called out to him again.
    â€˜You’re on your own, Mr Reni. No one else there, is there? You’re on your own. One old man. You haven’t a chance. Just hand the painting over and I’ll go away. Just give it up, before things get nasty … I know you can hear me, so let’s get this sorted out.’
    There was a pause.
    â€˜Mr Reni, don’t be stupid …’
    Another pause.
    â€˜Think about it.’
    Again, a pause.
    â€˜This isn’t over. I’ll come back.’
    Then there was silence.
    Tensing, Gaspare listened as the footsteps walked away. Barely breathing, he heard them fade, then relaxed, slumping on to the sofa. Sweat was running down his face, his hands shaking as he leaned back against the cushions. How did anyone know that he had the Titian? How had anyone found out that it was in his possession? Had Seraphina talked before her death? Had Triumph? No, Gaspare thoughtdesperately, he had told the American that the portrait had been destroyed. So who else knew?
Had Nino given him away?
    No, not Nino. He would never have put him in danger.
    Still trying to slow down his breathing, Gaspare realised the danger he was in. The man had been right: he
was
alone and defenceless, and the capacious gallery was an easy target. If his tormenter had cut the phone line, he would certainly have disabled the burglar alarm … Gaspare listened, but there wasn’t a sound coming from outside the door. The man had gone. He had delivered his threat and gone.
    In the semi-darkness Gaspare felt his heart rate finally settle, and a few minutes later he was recovered enough to move. Getting to his feet, the dealer moved into the back kitchen and locked the doors, turning to the stairs and then stopping dead.
    There were footsteps overhead.
    Whoever had been outside was now inside.

13
    It took all of Gaspare’s courage to mount the stairs. His heart hammering, he looked up the stairwell towards the noise above. Where was it coming from? The bedrooms? The attics? His hand gripping the banister rail, Gaspare Reni – seventy-eight years old, born in Milan, art dealer and historian – climbed the stairs. Composure replaced the earlier panic. Now he was enraged at being made to feel a victim in his own home. And determined that no one would get hold of the Titian.
    Before Seraphina’s death he might have tried to shrug off his fear, but her murder had confirmed it. The painting was dangerous. He couldn’t allow it to leave his possession. People might mock the legend of Angelico Vespucci, but Gaspare believed it. He was old enough to be able to imagine possibilities he would have sneered at in his youth. Experienced and humble enough to fear what he didn’t understand.
    Holding the iron poker he had picked up from the grate downstairs, Gaspare rounded the bend on the landing and paused.
    He listened.
    There was the noise again.
    Footsteps overhead.
    From the attics.
    Yes, the sound was coming from above. From the place where he had hidden the Titian. True to his word, the man had broken in and was now searching among the grimy eaves of the old convent roof.
    Tightening his grip on the poker, Gaspare took the next flight. His steps were noiseless, but when he reached the bottom of the flight which led to the attic, the footsteps overhead suddenly stopped.
    Holding his breath, Gaspare looked up.
    There was a faint light showing at the head of the narrow attic steps, a torchlight flickering in the dimness. For an instant Gaspare paused and looked back,