Текст книги "Memory of Bones"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

55

Reeling back, Ben steadied himself by grasping the edge of the washbasin. He knew then what his brother had felt; knew the same terror Leon experienced while he waited in another hotel room. Shaking, Ben backed out of the bathroom, turning quickly to check that there was no one behind him. He knew he had to leave the hotel before anyone discovered what had happened.

Wiping the sweat from his hands, Ben threw his few clothes into a bag and pulled on his coat. Then he moved to the door and walked out, putting the DO NOT DISTURB notice on the handle. With luck no one would enter for a while. Taking the back stairs, he moved out into the alleyway behind the hotel, looking round to check that no one was following him. And as he hurried on, the memory of his brother’s last conversation came back.

Someone’s watching me. Oh God, someone’s here … Jesus, I’m so scared …

And then he heard his answer:

You’re going to be OK. Just wait for me. I’m coming. I’m on my way.

But he had been too late.

Moving out on to the street, Ben looked around then hailed a cab.

‘Airport.’

As the cabbie nodded and pulled out into the traffic, Ben stared out of the car window. He would get back to London, to safety. Maybe he would even go and see Roma Jaffe and ask her for help. His hands shaking, he tried to fasten his jacket, but gave up, flinching at the memory of the pig’s bloodied head, his mind blurring with unease as the cab dropped him at the airport and he headed for the Departure Lounge.

It was the last – under-booked – flight to London and there were only a few passengers waiting. Ben’s gaze moved around hurriedly, glossy, pristine images drenching his consciousness. Models promoting perfumes and handbags blurred with the background noise, a crying child forcing him to change seats.

Finally, an announcement sounded overhead.

‘Flight BA 7756 for London is now ready for boarding at Gate 14. Would passengers please keep their boarding passes and passports to hand.’

Hanging back, Ben let the other passengers board the plane first, then took his seat at the back. Across the aisle, a businesswoman took out an iPod and began to listen to music with her eyes closed. Looking down, Ben composed himself and then glanced out of the window into the darkness, his reflection looking back at him momentarily before he turned away.

The weight of fear hung over him, exhaustion pressing down on his body. Closing his eyes as the plane crawled up to the clouds, Ben finally slept. As the engines hummed and the businesswoman’s iPod whispered its tunes, he began to dream. Sweating, he shuffled in his seat, his breathing quickening as he remembered Diego Martinez, the dead body of Francis Asturias, and his brother’s terrified words.

Someone’s watching me. Oh God, someone’s here—

Terrified, he jerked awake. ‘God Almighty!’

Concerned, the stewardess came over to him. ‘Is there something the matter, sir?’

He was befuddled, her face coming in and out of focus. He couldn’t remember where he was and mistook her for a maid coming into his New York hotel room. She would find the pig’s head … she would find the head.

‘I don’t know anything about it!’ Ben snapped, beside himself with tiredness and confusion.

The stewardess looked puzzled, the other passengers curious. Ben had a sudden, crazed impulse to cry. A madman in polite society.

‘You don’t understand!’ he said, ‘I don’t know anything!’

‘Calm down, sir,’ the stewardess said kindly. ‘We can sort this out when we get to London.’

And then Ben realised that she was humouring him, and thought of all the times he had humoured his brother. When he was irritated by him, or didn’t believe him, or was trying to protect him. And he suddenly knew how it felt to have the whole world staring in at your own personal insanity.

56

London

The young man off the 16.35 flight from Berlin to London was washing his hands in the men’s room at Heathrow airport. Idly, he checked his reflection in the mirror, then leaned forward to squeeze a blackhead on his nose. Deep in concentration, he jumped as he heard an odd sound behind him.

‘Hello?’

No answer.

‘Hello?’ he asked again, surprised as he had thought himself alone.

Warily he moved over to the cubicles. All the doors were open, apart from two. Curious, he pushed the first door. It swung open. The cubicle was empty. Then he pushed the second door.

‘Fucking hell!’ he said, rushing in. ‘Hang on, mate, just hang on!’

He thought the man was dead at first, jammed between the side of the cubicle and the toilet, tied to the cistern pipe by a rope around his neck. If he had lost consciousness he would have fallen forward and choked to death. His attacker had drawn his knees under his chin, tied his arms behind his back and taped over his mouth. Blood was coming from a cut over his eye and from a deep incision on the back of his head.

Hurriedly the young man untied him, unknotting the rope around his neck. Once released, he slumped forward on to the floor.

‘Hang on! I’ll get an ambulance.’

Gasping, Ben took in a breath and struggled to get up, the young man helping him on to the toilet seat. He was reeling in shock, trying to get his bearings.

‘I’m OK. I’m OK.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I’m OK–’

‘You need a doctor—’

‘I am a doctor.’

Trying to get some feeling back into his arms, Ben rubbed at the aching muscles. He hadn’t anticipated the attack. He should have done, but he had let down his guard momentarily and been jumped. The blow to the back of his head had knocked him unconscious, only regaining his senses when his attacker had gone.

‘You’ve been robbed,’ the young man said, pointing to Ben’s bag, its contents scattered around the toilet. Leon’s notes and laptop had been taken out and discarded. Obviously the skull was all that had mattered to his attacker. The theory was unimportant.

Struggling to his feet, Ben stuffed the contents back into his bag. So Bobbie Feldenchrist had talked. She must have challenged the man who had sold her the fake, and he had come after Ben to get hold of the real skull. Which he didn’t have … The killer must be panicking now, Ben thought, desperate that the Goya had eluded him. After so much bloodshed, so many deaths, how pointless to know that it had all come down the wrong piece of bone!

The young man was still hovering over Ben, concerned. ‘I should get help.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘But why would anyone hurt a doctor?’

‘Mistaken identity. Forget it, please. Don’t tell anyone.’

His rescuer was suddenly suspicious. ‘And why didn’t they take the laptop? I mean, if you were mugged—’

Ben put up his hands.

‘Ok, I’ll tell you the truth. It was someone’s husband …’ He paused, wanting to throw the young man off track and to elicit some male sympathy. ‘I was fooling around with his wife.’

The young man grinned. ‘Got caught out, did you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Was she worth it?’

Slowly Ben dabbed at the wound on his head. ‘Yes,’ he said wryly. ‘She was worth it.’

57

‘How long is she staying here?’ Mama Gala shouted at her son as he came into the shop, slamming the door behind him. ‘I’ve got some white bitch upstairs and you go off and leave me to it!’

Rain had seeped into the shoulders of Dwappa’s jacket, his expression strained as he turned to his mother.

‘I had to make a trip—’

She slammed her meaty hands down on the counter and walked over to her son, looking him up and down like a side of bad meat. Above their heads was a locked room, the old woman outside guarding the entrance, and inside was an unconscious Englishwoman, Abigail Harrop. A couple of times Mama Gala had gone into the room and stared down at the mattress on the floor on which Abigail lay drugged. She had wondered about the bandage around her head, the blond hair matted with blood and sweat, but had not interfered. Instead she had made sure that the drugged woman stayed drugged. And silent.

‘Is she’ – Mama Gala jerked her head upwards – ‘part of your plan?’

She is now, Dwappa wanted to retort. She wasn’t originally, but now she certainly is.

He had left New York before Golding, numbed by the news of the skull being a fake. And on the flight over he had decided to raise the stakes and abduct Ben Golding’s partner. Dwappa knew the woman was in the Whitechapel Hospital because, having been watching Golding for days, he had discovered her identity. At first Abigail Harrop had seemed unimportant, but suddenly her role had turned out to be pivotal. Because as soon as Golding heard about her abduction he would give up the skull.

‘You don’t answer your phone no more?’ Mama Gala snapped, catching hold of her son’s arm, her grip ferocious as she pulled him round to face her. ‘You look sick, boy. Your plan not working?’ Her turbaned head leaned to one side, her tongue jutting out momentarily like a snake tasting the air. ‘You failing me? Is that it – you failing me?’

His confidence collapsed, his longed-for escape from his mother derailed. He had money, yes, but not all of it – not enough. He had been cheated. Ben Golding had cheated him. He had upturned his plans and made a fool out of him. And Emile Dwappa couldn’t bear it. This was to have been his chance, his triumph. And Golding had beaten him.

But he would suffer for it. For every day Emile Dwappa had to stay with his mother, Golding would suffer. For every indignity, every torture she inflicted on him, Golding would suffer. For the postponement of his new life, Golding would suffer.

Shocked by what Bobbie Feldenchrist had told him, Dwappa had moved fast, organising his cousins in New York to pile on the pressure. After his meeting at the museum he had arranged to have the pig’s head left as a warning in Golding’s hotel room. Then he had gone back to London. On his return he had personally abducted Abigail and now he was waiting for Ben Golding to come back, but not before arranging his attack at Heathrow only minutes after he had landed.

Dwappa was piling shock on shock, throwing Golding into confusion, cranking up the fear so that in the end he would give up the skull without a fight. He wasn’t sure if Golding already knew of Abigail’s abduction – he was simply increasing the pressure so that he would realise just how much danger he was in. Dwappa knew that he would already be running scared. It didn’t even matter that Golding hadn’t had the skull in his luggage – Dwappa hadn’t expected him to be travelling with it. What he did expect was panic. And that would come soon, Dwappa told himself, just as soon as he knew that Abigail Harrop had been taken.

He could feel his hatred intensify. Other acts of aggression, even the killing of Jimmy Shaw, were bland by comparison. He would do to Ben Golding what had been done to him. He would buckle him, take everything from him, make him beg for his woman. Make him plead for Dwappa to take the skull. And then he would kill him.

‘Look at me, boy,’ Mama Gala said, her grip tightening on his arm.

Instantly Dwappa’s viciousness faltered, his aggression diluted in her presence. To her he was a gay boy, a queer, the son she had ridiculed and baited constantly, goading him and forcing him to please her, always please her. It should have worked out, Dwappa thought, panicked. He should be giving her the money now – money to keep her quiet. To get her a new house. To give him space. To buy his freedom from this terrifying maternal tyrant.

He remembered what had happened to his father and felt his bladder loosen.

‘You failed, boy?’

‘No,’ he said, repeating the word more loudly as he thought of Golding. ‘No. There’s just a delay.’

She touched his face, ran her heavy hand down his throat and then pressed against his windpipe, choking him. For a moment her eyes widened with pleasure, then she moved away.

He could hear the rain outside and see the street lights coming on as he watched her turn the sign on the door to CLOSED.

58

Certain that he was being watched, Ben let himself into his house just after dusk had fallen. Just as he did so, Roma Jaffe came running up the front steps and confronted him.

‘I need to talk to you.’

Surprised, he opened the door and stood back as she entered, followed by Duncan. Showing them into his sitting room, Ben turned on the lamps and took off his coat. He was trying to compose himself and clear his thoughts, wondering if they had already heard about the incident in New York. But how could they? He had used a false name and address. They couldn’t know about it.

More confident then he felt, Ben challenged Roma. ‘What d’you want?’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Why d’you want to know?’

Roma shook her head impatiently. ‘You should talk to us.’

‘Not without a lawyer present,’ Ben replied, on his guard.

‘Do you need a lawyer?’

‘I don’t know. But I’ve just been doorstepped by the police and they won’t tell me why—’

‘Your partner’s been abducted.’

He sat down, wondering for an instant if he had heard her correctly, his reaction muted with shock. ‘Abigail? When?’

‘In the early hours of this morning.’

‘This morning …’

‘Where were you?’

‘Where’s Abigail, more like!’ Ben snapped. ‘She was having an operation at the Whitechapel. She was in hospital.’ He was blustering, white-faced. ‘How was she taken from a hospital?’ He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, distracted. ‘Christ Almighty! Who took her?’

‘Mr Golding, we need—’

He cut her off. ‘What are you doing here? You should be looking for Abigail—’

‘Where should we look?’

‘Where should you look?’ he hurled back. ‘You’re the fucking police – you should know.’ Pausing, he stared at Roma, his expression incredulous. ‘You think I had something to do with this?’

‘Did you?’

‘I was in New York!’ he replied, pouring himself a scotch without offering one to Roma or Duncan. Downing it in one, he turned back to her.

‘You’ve got blood on your shirt, Mr Golding.’

The room fell silent as Ben turned away to look out of the window. He was trying to plan, but all he could think of was Abigail. He could see that the police had changed their attitude towards him. They were talking to him like a suspect. God, Ben thought, he had to get their attention off him! And fast, because he knew his girlfriend was going to be used as a bargaining tool. Abigail in return for the skull. If Ben antagonised the police – or worse, if he was taken into custody – he might never see her again.

The police would never find her. Or the abductor. No one knew who he was, or what he looked like. No one knew his name, not even Bobbie Feldenchrist … Ben kept staring out of the window, his face averted. It was obvious what would happen next. He would be approached, asked for Goya’s skull in return for Abigail. But he no longer had the skull. And without it he had nothing to bargain with.

‘Why is there blood on your shirt?’ Roma repeated.

‘I had a fall at the airport.’

‘Any witnesses?’

‘I was in the gents,’ Ben said curtly. ‘I slipped, hit the back of my head on the basin.’

Roma and Duncan exchanged a glance. ‘Do you know why anyone would abduct your partner?’

‘No. And shouldn’t you be looking for her instead of interrogating me?’ He relented. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just worried about her … You asked me where I was. I went to New York on a short trip to attend a conference and I’ve only just come back.’

‘You didn’t call the hospital while you were away?’

‘Of course I did! I called three times, last time yesterday morning. Abi was fine, making progress. She knew I was coming to see her tonight …’ he trailed off.

‘Has she any enemies?’

‘No.’

‘What about you?’

He lied without hesitation. ‘None that I know of.’

‘Really?’ Roma said. ‘But you’re having a hard time of it lately, Mr Golding, aren’t you?’

His expression fluttered, tiredness making his thoughts unsteady. Jesus! She thinks I’m involved. She thinks I’m after the skull for myself. He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Could only see images of Leon, Abigail, and the pig’s head jammed in the toilet bowl. Shaking, Ben struggled to control himself. You were in Madrid. You were the last person to talk to your brother … Your number was the last one called on Francis Asturias’s phone… He thought of Diego Martinez, had a sudden memory of a thin boy at the farmhouse many years earlier, followed by an image of the decapitated head. A murdered man, with Ben’s business card in his pocket … Unsteady, he reached for a chair and sat down.

Had he been in New York?

He couldn’t remember.

He was tired.

He’d been travelling.

He was back home.

No, he was in London.

Home in London.

Home in Madrid.

His eyes closed then reopened. Was he crazy? Christ, was he going crazy?

Roma was watching him, seeing what she thought was an imminent collapse. ‘First there was your brother’s suicide …’ She paused, waiting for Ben to correct her. But he didn’t, so she continued. ‘Then the murder of Francis Asturias. And before that, the death of Diego Martinez.’ She was certain of her theory, spelling it out for him. ‘All these incidents happening one after the other. It must be very hard to cope with. Confusing, even.’

He turned, stared at her, his expression bewildered.

‘But then again, they all have a common denominator, don’t they?’

Silent, Ben continued to look at her.

‘The skull. It all seems to have started with that Goya skull, and gone on from there.’ She was sure she had him. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Golding, that since it was found a lot of odd things have happened? You told me yourself that it’s very valuable. That some people would go to extremes to get it. I’m afraid to say that I’m not happy with what you’ve told me, Mr Golding. Don’t leave London again without telling me—’

‘What the hell!’

Poised, she went in for the kill. ‘I don’t have enough evidence to charge you. Yet. But I’ve got my suspicions and I’ll prove them—’

‘Based on what exactly?’

‘As I said before, the skull,’ Roma replied, her confidence rising. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking about this whole business, mulling it over, and I’ve come to a decision. Perhaps the person with the skull is the one we should be looking for? Perhaps he’s responsible for everything?’

Ben saw his chance and grabbed it.

‘But the skull’s in the Feldenchrist Collection, New York,’ he replied, holding her stunned gaze. ‘And the exhibition opened yesterday.’

59

Madrid

‘You stupid bitch,’ Gabino said sourly, looking over at Gina as she walked in. ‘They’ve got the skull in the Feldenchrist Collection.’

She had heard the news in Madrid, at the farmhouse. Had seen it reported on the internet and then left the house without talking to Ben. So the skull was found, she thought bleakly. Any chance of her securing it for Gabino was over. Any chance of winning him back was over too.

Unusually quiet, Gina looked around the familiar sitting room in Gabino’s flat. She had never anticipated being in such a precarious situation. Leon’s death had left her destabilised. After having him devoted to her, being able to control and manipulate him, it came as a shock to Gina to realise that her lover was gone, and with him, her power. She had not been Leon’s wife so she had no entitlement to his house or his money, and her attempt to gain the interest of Ben Golding had been a failure.

She was now looking at an uncertain future without male protection. Propelled from the safety of the farmhouse and the reclusive life she had led with Leon, Gina realised that going back to her old party girl existence wasn’t an option. She had been off the circuit too long and had become the ex-lover too many times to excite fresh interest.

For a while she might have fooled herself into thinking that she still had a chance with Gabino, but her promise to secure the skull for him had failed miserably, and now Gina found herself homeless and alone.

‘I thought I could get the skull for you,’ she said imploringly. ‘If Ben Golding still had it, I could have done—’

‘But he didn’t, did he?’ Gabino replied, his tone dismissive. ‘If I’d known you were going to waste my fucking time, I’d never have listened to you.’

Her temper flared.

‘You couldn’t get the skull either! If you were so smart, how come you didn’t get it?’ She moved towards him. ‘I’d have thought the Ortega money would have counted for something—’

‘I wasn’t on the doorstep, was I?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You were sleeping with Leon Golding. You were by his bloody side all day. If anyone could have got hold of the skull, it should have been you.’ He was snappy with anger. ‘You’re losing your touch, Gina – you must be. After all, Leon Golding was a walkover. Poor bastard, everyone knew he was crazy—’

‘He was twice the man you are!’

‘But with a fraction of the income,’ Gabino replied unpleasantly. ‘Which, let’s face it, is all that matters to you.’

‘It’s not all about money!’ she hissed. ‘I care about you!’

‘You care about yourself.’

‘There was more to it than that—’

‘Not for me,’ he said indifferently. ‘It was an affair, Gina, that was all. You’re not the kind of woman a man marries.’ She flinched at the words. ‘You’re one of a hundred other women on the make. We had a good time, but that was all it was.’ He stared at her, eager to vent his frustration on someone. ‘You didn’t think I was ever serious about you, did you?’ he smirked. ‘You did? God, Gina, women like you are just good for fucking—’

She slapped him hard, Gabino reacting immediately. Drawing back his fist he pounded it into her face, her nose bleeding with the impact as he grabbed her hair and pulled her on to the sofa.

‘You stupid bitch!’ he said, his mouth inches from her ear. ‘You could have saved me. You could have done something useful for once!’ Enraged, he slapped her hard across the face, Gina whimpering as she put up her hands to protect herself. ‘But you’re worthless.’ He punched her in the stomach. ‘Hopeless.’ Again he punched her, catching her forearm as she tried to fend him off. ‘Slut!’ Turning, he moved away, then ran back, kicking her in the stomach. ‘How dare you think I could love you! You’re a fucking whore!’ After one final kick, he bent down and picked up her handbag, tossing it on to her lap. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

Moaning, Gina clutched her stomach and staggered to her feet. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

He moved over to her, jutting his face into hers aggressively. ‘Why? What are you going to do about it?’ he sneered. ‘You’re nothing, Gina. Just a sad bitch with nowhere left to go.’