Текст книги "Memory of Bones"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

40

There are fifty-nine steps leading from the back exit of the Whitechapel Hospital to the laboratory. There is a lift but it’s seldom used, too erratic to be trusted. Staff climb the stairs or take a short cut through the main body of the hospital, via Reception. The fifty-nine steps at the back are divided into dozens, a landing after every twelve except for the last flight. No one knows why there are only eleven steps here, but the last leads to a landing, the laboratory and, off that, storage.

Baffled, Francis Asturias stood in the storage room of the Whitechapel Hospital. He thought at first that he was imagining things, but then opened the box marked CAUTION – ANIMAL REMAINS again and felt inside. It was empty. The skull was gone. Tipping up the box, he rummaged through the shredded paper, but he could see at once that there was nothing there and glanced back to the shelf. It was definitely the right box. It was the only box marked CAUTION – ANIMAL REMAINS.

Reaching for a cigar stub in his pocket, Francis remembered that he couldn’t light up inside the hospital and chewed the end of the smoke instead. The skull had been there the previous day – he had checked – but now the box was empty. Preoccupied, he moved over to the door, fingering the key. Perhaps he had left the storage room open? He dismissed the idea immediately. For over thirty years Francis Asturias had locked up at night. The laboratory and the storage room. He’d never missed once.

So maybe there was another key. But who would have access to another key? And even if they did, why would they bother to go into a storage room which was just a repository for old files and junk? How would they know what to look for? Deep in thought, he walked downstairs to the back of the hospital and then moved behind a row of waste bins. Lighting up, he inhaled morosely on his cigar and nodded to a colleague who passed on his way to the car park. The evening was unseasonably cold and Francis shivered and pulled his white coat around him.

Inhaling again, he felt the bite of the tobacco on his tongue and glanced towards the main body of the hospital, lit up against the wintry dark. Half hidden in the shadow of the bins, he finished his smoke and moved back up to the laboratory. It was empty, no one due until the morning, but he had one more thing to do before he went home.

Flicking on a desk light over the workbench, Francis took out his mobile and dialled a number.

Ben picked up on the third ring, having obviously read the caller ID. ‘Francis, how goes it?’

‘Well …’ He shuffled his badly scuffed shoes. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem. The skull’s gone.’

‘Shit! I forgot to tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘I took it from the hospital.’

‘You took it?’

‘When I came back from Madrid.’ He paused. ‘I’m really sorry – I forgot. I should have told you.’

‘Arsehole,’ Francis said distantly. ‘I was dreading telling you, thought you’d go mad—’

‘The whole thing’s academic anyway. I’ve been burgled. Whoever broke in took the skull.’

He could hear a low whistle coming down the line, Francis obviously gathering his thoughts. ‘So you took the skull from the hospital? But now someone’s taken the skull off you?’

‘That’s about the measure of it.’

‘I see …’

Curious, Ben prompted him. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s funny, I kept thinking about our conversation the other day and what you’d said,’ Francis went on. ‘About the skull being dangerous, and how you didn’t want anyone to know about it. Or even where it was. And then a thought came to me. I mean, I’d handled the Goya skull, and the pathologist had seen it. Of course I’d told him to keep it a secret, but he might have told his secretary, might have left a note hanging about. People in hospitals gossip all the time …’

‘So?’

‘… And then Leon died, and you started talking about how you thought someone had killed him. That was scary, Ben, fucking scary. And now you’re saying that you’ve been burgled.’

‘What is it, Francis?’

‘You went off to Spain in such a hurry I didn’t have time to tell you before you went. And you never return your bloody messages—’

‘Tell me!’

‘I swapped skulls. I have the Goya. Whoever robbed you got a fake.’

At the other end of the line, Ben flinched. ‘So where’s the real skull?’

Francis was about to tell him. He was forming the words. But although his lips moved, no sound came from them. Instead a sudden and tearing pain made him drop the mobile, his left hand going to his throat, arterial spray drenching his fingers as he tried to breathe. As his knees gave way, Francis made one desperate last effort to hold together the gaping wound. But bubbles of bloodied foam came from his mouth and he slumped to the ground, the knife coming down again and severing his spinal cord.

The last thing Francis Asturias saw before he died was his mobile being turned off, and then dropped into the pool of his own blood.

41

Passing the monkey’s cage at the back of the health shop, Emile Dwappa paused, glancing through to where Mama Gala was sitting, picking her nose. Her bulk, hot in all its fleshy weight, sagged in the chair, her feet in wide sandals, the toenails long and ridged. Around her head she had, as always, a tightly woven turban. Dwappa knew why. It wasn’t some cultural fashion – it was to cover the fact that she was virtually bald. Only once had he caught her without the turban and stared, fascinated, for a long time, watching through the door of her bedroom. Her head had been covered with the scars of old sores, the back of her neck criss-crossed with lesions.

Outside, the rain had emptied the street, only a few school kids hurrying home, Mama Gala watching them. Under her arms the sweat patches swelled into dark half-moons, and her black eyes, with their yellowing whites, were alert. Shifting her position in the chair, she picked some matter from the corner of her left eye and stared at her son, her expression full of malice. He knew she was angry, looking for a reason to be provoked to violence. So strong was the sense of imminent menace around her, it leached from the floorboards of the shop, over the dried herbs and the packets of health foods, staining the labels and smearing the cheerful red lettering outside.

‘So?’ she said slowly.

‘What?’

‘You said you were going to get us out of here.’ She picked her nose again listlessly. ‘What happened to the big idea? I don’t see no big money coming in.’

He smiled, thinking of Bobbie Feldenchrist. ‘It’s working out – have a little more patience.’

She was surprised, and showed it. ‘How much patience I need?’

‘How much money you want?’

Her gaze moved over to him again, fixed him, made him remember the times he had wet himself when he was a child, so terrified of her he could hardly breathe.

‘You said we were moving,’ Mama Gala went on. ‘We should move on, get out of here soon. I don’t like being poor. I don’t like living like this.’ She studied him. ‘Don’t you hold out on me, boy. Don’t you think you can make money and run off and leave me here.’

‘I won’t leave you—’

‘No, you fucking won’t!’ she snarled. ‘I want a big house. A really big house.’

And he wanted to put her in a big house – a huge place with enough room for him to breathe. With air that wasn’t already tainted with her. He wanted to load his mother with money and buy himself some life. And he would, soon. Very soon.

‘I had to set it all up. It took time. The first part’s working out just perfect.’ He thought of the baby being cosseted in New York. ‘Any time now I’m on to the second part. Then I can move in for the kill.’

‘Fuck time!’ she snapped, heaving herself to her feet. ‘I’ve heard too much about time. I want to get out of here, you hear me?’

‘I hear you.’

‘So, now you hear me – you do it!’ she snapped, moving behind the counter and beginning to chop some dried herbs.

Her skin gave off an acrid smell, her hands greasy with sweat. And for an instant he couldn’t relate what he was seeing to the genial woman who babysat for the neighbours’ children. All the time she rocked them and sang songs, her feet tapped on the rug. And under the same rug were loose floorboards, and under the loose floorboards pornographic tapes, tapes crackling with malice.

Sing me a lullaby, they asked her, and she sang, tapping her feet on the corruption below. Rocking the children over the discs of the bad, the mad and the dead.

Hearing the shop door open, Mama Gala looked over at the visitor, her expression challenging as she stared at the fat man.

‘You again?’

‘I want to see Emile Dwappa.’

Shaw was sweating, leaning against the door jamb, his face bloated, shiny. Although freshly bandaged, his hand was swollen to twice its size, the stink of decay unmissable. Trying to work up enough saliva to speak, he pushed himself upright.

‘I want to see him. He’s expecting me.’

Slowly Mama Gala turned her head and beckoned to her son. Gesturing for Shaw to follow him, Dwappa moved to the stairs. Hiding his triumph, he watched as Shaw grunted his way up the narrow staircase.

When he came within a yard of Dwappa, the African waved his hand in front of his face. ‘You stink.’

‘You did this to me!’ Shaw gasped, breathing raggedly. ‘You cure me now.’

‘All in good time,’ Dwappa replied, glancing at the package under Shaw’s arm. ‘That it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you get your money?’

Shaw nodded. But the action hurt him, tore into his neck muscles, every inch of his body sweating and blistering. ‘I got the money. And I got the skull.’

He could hear his own breathing, his lungs gluey, exhausted. On the flight from Madrid he had been isolated, the other passengers moving away from him, the stewardess asking if he was fit to fly. He had lied, said he had suffered an allergic reaction, that he would recover within twenty-four hours. And all the time he had been following Ben Golding, knowing he had the skull. After all, if Leon no longer had it, his brother must have.

Back in London, it had been easy to track Golding and later break into his home. It hadn’t even taken long to find the skull. But what had been really interesting was the phone message Shaw had heard while he was in the house. A message from Francis Asturias about the skull – a message he had not completed.

Although the message had said nothing specific, Shaw’s instincts had been roused. He didn’t know what Francis was alluding to, only that his antennae for deception were tipping him off. So he had shifted his watch from Golding to Asturias. Had tracked the reconstructor to the Whitechapel Hospital and watched him. Shaw knew he looked sick enough to be a patient and no one would ask him why he was there. And before long Shaw discovered that Francis Asturias was a close friend of Ben Golding, and that he had reconstructed the Little Venice murder head. Which meant that he would know about the card Shaw had planted on the victim – the card which pointed to Ben Golding’s involvement.

The rest was easy to guess. Who else would Golding allow access to the skull but Francis Asturias? Who else would Golding confide in after his brother’s death? Who else would be privy to the whereabouts of Goya’s head? All roads led back to one person and one person only – Francis Asturias.

Not that Shaw had meant to kill him. He had meant to scare him off, to warn him to keep his mouth shut. Time had been getting so short, he had known he was dying, but at least he had the skull. At least he could give Dwappa what he wanted in return for his life … But when Shaw had got to the laboratory the reconstructor had been talking on the phone. And Shaw had heard his words.

… I swapped skulls. I have the Goya. Whoever robbed you got a fake.

The misery of the words had slammed into Jimmy Shaw like a demolition ball. After all his striving, after all the tracking, the travelling, the threat of his own death creeping up closer – ever closer – behind him, he had ended up with the wrong skull.

In his rage he had struck out. And in killing Asturias he had not only expunged his own fury, but had made sure there was no one living who could question the validity of the skull. Because when Shaw had stolen it, he had taken Asturias’s authentication papers too. No one would challenge its authenticity, least of all Dwappa.

Jimmy Shaw had had no choice. He had been too sick to start looking for the real skull. Time had bested him, and he knew he would be lucky to make it to Dwappa before he passed out. There was to be no more running after skulls, from London to Madrid. It was over. Jimmy Shaw had got a skull.

Only he would know that it was the wrong one.

‘So, this is it?’ Dwappa said, taking the skull and weighing it in his hands. ‘Not as heavy as I thought.’ Slowly he unwrapped the package, staring at the head.

‘I kept my word,’ Shaw said thickly. ‘Now you keep yours. Cure me.’

Ignoring him, Dwappa kept his eyes on the skull, imagining how proud his mother would be. Soon she could have the house she wanted, the clothes she wanted, the power she wanted. And get off his back. Stick to her potions and her lies, keep to her secrets – but keep away from him. And after he had done the final deal, he would have money enough to travel. He could go anywhere. No more Brixton, no more Mama Gala breathing her fetid breath down his neck.

Composed, Dwappa turned back to Jimmy Shaw. Surely he didn’t believe he could be cured? He couldn’t be that stupid! Although, Dwappa had to admit, the trick with the money had been an inspiration. Of course, he had had no real intention of giving Shaw cash in advance. It simply went into Jimmy Shaw’s bank – and was never transferred. Shaw received confirmation of the deposit, but by then Dwappa had moved the money on again. Back to his own account.

Tilting his head to one side, he stared at the sick man. ‘How many?’

‘What?’

‘How many people died to get hold of the skull?’

‘Three,’ Shaw lied.

He reasoned that the higher the body count, the more impressive it sounded, even though he had only been responsible for the deaths of Diego Martinez and Francis Asturias. Let Dwappa think he had killed Leon Golding too. No point disabusing him.

Panting, the fat man leaned against the wall, his left hand leaving a sweat mark on the paint. ‘Here are the authentication papers,’ he said, passing Dwappa the reconstructor’s notes. ‘It’s Goya’s head. Proven.’

‘You did well.’

‘Now you return the favour,’ Shaw said, swallowing with effort. ‘Get this fucking poison out of me.’

He was trying to bargain with a young, fit man who had no pity and no intention of saving him. Jimmy Shaw had served his purpose. His slow poisoning had kept him alive just long enough to find the skull. His belief in a cure had kept him going while his body grew steadily more toxic.

Shaw’s eyesight was beginning to blur and panic was only moments away.

‘You have to help me.’

He watched as Dwappa’s gaze moved to his bandaged hand.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘What the fuck d’you think?’ Shaw replied. ‘Give me something.’

‘Like what?’

‘Cure me!’

‘But I can’t do that.’

Shaw had suspected it all along. Although the medication he had been given in Spain had affected a temporary recovery, new symptoms had begun and his fingers were turning black. Blinking, he stared at Dwappa and then slid down the wall, ending up sitting on the floor. His throbbing hand lay against his bloated stomach, his fat thighs sweaty, greasy with the matter which was seeping out of his body. Across the room he could see the old woman watching, his eyes blurring as Dwappa stood over him.

‘What … what about the money?’

‘No money. No one gets one over on me …’ Dwappa replied, crouching down on his haunches and jabbing at the pus-filled wound on the back of the fat man’s hand.

Shaw winced, felt fresh blood soak the dressing, his heart thumping sluggishly, its action slow.

‘You’ll be dead in a few minutes.’

His eyelids were closing and his face muscles slackening, losing all expression. Emile Dwappa never saw Jimmy Shaw laughing at him, smirking, and thinking that it was almost worth dying to know that he had crossed the African.

All Dwappa saw was a gasping, bloated man. A fat, beaten, stupid man. A man who had been hired, used and disposed of. Emile Dwappa had never taken Jimmy Shaw seriously.

And never once suspected that he would – in the end – destroy him.

42

In the morgue, Ben was looking at his old friend’s body in the minutes before the autopsy began. The injuries were savage, the wound in Francis Asturias’s throat inflicted with force, his spinal cord severed by the plunging down of the knife blade. Shaken, Ben stared into the reconstructor’s face, knowing that he was responsible for his death. Just as he was responsible for Leon’s. The guilt was crippling.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Roma said, coming up behind him, ‘but we need to talk.’

The morgue was uninviting, the tiles glistening as though snow-covered, Francis’s body on the table, ash-white, darkening underneath where the blood had settled after death.

‘Mr Golding, can we talk in your office, please?’

Turning, he nodded, Roma following him as they made their way back to Ben’s consulting room. Gesturing for her to take a seat, he took his and stared at her. There was no animosity in the look, only a blind incredulity.

‘Do you know any reason why Francis Asturias was murdered?’

‘No.’

She changed tack abruptly, hoping to catch him out. ‘What about Diego Martinez?’

The name reverberated in Ben’s head. ‘Who?’

‘Oh, I think you know,’ Roma replied. ‘Mr Martinez’s father recognised his son from the reconstruction. He came in and told us about Diego. About how he had known your parents in Madrid. About how they had given him a loan when he was in difficulties. A loan which meant a lot to him.’

Ben considered before answering. ‘Now you mention it, I do remember Mr Martinez—’

‘What about his son? Remember him now? He knew you and your brother.’ She checked her notes. ‘When his father moved to London to marry an Englishwoman, Diego stayed on in Madrid to run the business. He did work for your brother recently. And his father said that he did Leon a favour.’

Ben said nothing, couldn’t control his thoughts. Leon dead, Francis dead, and now the police had found out about Diego Martinez. How long before they knew about the skull? Or did they already know? He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his forehead, hearing Francis’s voice on the phone and the last words he had said to him.

It’s a fake.

And then he thought of the message on his answer-phone.

Don’t talk to the police … I’m watching you.

Confused, he looked at Roma Jaffe. He wasn’t supposed to talk to the police. He had been warned …

‘Do you know what the favour was?’

‘What?’

‘I know this is very difficult for you, Mr Golding,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but I have to ask these questions. They could be important. Do you know what favour Diego Martinez did for your brother?’

‘No.’

She sighed, leaning forward. ‘He gave him a skull …’

Mute, Ben stared at her.

‘It’s Goya’s skull. Apparently worth a fortune. Mr Martinez knew your brother would want it.’ She hurried on. ‘He found it and gave it to Leon, and now both of them are dead. Murdered.’ She went on. ‘Mr Martinez’s father said that Diego had been threatened. Was your brother threatened?’

Again he said nothing.

‘I can help you—’

‘Help me?’ Ben replied curtly. ‘How can you help me? Leon’s dead, Francis is dead, this Diego Martinez is dead—’

‘Because of something they all had in common. Leon was given the skull in Madrid. Did he ask you to have it authenticated?’

Silence.

‘What about Francis Asturias? He was a reconstructor – he did the Martinez skull for us. Did he reconstruct the Goya head for you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly. ‘He was a friend of yours, the person you would be likely to go to first. Especially if you wanted to keep it quiet.’ Sighing, she leaned back. ‘If these three men were killed because of that skull, you’re involved. Which means that you might be in danger too … Where’s the skull now?’

Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

‘You must do! Leon was your brother. You were very close. He would have come to you—’

‘He had his own life!’

‘He relied on you. I’ve been told that. You were his elder brother, you were successful and stable.’

Flinching, Ben turned on her. ‘Meaning that he wasn’t?’

‘He committed suicide, Mr Golding.’ She paused. ‘But then again, you don’t believe that, do you? You’ve told everyone that you think Leon was murdered. So why deny it now?’

‘Did I deny it?’

Impatient, Roma changed tack. ‘Your card was found on Diego Martinez’s body. You were the last person to talk to your brother before his death. And oddly – going from his mobile phone records – you were talking to Francis Asturias around the time of his murder. You have to talk to me, Mr Golding, because this is beginning to look very suspicious.’

Incredulous, he stared at her.

‘You think I had something to do with Leon’s death? You think I killed these men?’

‘No,’ she replied, tempering her tone, ‘but it looks very odd that you won’t talk to me. Just answer my questions, please.’

His gaze moved away from her towards the door as she continued.

‘I’ve heard some things about your brother’s girlfriend, Gina Austin.’

He looked back at her. ‘What things?’

‘Did you know she was involved with Gabino Ortega? And that he dumped her?’

‘No,’ Ben said honestly, remembering how Gina had lied to him, pretending that she had only known the Ortegas by reputation.

‘How did Gina Austin get on with your brother?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’

‘We’ve tried. She’s not at the farmhouse any longer,’ Roma replied. ‘Do you know where she is now?’

He had the impression that he was drowning, pulled under dirty water and a slow choking of mud.

‘No.’

‘You’re not being very helpful—’

‘Well, neither are you!’ Ben hurled back. ‘You come here asking me questions. Why aren’t you trying to find out who killed Leon? And Diego Martinez? And Francis Asturias? Find out, because I’d like to know. Francis was a nice guy, eccentric, funny. I liked him. Perhaps I was even fond of him. All the time I’ve been at the Whitechapel I’ve known him. And he would do anything for anyone. And now someone’s stuck a knife in him and you – you– have the nerve to suggest that I did it!’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m not answering any more of your questions. If you want to talk to me again, we’ll talk in front of my lawyer.’

Surprised, Roma stood up. ‘There’s a connection between these deaths and I’ll find it.’

‘Good. Well, let me know when you do.’