Текст книги "Memory of Bones"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

51

In the basement of the Feldenchrist Collection a morose-looking French forensic pathologist named Maurice de la Valle was pulling on his laboratory coat. Preoccupied, he washed his hands and then carefully stretched on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. With considerable caution, he made sure that the gloves fitted his fingers and allowed complete freedom of movement. Finally he walked towards a sealed storage vault and entered a fourteen-digit number, unfastening the lock and taking out a small box. He then placed the box on his worktable and, after wiping down the metal surface, spread out a piece of black plastic sheeting. Finally he took the lid off the box and lifted the skull out, placing it in the centre of the sheeting.

He turned as Bobbie Feldenchrist came in. She seemed agitated. ‘I want to see the authentication papers again …’

He shrugged, passing them over to her.

‘You checked these?’

‘Of course I did. Twice.’ He glanced at her, surprised that she should query his actions but not daring to show his annoyance.

Ignoring him, Bobbie stared at the skull. Her head reverberated with Ben Golding’s words. Was the skull a fake? Had the African duped her? Had she really paid out a fortune for a worthless lump of bone? Christ! she thought desperately. If anyone found out, her reputation was bankrupt. She would be a laughing stock, the supposed crowning achievement of her collection not the skull of a genius but a nobody.

She could hardly question the African. He would deny his deception, and even if he didn’t he could blackmail her into silence by threatening to expose Joseph’s adoption.

Trapped, Bobbie felt the dry taste of failure. ‘This is the head of Goya …’

‘Yes, the head of Francisco Goya,’ de la Valle replied with solemnity. ‘One of the most important art finds in history.’ Lovingly he let his forefinger trace the cranial markings on the skull, then move around the orbit of the eye sockets. ‘I’ve waited all my life for something like this.’

Close to retirement age, he had felt nothing but disappointment with his career – until the skull had been handed over to his care. From being a respected, if undistinguished specialist, he was suddenly promoted, even being photographed with Roberta Feldenchrist for a piece in Vanity Fair. Maurice felt a swelling of professional pleasure. His retirement – when it came – would be pedestrian no longer. Thanks to Francisco Goya he would be able to travel, giving lectures about the skull, explaining his pivotal role in the phenomenal find. The long dry years which had stretched before him, heading inexorably towards a lonely death, were now bulging with promise.

Bobbie was still reading Francis Asturias’s report, her gaze moving back to the skull.

‘How many holes in the skull?’

‘Three. Animal damage, or wear and tear,’ he said eagerly, pointing them out one by one.

‘But two of them aren’t really holes, are they, Maurice?’ Bobbie said firmly, looking at the skull. ‘Those two, they’re more like splits, breaks in the bone.’

His eyes flicked back to the skull and he took the notes out of her hands. Reading the report, he said:

‘“Three holes, two smaller than the third …” Yes, Ms Feldenchrist, but I’m sure they meant a hole.’ He looked at her questioningly. ‘A split, a hole – what difference? Only language.’

Oh, but was it? Bobbie thought. Perhaps, again, she had been too quick to see what she wanted to see.

‘What if this turned out not to be Goya’s skull?’

He felt a shifting sensation under his feet as his future shuddered in front of him.

‘You doubt its authenticity?’

‘What if I did?’

He was close to tears, disappointment making him emotional. ‘It is the skull, Ms Feldenchrist,’ he insisted desperately. ‘It’s Goya’s skull.’

‘Well, make sure you tell everyone that, Maurice,’ she said coolly. ‘You’re right. A split, a hole – what’s the difference?’

Leaving the laboratory, Bobbie walked back to her office and slammed the door closed. She had seen the evidence with her own eyes. Maurice de la Valle might fool himself, deny the obvious, but Ben Golding had been telling the truth. It wasn’t Goya’s skull.

Numbed, Bobbie stared at the desk, the intercom interrupting her thoughts, her secretary announcing that she had a visitor who refused to give his name.

‘Then tell him I can’t see him,’

‘He says you’ll want to see him. It’s about Joseph.’

Bobbie’s head shot up.

‘Show him in,’ she said, watching as Emile Dwappa entered. He was dressed in an exquisite suit, his hair newly cut. Her money was being put to good use, Bobbie thought bitterly.

‘I wasn’t expecting you today,’ she said.

He was momentarily taken aback. ‘You look angry.’

‘You bastard!’ she snorted, fighting to control her rage. ‘You robbed me—’

‘What?’

‘The skull’s not genuine,’ Bobbie went on, beside herself with anger and momentarily forgetting her fear of the African. ‘What did you come back for? To gloat? I mean, you’ve got me over a barrel, haven’t you? I can hardly expose you without exposing myself, can I? Jesus! I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. All that money …’ She paused, grabbed at a breath. ‘You can whistle for the other half of your payment!’

Dwappa blinked, the motion slowed down, oddly feline.

‘I want my money!’

‘We agreed that you’d get the rest when the skull was delivered. Well, it’s not the real skull!’

Dwappa was finding words difficult. ‘Who told you it wasn’t the real skull?’

‘Ben Golding. He came over to New York to tell me. And let’s face it, if anyone should know, he should.’

‘So he has the real skull?’

‘How the fuck would I know? I just know that I haven’t got it.’ She thought aloud. ‘But then again, if Golding knew about the swap, he must have the real one.’

‘Golding …’ Dwappa said simply, his body rigid.

And Bobbie Feldenchrist could see in that instant that the African hadn’t cheated her. He had believed the skull was Goya’s too. In fact, both of them had been cheated … Dwappa’s hands moved to his face, his eyes widening for an instant before he turned his gaze back to her. She could see his thoughts shifting, unnerved by her news, as his whole carefully constructed plot vaporised. His skin became ash coloured, shock-dry – and without thinking, she laughed at him.

She laughed because the man of whom she had been so afraid had turned out to be a fool.

52

Whitechapel Hospital, London

Struggling to open the door while carrying several patients’ file notes and a packet of biscuits, the ward sister finally pushed it open with her hip. Clicking her tongue, she then turned on the electric fire, her hand resting for an instant on the old radiator. Cold again. Bugger it! She would have to phone down to the caretaker and get him to drain the air out of the system. It always took hours. Hours in which the temperature could drop impressively.

She thought longingly of her sister, working in a private clinic off Wimpole Street. Now that was more like it – better wages and pleasant working conditions. Not like the Whitechapel Hospital – repaired, patched up, modernised in places like a transplant experiment.

Nibbling at a biscuit as she put the kettle on to boil, the sister glanced at the clock. Nine fifteen. She would be on shift until seven in the morning, but that was all right with her. The nights were usually quieter, although sometimes there were emergencies. A patient might start bleeding from an operation incision, or rupture internally. And if the operation site was infected, that was dangerous. Every nurse was trained to know that the facial/cranial area bled the most.

Luckily, such scares were rare. Both Ben Golding and the pompous Dr North were skilled surgeons. North might not empathise with his patients in the way Golding did, but he was steady as a judge in an emergency.

She looked up as a nurse walked in. ‘How goes it?’

‘Quiet,’ Kim Morley said, taking an offered biscuit. ‘Everyone’s settled. I’ve just checked on Abigail Harrop, and she’s comfortable. I was wondering why she’s no longer Dr Golding’s patient.’

‘Because now she’s his girlfriend.’

She raised one eyebrow. ‘That’s romantic. I used to dream about marrying a doctor, but now I’m not so sure. I fancy an IT engineer – someone who works regular hours.’

Smiling, the sister reached out for a stack of patients’ files and shivered.

‘I’m going to the storeroom to read these. Phone that bloody caretaker, will you, and get the radiator fixed.’

It took Kim Morley three calls before she finally managed to get hold of the caretaker. When he did answer his pager, he said he was stuck in the Intensive Care Unit.

‘We need the radiator fixing—’

‘I can’t be in two places at once,’ he replied. ‘There used to be three caretakers here. Now there’s only two. One man per shift. And every night I have to do everything –and all the time my pager going off like the bell on a bleeding ice-cream van.’

‘So come when you’re ready—’

‘Well, it’ll be when I’m ready, won’t it?’ he countered. ‘I’ll try and be up there in a hour or so.’

Irritated, Kim clicked the pager off and looked out of the nurses station window on to the ward. Everyone was quiet, only one female patient reading a book, her light making a moody puddle in the semi-dark. It was getting colder and – despite the administration memo warning against spiralling electricity costs – she turned on the second bar of the electric fire. All was silent and calm, she thought with relief. Eleven p.m.

Turning back to her notes, Kim was surprised when the caretaker suddenly walked in, tossing his bag down on to the floor.

‘Be quiet! You’ll wake the patients.’

Ignoring her, he walked over to the radiator and felt round the back. In silence, he took a key from his bag and stuck it into the release knob and a hissing sound emerged.

‘Oh, Christ! You’ve got a bleeding leak, as well,’ he said, his hand reaching under the radiator. ‘You never said anything about a leak.’

‘I didn’t know there was one,’ Karen replied. ‘The radiator wasn’t working—’

‘Well, it’s working now. And it’s leaking now,’ he replied, exasperated, as he knelt down. ‘Look at this,’ he told her, jerking his head towards the bottom of the radiator. ‘Look, see that? That’s water, that’s what that is. Pass me my bag.’ Impatiently, he rummaged through the contents, then took out a monkey wrench and handed the nurse a torch. ‘Hold that, will you? This shouldn’t take a minute.’

And as she did so a man passed, unseen, by the double doors of ward. Tentatively he paused, looking towards the nurses’ station and seeing that the nurse and caretaker were occupied, their stooped figures clearly visible in the bright office light. Beyond the station the rest of the ward was in darkness, even the reading light now turned off. Checking that no one was watching him, the man moved to the side rooms, checking the names on the three doors.

She had been sleeping, but Abigail’s eyes opened in panic as a hand suddenly covered her mouth, and a man – hardly discernible in the darkness – leant down over her.

‘Shut up!’

Terrified, she struggled, her screams muffled as he picked her up, finally losing consciousness as the chloroform took effect.

In silence, Emile Dwappa checked that the corridor was empty, then lifted her on to his shoulder and made for the back stairs only feet away. An instant later the exit door closed behind them, the nurse still talking in the room beyond.

53

London

After cleaning her teeth, Roma tucked her shirt into her skirt and brushed her hair, fixing it tightly into a ponytail at the back of her neck. Checking her reflection one last time, she left the Ladies and walked out into the corridor, heading towards the squad room.

As she entered, one of the older detectives, Jimmy Preston, stood up.

‘There’s been a woman snatched over at the Whitechapel Hospital. The officer in charge thought we should know.’

Roma frowned. ‘Why?’

‘The ward sister said that the woman’s called Abigail Harrop. She’s Ben Golding’s girlfriend.’

Behind them, Duncan rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody hell—’

Roma cut him off. ‘Does Golding know?’

Jimmy shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘Find out,’ she said, beckoning for Duncan to follow her into her office. Once there, she launched into him. ‘This feels wrong.’

‘What does?’

‘All of it! Everything to do with Ben Golding. His brother’s death – which he insists was murder – and Diego Martinez and Francis Asturias being killed. All of them involved with that skull. And now his partner’s been abducted. Come on, Duncan – it’s all related. It has to be.’ She paused, thinking aloud. ‘Martinez was murdered in London. Ben Golding found his brother’s body in Madrid, and Francis Asturias was killed at the Whitechapel Hospital. All places Golding could have been.’

‘You think he killed his own brother?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Leon Golding was unbalanced – everyone said that, even Carlos Martinez. He told us that Diego found the Goya skull and gave it to Leon. An incredibly valuable artefact that everyone wanted. Then Leon was found dead—’

‘Because his brother killed him?’

‘He could have done. He knew Leon would trust him. He was the only person Leon would trust. He could have killed him.’

Duncan shook his head. ‘For what?’

‘The skull!’ she retorted. ‘Remember what we were told – it’s worth a fortune.’

‘But Golding’s a doctor. What would he want with it?’

‘Money?’

Duncan pulled a face. ‘Nah, I don’t believe it.’

‘All right, let’s take it step by step. Ben Golding was called in on the Diego Martinez murder to give his opinion on the surgery the head had undergone. What if he knew we would call him in? He’s the leading expert in London, so it would be natural to involve him. And, being involved, he would know everything that was going on with the case from the start.’

‘But we found his card in the victim’s pocket,’ Duncan said, ‘with Leon Golding’s mobile number on the back.’

Twisting her pen in her hands, Roma continued. ‘Ben Golding knew we would become involved after Leon’s death, because we’d eventually tie him to Diego Martinez and the skull. Remember how he denied knowing whose mobile number it was on the back of the card?’

‘But someone else could have planted that card to put suspicion on Ben Golding—’

‘Just go along with me for a minute, Duncan. Golding saw Francis Asturias’s reconstruction of Diego Martinez, but he said that he didn’t know the victim. Surely, if he was innocent, he would have admitted he knew him?’

‘But it was Leon who knew Diego Martinez, remember? Ben Golding hadn’t seen him for a long time.’

‘He’s not a stupid man, he would have remembered … And then there’s the Goya skull. Francis Asturias must have reconstructed it. He was the obvious choice. And then what happened? He was killed. And the last number listed on his phone records? Ben Golding.’

‘You really think a respected surgeon would kill for a skull?’

‘I don’t know,’ Roma admitted. ‘But I’ve been thinking about it for a while and wondering about the Golding brothers. We know Leon was unstable, but what about Ben? In comparison to his nervy brother he might seem very stable, but perhaps he’s not quite what we think he is.’

Duncan took in a slow breath. ‘All right, I hear what you’re saying … But now his girlfriend’s been abducted, and Golding’s out of the country. So it can’t be him.’

‘But is he out of the country?’ Roma queried, standing up. ‘I want you to get a file on Leon Golding. His life, how he died. I want to know everything about the man.’

‘We’ll have to go through the Spanish police—’

‘So do it!’ she snapped. ‘Leon Golding was an art historian. What was he working on? Find out. I want his notes, his computer documents—’

‘From Spain?’

‘Don’t argue with me, Duncan,’ she said wearily. ‘Just get the information. But keep it quiet. Jimmy can know, but no one outside the department, you hear me? No one is to know about this.’ She glanced at her watch hurriedly. ‘And find out about Ben Golding too. I want to know all there is to know about those two brothers. Everything.’

Duncan had been trying for nearly fifteen minutes to make himself understood by the Spanish police when Jimmy Preston came into the squad room and rescued him, gesturing to Duncan repeatedly until finally he covered the mouthpiece.

‘What!’

‘You talking to Spain?’

‘What the fuck d’you think I’m doing?’

‘I think you can’t speak fucking Spanish,’ Jimmy said evenly, ‘and I can. Pass me the phone.’

Impressed, Duncan watched as his colleague launched into perfect and fluent Spanish, making notes as he chatted, even laughing down the line. Finally, Jimmy passed the phone back.

‘They said they’d like to say goodbye to you. And that your accent was the worst they’d heard in a decade. Thanks for the laugh you gave them.’

‘Very funny,’ Duncan replied, slamming down the phone. ‘Did you ask them for the information?’

‘Yeah. They’re sending copies of what they have on Leon Golding’s death by fax. But apparently his computer’s gone missing, so they don’t know what he was working on.’

‘They agreed to help? Just like that?’

Jimmy shrugged. ‘Well, they moaned about it. I promised to send authorisation from this end. They said they would have to have it rubber-stamped, et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Which means?’

‘We should have it this afternoon.’ He leaned across the table towards Duncan. ‘Apparently when Ben Golding insisted on his brother’s autopsy, someone in the police force decided that they’d have another look at the file. You know, just in case they were wrong and it wasn’t suicide. After all, Ben Golding’s a respected surgeon and his brother was important in Madrid—’

‘So what did they find?’

‘Nothing,’ Jimmy replied. ‘But they knew he was working on Goya,’ he went on, reading his notes. ‘Francisco Goya the painter. He’s a national treasure in Spain—’

‘The bloke who did that picture of the naked woman?’

Jimmy sighed. ‘And to think that I thought you were ignorant … Only Goya didn’t just paint naked women, apparently he painted some weird stuff too. He did a series of works called the’ – Jimmy glanced at his notes again – ‘the Black Paintings. They were dark and Leon Golding was studying them.’ Duncan eyes widened. ‘The police also said that there was a rumour going round that Leon Golding had found Goya’s skull. And …’ again checking his notes, ‘there’s a record of their interview with his girlfriend. She said that Leon had been in the middle of a nervous breakdown. That he’d been working too hard. Got obsessed. She even said that they’d had a seance—’

‘You are joking?’

‘Hear me out. Leon Golding’s girlfriend was worried about him because he had mental health problems, but nothing life-threatening. But then suddenly he dies.’ Jimmy looked at Duncan and held his gaze. ‘Sounds convenient, doesn’t it? Dying just after finding a priceless artefact.’

Duncan made a low whistling sound. ‘You’re thinking along the same lines as Roma. Who knew about all of this?’

‘The same person who knew about everything else.’ Jimmy countered. ‘Who knew all the people involved, and how to play them. A man at home in Madrid as much as London. Perhaps a man clever enough to make himself look sane. The only person who could know everything – Ben Golding.’

54

New York

Scrutinising the Englishman, the concierge of the hotel watched as Ben walked into the reception area. There was something unsettling about Mr Harris, he thought, checking the information on his reservation card. Idly his gaze moved down the London address, the occupation – salesman, indeed – and then the card details. Everything in order. But the concierge hadn’t been in the hotel business for fifteen years without having a sixth sense for trouble and he knew when a guest was running away from something. They always came with little luggage and didn’t tell anyone where they were staying. No next of kin. No trace. As for the address, obviously false.

Turning to the receptionist, he asked, ‘Has Mr Harris had any phone calls?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Visitors?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Any messages?’

She shook her head and the concierge glanced back to where Ben stood waiting for the lift. Just as he thought – no one knew that he was staying at the hotel.

Ben’s clothes, noted the concierge, were fresh, and he was wearing a clean shirt, but his walk was slow and he seemed anxious, turning around repeatedly. The concierge had seen the same look before. It usually meant a marital fight, a bad business trip or a planned suicide.

There had been two suicides in his hotel career, and he had tried to anticipate the warning signs. There was nothing more complicated than trying to move a corpse out of a room without any other guests seeing it. In fact, on the previous two occasions the bodies had been moved late, taken down the industrial back lift to an ambulance waiting in the alleyway outside … The concierge was still thinking about the suicides when his attention was called away by the receptionist. When he looked back, Ben had entered the lift and was already making his way to the fourth floor.

He was wondering why no one had approached him, or even followed him. He had expected to be watched, even attacked. But nothing had happened, which was somehow more disturbing. Was he the only person who knew the skull was a fake? Surely he was, or he would have been approached by now. And although he had made himself into an obvious target, no one had made a move.

Walking into his hotel room, Ben locked the door and took off his coat. His shirt was sticking to his back even though the weather was cool, the collar of his open-necked shirt rubbing against his neck and leaving a red welt. Emptying his pockets, he hung his jacket in the wardrobe and moved out on to the balcony. Glancing up, he saw nothing sinister, only the base of the upper balcony. Moving back into his room, he checked under the bed and then walked to the door, looking out. The corridor was empty, but at the end of the passageway a fire door was just swinging closed. Unsettled, he returned to his room and relocked the door.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror seemed odd, as though he was looking at himself from a distance. Muzzy from lack of sleep and anxiety, he did another check. The room was secure, he was safe. He was safe. All that mattered now was sleep. That was imperative, or he wouldn’t be able to go on. He would sleep for just a couple of hours. He would be all right, Ben told himself. The door was locked, the windows closed and bolted. He would lie down, get some rest, and then he would be able to think more clearly and decide what to do next. Prepare himself for what was coming.

Because he knew something was coming. He knew it deep inside himself. He knew it without being told. His visit to Bobbie Feldenchrist had not gone unnoticed. His plan, however naive, had worked. He had been seen. So how long would it be before Bobbie Feldenchrist admitted that she had a fake? How long before she challenged the person who had brought it to her? And how long before he suspected Ben Golding? The man already responsible for three deaths wouldn’t hesitate to kill again … Hardly able to keep his eyes open, Ben took off his shoes, walked to the bathroom and moved over to the toilet, lifting the lid.

Inside the bowl, a pig’s bloated, severed head stared up at him.