Текст книги "Memory of Bones"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

43

New York

He was the last person she wanted to see. But when the intercom buzzer sounded from below, Bobbie allowed Emile Dwappa to come up. She had made sure that her son and the nanny were out of the apartment and had dressed herself as though she was going to a business meeting. Which, in a way, she was. The African had to be made to realise that his usefulness to her was over. He had brought Joseph into her life and for that, she had paid him amply. There was nothing more she wanted from him. If he was difficult, she would have to put pressure on him.

Turning to the mirror in the entrance hall, Bobbie studied her reflection as though examining a painting. The Issy Miyake suit was flattering but dark. As for her make-up, there was nothing soft about it – nothing welcoming. Only she would know that behind the image she was moist with anxiety. She didn’t know the full extent of the African’s dealings – she didn’t want to. She just wanted to make sure that when he left her apartment he would never return.

Expressionless, Bobbie watched the elevator come to a halt at the penthouse, saw the doors open and the African walk out with a small briefcase. He did not seem surprised to find her waiting for him. Instead he moved past her into the drawing room and sat down.

Infuriated by his familiarity, Bobbie’s tone was curt.

‘I thought our business was concluded. In fact, that was why I agreed to see you today, to impress upon you that there is no reason for us to meet again.’

He glanced round, unconcerned, Bobbie nonplussed.

‘Mr …’ She paused, realising that she had never known the man’s name and now certainly did not wish to learn it. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

His narrow face was as impassive as hers. Only he realised that she was affecting her stance, whereas he was fully in control.

‘What would you say would be the most important find in art?’

Her eyebrows rose, irritation barely concealed. ‘I don’t think—’

‘How’s your son?’

Again, she was taken unawares. ‘Joseph’s very well.’

‘Can I see him?’

A moment of unease threatened to capsize her.

‘He’s out with his nanny.’

‘He has a nanny?’ The African’s pale eyes seemed amused. ‘I bet you got him the best nanny in the world.Who are the best nannies?’ he asked, then pretended to think. ‘Oh, yes, Norland nannies. English.’ He could see Bobbie flinch and carried on. ‘Do you really think I don’t know everything about your child?’

She swallowed, but kept her voice steady. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘You didn’t answer me.’

‘About what?’

‘About what would be the most important find in art.’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied shortly, ‘That would depend on what people were looking for. One person might want a piece of sculpture, another a Rembrandt.’

‘What if the piece wasn’t art, but something personal to the painter?’

Despite herself, Bobbie’s attention was caught. ‘What kind of personal thing?’

‘Like Leonardo’s hand.’

She laughed, surprising herself. ‘If you think someone has the hand of Leonardo you’ve been duped. People often try and pass off fakes as artistic relics.’

‘But what if this was proven to be authentic?’

For an instant she forgot her fear and felt only the thrill of the collector scenting a find. ‘You have proof?’

‘Yes. From a leading art historian and a top forensic reconstructor.’

She laughed nervously. ‘Indeed.’

‘I’ve become aware that many private collectors would be desperate to own this object. Bartolomé Ortega for one—’

‘Bartolomé Ortega?’ Bobbie repeated, startled by the name coming from such a source. ‘He’s involved?’

‘He wants to be.’

Her voice steadied. ‘What is the object?’

‘It’s very rare. Very rare indeed.’

‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’

‘A skull.’

Her eyes flickered. ‘Whose?’

‘Goya’s.’

To his surprise, she laughed. ‘Oh, not again! Poor Goya. To my reckoning his skull has been “found” three times. Each time it was a hoax.’

‘The Prado don’t think it’s a hoax.’

She stopped laughing. ‘They have it?’

‘No.’

‘But they’ve seen it?’

‘They know all about it. They allowed one of their leading historians to have it examined.’

Sitting down, Bobbie could feel her legs shake. So one of the great mysteries of art history had finally been solved. The missing head of Francisco Goya had been found after being stolen nearly two hundred years earlier. The head of the greatest Spanish master who had ever lived … She could imagine what her father’s reaction would have been – astonishment, followed by an overwhelming desire to own it. But how could an individual, even a Feldenchrist, add such a treasure to their private collection?

But then again, what was the African doing in her apartment unless he was coming to sell? Jesus! Bobbie thought, her heart drumming. Did he have it?

‘Why did the Prado allow this historian free rein?’

‘Because he found it. Or rather, it was found and passed to him.’

She leaned forward slightly in her seat. ‘Who is he?’

‘Who was he,’ the African corrected her. ‘Leon Golding. He committed suicide only the other week and the skull left his hands.’

Bobbie had heard of Leon Golding, but she hadn’t known about his death. And she didn’t want to know because knowing might be dangerous for her. She was tempted to ask the African to leave, but instead her gaze moved to the small briefcase beside his feet, her breath quickening.

‘I hadn’t heard about Mr Golding’s death. He was a gifted historian.’ Her gaze fixed on the case, hardly daring to believe what she was thinking. ‘Was the skull found with Mr Golding?’

‘No, there was no sign of it in the hotel room.’

‘Was it at his house?’

‘No.’

‘So what happened to it?’

‘Apparently it was stolen.’

‘Stolen?’ she echoed, her eyes flicking from his face back to the bag at his feet. ‘Do the Prado know?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And Bartolomé Ortega?’

‘He knows it’s missing.’

‘But he hasn’t found it?’

‘No.’

‘He has a lot of contacts and money. I would have thought Mr Ortega would have been able to get hold of the skull—’

‘His contacts must have failed him.’

‘But he would want it badly.’

‘He must have had the wrong contacts.’

‘Do I have the right one?’ she asked, staring at the dark leather of the case and imagining what was inside.

The skull of Francisco Goya – and she, Bobbie Feldenchrist, would own it. It wasn’t difficult to picture her coup, or the animosity which would follow from the likes of Bartolomé Ortega and the Prado. That an American would end up possessing a priceless Spanish treasure … The thought made her covet the skull even more. What a triumph for her and the Feldenchrist Collection. It would make the cover of TIME magazine, would be talked about in every artistic circle around the globe.

Bobbie tried to keep her thoughts composed, but longing overtook her. She sighed, taking in a breath. The skull wasn’t hers yet. Not yet.

‘Well,’ she repeated calmly, ‘do I have the right contact?’

In reply Dwappa bent down and lifted the case on to the table between them. Slowly he opened it. Bobbie leaned forward, her hands extended, but he brushed them away. Instead he lifted out the skull himself, passing it to her in silence.

She could feel her hands shake as they cupped the discoloured bone, her gaze travelling across the empty eye sockets and the jawline, her memory fleshing out the bareness until she could imagine the artist restored. The man who had pictured the Spanish court, the majas, the Disasters of War … Swallowing became difficult, emotion so intense it was almost erotic. To own this, to own the head of one of the greatest painters who had ever lived! She could see it in a display cabinet, behind unbreakable, bulletproof glass, with one of Goya’s pictures on display beside it. People would come from all over the world to visit the skull, to pay homage to the artist and, in doing so, to the Feldenchrist name. She would be recognised as the greatest collector alive, because she would own the greatest artistic relic in existence.

Her voice was husky when she spoke again. ‘Are you sure it’s genuine?’

He nodded. ‘I told you, I have authentication.’

Then he put out his hands.

Bobbie immediately leaned back, out of his reach. It did not matter that she was holding the head of a dead man, a skull which had been wrenched from a corpse. To her it possessed no spirituality, but was merely an emblem of triumph.

‘Give it back to me, Ms Feldenchrist.’

She was curt with desire. ‘How much do you want for it?’

‘Five million dollars.’

She made a short, snorting sound. ‘Five million!’

‘You have it.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘So give the skull back to me,’ he replied implacably.

‘Three million.’

‘I won’t bargain,’ the African said, staring coldly at her. ‘It’s a lot less than you paid for your son.’

She winced, remembering Joseph – then put all thoughts of him aside. ‘Five million is too much.’

‘The Prado would want this skull. No doubt they could raise the money.’

‘Five million? I don’t think so. Besides, they wouldn’t pay you for it. They wouldn’t do anything illegal.’

‘But Bartolomé Ortega might. And he’s a rival of yours, isn’t he? And I believe he was more to you in the past

Bobbie shrugged, trying to bluff. ‘So why don’t you go to him?’

‘Maybe I already have. Maybe I’m just waiting for the highest bidder.’

Bobbie stared at the African, her confidence fading. ‘Has he put in an offer?’

‘He might have done. What’s your offer?’

‘I’ll match his.’

‘No,’ the African replied, suddenly changing tack. ‘I think I might ask something else from you. What if I asked you to exchange your son for the skull …?’

The words made a hissing sound in her ears.

‘What would you say, Ms Feldenchrist? Give me your son and I’ll give you the skull.’

‘You’re not serious?’ she croaked, still holding the skull to her, the hard bone pressing into her chest.

‘What if I am? Your son for the skull.’

Incredulous, she stared at him – at the narrow head, the smooth, dark features, the seeming absence of malice in this most malicious of men. The skull seemed to rest against her, warming, soothing. No one else possessed such an object. No one. A woman could adopt a child any day. Hadn’t she proved that? But there was only one Goya skull – and she was holding it.

‘So, Ms Feldenchrist, what’s it to be? Your son or the skull?’

Her fingers were holding the head so tightly she could hear her nails scratch against the bone.

‘Just give me back your baby and you’ll beat Bartolomé Ortega. It’s not a hard choice for you to make, is it?’

‘I … I …’ she stammered.

‘Come on, make the choice!’

Letting out an odd mewling noise, Bobbie stared at him.

‘I …’

The African laughed suddenly, taking the skull from her hands. ‘Relax. I wouldn’t be so cruel,’ he said, his taunting over. ‘What would I want with that kid of yours? No, Ms Feldenchrist, I want money. I want five million dollars for this skull.’

She was beaten and she knew it.

‘All right. I can get it for you.’

‘I know that,’ he replied, tucking the skull back into the packing and closing the case. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow at four. You give me the money then, in cash, and I’ll give you the skull.’

Quickly he moved to the door, pausing by the elevator. Behind him, Bobbie leant against a pillar, her face ash white, her body drained. Finally the elevator came to a halt at the penthouse and Dwappa turned back to her.

‘Aren’t you lucky, Ms Feldenchrist?’

‘Why?’

‘That I didn’t make you choose,’ he replied, walking into the elevator and turning back to her. ‘When you think about our meeting later you’ll remember the choice you were ready to make.’ He smiled as the doors began to close. ‘What would it have been, Ms Feldenchrist? The baby or the skull?’

44

London

‘I had to come,’ Abigail said, walking past Ben into the hallway. Once inside, she kissed him, then pulled back and looked into his face. ‘You look terrible. Handsome, but terrible—’

‘You shouldn’t have come here. I told you not to.’

She ignored him. ‘I heard about Francis. I rang your rooms. Your secretary told me.’

She could see that Ben was shaken, Francis’s death coming so soon after Leon’s. Concerned, she touched his cheek, trying to soothe him. His composure was weakening. Other people might not notice it, but Abigail could see the difference. His appearance was altering, his outer, physical size somehow overwhelming the inner man.

‘What’s going on?’

‘You know what’s going on—’

She shook her head. ‘No, I know some of it, but not all. Talk to me.’

‘I can’t. I daren’t,’ he said, turning away from her and walking into his study. Alarmed, she followed him. ‘I want you to go back to France, Abi. Go back there until all this is sorted out.’

‘All what?’ she queried. ‘I’ve only got half the story, Ben. You have to talk to me. Don’t cut me out.’

‘Talk to you?’ he said simply. ‘Jesus! That’s the last thing I’d do. Francis is dead because I involved him. I can’t risk you. You have to go back to France—’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Don’t do that,’ he said anxiously, touching her face. ‘Please, don’t do that.’

Pulling her to him, he rested his lips against her hair, breathing in the scent of her. He knew that in rejecting her he was exiling his last ally, but he had no choice. From the moment Leon had been given the Goya skull all their lives had changed. A malignancy had begun which was now spreading hourly. Knowing that his own safety was in question, Ben was aware that he might not be able to stop its progress, but he wasn’t going to sacrifice anyone else.

‘Go back to France,’ he repeated, kissing her cheek. Then he drew back, touching her skin and feeling the slight swelling underneath. ‘Abi, what’s this?’

She smiled lightly. ‘Nothing. I’m having it checked out.’

‘Let me look,’ he replied, turning her to the light and staring at her face. The doctor again. ‘You’ve got to have that seen to. It might be nothing, but—’

‘Stop worrying,’ she said, hurrying to reassure him. ‘It’s all organised. I’m having a biopsy. I’m going into the Whitechapel tomorrow.’

‘Without telling me?’

‘Ben, stop it! I was going to tell you, but other things have happened before I could. Don’t look at me like that – it’s nothing to worry about. You’re not my doctor any more – Mr North is doing it. He was going to talk to you about it this afternoon.’ Her voice softened. ‘Relax, darling. This is me, Abigail. I’ll be fine and everything will work out in the end.’ She led him to the sofa, sitting down beside him and resting her head on his shoulder. ‘You have to get some rest.’

‘Malcolm North’s a good doctor,’ Ben said, preoccupied. ‘He knows his stuff. You’ll be in safe hands.’

‘And what about you? Whose safe hands are you in?’

‘Not yours, Abi.’

She smiled, almost regretfully. ‘I know you’re trying to protect me – and I love you for it – but you have to trust someone.’

‘Not you. I won’t put you in danger.’

‘What danger?’ she pressed him, sitting up and looking into his drawn face. ‘Is there a connection between the deaths of Leon and Francis Asturias?’

‘Let it rest—’

‘I’m not a fool, Ben!’ she snapped. ‘I know about Leon and the skull. And I know you gave it to Francis to authenticate—’

He gripped her hands so tightly she winced. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Forget everything I told you, Abi. Please, leave it alone.’

‘Why? What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know who killed Leon or Francis, so how can I do anything?’

‘You need to sleep—’

‘I can’t sleep!’ he snapped back. ‘I have to go to Madrid tomorrow, to Leon’s funeral—’

‘Then let me come with you.’

‘No!’ Turning away, he shook his head. ‘I wish my brother had never got hold of that bloody skull. I wish he’d never seen it. The moment Leon touched it, his life fell apart. It tipped him over the edge.’

‘He was always near the edge—’

‘And they pushed him over.’

‘For a skull? Abigail asked incredulously.

‘We’re talking about Goya’s skull – what wouldn’t a collector do to own that? Dreams are made on lesser stuff. Leon used to talk about the competitiveness of the business. How a dealer or historian was desperate to find something valuable, or prove a theory. Poor bastard,’ Ben said gently. ‘Poor, sorry bastard …’

She took his hands in her own.

‘… Leon thought that the skull would make his name. And if he solved the Black Paintings, he’d be set for life. But he was competing with the likes of Bartolomé Ortega, and God knows who else.’

‘You don’t have the skull any more, do you?’

He was desperate to confide – to tell her about Francis’s confession and about being threatened – but he held back, giving her the partial truth.

‘I don’t have the skull.’

‘Thank God,’ she said with feeling. ‘But surely whoever has it will have to explain how they came by it?’

He smiled bitterly. ‘No one will ever know that it was stolen from me. People would deny knowing how it came into their hands. The provenance would be blurred. Leon used to tell me all about it – the fudged backgrounds, the made-up histories. There would just be vague stories of the skull being found—’

‘That was Leon’s story.’

‘That wasn’t his story, it was the truth. The skull was found and passed over to my brother—’

‘But now it could be anywhere,’ Abi said, her head on one side. ‘Why don’t you let it be?’

‘What?’

‘What can you do, Ben? Leave it to the police. Let them handle it. If there’s anything to find, let them find it.’

She was afraid for him, and for herself. Afraid of losing the man who had given her back her life. Afraid to lose the protector she had fallen in love with. To her shame Abigail realised that despite her sympathy for Ben, she was angry with Leon. Angry with the dead man who was threatening her security and the life she prized.

‘Just back off—’

‘My brother was murdered!’

‘You’ve no proof of that. The Spanish coroner ruled it suicide. You’ve no evidence, and with Leon’s background of mental instability no one would believe you.’ She leaned towards Ben, her mouth dry. ‘Leave it alone. Whoever wanted the skull has got it back. Forget about it, then you’ll be safe. They have no reason to come after you unless you give them a reason.’

Incredulous, Ben stared at her. ‘So I let my brother’s killer get away with it?’

‘What else can you do?’

‘Jesus! You just don’t get it, do you? I can’t walk away,’ Ben replied. To her amazement he seemed close to tears. ‘I was supposed to look after Leon. Everyone knew he was unstable, that he needed protection. I had a duty of care to him—’

‘He was not your patient.’

‘No, he was my brother!’ Ben snapped back. ‘He was my home, my family. He was my sibling. For years there were only the two of us – the Golding brothers. I was meant to look out for him. He needed me.’

‘You did what you could—’

‘I wasn’t there!’ Ben shouted, almost beside himself. ‘I didn’t save him. I failed him … And I can’t live with that.’

Desperate, she pleaded with him. ‘Leave it alone, Ben, please. I love you—’

‘I know. And I love you.’

‘I don’t want to lose you—’

‘And I don’t want to lose you.’ And then he lied. ‘It’ll be all right, Abi. It’s just all been such a shock. It’ll take some time to come to terms with.’

His thoughts were running on and he realised that having Abigail admitted into the Whitechapel Hospital was the perfect solution. At the Whitechapel, he could keep an eye on her. As a patient, she would be surrounded day and night, with nurses to keep watch over her when he wasn’t there. What better place to be protected than a hospital? It was, he thought with relief, even better than her returning to France.

Then he remembered what else Abi had said: They have no reason to come after you unless you give them a reason.

And that was exactly what he was going to do. He wasn’t going to be warned off. He wasn’t going to give in to threats. He was going to do the opposite and draw attention to himself. Ben Golding might not know who had killed his brother and his friend, but he knew how to find out.

He wasn’t going to run or hide. Instead he was going to make himself visible. And then they would come after him.

BOOK FOUR

… I have painted these pictures to occupy my imagination, which is tormented by all the ills that afflict me …

GOYA ON THE BLACK PAINTINGS

Quinta del Sordo, Spain, 1822

Her shadow fell across the whitewashed wall of the house as she carried the washing indoors. The heat had been so intense that the clothes were still hot under her fingers as she folded them. Leocardia had no interest in local gossip. She had no reason to explain why her marriage had failed, or why she had chosen to live with Francisco Goya.

She leaned against the door jamb, full-hipped against the hard stone. The old man’s deafness was no impediment to her. He did not hear her frequent outbursts, her temper hot as dry sand. He remained painting while she cleaned the house; he remained painting while she cooked, eating everything she gave him gratefully. And he remained painting while she bathed and then stood, half-naked, in the doorway, letting the night air dry her.

The bawdy libertine, the late Duchess of Alba’s lover, the painter kings had bowed to, was now a willing captive in the enclosed world of the Quinta del Sordo … Languorously, Leocardia moved upstairs, the heat rising with her. The old man was painting afresco in their bedroom, another of the garble of murals with which he was mapping the interior. She moved towards him, knowing he would sense her coming, and rested her chin on his shoulder, looking at the painted figures of the Ministration: one grimacing man in the foreground, one to the left, and a woman laughing behind. Not as disturbing as some of the images, Leocardia thought, then realised that the foremost figure was masturbating.

Amused, she stretched her arms above her head, then walked over to the window and relit a batch of candles. Sometimes, when she had the patience, she talked to Goya slowly so that he could read her lips; chastised him for working too long, in too poor a light. He would listen and shrug, grabbing at her backside in a memory of earlier desires.

And, as always, Goya’s demon figures flickered in the lamplight, Leocardia’s own image in the room below them. Her image, huge as an icon, leaning on a mound of earth.

‘What’s under the ground?’ she had asked.

Again a shrug, a word scored impatiently into the wet paint underneath.

‘Me.’

Leocardia was no stranger to superstition. To her, dark forces were as much a part of life as sunlight. But in the few years since they had moved to the Quinta del Sordo she had seen Goya’s original paintings of the dancing figures obliterated under the Pilgrimage of St Isidore, the meadow turned to a rocky outcrop, as barren as the madmen who walked there.

Still watching him, Leocardia thought of Dr Arrieta. He believed Goya was suffering from a breakdown and that his last illnesshad taken a mental toll. He was afraid, Arrieta said sadly, that the old man might never recover … Leocardia’s eyes fixed on the painter, unblinking, her expression unfathomable. Knowing he was watching her, Goya turned and tilted his head to one side, regarding her.

Many times he had thought of sending Leocardia away, but he knew he would not. He would let her stay. He needed her. He was afraid of her. He was afraid without her. The summer would capsize itself and the autumn would slip out of her greenery, but she would stay.

Outside, Goya could sense a late wind picking up. It swung through the trees, taking the steamy heat from the river and creeping into the Quinta del Sordo unseen. Behind him stood a massive painted image of despair: a solitary dog in a desolate landscape, only its head showing as the quicksand dragged it under to something no one could see.

For an instant Goya stared at the image and the dog’s head turned. It barked once, the sound unheard, its eyes full of terror and the fear of coming death.