Unearthing the Bones

by Connor, Alex

  A thrill tingled through him as he remembered.

  If only he had known then, at that moment, what he had found … But instead Diego had bent down and touched the white orb, brushing away the dirt until two eyes' sockets appeared, staring full at him. Startled, he had almost fallen back, but righted himself and – for some reason he would never fully understand – had thrown his jacket over the skull to hide it.

  It had been an instinctive gesture and soon Diego finished for the night. He could remember everything so clearly. Each action highlighted, intensified, as though strobe-lit, demanding attention. Much later – before dawn the following morning – he had returned to the boarded-up house in Madrid and unlocked the cellar door, walking down into the darkness and shining his torch beam around.

  He had been terrified. Not that the skull would have been stolen, but that he had been mistaken. That some trick of malignant light had coaxed a vision out of dead earth. Slowly he had walked towards the hump in the floor, the rounded lump covered by his jacket, and then, holding his breath, he had pulled it away. At once the skull had been exposed, looking up at him. Unblinking, eerie, pale as a church candle. Spooked, Diego had turned to look over his shoulder to make sure he was alone. But there had been no one there. No other builders. Not even a city cat watching as he had wrapped up the skull in his jacket, picked up the torch and clambered out of the cellar …

  ‘Diego?’

  He looked up as his name was spoken, smiling at the familiar man who was beckoning for him to approach. With the package tucked under his arm, Diego Martinez entered the study of Leon Golding.

  *

  He had known the Golding family since he was a child. His father had worked for them, doing repairs and maintenance on the old farmhouse. The farmhouse across the river from Madrid, in a place close to where Spain’s most famous painter, Francisco Goya, had once lived. And despite the fact that Diego was not so well educated, and only the builder’s boy, he had been treated as an equal.

  The two Golding brothers had both been gifted and articulate, especially the fragile Leon, and when his father retired and Diego took over the business, he had continued to work at the farmhouse. Patching up, repairing, keeping the worn house upright. A worn house with only one eccentric occupant.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Leon said, sitting behind his desk. Fair-haired, pale – even in Spain. He had never been robust. ‘Are you working nearby?’

  ‘I’m working in Madrid,’ Diego said shyly, because although Leon Golding was an old friend, he was also brilliant, his reputation intimidating. ‘I found … I found … something.’ He stalled on the words. Was he being an ass? What was he doing here? Bringing a lump of bone to Leon Golding? What the hell was he doing? ‘You know all about him … I mean, you write about him. Don’t you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Goya.’

  ‘Yes, I write about him,’ Leon replied, hands clasped, fingers interlaced, holding on to himself. ‘Have you something to tell me about Goya?’

  ‘He stayed in the house,’ Diego continued. ‘I know about it, because I was told as a boy. Well, it’s common knowledge, I think … Anyway, they told me to redo the floor, the people who’ve bought the house. It’s to be offices … offices now.’

  ‘Diego, take your time,’ Leon reassured him. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  Diego controlled himself, talking more slowly.

  ‘I was hired to work on a building in Madrid. It was a private house, but it’s going to be made into offices. It was owned by the same family for generations, and it’s falling apart. It needs a lot of work, but first we have to clear the rubbish.’ He paused, remembering to breathe. ‘It was once Goya’s home. For a while. In Madrid. He lived there.’

  Leon’s back was to the light. Hot Spanish sunlight, making his silhouette wraithlike.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A long time ago the cellar floor was covered with flagstones.’ Diego pushed back his hair, noticing with embarrassment that his hands were dusty as he unwrapped the skull. ‘Then later it was cemented over. The concrete stayed there for decades – until we broke it up. Yesterday.’

  Leon’s gaze moved to the skull, his eyes fixing on it.

  ‘And you … you found this?’

  Diego nodded. ‘It’s been there – I don’t know how long – a long, long time. And I remembered how your mother told me about Goya’s head being missing. And then I found this skull, and I thought … Well, the painter did live in that house.’

  He stopped, startled, as Leon jumped up. His hands went to the skull and he touched it with the tips of his fingers, holding his breath. The sun was crawling through the window, hoarding dust mites, Leon’s shadow falling across the desk and throwing the skull into darkness.

  ‘Go on …’ he said quietly. ‘Go on.’

  Diego hesitated for a moment before continuing.

  ‘I thought that if it was Goya’s skull, if it was, then you should have it. You know all about him, you’ve always been interested in him …’ He paused, staring at Leon, who had now lifted the skull and was staring into the open eye sockets. ‘It was meant to come to you.’

  ‘You’ve told no one else?’

  ‘No, no one,’ Diego assured him, hurrying on. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. It could just be any skull. But Goya did live there, and his head is missing …’

  Curious, Diego Martinez trailed off, staring at the man in front of him. Leon had now regained his seat and had the skull in front of him, his hands cupped around it as a child would cup a bowl of hot chocolate. He seemed unnervingly close to tears.

  In that instant the years fell away. They were children again, and Diego had been temporarily banished from the Golding farmhouse. Not because of anything he had done, but because Leon was seriously ill. He had had a fall, they said, a bad fall, and it would take a while for him to recover.

  All that long, protracted, eerie summer, Leon stayed in the hospital in Madrid. And Diego wrote him a few badly spelled letters, but never asked how Leon had fallen. It was the summer that changed them all. The Goldings, the Martinezes, even the farmhouse. And within a year, the Golding parents were killed in a plane crash and the two brothers closed ranks against the world.

  But for some reason, as he looked at Leon now, all Diego could remember was the summer of his fall …

  ‘Did I do the right thing, bringing it to you? I wondered—’

  Leon cut him off. ‘Are you sure that no one else knows about this?’

  Diego shook his head. ‘No one. I found it and I brought it here—’

  ‘And you had it with you last night?’

  Diego faltered momentarily. ‘No, I left it where I found it.’ He could see the anxiety in Leon’s face. ‘But the house was locked up all night—’

  ‘You were the only man working there?’

  ‘No, there are two others.’

  ‘With keys?’

  ‘No one came back,’ Diego said firmly. ‘I found the skull, I covered it, and I locked up the house when I left. I was the last man there. When I went back early this morning, the skull hadn’t been touched.’ He paused, confused. ‘Why would someone take it anyway? It might not even be important—’

  ‘Goya’s skull, not important?’

  ‘But it might not be his skull.’

  Frowning, Leon’s tone became curt. ‘It is his skull. It is.’ He sighed, controlling himself. ‘I’ll have it checked, dated. Authenticated. I’ll have it proved—’

  ‘They can do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Leon said distantly. ‘They can do that.’

  A silence fell between them. Diego spoke first.

  ‘And if it’s the right date, and it turns out to be Goya’s skull – would it be worth a lot?’

  ‘Priceless,’ Leon replied, reaching into the middle drawer of his desk. ‘I can pay you—’

  ‘No!’ Diego replied, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘You helped my father when he needed it. This is my way to repay you.’<
br />
  He could see that Leon wasn’t really listening, that his attention had wandered, his interest fixed on the head in front of him. Uneasy, Diego stood up to leave. The sun had moved behind clouds and it seemed it might rain. It was as though the morning had sobered up.

  Walking to the door, he turned. ‘I wish you luck with it.’

  Leon looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘The skull. I wish you luck,’ Diego repeated kindly. ‘I hope it brings you everything you want.’

  Five

  London, 11.30 p.m.

  Glancing at his watch, Jimmy Shaw hesitated outside the hotel on Park Lane. As each car pulled up at the entrance he watched, checking the passengers as they alighted, disappointed when he didn’t recognise anyone. Perhaps his invitation had been ignored? Perhaps the teasing missive had failed to ignite the expected interest? But then again, the others he’d contacted had been excited, almost maddened with lust.

  Shaw smirked to himself. He had a theory that art dealers and connoisseurs thought about art more than sex. Instead of chasing a woman, they chased a painting or a relic. Instead of bedding some whore, they bought an object they could hog, gloat over, knowing that others wanted it. But they possessed it.

  As for Goya’s skull, Shaw thought, amused, what a fuss for an old fucking bone.

  Disgruntled, Shaw stayed for another thirty minutes, checking his texts and his watch repeatedly and wondering why the dealer hadn’t arrived for their meeting. Perhaps he hadn’t said enough to tempt him? But then again, why would he advertise finding Goya’s skull? He hadn’t told anyone to whom the object had belonged, just that it was an infamous relic. And that had been enough to get the foreplay started.

  Of course, it was still in Madrid, but that wasn’t going to be a problem. All Shaw had to do was to ensure his fee and then go and pick up the prize … He had a sudden memory of the note left on his car. Had his rival got to the dealer first …? The thought made Shaw queasy as he turned his steps away from the hotel and towards the narrow warren of streets. Cutting behind the back of the building, he passed the opened doors of the kitchens, their swamp of vapour clouding the alleyway, his steps disembodied in the mist.

  An uneasy feeling made Shaw stop. His own footsteps seemed to have an echo … Straining to see into the fog, he stared ahead. Nothing. Then suddenly a shape came into view. The shape of a man. But instead of approaching further, the figure stopped walking and paused, watching. For an instant they faced each other, then a porter came out of the kitchen pushing a trolley, its wheels clattering on the street and startling Shaw.

  When he looked back, the figure had gone. Uneasy, Shaw hurried away, turning at the corner into another alleyway. He was getting too old for this, he thought grimly. Too old, too fat and too slow. His heartbeat sped up, his palms sweaty as he moved on. But although he could hear no footsteps, and the path was empty ahead, he knew without looking that someone was following him. Someone who had the advantage of knowing who Shaw was while they remained a stranger.

  And then Jimmy Shaw realised why he was being watched. Not because of his meeting with the dealer, who, he suspected, had been scared off, but because if they followed him they would be led to the skull of Goya. And after that, Shaw was redundant. Dead men never fought back.

  The hairs rising on the back on his neck, he paused. He could hear nothing unusual, see nothing strange. Just his own future, as dark and unavoidable as a tomb.

  *

  As he walked into his mother’s shop, Dwappa looked round. ‘Where’s Hiller?’

  ‘He left.’

  ‘I wanted him to help me empty the car,’ Dwappa went on, frowning as he looked at his mother. ‘Left? When did he leave?’

  She straightened up, gross in a print dress.

  ‘Yesterday.’ Her eyes fixed on her son. ‘You’ve been out late. Business?’

  ‘Yeah, business.’

  ‘Business to get me that big house?’

  He nodded wearily. ‘Yeah. Is he coming back?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hiller.’

  ‘Nah. He’s gone.’

  ‘Why?’

  She moved around her son, fingering the lapel of his jacket. ‘Nice cloth. I could do with some new clothes. Something good quality. I’d say I’d earned that, wouldn’t you?’

  Suddenly he was afraid of her. Her mood was shifting, she was baiting him, working herself up to a fight. Someone had displeased her, some debt had not been paid on time, and now here she was, past midnight, barefoot, poised.

  ‘What’s in the car?’

  His voice came out thin. ‘What?’

  ‘The car. You said you wanted the car emptying. What’s in the car?’

  ‘Booze,’ he said, clearing his thoughts. ‘I’m selling on some booze.’ His gaze moved around the shop, then back to his mother. ‘Hiller never said he was leaving.’

  ‘He was useless.’

  ‘He was OK.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘He’s got relatives …’ Dwappa said quietly, reading his mother’s expression. The thought amused her, he could see that.

  ‘Boys run away all the time,’ she replied, knowing her son understood that Hiller would never be coming back. Not to the shop, or anywhere else. ‘His mother should have protected him more. That’s where you’ve always been lucky, Emile – your mama’s devoted to you.’ She paused, breathing in through her mouth, terrifyingly still. ‘He was saying bad things about you, Hiller was. Repeating gossip. Nasty little boy, with a nasty little mouth.’ She touched her son’s cheek. ‘You owe me so much. And I know you’ll look after your mama. Always.’

  He swallowed hard. ‘They’ll look for Hiller. They’ll look for him—’

  ‘They’ll look, but they’ll never find. No one finds anyone who crosses us. You know that.’ She smiled like a wolf, sizing him up for the kill. ‘No one finds anyone who crosses me.’

  *

  In Madrid, away from plots and meetings, from threats and machinations, Leon Golding sat in his study and stared at the skull of Goya.

  He had no idea of the rumours that were circulating. No notion of his rivals, of Emile Dwappa or Jimmy Shaw. No intimation that the relic in his possession would cause mayhem.

  If he had known the events to come, he would have wished it back in its unkempt grave. Back under the concrete and the flagstones of the past. Away from light and lust and the greed of men. Had he been gifted with prophecy, Leon Golding would have rid himself of a relic so notorious and valuable it would inspire butchery.

  But instead he stared at the skull of Spain’s greatest painter, gazing into the black caverns of its eye sockets. And he thought of the Goya he had studied and admired. Of the man who had painted war, murder, madness and death.

  Never knowing that the skull, once resurrected, would incite more of the same.

  Can’t forget what you’ve discovered in Unearthing the Bones?

  Read the rest of the story in Memory of Bones, from bestselling author Alex Connor

  “Truly superb” Euro Crime

  “Connor displays a deep knowledge of the art world … Marvellous” Crime Squad

  Out Now

  alexconnorthrillers.com

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Also out in ebook: The Rembrandt Secret, Legacy of Blood and the free title Blood on the Water

  And Available from May 2013

  A sixteenth-century conspiracy

  A modern-day murderer

  CITY OF SPLENDOUR

  In October 1555 the Italian master Titian painted the portrait of Angelico Vespucci – a Venetian merchant whose cruelty words could not capture.

  CITY OF SECRETS

  When Vespucci was revealed to be the elusive monster who had been flaying young women across the city, he vanished inexplicably, along with the painting. All that remained was a chilling warning: when the portrait emerges, so will the man.

  CITY OF THE SKIN HUNTER

  Now the lost Titian masterpiece has
surfaced in modern-day London, and skinless corpses are amassing across the globe. And it will fall to an unlikely man from the fringes of the art world to unravel half a millennia of myth, mystery and murder.

  Order yours now!

  www.amazon.co.uk

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk