Текст книги "Memory of Bones"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

70

Still unconscious and scarcely breathing, Abigail didn’t move as Ben drove her back to his house. Although he knew he was taking a chance, he decided that it was too risky to return her to the Whitechapel Hospital. After settling her into bed, he then made a few hurried phone calls and a nurse arrived soon after with the dressings and medication he had requested.

Gently he removed the soiled bandage from around Abigail’s head. Wincing as he saw the onset of infection, he bathed the operation site and gave her an antibiotic injection. Abigail never stirred, never woke. He checked her pulse, noting that it was really sluggish, and sat down beside the bed.

Five minutes later he checked her pulse again, but there was no change. He leaned towards her, stroking her face, talking to her.

‘Darling, wake up. It’s me, Ben. Wake up, sweetheart.’

She shifted in her sleep, sweating, breathing rapidly. Her eyes were puffy from water retention, her hair damp with sweat. Tenderly, he combed it away from her face, sticky tendrils smearing the pillow. Her beauty, marred and scarred, was an ache in his heart.

‘Abi, you’re safe now.’

Still she didn’t wake.

‘You’re home. With me. You’re safe, baby.’

Taking off his shoes, Ben lay down on the bed beside her, holding her to him, her head against his chest. Every breath she took echoed inside his own chest, every flutter of her pulse mirrored his own. He held her and watched the ceiling above them. He watched the darkness deepen, then lift with the first slow-building nudge of dawn, morning coming sleepy on the new day. Once or twice in the early hours he heard an alarm go off, but nothing woke her. Exhausted, he thought he might sleep but remained wakeful, listening, hoping for the first signs that she was going to come round.

He didn’t know what toxic substance she had been given, just as he knew the hospital wouldn’t be able to help her any more than he could. All he could do was to wait for her. Talk to her, comfort her. Make her hear him.

And come back.

71

Watching from outside Ben’s house, Duncan rang the police station. Roma came on to the line immediately.

‘Have you found him?’

‘Ben Golding’s back home,’ Duncan replied. ‘And I think he brought Abigail Harrop back with him.’

‘You think?’

‘He was carrying a woman. I suppose it was her,’ Duncan replied. ‘You want me to find out?’

‘No, stay there. I’m on my way.’

When he heard the doorbell ring, Ben was tempted to ignore it. But when it kept on ringing he left Abigail and walked downstairs. Through the spyhole he could see Roma Jaffe, and waited a moment longer before opening the door.

Her expression was one of pure annoyance. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course,’ Ben replied, stepping back for her to enter. ‘I was just going to ring you—’

‘I’m sure you were.’

‘I’ve got Abigail back.’ He paused, handling his words like rare china, terrified they might chip and shatter even as he said them.

‘Got her back?’ Roma queried, following Ben as he moved into the sitting room. Refusing a seat, she glanced around. ‘Can I see her?’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘But she’s OK?’

He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I think she’s going to be OK … I did try to ring you—’

‘Who had her?’

‘The person who wanted the Goya skull—’

‘The skull that’s in the Feldenchrist Museum, New York?’

He skirted the question. ‘Abigail’s home – that’s all that matters.’

‘Oh, and that’s the end of it, is it?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? The deaths of Diego Martinez, your brother, Francis Asturias. You think that’s done with?’

‘I know who killed them.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

‘Jimmy Shaw.’ The name meant something to her, he could tell. ‘D’you know him?’

‘Shaw’s a criminal, a fixer. But he’s not a killer—’

‘He is now. He killed all three of them.’

‘He told you this?’

‘I was told, yes.’

‘Don’t bugger me about, Golding!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve been messed around long enough on this case. I need to know what happened.’

Ben hesitated, listening for some movement from above, something to tell him that Abigail had finally woken.

‘Well?’ Roma snapped. ‘Get on with it!’

‘Jimmy Shaw was hired to find the Goya skull. In the process, he killed Diego Martinez, my brother and Francis Asturias—’

‘Why?’

‘They were in his way.’

‘So Shaw’s got the skull?’ She frowned. ‘How can he have it if it’s in New York?’

Ben hesitated. ‘There are two skulls.’

‘Two?’

‘One’s the genuine skull of Goya, the other’s a fake.’ He paused, then carried on, the lie prepared. ‘The skull I exchanged Abi for is now with the person who hired Jimmy Shaw.’

‘And who’s that?’

‘I can’t say.’

Infuriated, she studied him. ‘This case involves three murders. You do realise that I could charge you with withholding evidence?’

‘I’m not withholding evidence. I don’t know anything.’

She paused, unwilling to confide in him, then relented. ‘What if I were to tell you that Jimmy Shaw’s body was found this morning. He’d drowned – and he had Francis Asturias’s blood on his clothes.’

‘So that proves it.’

‘It only proves he was involved with Francis Asturias’s death. What else do you know?’

Ben shrugged, lying deftly. ‘I can’t tell you anything else. The exchange was prearranged. I delivered the skull and Abigail was given back to me.’

He was punchy from lack of sleep, willing Abigail to wake, and knowing that to keep them both safe he had to stay silent about Emile Dwappa. The police could never know about him or Mama Gala. Because if they did, Ben would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. If he led the police to Gardenia Street he would never sleep safely again. Every day he would be watched. Every night he would wait for the break-in. And constantly he would wonder how, or when, Abigail would be taken from him – this time permanently.

‘I saw no one,’ Ben insisted.

‘Not even Jimmy Shaw?’

‘No, no one.’

Roma let out a long, regretful sigh. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘No.’

‘So who did?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You can’t tell me half a story and I’ll back off! People died—’

‘My brother included,’ Ben interrupted. ‘You think I’ll ever forget that? I’m telling you, it was Jimmy Shaw who killed them. He did it to get the skull. You’ve got his body – it’s over.’

‘But if you had the skull all along …’ she asked, her tone deadly, ‘why didn’t you give it to him at the beginning?’

‘You want more deaths?’ Ben countered. ‘Because if you press me, that’s what you’ll get. My death and Abigail’s death. Two more murders to explain. And you won’t be able to stop it. Even if you put a policeman outside that door, the day will come when he’s caught off guard. Are you going to watch us day and night? Put someone on duty to trail us? How about at the hospital, Ms Jaffe? Francis was murdered there, Abigail was taken from there. You feel confident you can protect us there?’ He shook his head. ‘There will always be the one moment, the one street corner, the one night when there’s a slip – and then it happens. And you think I’ll risk that? You think I’ll take that chance when I have the means to keep her safe? Jimmy Shaw committed all three murders, and now Jimmy Shaw is dead. It’s over.’

Thoughtful, Roma walked over to the window, staring at Duncan in the car outside. She was trying to weigh up the advantage of arresting Golding, knowing that he would never give her any further information. He would deny knowing anything more than he had told her because she knew he was afraid. Something or someone had thrown a scare into him which would ensure his silence … But if she left it like this, then what? She fixed her gaze on Duncan intently, relieved that he had not been with her to hear what Ben Golding had said. Relieved that she could – if she chose – come up with a version of events which no one would question. Jimmy Shaw was dead. He wasn’t going to give his account.

It was her decision to make. If she chose, the case was solved. Jimmy Shaw had killed the three victims and thrown himself in the Thames. It was neat. Tidy. And it would look good on her record.

Expressionless, she stared at Ben. ‘Where’s the skull now?’

‘The real one?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, the real one.’

‘Missing—’

‘That’s convenient.’

‘It’s the truth,’ Ben continued. ‘The one in New York’s a fake. The real one’s disappeared. I don’t know where it is. I did have it, but I don’t have it now.’

‘What’s to stop someone else looking for it?’

‘Why would they?’ Ben asked, his tone reasonable. ‘Bobbie Feldenchrist is hardly going to announce that she has a fake. As far as everyone knows, Goya’s skull is in New York. No one looks for something that’s already been found.’

‘D’you really think it’s that easy? D’you really expect me to go along with your story, and lie for you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ he said, exhausted and desperate. ‘I’m hoping Jimmy Shaw’s death will be the end of it. You have a solution, an ending. To all intents and purposes, you’ve solved the case. You’ve got Shaw’s body and the evidence that ties him to Francis Asturias’s death. Let it rest. I’m begging you to let it rest. Because if you pursue it, if you question me further or charge me, no one will believe I didn’t talk and Abigail will be the next victim.’ He held her gaze. ‘I know what I’m asking, believe me. But I’ve lost enough. Please don’t take anything else.’

72

‘We heard that your partner’s been found …’ Megan Griffiths said, dropping into step with Ben as he arrived the following morning. He was back at the Whitechapel, taking on his patients and his operations again. Trying to resume normality, although Abigail was still unconscious, a nurse looking after her at the house. ‘We’re … I’m so relieved.’

He reached his room and turned to look at her. And then, without a word, he slammed the door in her face.

Having heard nothing further from Roma Jaffe, Ben was hoping that she wasn’t going to pursue the case. Not where he was concerned anyway – but there were still unanswered questions. Where was Goya’s skull? And what was the resolution of Leon’s theory? The real meaning of the Black Paintings? Ben had promised himself that he would finish his brother’s notes that night. But before he did that, he had something else to do, which was why he had returned to the Whitechapel Hospital.

Thoughtful, Ben recalled every conversation he had ever had with Francis Asturias about the skull. He remembered him describing the reconstruction, how he had hidden it in the box marked CAUTION – ANIMAL REMAINS. He recalled seeing the skull and examining it with Francis and could hear again, in all its blistering clarity, their last phone call.

I swapped skulls. I have the Goya.

I have the Goya … But where the hell did you put it, Francis? Ben wondered. Where the hell did you hide it? Not at home, not in your workshop, and not in the laboratory. He paused, concentrating. No, that would have been too obvious for a man like you. You would have thought up something clever but whimsical … Sighing, Ben thought of his old friend and then considered Elizabeth Asturias.

She was smart. Did she have it? He didn’t doubt for one moment that she had the intelligence to fool him, but then realised that Francis would not have directly endangered his wife. So what had happened? Ben wondered. As Francis heard of the deaths of Diego Martinez and Leon he was spooked – he had admitted as much, so unnerved that he had taken it on himself to protect the skull by hiding it.

Ben frowned, thinking of their last conversation. Of how alarmed Francis had become. But what had prompted him to change the skulls? Had someone threatened him? Had the blank email with the ominous address [email protected] come with a warning? And, most importantly, how long had Francis had to react? Perhaps that was the most important factor. Perhaps time had dictated the hiding place. Think again, Ben willed himself. Suppose Francis had been under threat and had had to act quickly. He would have gone to the storage room and taken Goya’s skull, leaving another in its stead. With the real skull in his possession he would have looked for a hiding place in a hurry. Somewhere near. Somewhere accessible. Close by.

Hurrying out, Ben headed for the anatomy theatre. Over 250 years old, it was built in a semicircle so that the medical students could look down on the wooden stage in the centre and watch dissections or examinations. Now only used for lectures, it was still an impressive place.

Ben pushed open the heavy mahogany doors and walked towards the raised dais. At the back of the stage, on the right, was a human skeleton. Having been used for centuries, it stood like a macabre old soldier, baring its teeth at Ben as he moved towards it. His heart pulsing, he touched the collarbone, the skeleton shifting, then reached up and felt the top of the skull.

There were no holes in it.

Exhaling, Ben sat down. He had been sure he was on to something … His gaze moved round the anatomy theatre. Where is it, Francis? Why the hell didn’t you tell me where you put it? He looked around again, thinking, forcing himself to work it out. Francis knew everything about the structure of the human anatomy. He had studied it for years. No one understood the workings of a body like Francis Asturias.

No one understood the workings of a body like Francis Asturias …

In a second Ben was on his feet, leaving the anatomy theatre and moving across the hospital towards the Medical Exhibition Hall. Nodding to the assistant curator, he walked through the entrance doors. For the purpose of study, bodies of all ages had been preserved. There were parts of bodies too, and organs – a whole motley collection of human pieces dried out and wired up, or bobbing for eternity in formalin. But they weren’t what Ben had come to see. He was aiming for the far room, where the earliest specimens were held. The bodies of man before he became man. The bodies of their ancestors, the apes.

As he entered he was faced with rows of stuffed chimpanzees and the skulls of assorted monkeys. Torsos which told of the journey from trees to towns surrounded him. But Ben didn’t stop to look at any of them – instead he aimed for the exhibit half hidden in the far left-hand corner. Pushing back the obscuring screen in front of the case, he was faced with an antiqued, weathered skeleton, humped over, the wires bending from its years of standing to attention, the bone and teeth yellowed. And crowning the body of the great ape was its skull.

No one would have noticed it. Tucked away in a badly lit corner, one of the least impressive exhibits, it could have remained undiscovered for weeks. But Ben noticed it. Slowly, almost in awe, he approached.

The torso was simian, but the skull was Goya’s.

73

New York

It had been a spectacular week for Bobbie Feldenchrist. Not only had the Goya exhibition been phenomenally successful, but the reviews for the Feldenchrist Collection were almost sycophantic. She had, the papers reported, pulled off an amazing coup in obtaining the skull of Goya. Trumping all her rivals, even the Prado, she had managed to secure an artistic legend.

Oh, yes, Bobbie thought, it had been a victory – one of many. She was now a mother, with an heir to carry on the Feldenchrist name. She was more successful than any of her peers. And, most triumphantly, she had Bartolomé Ortega back in her life. The man who had rejected her for Celina had returned. Their affair would soon be public – Bobbie would see to that, and add his head to Goya’s in her own personal memento mori.

The reasons for Bartolomé’s return did not overly concern her. Bobbie had little belief in love and less in integrity, but she did believe in revenge and had been happy to consider Bartolomé’s offer. Apparently he had solved the riddle of the Black Paintings and had suggested that it would be in both their interests to join forces. The Ortega Collection working with the Feldenchrist Collection – one with the skull, one with the theory. And so came into existence twin towers of Babel, teetering on the precipice of their own deceit.

Bartolomé’s motives were revenge on his wife and brother. He would never divorce Celina – her silence had been bought with the wedding ring – but he would relish humiliating her. He would not disown his son either. Juan was an Ortega, after all. As for Gabino? No, he would not be exiled. Instead Bartolomé would watch Gina’s exquisite and prolonged torture of his brother and encourage it. The Ortega fortune with which he had purchased Gabino’s private hell would be a constant encouragement to keep Gina as head jailer and his brother under the cosh.

Some of this Bartolomé had told Bobbie. But she wasn’t privy to all the details, although worldly enough to know that love had little to do with their relationship. Sex might play a limited role, but ambition was the amyl nitrate which stimulated both of them. But of one thing she was certain – Bartolomé Ortega would never know that the skull wasn’t genuine. And Ben Golding was never going to expose her – because he couldn’t prove it was a fake. Otherwise he would already have done so. From that quarter she was now safe. As for her assistant, Maurice de la Valle had already forgotten any doubts Bobbie might have had, his memory wiped clean by his ambition.

So it came as quite a shock for Bobbie to receive a call from London. From Ben Golding, no less.

‘What d’you want?’ she asked, triumphantly rude.

‘Are you going to admit the skull’s a fake?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! If you pursue this, I’ll sue you,’ Bobbie replied, ‘I have the power—’

‘And influential friends,’ Ben cut in. ‘Like Bartolomé Ortega. I believe you two are close again. People gossip so much, don’t they?’ He paused, but when she didn’t answer he continued. ‘I know Bartolomé. Only a little, but Leon knew the Ortegas in Madrid. Bartolomé was as obsessed by Goya as my brother was. But he wasn’t as clever as Leon—’

‘Just get to the point, will you?’

‘I heard that Bartolomé has solved the riddle of the Black Paintings.’

The thrill of victory shot through her.

‘Yes, he has. And we’re going to include it in the exhibition. Bartolomé’s writing a book about it too. It’s been the work of lifetime.’

‘Whose lifetime?’

She flinched. ‘What?’

‘Leon solved the riddle, not Bartolomé.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! You want to claim the skull for your brother and now the theory too – are you out of your fucking mind? Maybe you are. Maybe Leon wasn’t the only Golding brother who was mad.’ Her triumph made her cruel. ‘Bartolomé’s solved the Black Paintings. He has a theory—’

‘No, he doesn’t.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Ben smiled down the phone, smiled across the Atlantic – across the sea and the wrecks of ships and aeroplanes, and the bodies of dead mariners. Smiled for all the folly of the world and the greed at the heart of it.

‘When Leon died I took all his papers and his computer. And then I found his theory, the solution to the Black Paintings. I deposited a copy with my bank and gave the original to the Prado. They were impressed. So impressed that Leon Golding’s theory of Goya’s Black Paintings will be published next year to a fanfare of publicity. At last my brother will have what he deserved – his triumph. Albeit posthumously.’ Ben paused, his tone contemptuous. ‘You should ask your lover how he came by his theory. How Bartolomé Ortega got his hands on it.’ He relished the injury he was about to inflict. ‘You don’t know, do you? Of course, he wouldn’t tell you the truth.’

‘Which is?’

‘I didn’t trust my brother’s girlfriend. And I was right not to, because she stole Leon’s theory. She copied it.’

‘Jesus …’

‘But not before I’d already made my own copy.’

Bobbie Feldenchrist swallowed painfully. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Leon’s theory is with the Prado, Madrid, and has been for weeks. I lodged it with them the day after my brother died. If Bartolomé Ortega tries to claim that he’s the author, he’ll be outed for a liar and a fraud.’

There was silence down the line, Bobbie struggling to answer.

‘You’ve got a fake skull and a fake theory. You’ve got a great big pile of lies and you’re sitting on the top of them, holding on for dear life. I wouldn’t want to be you. I used to be angry with you for cheating my brother, but not now. I told you that one day you’d regret ever seeing that skull. I warned you.’ His voice hardened. ‘Bartolomé Ortega lied to you. He used you. But then again, I imagine you used him too. I don’t suppose he knows about the skull being a fake—’

She was reeling, but still fighting.

‘Do you have the real skull?’

‘I have nothing, Ms Feldenchrist,’ Ben said enigmatically. ‘Nothing but right on my side.’

Putting down the phone, Ben paused for a moment, thinking he heard a noise from upstairs and then remembering the nurse who was caring for Abigail. Walking into the hallway, he stood at the base of the stairs and looked up. But it wasn’t the nurse who stood there.

It was the very fragile – but resilient – figure of Abigail Harrop.