Текст книги "Memory of Bones"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

14

Madrid

Clasping his notepad, Leon walked towards the Museo del Prado, on the Paseo del Prado. The sight of the white ghost of a building, with its arches and columned entrance, never failed to move him, and this evening its ivory pallor seemed to shimmer against the purple evening like some vast, bottomless opal on a bishop’s habit. Skirting the main entrance, Leon entered by the side door, reserved for staff and art historians working full time or on a consultancy basis for the Prado. Sliding his entrance key into the lock, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and passed into the web of back rooms and archives.

Originally built in the late sixteenth century as a science museum, the Prado was redesigned by Napoleon’s brother, Joseph Bonaparte, and turned into an art gallery. But it was only when Ferdinand VII mounted the throne that it became the Royal Art collection, continuing the theme of royal and religious collecting begun by his ancestor, Queen Isabel La Catolica. Few visitors realise the massive scale of the Prado Museum, or know that it owns over nine thousand works of art: a collection so vast that despite the building’s size, only fifteen hundred exhibits can ever be shown at any one time. Most of the most important works of Velasquez and El Greco are on permanent display, but many other paintings circle the gallery relentlessly in an ebb and flow of tidal genius.

Fittingly, Goya is triumphantly represented; and, equally fittingly, his work is housed separately from the main gallery in its own sumptuous architectural island. The visitor walks through the spectacular gallery rooms of the main part of the museum and then finally comes upon a small rotunda, swollen with Goya’s paintings. But, interestingly, even here Goya could not be penned in; and gradually the accumulation of his works spread from the rotunda downstairs, to an anthill of darker rooms on lower floors.

Scurrying down the back stairs, Leon relished the quiet of the closed gallery, the crowds of tourists all tipped out into the street, the lights dimmed, only the necessary illumination marking out his pathway. Preoccupied, he hurried on, then paused in front of the painting of The Family of Charles IV. By the time Goya was painting the royal family he had become well known, respected and acid in his judgement. Yet although highly sexed himself, the artist was – like most of his contemporaries – outraged that the plain, vain and mendacious Queen Maria Luisa had given power over to her young bedfellow, the despised Manuel Godoy. Duped, and glad to be relieved of the burden of kingship, Charles IV restricted his royal duties to asking Godoy nightly ‘whether affairs were going well or badly’.

Leon studied the familiar figures, as always in awe of Goya’s acerbic daring. The painter had held nothing in reserve. The Queen had been made plain and ridiculous, the King an idle buffoon. A noise from below jolted Leon out of his reverie. He had work to do, and he had to hurry. Admittedly the gallery was open to him at any time during the day, but at night he could only stay by special dispensation and had to leave by twelve.

Past the royal portraits Leon hurried, clutching his books, his shadow crossing the faces of The Naked Maja and The Colossus. He wasn’t interested in the earlier images, just the ones which hobgoblined their way through his dreams and trick-or-treated into his studies. Leon knew that he was taking a chance, that by cutting down on his medication he wasn’t just trying to please Gina or improve his condition. He knew exactly what his medicinal Russian roulette might mean, but cocked the gun anyway. By his reckoning he had a week, maybe two, before he would collapse and be forced back on to the drugs. He had to make sure that he found the answer in time.

Letting out a sigh of nervous excitement, Leon entered one of the rooms exhibiting Goya’s Black Paintings and then paused. In front of him hung Deaf Man, originally painted on one of the walls of the Quinta del Sordo before being transferred to the Prado. He studied the work intently: the weird blacks, ochres and malevolent whites, the scurry of paint, hurried, as though the artist’s hand was being guided. The left-hand figure in the picture was benign – an old man like a sage or a Biblical scholar – but leaning on his shoulder was a beast, half-man, half-skeleton, bald, blank-eyed, whispering into the old man’s ear. But whispering what?

‘Leon Golding?’

He spun round, almost losing his footing as a corpulent man called out from behind a pillar. Jimmy Shaw was limping slightly, his suit stained and crumpled, holding his hand across his chest, half-tucked into his jacket. His face was puffy, his eyes small in the swelling folds of flesh. He looked decayed, sick, like someone who had just stepped out of one of Goya’s pictures.

‘What …?’ Leon stared at the vision, then realised it was only a man. A sick, fat man. ‘What are you doing here? The gallery’s closed to the public.’

‘I had to talk to you,’ Shaw said, keeping to the shadows and breathing heavily with the effort. ‘I’ve been trying to talk to you for days. I called you on the phone, then lost my nerve.’ He paused, running his tongue over his bulging lips. ‘I thought I should talk to you in person about the skull …’

Immediately, Leon glanced around him.

‘There are no guards here, Mr Golding. Only the ones on night duty at Reception. I hid here when the gallery closed—’

‘What?’

‘I hid here,’ Shaw repeated. ‘I stood over there, stock still, for nearly a fucking hour. You’re late tonight. I didn’t think I could stand so still for so long.’

Nervous, Leon stepped back. ‘I don’t know what you want—’

‘The skull. The Goya skull.’

‘I don’t have it!’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘I don’t!’ Leon replied, his tone shrill. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Shaw went on, his speech muffled until he cleared his throat. He was dying – anyone could see that. He could see that. He just had to get the skull, get it to Dwappa, and he’d be all right. ‘Give me the skull. I’ll buy it from you.’

‘I told you, I don’t have it—’

‘I’ll give you a good price,’ Shaw said, stepping out of the shadows into the full overhead light. His face was bloated, red weals under the eyes, his hand double-bandaged, although there was still a slight stench coming through the dressing.

Horrified, Leon stepped back again. ‘You’re ill—’

‘Yeah, and I won’t get better until I get the skull,’ Shaw said earnestly. ‘Listen to me, Mr Golding. You’re going to get into deep trouble. Real trouble. There are people worse than me after that skull. One man in particular, he wants it. He’s got a buyer for the skull. He hired me to get it for him and he won’t rest until it’s in his hands. You’ve got to listen to me—’

He reached out and Leon stepped further back.

‘I’m trying to help you! Keep that fucking skull and you’ll end up like me. Worse.’ He sighed raggedly. ‘What d’you want for it?’

Leon stood mute. He was terrified of the man in front of him, but he wasn’t about to give up the skull. Around them the Black Paintings hummed under the lights and the fat man leaned against the pillar again.

‘I could kill you—’

‘What?’

‘But what would be the point? You don’t have the skull on you.’ Shaw laughed shortly. ‘So name your price.’

‘The skull I had turned out to be a fake.’

‘Oh, I heard you tell Gabino Ortega that. He didn’t believe it either. I suppose Ortega wants it for his brother.’ Shaw sighed again. ‘Yes, I’ve been watching you, Mr Golding. I’ve seen who you’ve talked to. We’re all watching each other.’ He smiled, the oily skin of his cheeks creasing. ‘Give up the skull, otherwise you’ll regret it.’

‘I tell you, I don’t have it!’

Shaw bowed his head for a moment. ‘I’m not used to all this, you know. Usually I have minions doing the dirty work … And that’s what it is.’

Leon frowned. ‘What?’

‘Dirty work,’ Shaw explained. ‘It’s very dirty work. And I’m stuck in it. Stuck tight. I can’t get out of it, but you can. Just give up the skull and you’ll be safe. I don’t want it for the Ortega brothers. I’ve told you, I want it for someone else entirely. Someone much, much more dangerous. The Ortegas have money, but the African …’ He passed Leon a piece of paper. ‘That’s my number. Call me when you want to meet up. Bring the skull and I’ll pay you what you want.’

‘But—’

‘I’m dying, Mr Golding,’ Shaw said helplessly. ‘If I don’t get that skull I’ll be dead soon. You want that on your conscience?’ He stared at Leon. ‘I don’t think you could manage that – you’re not that kind of man.’ He tried to shrug, but winced. ‘It’s just a skull. It’s just the head of a dead man … I’m asking you, begging you. What’s it worth? I want a dead man’s head to save a life. My life. And I don’t expect any favours, I’ll pay you—’

‘It’s not the money.’

Shaw shook his head incredulously. ‘It’s always the money, Mr Golding.’

‘You don’t understand—’

‘No, you don’t understand. Because if you did – if you realised what that skull means – you’d have got rid of it already. And if you knew what’s coming to you, you’d sell it to me now. You’d get the fucking thing off your hands and keep yourself safe.’ He stared at Leon intently. ‘Call me. I’ll come and meet you whenever, wherever, you want. Just make it quick, for all our sakes. I’m trying to save you, Mr Golding. Please, save me.’

15

The Whitechapel Hospital, London

The following morning a good-looking mixed race woman of around thirty-five was waiting outside Ben Golding’s office when he arrived at the hospital for his clinic. Seated beside her was her companion, a bored young man, staring at his text messages.

As the woman saw Ben approach she walked over to greet him. ‘Mr Golding?’

‘Yes,’ he said warily, worried she might be an overanxious patient trying to jump the queue.

‘I’m Roma Jaffe. My colleague and I would like to have a few words.’ On cue, the bored young man got to his feet and stood beside her. Discreetly flashing her police identity badge she held Ben’s gaze. ‘Can we talk?’

A moment later she was seated opposite Ben Golding at his desk, a file in her hands, her expression professional. The dull navy suit she was wearing did not fully obliterate her figure and although her hair was pulled back from her face it didn’t disguise the high cheekbones and strong jaw. Leaning against the wall behind her, Duncan Thorpe regarded his superior idly.

‘I’ve been told that you’re the leading reconstructive surgeon in London,’ Roma began, ‘and I need to ask your help with a case I’m working on. I’m investigating the murder of a man who was dismembered, and some of whose remains were found in the canal at Little Venice two days ago.’

Ben nodded. ‘I read about it in the paper. Do they know who it was?’

‘No, not yet.’ She paused. ‘We have the torso now, but no legs, and only a jacket. Which has no means of identification. But this morning a head turned up in the Thames. The pathologist believes that it belongs to the same man.’ She pushed a photograph over the desk.

The decapitated head was all but destroyed, the skull partially exposed, the features battered. In order to be photographed it had been placed on a forensic examining table, a measuring rule beside it, a label with the time and date of its discovery lying beside the jawbone.

‘How can I help?’ Ben asked.

‘I’ve got an X-ray too,’ Roma replied, passing it over to him. ‘And I wanted to ask you if there is anything unusual about the man’s skull.’

Walking over to the window, Ben held the X-ray up to the light. For a long moment he studied it, then turned back to the policewoman.

‘The skull’s male, adult, around thirty-five, forty, I’d say. And he’s had some reconstructive surgery in the past. Broken cheekbone and jaw. Either an assault or a car accident—’

‘Before death?’

‘Long before,’ Ben replied. ‘It wasn’t the cause of death, if that’s what you’re asking. But it’s difficult to see any more with all the mutilation to the face.’

‘Will you look at the remains?’

‘Yes. But I’m not a pathologist – I can only tell you about any reconstructive surgery to the head.’ He looked at her. ‘Surely you have your own people?’

‘Not as specialised as you, Mr Golding.’

Ben nodded. ‘Do you have any idea who the victim was?’

‘No. We’re going to need some help in that area. Obviously no one could recognise him as he is.’ She picked up the photograph and put it back in her bag. ‘I believe you have a first-class reconstructor at the Whitechapel Hospital.’

‘Francis Asturias,’ Ben replied. ‘He could recreate the victim’s head for you. He’s done it many times. For the police and for archaeologists. What else?’

She looked at him curiously. ‘Should there be something else?’

‘I had a feeling that there was more you were about to tell me.’

She smiled. ‘The jacket we discovered with the torso had a card in the inside pocket.’

‘And?’

‘It was yours, Mr Golding.’ She pulled out a small plastic bag and slid it across the table to him.

Glancing at it, Ben nodded. ‘Yes, that’s my card. So what? Maybe he was an ex-patient. Or someone who’d been given my details to contact me. Journalists, writers – all kinds of people have asked me for help over the years. There must be hundreds of my cards out there.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Roma replied, then flipped over the plastic bag and pointed to another number written on the back of the card. ‘D’you know whose number that is?’

Jolted, Ben stared at the digits but kept his face impassive. He knew the number well, called it frequently – it was his brother’s private mobile number. Found in the jacket of a dead man without a face.

16

When the police officers had left, Ben walked into the laboratory looking for Francis Asturias. He had tried to call Leon repeatedly, but his brother hadn’t returned the messages and now Leon’s mobile was turned off. Of course the matter of the card might not be important, Ben told himself, but it troubled him nevertheless. It wasn’t so much that it was his business card, but the fact that it had been the only item found on a murder victim. Had he been a patient? If so, why did he have Leon’s private number as well? And why had the man ended up – in pieces – scattered around London?

Troubled, Ben thought back to the X-ray he had seen. Nothing about the surgery seemed familiar, but then it hadn’t been recent and certainly not undertaken by him. Which seemed to exclude the victim as an ex-patient. Jesus! Ben thought irritably. Why hadn’t Leon called back? He had left enough messages, stressing that Leon mustn’t use his mobile and should buy another one. But there had been no response.

‘I’ve done it.’

At the sound of Francis Asturias’s voice, Ben turned. The reconstructor was standing hands on hips, wearing a pair of old-fashioned motorcycle gauntlets.

Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘Trying to stop biting your nails?’

‘Very funny,’ Francis replied, pulling off the gloves. ‘I’ve been in the freezer. Got some nasty burns last time, so I thought I’d take precautions from now on.’ He looked at the gauntlets admiringly. ‘Got them at a car boot sale. Two quid.’

‘You were robbed.’

Ignoring him, Francis moved over to a nearby workbench, gesturing for Ben to look. The skull which he had brought over from Madrid was on a raised plinth, but it looked disappointingly dull, uninteresting. Beside it was a companion plinth, a damp cloth covering the rough outline of a human head.

Curious, Ben glanced over at Francis. ‘Is that the reconstruction?’

‘Sure is.’

‘Is it a secret?’

‘Huh?’

‘Can I see it?’ Ben asked wryly.

Francis hesitated for a moment. ‘In a minute. I wanted to ask you about something else first. A policewoman came to see me this morning – with a head they’d just fished out of the Thames. She said she’d already talked to you about it.’

‘She had.’

‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

Ben smiled. ‘A unknown man was killed and dismembered. Various parts of him have turned up. Some in a canal in Little Venice—’

‘But why involve you?’

‘Roma Jaffe – the detective – wanted me to look at the mutilated head because it had undergone surgery in the past. She wanted my opinion.’ He paused, wondering why he wasn’t telling Francis about the card. ‘Have you got it now?’

‘Been a bit of a rush on heads lately. Up to my knees in them,’ Francis replied. ‘The police want a reconstruction.’

‘How long will it take you?’

‘Not long. I’m working with the pathologist.’

‘I’d like to see the reconstruction when you’re done,’ Ben said evenly. He was more than a little curious to see what the head had looked like when it had been a breathing, living man. Curious to know if Francis Asturias’s reconstruction would jolt his memory – and explain the victim’s link to him and Leon.

‘I knew you’d be aching to see it,’ Francis replied, walking back to the Madrid skull and standing by the plinth. He had the air of a third-rate Las Vegas magician about to do a creaky trick. ‘Ready?’

‘I thought it was all done on computer now.’

Francis gave him a withering look. ‘I don’t work on computer – that’s for amateurs. I work in the old-fashioned way, by hand … First you take the skull—’

‘Hang on,’ Ben interrupted him. ‘So you don’t make the reconstruction over the skull itself?’

‘Never. You make a copy of the original skull, then use the copy for the reconstruction. That way you can poke about the replica without doing damage to the original.’

‘Go on.’

‘First you work out the landmark sights.’

‘Which means?’

‘The tissue and muscle depths,’ Francis replied, shrugging, delighted to have an audience. ‘Going on the shape of the skull, this man was a Caucasian, so from that I can work out the angle of the planes of the face.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I gradually work out the outline of the bones, add muscle tissue, and try to reconstruct the forehead angle and the eyes. Of course the tip of the nose, the ears, eye and hair colour are always guesswork. We can only ever be sure of the bones we have, not the colouring or the skin texture of the subject.’

Patiently, Ben folded his arms. ‘What about the Madrid skull?’

‘Quite straightforward. Of course the age of the head had to be taken into consideration. And the fact that there were some parts of the skull missing.’

‘I saw that,’ Ben agreed. ‘A few rough holes. You know what caused them?’

‘Could be just wear and tear—’

‘Were they peri– or post-mortem?’

‘Post.’

‘Could they be a result of violence?’

‘Like what?’

‘Blows to the head?’

‘Doubt it. They were jagged. Uneven. Looks more like burial damage, animal attack.’ Francis shrugged. ‘I’ve done a lot of reconstructions for archaeologists and I’ve seen damage like this before on old skulls.’

‘What about getting the pathologist to look at it?’

‘I’ve already done that and he didn’t know much more than I did. Although he did say that the marks could have been caused by rubbing or by persistent scuffing.’ Francis paused. ‘Which sounded macabre – until I remembered that case about the kids in Liverpool using a skull as a football. When they found it it was filthy and they couldn’t make out what it was – just this grubby round object, so they kicked it around for a while. Boys will be boys!’

‘Especially in Liverpool.’

Putting on his glasses, Francis picked up some papers next to him, reading aloud. ‘The results have come through for the isotope and carbon dating. Having discovered what our man ate, it is consistent with Spanish grains from around the Madrid area, and the carbon dating puts him bang smack in the middle of your time period.’

‘So?’

‘Dates are accurate. Looks good so far.’

Unable to suppress his enthusiasm any longer, Francis snatched the cloth off the reconstructed Madrid head. Caught in full daylight, it seemed eerily realistic, the glass eyes gazing darkly into the laboratory, the chin flaccid, the outline of the cheeks slightly concave to represent the fact that they would have dropped a little with age. But the high forehead, the heavy mouth and the eye shape were disturbingly familiar.

A shiver of recognition, followed by unease, slid down Ben’s spine. He knew this man almost as well as a member of his own family. A face which had gazed out of books and down from cheap calendars throughout his childhood. A face that belonged to the man Detita had talked of repeatedly, slipping him into the brothers’ early life, into that hazy Spanish heat of their youth.

It was, without doubt, the face of the Goldings’ long-dead neighbour in Spain. Francisco Goya.

‘Jesus …’

‘So,’ Francis prompted him. ‘What d’you think?’

Staring at the reconstruction, Ben hesitated. And felt – for an instant – not triumph for his brother, but fear.

‘So,’ Francis repeated. ‘What d’you think?’

‘I think we’re looking at an old man. An old man who was arguably the greatest painter Spain ever produced.’