Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

  Could this man really have betrayed him? Ben thought, looking around and then moving over to the large walk-in fridge at the other end of the laboratory. Could Francis Asturias have cheated him? A noise overhead made him pause, but a few moments later the footsteps moved off and faded on the twisting stairs beyond.

  Dry-mouthed, Ben ran his tongue over his lips and opened the fridge door. It swung towards him, heavy on its hinges and smelling of dead water. Inside, jars of specimens and dissected organs grinned from the shelves of their cold tomb. For over fifty years the laboratory had shared a fridge with the overspill from the clinical laboratory downstairs, Francis complaining monthly about the lack of space.

  Curious, Ben walked further into the fridge, his body illuminated in the glare of the inside light, a warm dark outline against the white ice. Pulling back the cover from a partially dissected heart, he threw it back over then bent down and peered under the shelves, finding nothing. Still crouched down on his haunches, he tried to shape-shift himself into Francis Asturias’s thoughts. He had had the skull and then it had been stolen, but only after he had taken the original and replaced it with a fake. So where would he put the real skull? Where would a man like Francis Asturias hide such a prize?

  Another sound made Ben jump to his feet. This time the footsteps had come to a halt. They had paused outside the laboratory door and torchlight shone into the room. Slowly and deliberately the light arced round. It hit the workbenches and the lamps overhead, darting across the windows and finally coming to rest on the table where Francis had been killed.

  Then the light went out.

  But a shadow remained on the other side of the door.

  Immobile, watching, Ben hung back in the cold confines of the fridge. Anxious, he looked around for a way to escape, but he couldn’t move without being seen and realised that his only chance was to remain silent and unmoving. The cold leeched into his feet as the seconds passed, his breath white feathers tugged out of his lungs. And still the figure didn’t move.

  Then, very slowly, the door of the laboratory opened. As it did so, the light from the corridor followed behind the outline of a figure. A figure which suddenly moved, lunging forward and slamming the fridge door shut.

  It was eight fifteen p.m.

  67

  Knocking on Roma’s door, Duncan entered with the air of someone who has to report bad news and is trying desperately not to run away from it.

  Sensing his anxiety, Roma raised her eyebrows. ‘All right, what is it?’

  ‘We lost Golding.’

  ‘You lost him?’ She was so angry she was hardly audible. ‘I thought you told me that since he came back to London we had him under surveillance.’

  ‘We did.’ Duncan hurried on. ‘Golding returned to his home, then went to see Carlos Martinez—’

  ‘Martinez?’ Roma queried.

  ‘Yeah, that was when we lost him. After he left. He took a cab and there was a diversion and we lost him in traffic on the Edgware Road.’ Duncan shrugged, trying to make the best of the complicated breakdown in communications. ‘It wasn’t my watch—’

  ‘So whose was it?’

  ‘Peter’s—’

  ‘Peter’s usually good …’

  ‘Yeah,’ Duncan said reluctantly, ‘but he’s getting slower. Look, it could have happened to me, Peter or Jimmy. It could have happened to anyone.’

  ‘Don’t bother with the excuses, just get on with it. What did Martinez say?’

  ‘No one’s spoken to him. No one said for us to watch Martinez—’

  ‘No, I said to watch Golding! And that means to watch anyone he sees!’ Maddened, Roma slammed her hands down on the desk. ‘Why d’you think he went to see Martinez when his partner’s just been abducted?’ Her eyes bored into Duncan. ‘They had a connection from the start, with that bloody skull. And I thought Golding was involved with its theft, but I was wrong—’

  ‘He was acting oddly—’

  ‘You don’t need to try to make me feel better, Duncan,’ she retorted, hurrying on. ‘Like I said, I was wrong about Golding’s motives, but I think I know what he’s up to now.’

  ‘You do?’

  She leaned back in her seat, staring at Duncan. ‘What would you do if you were Ben Golding? I know what I’d do. I’d try to find Abigail Harrop. And get my back on my brother’s murderer at the same time.’

  ‘But if we don’t know who the killer is, how can Golding have found out?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Roma admitted. ‘He’s played a very close game since the start. Everything he’s ever said has been half truth, half lie. He’s always kept more from us than he’s confided. We’ve been jerked around from Spain to London, New York to Spain, London to Spain, hearing bits of everything and the whole of nothing. Golding’s clever.’ She paused, holding Duncan’s gaze. ‘And he’s willing to take a risk because he’s lost a brother, a friend – and now perhaps his partner.’

  ‘He’s out of his depth—’

  ‘He doesn’t care. He’s blinded to logic – he just wants to save Abigail Harrop. Probably to make up for the fact that he couldn’t save the others. And that,’ she said curtly, ‘is why Golding’s doing our job.’

  She rose to her feet, indicating that their conversation was over. The closeness between them was suspended, her irritation absolute.

  ‘Find Golding.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know, just find him!’ she shouted. ‘Start with his home, his work, every place he’s been lately. I won’t have another death on my conscience. Talk to his neighbours, his colleagues – do whatever you have to do but find him. And quick.’

  68

  Incredulous, the principal stared at Megan Griffiths, then hurriedly unlocked the door of the walk-in fridge.

  ‘What the hell—’ Ben snapped, moving out into the laboratory and looking from Megan to Mark Steinman.

  Steinman was the first to talk. ‘Dr Griffiths saw you break in—’

  ‘I didn’t break in! I work at this bloody hospital!’ he roared, rubbing some feeling back into his hands and stamping his feet as he stared at his registrar. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  Shame-faced, Megan Griffiths blustered. ‘Everyone knows you’ve been behaving oddly—’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘I saw you come in. You didn’t turn on the light,’ Megan blundered on. ‘It seemed odd.’

  ‘And locking someone in a fridge doesn’t?’

  ‘You’ve been under a lot of pressure—’

  ‘Don’t try to psychoanalyse me! I’m not the crazy one here. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll have to wait a bit longer for your promotion, Dr Griffiths.’

  Enraged, he brushed past both of them, Steinman moving with him towards the door.

  ‘What were you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for a specimen I was having examined—’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘There’s a light inside the fridge. I can vouch for that,’ Ben retorted, glancing at his watch and quickening his steps as he headed for the stairs. It was eight twenty-five p.m.

  ‘You’ve been put on leave—’

  ‘But not suspended!’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Steinman demanded as Ben moved off.

  ‘What’s it to you? I’m on holiday, remember?’ he countered, running down the steps. At the bottom he glanced up and saw two tiny figures peering down at him from the top floor. ‘Dr Griffiths?’ he called.

  She leaned over the banister to hear him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t take me on again.’ His tone was warning. ‘You’ll lose.’

  Running to his car, Ben followed the directions he had been given, driving towards Gardenia Street and parking. On the corner several youths were lounged against some steps, smoking, and an older man turned to watch Ben as he passed. There were no smiles, no welcomes of any sort, only a sullen menace as Ben walked over to the shop in the middle of the row. On the door hun
g the notice CLOSED. Ben glanced at his watch – eight forty-five p.m. Putting up one hand to shield his eyes from the street lamp, he looked in at the window. Rows of herbs and dried concoctions swung from meat hooks and wooden racks. Underneath packets of teas and bags of maize a row of fruit came into view, and then suddenly he heard the unmistakable sound of a monkey screeching.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Looking up, his eyes searched the darkness. The lettering was hardly discernible in the dim light. But then he saw, red as blood, the words – MAMA GALA’s.

  Flicking on his mobile, Ben heard it ring out.

  ‘Come on, Roma, pick up. Pick up!’ he whispered urgently, but as it clicked over to answerphone he rang off without leaving a message.

  Looking down Gardenia Street to make sure that no one was watching him, Ben moved round to the side of the shop. As he peered through a window, a parrot cawed, alarmed, and Ben spotted the outlines of several other cages in the gloom. As quietly as he could, he moved down the narrow alleyway, making for the back yard, and in that instant a light came on in a window overhead.

  Startled, he stepped back as two figures appeared on the street beyond, blocking his way, another driving up in a car and pausing by the kerb side. Standing his ground, Ben watched as a tall black man got out of the driver’s seat and came over to him. He knew without being told that this was Emile Dwappa. Without hearing a voice or being given any hint of his identity, Ben knew that this was the man who had caused his brother’s death.

  He had a patina of menace, well-honed, experienced. It spoke of a multitude of cruelties and a complete indifference. Even in his walk there was an impression of savagery. He engaged no one’s notice, returned no one’s eye contact, and when he came up to Ben his body jutted forward like the blade of a knife.

  He was, in that instant of recognition, truly terrifying.

  ‘You couldn’t wait for our appointment?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘No, I couldn’t wait.’

  ‘You should have,’ Dwappa replied, beckoning for Ben to follow him.

  Unlocking a side door, Dwappa pushed it open, the odour of herbs and sage taking a swing at both of them as Ben entered first. He was anticipating an attack, his hand automatically going into his pocket to check that the Stanley knife was still there. In the dimness he could just make out the cages, and the rows of meat hung up on butcher’s hooks. The smell of sawdust and animal urine caught at his throat as Dwappa showed him into the shop, gesturing for him to take a seat at a round table in the office behind.

  ‘You found me. That was smart,’ Dwappa said, sliding into his chair, his eyes on Ben. ‘How?’

  ‘Mostly luck,’ Ben replied, sitting down opposite the African, his eyes moving towards the street outside. God! he thought helplessly. Why hadn’t he left a message for Roma? Why hadn’t he said where he was going? No one knew about Gardenia Street. No one had any idea where he was. And unless he was very careful, no one would ever know what happened to him. ‘You abducted my partner.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘You know why I took her?’

  Ben played for time. ‘I want to see her—’

  ‘I bet you do.’

  ‘I need to see her. See she’s OK.’ He could smell the monkeys outside and hear the soft footfall of someone overhead.

  ‘You know what I want,’ Dwappa began. ‘The skull’s a fake. I want the real one. Then I’ll give you back your woman.’

  Ben smiled distantly. ‘Of course you will. Then you’ll just let us walk out of here.’ He looked around. ‘She is here, isn’t she?’

  ‘Give me the skull.’

  ‘No, not until I’ve seen Abigail,’ he said, his mouth drying. There was only so long he could stall. Only so long before he had to admit that he didn’t have it. ‘Let me see her.’

  ‘Have you got the skull with you?’

  ‘I want to see Abigail,’ Ben replied, his tone hardening, his eyes fixed on the African’s face. ‘You killed my brother, didn’t you? And Diego Martinez? And Francis Asturias?’ He could feel a cold draught blow across his face. Someone had opened a door somewhere. Somewhere close. ‘Why did you kill my brother? Why didn’t you just take the skull off him?’

  Impassive, Dwappa toyed with a dirty coffee cup in front of him.

  ‘You made him suffer.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jimmy Shaw.’

  ‘And what happened to him?’

  Dwappa’s expression didn’t alter a jot. ‘He died.’

  ‘Who murdered Diego Martinez?’

  ‘Jimmy Shaw.’

  ‘Francis Asturias?’

  ‘Who’s Francis Austeris?’

  Ben sighed. So his old friend hadn’t betrayed him. Poor Francis had been just one more piece of collateral damage.

  ‘He was killed—’

  ‘Jimmy Shaw must have done it.’ Dwappa sighed, bored already. ‘I didn’t kill anyone—’

  ‘Yes, you did. Whether you organised the killings or you did them yourself, it’s the same thing,’ Ben replied as the draught intensified. ‘Let me see Abigail.’

  To Ben’s surprise, Dwappa nodded, gesturing for Ben to follow him.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You want to see her? I’m taking you to see her,’ Dwappa replied, moving past the cages as they approached the stairs. As Ben passed the snakes he felt the draught increase further, smelt the night air, and realised that there was another back entrance. Another way for someone to come up behind him. And corner him.

  ‘Why did you swap the skulls?’ Dwappa asked, pausing halfway up the stairs.

  ‘Show me Abigail and I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘What if I just beat it out of you?’

  The words were spoken almost in a whisper, catching Ben off guard. He felt the fear building up in him, mixing with the animal smells and the pungent aroma of herbs, and he knew that if he showed any weakness he – and Abigail – wouldn’t get out alive. Guile was his only chance of survival.

  ‘I still wouldn’t tell you. And then you’d be left with another body on your hands. And no skull.’

  ‘I could kill your woman.’

  Ben tensed, but kept his nerve, bluffing. ‘There are always other women. There’s only one skull.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you wanted it,’ Dwappa replied, amused.

  Turning away, he continued his ascent, Ben taking in a slow, relieved breath as he followed him. At the top of the stairs an old woman sat outside a locked door. She made no eye contact with Dwappa, just moved aside to let him enter.

  Abigail was lying on a mattress on the floor, the bandage around her head bloodstained, her eyes closed. Moving over, Ben touched her face, then checked for a pulse.

  Dwappa stood watching both of them. ‘She’s alive.’

  ‘Barely,’ Ben replied, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. He had to stay calm, or they were finished. ‘Is she drugged?’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘How long before she comes round?’

  Dwappa checked his watch. ‘About an hour. No longer. But that’s only if we can do business. Otherwise her next dose might be her last.’

  Every threat he uttered was in a soft, almost feminine voice, the meaning of the words taking a moment to register.

  ‘What happened to her?’ he asked, gesturing to the bandages. ‘Why was she in hospital anyway?’

  ‘She had surgery on her face,’ Ben replied, staring at the unconscious Abigail and longing to touch her, to clean her up, wipe the blood off her face. To see her move and speak again. But she lay motionless, her breath hardly discernible, her lips cracked. And beside her the floor scuttled with bugs, a water pitcher left empty by a boarded-up window.

  ‘Well, now you’ve seen her, let’s talk business,’ Dwappa said shortly, hustling Ben downstairs and back into the office behind the shop.

  Despair welled up in Ben. The moment
had come. Now Dwappa would finally discover that he had nothing to bargain with. That he was playing with no court cards, no aces, no hand at all.

  ‘So,’ the African whispered, ‘where’s the fucking skull?’

  69

  The moment stretched out into infinity. Ben was suddenly back in Madrid in the country house. He could hear Leon calling from the study and see the shadow of Detita cross the black tiled floor. Hot days, longer than weeks, came back to him, smelling of lemon and hibiscus, accompanying the river, the moon yellow as a church candle – and the solemn rusty crooning of the weathervane. He could smell the summer dust, hear the dripping water from an outside tap as it hit the dry earth, a bunch of spent flowers closing down their last day.

  He was a boy again – before Leon, before Francis, before Abigail, before loss and confusion. He was young and the birds flew wide over his head, minnows making their shifty path down the river. It was the time before all the church bells rang out for funerals and wakes; before the dead were closer than the living; before night outlasted day and before men with blood on their hands talked in whispers like angels.

  ‘You had it.’

  Dwappa blinked slowly. The shop behind him was dimly lit, the only strong light coming from the street lamp outside the window.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You had it. There was only ever one skull. There was only the skull you gave to Bobbie Feldenchrist. There is no real skull.’ His mouth was drying, words clinging like reeds to his tongue. ‘It was all a fake.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dwappa gasped as Ben continued.

  He was talking from another place. From safety, from the voice of something prompting him, telling him what to say.

  ‘I lied from the start. No one found the skull of Goya. I planted the story for my brother, for Leon. He was very disturbed, very unhappy, desperate to find a meaning to his life …’

  The birds were winging higher and higher, over the stables, over the first great gobbling of an early moon.

  ‘I wanted to give my brother what he wanted, so I did. I organised the whole thing. Got Diego Martinez to “find” the skull and pass it over to Leon. I got Francis Asturias to say that it was genuine, to write authentication papers for it …’