Текст книги "Memory of Bones"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

She caught the sarcasm in his tone and flushed. ‘I just want a child—’

‘And I just want to fulfil your wish. But remember, never mention me. If you do, neither your name nor your money will save you.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, taking one last look at the paintings which surrounded him. ‘You have a good life. You don’t want to risk that, Ms Feldenchrist …’

She was rigid with shock, all colour going from her lips.

‘So remember this. If you mention me to anyone – if you even drop a hint that I exist – I’ll personally make you sorry you were ever born.’

Frightened, she stepped back, bumping into the settee behind her. In that instant she realised exactly what she had done – that the pact she had made was for life. And she also knew that if she broke it, he would kill her.

30

London

‘I got a call from Ben Golding,’ Duncan said, glancing over at Roma. ‘He’s viewed the remains of the Little Venice murder victim and faxed his report through to your office. Professional, huh?’

‘Usual practice.’

‘He could have cried off.’

She glanced at him, puzzled. ‘Why?’

‘His brother’s just died.’

‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

‘He committed suicide, in Spain.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Oddly enough, Ben Golding’s insisting that his brother didn’t kill himself. He says he’s been murdered.’

Surprised, she took a breath. ‘What makes him think that?’

‘Didn’t say, but he was emphatic about it. Mind you, he was in shock, I could tell that. He was talking too much over the phone. Not like himself at all. You know, talking like he couldn’t stop. He said that everyone was putting his brother’s death down to a suicide, but he had found the body and he reckoned he’d been killed. Then he just shut up, like he’d said too much.’

Roma frowned. ‘Imagine finding your own brother dead … What else did he say?’

‘He said he was still in Madrid—’

‘Madrid?’

‘That’s where his brother lived.’

‘What else?’

‘Nothing else. Not about his brother anyway. Started talking about the Little Venice case instead.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘That’s odd.’

‘Why? You asked Golding for a professional opinion. He was working on the case.’

‘Did he mention anything about us finding his card on the body?’

‘No.’

‘Obviously he’s seen the reconstruction?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But he didn’t recognise the victim?’

‘Said not.’

Frowning, Roma pushed a stack of papers to one side of her desk and leaned forward. The chair creaked morosely as Duncan took a seat opposite his boss. Placing her hands over the Little Venice file, she stared at him. ‘Have we any leads on this?’

‘No,’ he said, trying to read her thoughts. ‘What is it?’

‘Huh?’

‘You look thoughtful. What about?’

She shrugged.

‘It just seems odd, that’s all. That business of Ben Golding’s card on the murder victim. And now his brother’s been killed.’

‘You think the cases are related?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s a hell of coincidence, isn’t it?’ She doodled on the pad in front of her, making looping spirals on the page. ‘Did Golding say why he thought his brother had been killed?’ She looked up. ‘No? Then we need to ask him.’

31

Madrid

In the glossy centre of Madrid, a solitary man was seated at a table, a half-empty coffee cup in front of him. Overhead the slow curl of a fan chugged into the afternoon warmth, the arched windows opening out on to a wrought iron terrace, rusted in places. Only minutes earlier a woman had come in and watered the plants outside, taking care not to splash the leaves or the flowers. A careless drop of water, magnified by Spanish sun, could work like a lens, scorching the fragile, pulpy greenness underneath.

From the open window came the sound of the city: car horns, shouts, the occasional punctuation of laughter. But inside the room was quiet, interrupted only by the noise of the lift shuddering to an impatient halt on the landing outside. Sighing, the man looked upwards into an inverted, painted well. Figures from pastoral mythology cavorted in fleshy groups, a painted sky the colour of a Russian sapphire. A froth of clouds drew the eye downwards to the tops of carved pelmets and gilded pictures frames, standing cheek by jowl with ceremonial documents and antique weaponry.

The palatial office of Gabino Ortega told everyone immediately how wealthy he was. The fact that he did very little work in it did not matter. It was a front for him – a stage set for an actor playing a tycoon. But now Gabino was finding himself at a loss, his mobile still in his hand, his mind seething. Leon Golding was dead.

So where was the fucking skull?

His irritation accelerated into anger as he pushed back his chair and stood up. He had been too slow. He should have got the skull off Leon Golding as soon as he had heard that it was in his possession – either bought it or stolen it, but got hold of it nonetheless. The lame lie about the skull being a fake and buried in a churchyard had been almost laughable. Surely Golding had realised that he hadn’t believed him – that he had, instead, had him watched?

Thank God he hadn’t told Bartolomé about it, Gabino thought suddenly. He would have looked like a fool. Glancing up, he watched the man who had just entered the room, a scrawny picture restorer in his seventies, who nodded as he took the seat offered to him.

‘So, where is it?’

‘The chambermaid said she never saw any skull,’ Lopez replied. ‘She said she would have remembered something like that.’

‘Did she go through Leon Golding’s things?’

Lopez nodded, shifting in his seat. ‘You can’t let anyone know about this—’

‘About what? That you’ve got people working in the hotel, ready to thieve anything important they come across?’ Gabino pulled a face. ‘I’m not interested in what you do in your own time, only what you do for me. And now I want to know about Golding. Did the maid go through his things?’

‘She didn’t have time. The hotel room was never empty. Leon Golding checked in and stayed in. After he’d topped himself, his brother arrived and found the body—’

‘His brother found him?’

‘Yeah. And when the maid finally had the chance to get into the room, all Leon Golding’s stuff had gone.’

‘Ben Golding took it?’

‘Yeah.’ Lopez sucked at a hole in one of his back teeth. ‘But I know where he went – to the family house. His brother lived there with his girlfriend. She’s still there.’

‘And Golding’s there too?’

‘Yeah.’

Gabino paused, trying to think, trying to cover his annoyance at the fact that something which should have been so simple had turned out to be so complicated. Only an hour earlier he had received confirmation of his court hearing – the date set in a couple of weeks’ time. Even the Ortega money and lawyers had failed to get the assault charge dropped. There was a rumour that Gabino would be made an example of, his violence curtailed by a long overdue jail sentence.

He realised that in Switzerland his brother would have heard the news by now. He also knew that, having endured many years of Gabino’s excessive behaviour, this might well turn out to be the act which finally broke Bartolomé patience and terminated the gravy train. And now Gabino had lost sight of the one thing which could have placated his brother: the skull of Goya.

‘There’s one other thing …’ the old man said carefully. ‘Leon Golding’s brother is challenging the fact that it was suicide.’

‘Of course he killed himself!’ Gabino said impatiently. ‘Leon Golding was unstable. Everyone knew that.’

‘Did you know he was having tests done on the skull when he was killed?’

Gabino’s head jerked up. ‘Who was doing them?’

‘Dunno. But they were done in London.’

‘London?’ Gabino took in an irritable breath. ‘How d’you know?’

‘I have my methods,’ Lopez replied enigmatically. ‘The skull is Goya’s. Proven.’

‘I knew it! He knew that bastard was lying when he said it was a fake … D’you know who found it and gave it to Leon Golding?’

‘Diego Martinez. A builder. Who’s since gone missing.’

‘Missing …’ Gabino replied thoughtfully, pulling at his shirt cuffs, the crescent-moon cufflinks catching the hot Madrid light.

‘I spoke to someone at the Prado,’ Lopez went on. ‘Since my restoring days I’ve had contacts—’

‘Get on with it!’

‘Apparently the Museum felt comfortable that Leon Golding should have carte blanche. He was one of their staff, after all. But he could have tricked the Prado. Gone somewhere else with the skull.’

Gabino could sense that the old man was working up to something. ‘Did he?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lopez replied. ‘But I saw him talking to an Englishman called Jimmy Shaw a few days ago. I also saw the same Jimmy Shaw outside the Hotel Melise on the night Leon Golding committed suicide. Or did he? If his brother’s right, maybe Leon was killed. By Jimmy Shaw.’

‘And?’

‘Jimmy Shaw might have the skull now.’

Thoughtful, Gabino took a long breath. ‘Find out who Jimmy Shaw’s working for.’

The old man nodded, but didn’t get up to leave. Instead he kept talking. ‘It seems to me that you’ve got a real problem. You’ve only got a short time to find that skull for your brother.’ Lopez had already worked out the connection between the court case and Gabino’s allowance. ‘The skull could be with Jimmy Shaw or Ben Golding.’

‘Start with Shaw.’

‘I would – but I can’t find him,’ Lopez replied, leaning forward in his seat. ‘I found out where he’d been staying, but no one’s seen him for twenty-four hours, since Leon Golding was killed. He’s gone missing.’

‘So the builder who gave the skull to Leon Golding is missing, Leon Golding is dead, and now this Jimmy Shaw has disappeared.’ Gabino took in a slow breath, trying to fight his impatience. ‘Talk to Ben Golding. Make him an offer.’

‘He might want to keep the skull, out of respect for his brother.’

‘It was Goya’s fucking skull, not Leon’s!’

‘Still,’ Lopez persisted, ‘Golding might want to keep it. Might want the kudos for himself. Goya’s head would be very welcome in London – build up their tourist trade nicely.’

Gabino’s face was tight. ‘Ben Golding’s a doctor. What would Goya’s skull mean to him?’

‘More than you might think. The Golding brothers grew up close to where the Quinta del Sordo used to stand. Leon was an art historian. They probably know as much about Goya as any Spaniard. Ben Golding might believe that he has a right to the skull.’

‘Then disabuse him of the notion,’ Gabino said sharply. ‘And do it soon.’

32

Switzerland

All morning Bartolomé had waited for a phone call from his brother. He had expected Gabino to apologise, to try to explain as he usually did. Try to shrug off the charge of assault as something unimportant, a light-hearted misunderstanding that would be sure to be thrown out of court. Bartolomé knew otherwise. Gabino wasn’t walking away from having smashed a glass into a banker’s face. No one walked away from that. Not even one of the richest families in Spain could smother that.

The victim’s photographs had underlined the casual violence. His check had been slashed to the bone, his trigeminal nerve severed, leaving his face with a slack, left-sided droop. Bartolomé knew that a jury would look at that face and Gabino would be damned … But why should he care any longer? Bartolomé thought. He had made too many allowances for a brother who was corrupt. Had tried to ameliorate too many unpleasant and sordid situations.

Strangely it wasn’t the assault which had finally turned Bartolomé against his brother. It was the fact that Gabino hadn’t told him about the Goya skull.

‘Are you working?’ Celina asked, walking over to her husband’s chair.

‘No … not really.’

‘But you were thinking,’ she prompted him. ‘About what?’

‘Gabino.’

Sighing, she leaned against the desk and looked at Bartolomé intently. ‘The case?’

‘No … something else,’ Bartolomé admitted. ‘Something I haven’t told you about.’ She was surprised, but said nothing, just let him continue. ‘The skull of Goya has been found …’

Her hand covered her mouth automatically, smothering her response.

‘And Gabino heard about it.’

‘… and he’s got it for you?’

Smiling bitterly, Bartolomé shook his head. ‘No, he never even told me about it.’

Her expression hardened. ‘How long has he known?’

‘A week. I kept expecting a call from him. I even thought he might visit, surprise me with the news. They found the skull in Madrid. Gabino must have heard about it.’

Celina sighed, finding herself in the position she had occupied, on and off, for many years – between the two Ortega brothers; between two totally dissimilar men who had only a fortune in common.

‘But Gabino had no reason not to tell you—’

‘Malice,’ Bartolomé said flatly. ‘He knew how much it would mean to me and so he didn’t want me to have it.’

‘No,’ Celina said, shaking her head. ‘No, I don’t believe it. Talk to him. Ask him about it.’

‘Never.’

Turning away, Bartolomé stared at the blank wall facing him. Nothing would induce him to talk to his brother about the Goya skull. Nothing. Gabino had been too secretive this time, too clever by half. And he would return his brother’s cunning in full measure.

‘I’m disinheriting him.’

‘What!’

‘I’m cutting him off from the family,’ Bartolomé replied, his tone fixed. ‘He’s done nothing for years except spend money and disgrace the Ortega name. I’ve talked to him about it over and over again, but he never listens. He runs with the wrong crowd, the wrong women; he plays at working, wastes money on the useless projects of his cronies and invests in the schemes of men eager – and clever enough – to dupe him.’ Straightening his tie, Bartolomé put up his hands to prevent his wife’s protestations. ‘I’ve tried for years to love him. Even like him. But when I look at Gabino I see only a liar and a fool—’

‘Bartolomé, he’s not like you. He’s reckless, but he has good qualities.’

‘He has no goodness in him. While I’ve spent years behind that desk working, he’s been undermining me. Hard work is a joke to him, my pride in the family name regarded as comical. He pities me!’ Bartolomé said fiercely. ‘You think I don’t know it? You think I don’t look into Gabino’s eyes and see it? He wants to fuck and spend money, but nothing else. Nothing else is sacred to him.’

Her voice was soothing.

‘Darling, think about what you’re saying. Gabino is your brother—’

‘I have a son. I have Juan.’

‘We have a son,’ she corrected him, walking over to her husband and touching his shoulder.

Feeling the muscle tense under her fingers, Celina moved away. When Bartolomé was in one of his rare tempers, nothing could comfort him. Of course she realised the real reason for her husband’s decision. It wasn’t just that Gabino had been mean-minded, petty-spirited, withholding from his brother – who had given him so much, so willingly – something he would have treasured. It wasn’t the deception that hurt, it was the contempt. Despite decades of being indulged, Gabino was indifferent to his brother’s one passion.

‘Think about it—’

‘I have thought about it.’

‘He’s your brother,’ Celina said again, coolly controlled. ‘A member of the Ortega family.’

‘But is he a worthy one?’ Bartolomé asked. ‘Our name’s been corrupted in the past. I’ve spent my life trying to undo the damage my ancestors – especially my grandfather – inflicted on it.’

‘And what price a name?’ she asked, standing up to him. ‘You put a name above a brother?’

‘This brother, yes.’

‘But not another brother?’ she queried. ‘What kind of brother would you approve of? Someone hard-working, loyal? Trustworthy? Dull? What brother would suit you and the Ortega name?’

‘I hate him!’ Bartolomé spat out. ‘God forgive me, but I do. I hate his face, his mannerisms, his lies. And now he’s gone too far—’

‘Gabino’s no different to how he always was.’

‘And you always make excuses for him!’

‘Yes, I do,’ Celina replied, her tone icy. ‘Because I try and make you see that this is more than just an argument between the two of you. You are more than siblings – you are part of a family, a business, a heritage. Your arguments can’t be petty – your lives are on a grander scale.’ Composed, she leaned against the desk again and folded her arms. ‘You’re right, we have a son. And because of Juan – because he will carry on the Ortega name – we can afford to be more lenient with Gabino.’

‘My grandfather would have cut my brother off—’

‘Your grandfather was a killer,’ she replied, without a flicker of emotion. ‘You know it, Madrid knows it, I know it. Where do you think Gabino’s aggression comes from? It’s in his blood. It’s in yours too, Bartolomé. It’s only your responses which differ. You control it, he does not. You fight it, he surrenders to it. You are afraid of it, Gabino revels in it.’

Slowly Bartolomé turned to look at his wife. He was, as ever, impressed by her.

‘It would have been such a small thing to tell me about Goya, but it was such a massive thing to hide. It required such spite.’

‘I agree.’

‘And yet you ask me to forgive him?’

‘No, not forgive, accept.’

‘I accept, he rejects.’

Nodding, Celina studied her husband. ‘If you throw Gabino out, if you cut him off from the family, think about what will happen. You think it will be the last you hear of him? Gabino is not your grandmother, Bartolomé. Not some woman without power. He’s got friends and cronies. He could gossip, talk about your business, betray you.’

‘He might be doing that now.’

‘No,’ she said briskly, shaking her head. ‘There would be no profit in it now. No sport either. But if you disinherited him, Gabino would expose every detail of your life and work. You treasure your privacy, Bartolomé; think what it would be like to have your life trawled across the papers. How would you cope with that? Everything about you would be public gossip. Everything about us, our son, our home. By the time Gabino had finished we wouldn’t have an inch of earth to ourselves that hadn’t been tainted.’

Bartolomé could picture the life she was describing and paused. He wanted desperately to be rid of the brother he disliked and reviled; had hoped that the affair with the skull of Goya had presented him with an opportunity to finally cut off the restless scion of the Ortega family. But once again his wife had stayed his hand.

‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

‘About Goya?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why does the tide come in and out?’ Celina asked, walking over to Bartolomé and cupping his face in her hands. This time there was no resistance. ‘I know how hard this is for you. Remember, I know Gabino too … But listen to me, and think about this carefully – you can hate him, mistrust him, even banish him, but you’ll never be rid of him. Instead accept him and watch him. Something that is easier to do close by than from a distance.’ Unflinching, she held her husband’s gaze. ‘Gabino was born an Ortega and he will die one.’

33

Madrid

Sitting in the kitchen of the old house, Ben listened as Gina walked about the rooms upstairs. Noises from the past shuffled around the old table, Ben’s initials driven deep into one corner and beside them, lighter scratches – LG. Staring at the initials, Ben reached out his hand, his fingers covering the marks, Detita’s voice coming back to him.

Can’t you hear it, Ben? Leon can hear it. Leon can hear the dead talk.

And just as easily he could hear his own reply:

The dead don’t talk. The dead are dead …

His hand pressed down on the wood, on his brother’s initials, the wind muffled against the window, the creak of the weathervane making little rusty sighs. Hardly breathing, Ben thought of his brother as a boy, saw him turn on the drive and wave. Saw him older, wearing glasses to read, picking at some bread Detita had made. Saw him crying, trying to speak, but shaking instead because he could hear noises.

The tree told me to do it …

And then he remembered Leon at the head of the stairs on the day their parents died … Other sounds came back, unwelcomed. The noise of a lost bird cawing from across the river, the smell of the Manzanares in a swampy summer, flies droning against the catch of tide. Throughout how many queasy summers had they lived here? Ben thought, glancing around him. Perhaps he should never have left Spain – should have stayed with his brother, worked in Madrid.

I should have saved him. I should have saved him …

Turning, he jumped, startled, at the sight of Detita standing in the kitchen door, Tall, her expression impassive, her white nightdress fluttering in the draught from the window.

‘Ben?’

He blinked and the image had gone. Instead it was Gina watching him.

‘My God,’ she said, walking over. ‘Are you all right?’

He nodded abruptly, but he could feel the heat coming from her and when she sat down at the table next to him he could see the outline of her breasts against the thin fabric.

Fanning herself with her hand, she shrugged. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Thinking of Leon?’

‘Can’t stop thinking about him. I miss him so much,’ she said simply, pushing her hair back from her face with an impatient gesture.

As she reached up, her breasts pressed against her nightdress. Ben glanced away. He felt hazy, oddly light-headed. Not because he wanted her, but because he was uncomfortable. Surely this woman – Leon’s woman – wasn’t flirting with him? His gaze moved to the wall over the old grate, where a mirror suspended from a brass hook reflected the back door. Sometimes – when he had been a boy – he had crept out at night, running to the bridge. And there he’d stood and clapped his hands, as Detita had taught him.

… When you need me, come at midnight to the Bridge of the Manzanares, clap your hands three times and you will see black horses appear …

And he had clapped his hands, but had seen no horses. Except once. Only once did he see the black horses and, panicked, he had run back to the farmhouse. Run in at the back door which he could see reflected now in the mirror, and stood in the kitchen, waiting for the thudding of the hooves to pass … I never told you I saw them. Ben thought blindly. I should have told you, Leon.

His gaze moved upwards into the knotting of pipes above his head, almost as though, illogically, he believed he would see his brother there.

‘You don’t have to leave straight away, do you?’ Gina said softly. ‘This is your home … I’d like you to stay. I’d like the company.’

‘I have to sort out Leon’s things …’

‘We can do that tomorrow. I can help.’

Ben wasn’t listening. ‘… I was brought up here …’

‘I know.’

‘… with Leon.’ He paused, looking around, painfully lost. ‘I should have visited him more often – you were right.’

‘You came when you could.’

‘I should have come more often. He must have been lonely.’

If she took the words as an insult, she didn’t show it. ‘He was a lonely man, but you couldn’t have done anything about that, Ben. I couldn’t. No one could.’

‘He had no one.’

‘He had me.’

He turned to her. ‘Sometimes.’

She blinked. Once.

‘Why are you still here, Gina? You were scared before, asking me if you were in danger.’ He was baffled, and showed it. ‘Why would you want to stay here?’

‘I wouldn’t – unless you wanted me to.’

His confusion was so absolute he couldn’t answer and the silence yawned between them.

Then suddenly the mood broke, Gina drawing back, and shifting tactics. ‘I asked you before, did Leon tell you about the baby?’

‘No.’

She shrugged in reply, turning away so that he had to fight to hear her.

‘I miscarried, Ben. I lost your brother’s baby.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Leon was too. It mattered to him so much. He wanted that baby …’ She looked at him desperately. ‘I keep wondering if the miscarriage didn’t play on his mind. He was already overworked, under terrible stress – then that happened.’

‘You think it unbalanced him?’

‘I think it made him worse,’ she said quietly. ‘I think having a child would have helped him. Stabilised him.’

‘You think so?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Maybe,’ Ben conceded. ‘We’ll never know now.’

Her eyes filled and she looked away quickly. ‘I suppose you want me to leave? It’s your home, after all.’

‘Leon’s dead, Gina. There’s no reason for you to stay.’

‘Isn’t there?’ she asked. ‘I could cook for you – while you’re here, anyway. You are going to stay in Spain for a while, aren’t you?’

He shook his head.

‘No, not long—’

‘But—’

‘I’ve told you. I just want to sort out Leon’s things and then go back to London. I think you should go home too, Gina. Go back to your family.’ He turned to her and held her gaze. ‘It would be better – and safer – for all of us.’

Without answering she walked off, the door closing softly behind her. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or upset, but he waited until he heard her move back into the bedroom she had shared with Leon. For nearly twenty minutes he sat in the semi-dark, wondering if she would come downstairs again. Finally, believing she was asleep, he moved into Leon’s study.

The smell of dust and books was overpowering and he was initially tempted to open a window, but resisted. Instead he flicked on the desk lamp and riffled through his dead brother’s papers. There were many volumes on Goya, many reproductions, but finally Ben found what he had been looking for – Leon’s notebooks. Tucking them under his arm, he picked up his brother’s laptop and walked to the door. The house was completely silent. It could have been empty, without any imprint of Gina. Without any imprint of the adult Leon.

Instead the place was full of boys’ murmured voices, Detita’s footsteps making their solemn way down the main stairs … Spooked, Ben glanced up, but the staircase was empty. Without making a sound, he hurried to the bedroom he had been using and packed the few belongings he had brought with him. Pushing Leon’s computer and notebooks in with his clothes, he added the papers he had found at the Hotel Melise and walked out to the car.

Day had yet to dawn, a little morbid light smearing the horizon, water sounds coming, muffled, from the river. The breeze had dropped and the weathervane was silent, but as Ben turned back to the house he caught sight of a figure watching him from an upstairs window. The outline was vague, the only distinct portion of the figure being the hand pressed against the glass, the palm white as the flesh of a lily.