by Alex Connor
‘He was not your patient.’
‘No, he was my brother!’ Ben snapped back. ‘He was my home, my family. He was my sibling. For years there were only the two of us – the Golding brothers. I was meant to look out for him. He needed me.’
‘You did what you could—’
‘I wasn’t there!’ Ben shouted, almost beside himself. ‘I didn’t save him. I failed him … And I can’t live with that.’
Desperate, she pleaded with him. ‘Leave it alone, Ben, please. I love you—’
‘I know. And I love you.’
‘I don’t want to lose you—’
‘And I don’t want to lose you.’ And then he lied. ‘It’ll be all right, Abi. It’s just all been such a shock. It’ll take some time to come to terms with.’
His thoughts were running on and he realised that having Abigail admitted into the Whitechapel Hospital was the perfect solution. At the Whitechapel, he could keep an eye on her. As a patient, she would be surrounded day and night, with nurses to keep watch over her when he wasn’t there. What better place to be protected than a hospital? It was, he thought with relief, even better than her returning to France.
Then he remembered what else Abi had said: They have no reason to come after you unless you give them a reason.
And that was exactly what he was going to do. He wasn’t going to be warned off. He wasn’t going to give in to threats. He was going to do the opposite and draw attention to himself. Ben Golding might not know who had killed his brother and his friend, but he knew how to find out.
He wasn’t going to run or hide. Instead he was going to make himself visible. And then they would come after him.
BOOK FOUR
… I have painted these pictures to occupy my imagination, which is tormented by all the ills that afflict me …
GOYA ON THE BLACK PAINTINGS
Quinta del Sordo, Spain, 1822
Her shadow fell across the whitewashed wall of the house as she carried the washing indoors. The heat had been so intense that the clothes were still hot under her fingers as she folded them. Leocardia had no interest in local gossip. She had no reason to explain why her marriage had failed, or why she had chosen to live with Francisco Goya.
She leaned against the door jamb, full-hipped against the hard stone. The old man’s deafness was no impediment to her. He did not hear her frequent outbursts, her temper hot as dry sand. He remained painting while she cleaned the house; he remained painting while she cooked, eating everything she gave him gratefully. And he remained painting while she bathed and then stood, half-naked, in the doorway, letting the night air dry her.
The bawdy libertine, the late Duchess of Alba’s lover, the painter kings had bowed to, was now a willing captive in the enclosed world of the Quinta del Sordo … Languorously, Leocardia moved upstairs, the heat rising with her. The old man was painting a fresco in their bedroom, another of the garble of murals with which he was mapping the interior. She moved towards him, knowing he would sense her coming, and rested her chin on his shoulder, looking at the painted figures of the Ministration: one grimacing man in the foreground, one to the left, and a woman laughing behind. Not as disturbing as some of the images, Leocardia thought, then realised that the foremost figure was masturbating.
Amused, she stretched her arms above her head, then walked over to the window and relit a batch of candles. Sometimes, when she had the patience, she talked to Goya slowly so that he could read her lips; chastised him for working too long, in too poor a light. He would listen and shrug, grabbing at her backside in a memory of earlier desires.
And, as always, Goya’s demon figures flickered in the lamplight, Leocardia’s own image in the room below them. Her image, huge as an icon, leaning on a mound of earth.
‘What’s under the ground?’ she had asked.
Again a shrug, a word scored impatiently into the wet paint underneath.
‘Me.’
Leocardia was no stranger to superstition. To her, dark forces were as much a part of life as sunlight. But in the few years since they had moved to the Quinta del Sordo she had seen Goya’s original paintings of the dancing figures obliterated under the Pilgrimage of St Isidore, the meadow turned to a rocky outcrop, as barren as the madmen who walked there.
Still watching him, Leocardia thought of Dr Arrieta. He believed Goya was suffering from a breakdown and that his last illness had taken a mental toll. He was afraid, Arrieta said sadly, that the old man might never recover … Leocardia’s eyes fixed on the painter, unblinking, her expression unfathomable. Knowing he was watching her, Goya turned and tilted his head to one side, regarding her.
Many times he had thought of sending Leocardia away, but he knew he would not. He would let her stay. He needed her. He was afraid of her. He was afraid without her. The summer would capsize itself and the autumn would slip out of her greenery, but she would stay.
Outside, Goya could sense a late wind picking up. It swung through the trees, taking the steamy heat from the river and creeping into the Quinta del Sordo unseen. Behind him stood a massive painted image of despair: a solitary dog in a desolate landscape, only its head showing as the quicksand dragged it under to something no one could see.
For an instant Goya stared at the image and the dog’s head turned. It barked once, the sound unheard, its eyes full of terror and the fear of coming death.
45
Richmond
Walking up the driveway to a secluded eighteenth-century house outside London, Ben ducked under some overgrown hydrangea bushes as he reached the front door. Wisteria, grown reckless, knotted about the windows and the porch, and a rose – long in the tooth – raked its thorny teeth against the brickwork.
Finding the bell, Ben rang it several times before footsteps approached the door, a young woman opening it and smiling.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’ve come to see Mrs Asturias. My name’s Ben Golding. She’s expecting me.’
Elizabeth Asturias was sitting in the breakfast room, nursing a copy of the Telegraph and a cup of tea. As Ben walked in, she took off her reading glasses and jerked her head towards the dining chair next to her.
‘Nice obituary for Francis in the Telegraph,’ she said, tapping the paper with her index finger. ‘Bastards didn’t have the same kind words for him in life.’
The comment, delivered in razor-sharp English, came as a shock. Over the years Francis had mentioned his wife in passing, but always with dry humour, suggesting that the classy Elizabeth had had little time for him and less affection. But the ageing woman Ben was now looking at had the telltale puffy eyes of grieving and an unexpectedly short temper.
‘I told him to retire – would have liked him home.’ She stopped, shouting at the young cleaner. ‘Careful! I can hear you clattering those dishes about. They chip, you know.’ She glanced back at Ben. ‘He liked you.’
‘I liked him.’
‘Hmm,’ she said simply, tossing the paper to one side. It landed on the floor like a shot bird. ‘They killed my poor lad. Francis … Of all people. It’s so … unnecessary.’ Her eyes filled and she wiped them briskly with the back of her hand. ‘Killed him. Who would do that? Why would anyone do that?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Oh, don’t lie to me!’ she snapped fiercely. ‘I was married to him. I knew what was going on. Francis used to tell me everything. Of course I pretended that it bored me, but he knew I loved the gossip.’ She sighed, staring at her fingernails and wincing as the cleaner made another noise. ‘Go for the post, dear!’ she snapped. ‘Oh, and get some bread from the shop while you’re at it.’
They waited for the young woman to leave, Elizabeth watching her pass the window and go down the drive before turning back to Ben.
‘Now we can talk properly. Francis told me about that bloody skull of yours. Or should I say, your brother’s?’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘He’s dead too, isn’t he?’
Her directness caught Ben off guard. ‘Yes, he is.’
/> ‘Killed, I believe?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Francis did! Don’t be bloody coy,’ she said shortly. ‘I’ve told you, he told me everything. He said you were insisting that your brother was murdered.’
Ben paused, surprised by how much she knew.
‘I came to pay my respects—’
‘Bullshit! You came for something else,’ she said perceptively. ‘I know you were in Madrid and couldn’t make the funeral, but you sent me a letter and a wreath – you had no need to come and pay your respects in person. Unless you wanted to ask me something.’
‘You’re smart.’
‘I know,’ she said bluntly. ‘Retired university lecturer in Classics. I was a psychotherapist too. Francis won’t have told you that; he hates – hated – shrinks.’ She glanced over to the window and the view of the drive. ‘I’m sorry I never met your brother – he sounded interesting.’
‘He was.’
‘Why do we always lose the good ones, hey?’ she queried, tapping the teapot with the arm of her glasses. ‘You want a cup?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t blame you. The cleaner makes bloody awful tea.’
Smiling, he thought for a moment then glanced back at her.
‘You’re right, I did come to ask you something. Francis reconstructed a skull for me—’
‘The Goya skull?’
‘Yes, the Goya skull,’ Ben replied, ‘but you don’t know that.’
‘I’ve just told you.’
‘But now you have to forget that you know about it, Mrs Asturias. It’s not safe for you to know about it.’ He paused, trying not to alarm her. ‘Francis rang me just before he was killed …’
‘And?’
‘He told me that someone had stolen the skull.’
She was genuinely shaken.
‘He didn’t tell me. Poor sod didn’t have time, I suppose.’ Her bravado was her way of coping, keeping back the grief. ‘You know who took it?’
‘No,’ Ben admitted. ‘But there’s more. The skull that was stolen wasn’t the real one. Francis had swapped them. Whoever has the skull now, has a fake.’
Caught off guard, she laughed, shaking her head.
‘How like him! Francis loved to make everything complicated. Couldn’t let anything be simple …’ Pausing, she caught Ben’s eye, her intelligence obvious. ‘So where’s Goya’s skull?’
‘I don’t know. Francis was going to tell me, but he didn’t have a chance. That’s why I’m here – to ask you if you know.’
‘No, I don’t.’ She was genuinely regretful. ‘If I did, I’d tell you.’
He had expected as much, but the disappointment still stung. ‘Did Francis have a workshop here? Or a study?’
Rising to her feet, Elizabeth moved over to the door. She was unexpectedly tall. Beckoning impatiently for Ben to follow her they moved through the hall and down a narrow passageway into the kitchen, then walked across a courtyard into an outbuilding. The property was decrepit and neglected, but obviously of considerable value. And Francis’s retreat was just as impressive.
‘He used to sulk in here,’ Elizabeth said fondly, holding back the door. ‘We had a wonderful sex life, you know. Even up until his death. Wonderful lover.’ She glanced over at Ben. ‘You’re shocked, of course. The ageing population isn’t supposed to have desires, is it?’
‘Why not?’
She winked, amused. ‘Good answer!’ Sweeping her arm across the room, she went on. ‘Help yourself. Have a rummage – I don’t mind. This is all of it. Francis loved machinery, computers, all kinds of technology – you name it. The dotty professor act was just that – an act. He could tackle anything.’
Walking around, Ben opened cupboards and searched them, bending down to look at the neatly stacked shelves. They were filled with paint tins, machinery, and hundreds of tools of all shapes and sizes. But no hidden boxes, no crumpled bags, no concealed skull.
Still searching, he asked, ‘Did he spend a lot of time surfing the net?’
‘The only net Francis surfed was the one he used when he went fishing.’ She pointed to his fishing tackle. ‘Have a look in the basket – it might be there.’
Ben did as he was told.
‘No, nothing.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Where would he hide something? You knew him, you knew how he thought. What would Francis use as a hiding place?’
‘He used to hide his cigars behind the bath panel, but I found them and he never did it again.’ She paused, thinking. ‘If he brought the skull home, he would have hidden it here for safety. Kept it away from me and the house. He knew what a bloody nosy old bat I am … But we don’t know for certain if he brought it home.’
‘No, we don’t.’ Hurriedly, Ben continued his search, then glanced over at the row of blank computers.
‘Did Francis use the internet for work?’
‘Oh no! He just liked to fix computers. Take them apart and then put them back together again. Or buy old ones’ – she gestured to one of the first Amstrad machines – ‘and repair them. I suppose it wasn’t so different from what he did at the hospital, putting people’s faces back together again.’
Ben pointed to a door. ‘May I go in here?’
‘If you want to have a pee, go ahead.’
Amused, Ben walked into the lavatory and checked the cistern. Empty.
‘Did Francis talk about all his reconstructions?’
‘What?’
He moved back into the main room so that she could hear him. ‘Did he talk about the reconstructions?’
‘Only the interesting ones.’
‘What about Diego Martinez?’
‘The man who was chopped up and left all over London?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘He liked that case, although he did say that when he’d reconstructed the head he was disappointed. Thought the man looked dull. He said that his death was probably the most dramatic thing that had ever happened to him. Francis felt sad about that one.’ Her expression veered between affection for his memory and the remembrance of his loss. ‘He had such respect for people. Such fondness …’
Still walking around, Ben opened the worktable drawers. ‘May I?’
‘Help yourself.’
‘What did he say about the Goya skull?’
‘He was proud to have reconstructed that head,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve always loved Goya’s work, but Francis wasn’t interested in art. Having said that, he was touched by what he did. I even found him looking at some of Goya’s work afterwards. That was a bloody surprise.’
He glanced over at her. ‘The skull’s not here, is it?’
‘I think you’d have found it if it was,’ Elizabeth replied, sighing. ‘D’you want to search the house?’
‘Can I?’
She shrugged.
‘I don’t mind, Mr Golding. The skull means nothing to me. And if it helps you to find out who killed your brother and my husband, I’ll give you all the help you need.’ She held his gaze. ‘Yes, I’ve worked it out. Diego Martinez, Francis – they’re connected by the skull, aren’t they, Mr Golding? I think they must be, because otherwise you would never have warned me to forget everything I knew about it.’ She turned to the door, flicking off the light but inadvertently turning on another switch.
Surprising both of them, the computer next to Ben came on.
‘Is this one fixed?’
‘The only one that is,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘The rest were work in progress.’
Connecting up to the internet, Ben ran down the Received and Sent emails. Elizabeth had been right: her late husband hadn’t spent much time using the computer, and less sending messages. There was nothing of interest, mostly spam. Then, for some reason Ben could never explain, he checked the Delete file.
And there, in among emails from seed catalogues and Amazon was the address [email protected].
46
Madrid
Prosperous in a dark silk suit, Bartolomé Ortega walked towards the graveside. The
heatwave had not returned; the weather had cooled its heels and the late sun was now limp, leaden with cloud. Outside the city, across the river, the old cemetery gates creaked solemnly in the dry, brisk breeze. Occasionally they shuddered against their rusty hinges, the lichen-coated stone eagles portentously silent on the gateposts above.
Also silent, Bartolomé Ortega glanced ahead. There was a reasonable turnout for Leon Golding’s funeral, and even though the coroner had ruled it a suicide he was pleased to see that the body would be laid in consecrated ground. Punishment after death was for God, not man. But although Bartolomé was feeling generous towards Leon Golding, his anger with his brother had not lessened. Every day he waited for Gabino to come to him with the news of the skull, and every day he stayed away deepened their rift.
Behind his sunglasses, Bartolomé looked around, his gaze fixing on the figure of Ben Golding standing as though immobilised beside his brother’s grave. His presence was as impressive as always, but there was a poignancy, a kind of desperation about the man which caught, and held, Bartolomé Ortega’s attention. Ben Golding’s grief was absolute, his silent guard as eloquent as a thousand pious words.
Slowly, Bartolomé’s gaze moved across the other mourners, nodding to several people he knew. Then he spotted a woman standing slightly to one side, a good-looking redhead who seemed familiar.
‘That’s Leon Golding’s girlfriend. Well, she was …’ he heard someone whisper behind him.
So this was Gina Austin, was it?
Bartolomé studied the woman who had once been Gabino’s mistress, her honed, athletic body evident even under the mourning black. She was trying to be inconspicuous, but her movements were too extravagant for a funeral and he found himself automatically disliking her. There was no doubt she had beauty, but she seemed to be more interested in the living Golding than the dead one.
Solemnly, they all watched Leon Golding’s coffin being lowered into the ground, Bartolomé wondering momentarily why he had lost out on the greatest find in art history. If Gabino had told him about the Goya skull he would have got it away from the historian, would have made certain that an unbalanced man wasn’t left in charge of a priceless artefact. He had admired Leon Golding’s brain – and had always feared that the Englishman would solve the mystery of the Black Paintings before he did – but to be bested by him was unbearable. And it was all Gabino’s fault.