by Alex Connor
‘How can I not mess with him?’ Ben countered. ‘I have to get Abigail back—’
‘And the skull?’
‘What about it?’
‘I’m guessing he wants the skull in return for her.’ When Ben didn’t answer, Carlos continued. ‘So give it to him, Mr Golding!’ He paused, seeing the empty look on Ben’s face, a shudder going through him. ‘Oh, Christ, you haven’t got it, have you?’
Without answering, Ben rose to his feet and walked out.
62
As he walked back along the street, Ben could sense that he was being watched and felt in his pocket for the Stanley knife he had bought. If anyone attacked him again, he would have something to fight with. He could at least leave a mark on his assailant. Hurriedly, he crossed at the lights, making for his car and getting into the front seat. Locking the doors, he thought over what Carlos Martinez had told him.
Now he had a name: Emile Dwappa. Finally he knew his adversary, knew the man who had abducted Abigail. The man who would ask for the skull in return for her safety. The skull he didn’t have, Ben thought hopelessly. If Francis had lived only moments longer he would know where it was, but Francis had died with the secret. And now he had nothing to bargain with. Empty-handed, impotent … Ben thought of the contact he had found on Francis’s computer, the email [email protected] – the same contact that had been in touch with Leon. The address that must belong to Emile Dwappa.
And yet Francis had never mentioned receiving that email. Had he hidden the fact deliberately? Was he – God forbid – involved with Dwappa in some way? Ben wanted to reject the idea, but forced himself to consider it. Had Francis Asturias betrayed him and tried to do business with Dwappa directly? Or had he overplayed his hand and swapped the skulls, believing that he could sell the original without anyone knowing? Was his supposed confusion during their last telephone conversation a double bluff? A way of pretending that he had been helping Ben, while instead he had secreted the skull away for his own later advantage?
Certainly Francis Asturias was clever enough to pull off a deception, but would he? Had boredom made him reckless? Or greedy? Turning on the engine, Ben suddenly noticed a piece of paper stuck under his windscreen wiper. Getting out of the car, he looked round the deserted street, then read the words.
THE SKULL FOR THE GIRL.
YOUR CHOICE.
He scanned the street again, but saw no one. Parked cars, a pub at the end of the road, but no people. No one suspicious. No one passing. No one watching. But he knew that in one of the houses, behind a door or at a boarded-up window, he was being scrutinised. Tense, he got back into the car and drove off, checking his rear-view mirror every few seconds on the uneventful ride home.
When he got back to his house Ben hurried in, locking the door behind him. Drawing the curtains and flicking on a lamp, he then glanced at his answering machine, but there were no messages. Surprised, he flipped on the computer. Among several emails – one from the principal of the hospital asking why he had temporarily passed over his patients to Megan Griffiths – there was an address Ben recognised: [email protected].
Taking in a slow breath, Ben opened the message.
Come to Lincoln’s Inn. Wait outside the Hunterian Museum at l0 p.m.
Bring the skull.
Sitting down, Ben typed a reply.
How will I know you?
He waited several minutes for an answer. It was short and clear.
I know you, that’s enough.
He could feel his heartbeat increase and glanced at the clock – four ten p.m. He had just under six hours to find Emile Dwappa.
Carlos’s words came back to him – Dwappa’s mother had a shop … She dealt in animals … voodoo … Animals. Ben paused, reaching for the phone book and looking under the heading Pet Stores. He knew that it had to be either in, or close by, Brixton, but other than that he had nothing to go on. Running down the list, he stopped as he saw Mama Gala’s Supplies. Something about the African name in among all the Indian and English names jumped out at him.
Reaching for the phone, he punched out a number. The handset picked up on the third ring.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you again. I just have to ask you one more thing,’ Ben said hurriedly. ‘Does the name Mama Gala’s mean anything?’
There was a tense silence.
‘Mr Martinez?’
Whoever was on the other end of the line said nothing, just replaced the receiver with a resounding click.
Unnerved, Ben stared at the phone. Had Carlos cut him off? Or was there a more sinister explanation? Ben knew he was being watched. Had someone followed him to Carlos Martinez’s house? Was someone there now, threatening the old man?
As if in answer the phone rang out beside him and Ben snatching it up.
‘Mr Martinez?’
‘No, it’s Mark Steinman,’ the principal of the Whitechapel Hospital replied shortly. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he snapped. ‘You’ve left your patients—’
‘In the care of my registrar.’
‘You think she’s capable?’ Steinman retorted.
‘It’s only temporary.’
‘I don’t care. You don’t just go off like that without getting authorisation.’
‘I had good bloody reason. Abigail Harrop was abducted from your hospital. Francis Asturias was murdered there. You think I’m upset? You’re fucking right I am!’
There was a pause before Steinman spoke again.
‘Face it, Ben, you’ve not been yourself since your brother died. I understand, but it was hardly a shock to anyone, was it? Your brother had always been unstable – his suicide was only a matter of time.’ His tone was midway between irritation and commiseration. ‘You have to see it from my point of view—’
‘Your point of view?’
‘As you’ve just pointed out, Francis Asturias was murdered here and your partner was abducted from one of our side wards. We’ve had the police around asking questions. It’s causing all kinds of disturbance, and frankly, your behaviour hasn’t helped matters.’ He paused, forming the next insult. ‘I thought you were a steady pair of hands, but I was mistaken. Megan Griffiths told me that you’d been preoccupied, jumpy, and that you’d been taking a lot of time off, getting her to fill in for you.’
And there it was – hospital politics. Ben’s personality clash with his registrar had finally given her an opportunity to undermine him – to make her first play for the top job. Megan Griffiths might want Harley Street, but she was savvy enough to know that being consultant, then senior consultant at the NHS Whitechapel, would shoo her in nicely for private practice.
To his chagrin, Ben realised he had played into her hands. At any other time he would have been more astute, but events had hobbled him and she had taken advantage.
‘I’ve worked at the Whitechapel for twenty years,’ he said slowly. ‘My work has been exemplary—’
‘I don’t argue with that,’ Steinman replied, ‘but what’s been happening lately would affect any man. No one blames you for being preoccupied, but your registrar isn’t the only person to notice the … change in you.’
What the hell was he intimating? Ben wondered. That he was losing his mind?
‘Change?’
‘Perhaps you’re tired. You should take some time off until everything’s sorted out. No one wants to see you having a breakdown.’
‘With due respect, Mr Steinman, I doubt you would have said that to any other consultant. Just because my brother was unstable doesn’t mean I am.’ He could feel his throat taut with anger. At the time he most needed support, there was none. Instead he was being threatened from every quarter, each part of his life capsized: his partner, his work, his life, even his sanity.
‘Ben, take a week off. Keep away from the hospital—’
‘Keep away?’
‘You need a change of environment.’
Furious, Ben snapped back. ‘Have you been talking to the police?’
‘Not a
bout you. I just think you should take a week off.’
‘Are you sure a week’s enough for a breakdown?’
‘Well,’ Steinman replied damningly, ‘that depends on you, doesn’t it?’
Slamming down the phone, Ben ran his hands through his hair, struggling to contain his anger. He had been sucker-punched by Megan Griffiths and resented it. Resented being excluded from the Whitechapel. Resented being edged out by the police and his colleagues. He was, he realised, completely on his own. He had no allies. All he loved most had been destroyed or taken from him.
His gaze fixed on the clock. He had just under six hours to trace the man who had killed his brother and abducted his partner.
Six hours to find a way to bargain. And nothing to bargain with.
63
Madrid
Her face swollen and bloodied, Gina pushed her way into Bartolomé’s office, his secretary trying to stop her but failing as Gina stood defiantly in front of Bartolomé’s desk, holding a blood-soaked cloth to her cheek.
‘Gabino did this.’
Waving away his secretary, Bartolomé offered Gina a seat. She was a different woman from the one he had seen at Leon Golding’s funeral, her eyes brilliant with malice, her sexuality suspended.
‘Look at what he did.’ Slowly she took away the cloth to reveal a deep knife cut three inches long running across her jaw line. She could see Bartolomé’s eyes widen as he stared at the injury and felt a moment of triumph. It would be worth it, after all.
Determined to have her revenge on Gabino, Gina had done something that would have seemed unbelievable only days before. Rocked from the beating he had given her, she had formed a plan so ruthless it took all her courage to set it in motion. Throughout her life beauty had been her calling card, her entrée to money and influential beds, but her allure was waning. She could no longer rely on looks and sex alone – that currency was devalued. The inflation of age had hobbled her.
Staring at herself in the mirror, Gina had felt the knife in her hand. It was light, but the blade was razor-sharp. For several moments she scrutinised herself, her heart thumping as she prepared to make the leap from using beauty to using cunning. Then finally she had lifted her hand and – in one movement – attacked her face.
At first the blade had sliced through the flesh easily, but then it had snagged on the bone, blood coming fast and warm as she clasped a cloth to the wound. Momentarily faint, it had taken her a moment to work up enough courage to look in the mirror. When she did, another Gina had confronted her.
Her face was ashen, but her eyes triumphant.
Of course Bartolomé didn’t know that Gina had injured herself, cutting her own face for a future she was determined to secure at any means.
‘You need a doctor.’
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘But I had to come here and talk to you. Your brother did this.’ She showed him the bruises on her arms and forehead. ‘And these. He beat me. He kicked me. In the stomach, as if I was an animal. As if I was inhuman.’
Mute, Bartolomé leaned against the desk, staring at his brother’s ex-lover. To attack a man was one thing, to assault a woman quite another. But he was clever enough to realise that Gina hadn’t come to see him just to show him Gabino’s handiwork. There was a frigid determination about her, a calm infinitely more threatening than hysterics.
‘Why did he do it?’
‘We argued.’
‘About what?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’ Bartolomé repeated, surprised. ‘What about me?’
‘You know I was living with Leon Golding. He was working on Goya’s Black Paintings – he had a theory about them.’
‘Many people have theories,’ Bartolomé said warily, knowing that of the two of them, Leon Golding had always been more likely to solve the enigma first.
Gina nodded, then took a large crumpled envelope out of her bag and slammed it down on the desk. She could see Bartolomé’s eager glance and nodded.
‘Yes, that’s it. I took a copy. Leon never knew, no one knows. I don’t know why I did it, I just did.’
His hands ached to touch it, but he resisted, wanting to hear everything she had to say.
‘He had the Goya skull too.’ Gina could see she had his full attention and carried on. ‘Of course you know about that now – it’s in the USA – but when Leon first had it he was willing to sell it.’
The lie was perfectly formed, and did its damage.
‘Sell it?’
She nodded. ‘I told Gabino, because I knew how much you would want it. I begged him to tell you – but he wouldn’t. He refused, said why should he? He enjoyed denying you the thing you most wanted.’ Her voice was neutral, without malice, the words ripping into Bartolomé. ‘He laughed at you – always has done. Thinks he can do anything and you’ll never let him be punished. Thinks that the charge of assault will be crushed. That you’ll see to it that it never comes to court.’ Pausing, she touched the wound on her face. It was worth it – worth disfiguring herself to get revenge. ‘But he won’t get away with this. I’m going to the police. I’m going to make sure Gabino pays for this.’
Stunned, Bartolomé stared at her. But he wasn’t listening any more, just thinking about the Goya skull, and how his brother had made certain he wouldn’t get it.
‘You offered the skull to Gabino?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not come to me direct?’
‘I know Gabino, and he lives in Madrid. You’re usually in Switzerland,’ she replied evenly. ‘Naturally I thought he’d pass on the news to you.’
‘He never did.’
‘No, I know that now. Bobbie Feldenchrist has the skull, doesn’t she?’
The words slashed into him. ‘What d’you want?’
‘For Leon’s theory?’ she asked, glancing at the envelope. ‘Nothing. I knew how distraught you’d be about the skull. I thought that maybe the theory would help make up for it.’
He shook his head.
‘No … that’s not all of it. Why are you really here?’
‘Your brother beat me up,’ Gina replied. ‘I want him put away. Jailed. I want to see him behind bars – and he will be, if I give evidence. If I go on the stand and tell the world about his excesses. People might forget him attacking men but they won’t forget him beating up a woman.’ She touched her face. It barely hurt with all the adrenalin rushing through her. ‘Of course a lot of other things will come out too. Gabino will retaliate. He plays dirty – he’ll want to drag you down with him.’
Bartolomé was breathing heavily. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘I want you to tell your brother to marry me.’
His astonishment was obvious. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me. I want to be Gabino Ortega’s wife.’
‘You still love him?’
‘No, I loathe him. I don’t want to love him, I want to punish him. For everything he said to me. For every bruise, for every sneer, I want to make his life a living hell. And in return I want to have the Ortega name and some of the Ortega money. I want security, a home, status.’ She paused, breathing in to steady herself. ‘Think about what he did to you – denying you your dream when it was offered to him on a plate. Gabino could have got you Goya’s skull. You could have had it in the Ortega collection, in Spain. You could have triumphed over everyone else in the art world. But he stopped it. He stopped you.’ Her eyes flickered with spite. ‘Give me my revenge and you’ll have your own. Being married to a woman he hates will burn into Gabino. Being shackled to someone he said was only worth fucking, will turn his brain.’ She laughed drily. ‘I don’t care which option you chose. I’ll go to court and ruin him, or you’ll see to it that I keep quiet, marry him and destroy his life. Either way, he’ll get what coming to him.’
‘And you?’
‘I had my chance of happiness, but I chose not to see it or take it,’ she replie
d, shrugging. ‘That’s my hell.’
‘It’s blackmail.’
‘I’m blackmailing Gabino, not you.’
‘What if he won’t agree to it?’
‘He will, if the alternative is having his allowance cut off and being thrown into jail.’
‘What if I don’t agree to it?’
‘Then I’ll go to the police and press charges.’
Gina raised the cloth to her face again, her eyes dead. Was he going to agree or not? She couldn’t tell, but she was determined to have the Ortega name and promote herself from penury to prosperity overnight. Lying had been no problem, but perhaps her manipulation had only got her so far. Perhaps Bartolomé needed one last little push.
‘You have a son. I don’t think you’ll want to endanger Juan’s future.’
‘What?’
‘Scandal and bad publicity can wreck lives,’ she went on, Bartolomé’s full attention caught. ‘It’s not a risk you should take.’
‘Risk?’ he echoed. ‘What risk?’
‘You don’t know?’ She affected surprise. ‘I’m sorry, I thought … Your brother said you knew …’
He was dry-mouthed, staring at her as though he realised that whatever she said would destroy him.
‘Knew what?’
‘Gabino …’ she paused, focused and pitiless, ‘… is the father of your son.’
BOOK FIVE
Quinta del Sordo, Madrid, 1824
From across the river came the chiming of the night clock. Ten minutes fast, already ten minutes into a future hour. Surrounded by flickering candles, on the table, the worktop, the window ledges, even the floor, Goya painted in the tremulous light. Raw from lack of sleep, his body aching, his legs swollen and dry with the heat, he worked on. He was completing the last of his Black Paintings – an eerie, morose image of a decrepit woman hunched over a bowl of gruel, a skull-headed creature seated beside her. Both of them were looking to their left, gazing out of the window of the bedchamber.