Memory of Bones (13 page)

In uncovering the secret of The Black Paintings Leon Golding had gone too far. Not only was he risking his sanity, but his life.

New York

Roberta Feldenchrist got out of the car, her chauffeur holding the door open for her. The warm air felt oily as she moved into the air-conditioned lobby of the apartment block. All her life Roberta – known to everyone as Bobbie – had lived on Park Avenue. All her life she had been surrounded by money, and when her parents divorced she stayed on with her father in the penthouse apartment, although the family actually owned three floors of the block. Her mother remarried but they had little in common and Bobbie rarely visited in France, even after Harwood Feldenchrist died.

Being an only child, it was not surprising that Bobbie inherited the Feldenchrist fortune and had full control. She left the property and banking interests to the board of directors her father had set up, but the running of the Feldenchrist art collection was entrusted to her. A lifelong chauvinist, Harwood had made it clear that although
Bobbie wasn’t a boy, she had been as near a son as he would ever get. She had often wondered if that was why her father shortened her name to Bobbie.

Walking into the apartment she paused, glanced at her mail and then moved into the drawing room overlooking the park and the view beyond. The view spoke of privilege. Here she was above the streets, up with the gods – spoiled, preserved, chosen. Just like the paintings on the walls which surrounded her. The picture closest to her was Fragonard. Her father had loved French art and so had she, only later being introduced to the Spaniards and finally revelling in Goya. Something about the darkness had appealed to her, the bullfights and carnivals showing a side of life that was cruel as well as celebratory.

Her gaze travelled across the wall, finally coming to rest on a small, dark-toned painting. Idly, Bobbie flicked on the overhead picture light to study the most controversial work in her late father’s collection: a painting by Goya of two old men reading. There had been an argument over the piece for years, some experts denying it was by Goya, others pointing out that it was a perfect – if much smaller – facsimile of the
Old Men Reading
which had been at the Quinta del Sordo. No one could prove it was genuine, but then again, no one could prove it was a fake.

Bobbie studied the work thoughtfully. People might think she was a spoilt woman in her thirties with two failed marriages behind her and nothing between her ears, but they were wrong. Bobbie Feldenchrist had longed
to settled down, have a family, and continue to build the collection in her spare time. She dreamed of a Ralph Lauren life – all fawn sofas and honey-haired children, all polished New York winters and summers in the Hamptons. She would be one of the old school
Swans
, the American ideal of the rich life … Dully, she shook her head and turned away, walking back to the window to look at the familiar view and smiling bitterly to herself.

Half an hour earlier she had been told that the adoption had fallen through. Apparently the mother of the child Bobbie was about to adopt had changed her mind and no amount of money could change it back … Bobbie stared ahead blindly, remembering another shock. In the very same room, two years previously, she had been told that she was sterile. Her breast cancer had been cured, the specialist reassured her, but the chemotherapy had made her barren. Bobbie had gone to the ladies’ room and stared at her reflection in the mirror: a tall, slender, elegant woman dressed immaculately, her face made up skilfully. But inside the pristine form of honed skin and tailored muscle, the body had been corrupted by disease. Inside the perfection sickness had eaten into Bobbie Feldenchrist and the therapy had burned away the cancer. She might look perfect, but her womb wasn’t going to carry a child and her breasts were never going to fill with milk. Bobbie had the Feldenchrist power and money, but she was the last of the Feldenchrists.

For a long time she had stood staring at her reflection, fighting a desire to smash the glass, to scream with
frustration. But the Feldenchrists never behaved that way. It wasn’t classy to be vulgar. If you could control your feelings, you could control your life … Bobbie had smiled with bitterness. Her father had been wrong about that. Some things no one could control, not even a Feldenchrist. Not even with Feldenchrist money.

Taking in a slow, measured breath, Bobbie’s thoughts came back to the present.
The baby wasn’t coming
. She wasn’t going to be a mother after all, even an adoptive one. As for the party, the celebration party she had planned for the weekend, she would have to cancel it. It was to have been her triumph – the moment when she introduced her one-month-old adopted son to the world. But now there was no baby. No triumph.

She could imagine how everyone would talk. How they would commiserate with her to her face but mock her behind her back. God, she couldn’t even
buy
a baby – what kind of failure did that make her? Chilled, Bobbie moved around the apartment. She had been beaten by a slum girl – some Puerto Rican tart had cheated her. Tears stung her eyes, but she drove them back. She would put a brave face on it, would tell her friends that there had been a legal difficulty in the adoption. Better still, she would imply that the child had been ill in some way, perhaps mentally retarded … Anything other than admit that the Feldenchrist finances had been of no to use to her at all. For a woman who had always taken money for granted, it came as a chilling realisation that its power was not absolute.

Her face expressionless, Bobbie controlled her anger and regained her poise. She would have to find something else to think about – to keep her occupied. Something to take her mind off her loss for a while. Turning, she moved back into the drawing room and began to flick through the Sotheby’s catalogue. She would think about the Feldenchrist Collection for a while. Paintings wouldn’t change, grow old, divorce her or die. They would endure, as would the Feldenchrist name. Not as a family, but as a collection.

It was something to hold on to, Bobbie told herself, then paused. Who was she kidding? Paintings were important, but they weren’t going to fill the longing to be a mother. Her thoughts crystallised as she drew in another breath. Perhaps – if she found a child quickly – she wouldn’t have to cancel the party and lose face. She could just postpone it.

She wanted a child. And, by God, she was going to get one.

‘Leon, is that you?’ Ben asked, startled by his brother’s tone when he picked up the phone on his landline. ‘Why haven’t you returned my calls? Are you all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘You don’t sound fine.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘Why didn’t you call me back? I left messages all day.’

‘I told you, I’m busy!’ Leon snapped, his tone petulant. ‘What’s the fuss about?’

‘Something odd’s happened.’

‘Same here,’ Leon added wryly, thinking of how close he had come to collapse, and the run-in at the Prado with Jimmy Shaw. But he wasn’t about to confide in Ben, to give his brother the satisfaction of being right.

‘Why? What happened to you?’

‘Nothing,’ Leon said hurriedly. ‘Go on with what you were saying.’

‘The police came to see me today. They found a murder victim in London – a man with
your
mobile number in his pocket.’

‘Who was it?’

‘That’s the point – they don’t know yet. It just seems strange, that’s all. I mean, that’s your personal mobile number – you hardly ever give it out.’ He paused, then carried on. ‘Don’t use that mobile again. Toss it. Get yourself another one.’

‘Was my number written on a piece of paper?’

‘No, it was on the back of one of my cards.’

‘Oh … So, did
you
write the number on it?’

‘No, it was written in your handwriting, Leon. I recognised it – the funny way you write the number four.’

There was a pause on the line before Leon spoke again. ‘Who was the murdered man?’

‘His face was virtually destroyed. I couldn’t recognise him. But we’re doing a reconstruction here—’

Stung into action, Leon was quick to react. ‘
What about Goya’s skull
? I hope that’s being worked on first—’

‘Francis has already done it,’ Ben said patiently. ‘That’s one of the reasons I was ringing you. The reconstruction looks good. I’ve seen it—’

‘And?’

‘It’s Goya. What d’you want me to do with it?’ He waited, expecting an answer. ‘Leon, are you there?’

‘It
really is Goya’s skull
…’ He was whispering, hardly audible. Unnerved, spooked.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I dreamt it would be Goya’s and it really is …’ Leon’s exhilaration fluttered, then faltered as he remembered Jimmy Shaw. The enormity of the situation overweighed
his excitement and he found himself – as always – turning to Ben for reassurance.

‘Gabino Ortega was asking me about the skull—’

‘How did he know about it?’

Leon stood up and closed the window. Even though it was hot and the room would be suffocating within minutes, he didn’t want to risk being overheard.

‘I don’t know how he heard. No one was supposed to know apart from me, the Prado, and obviously the builder who found it.’

‘D’you think he talked? Regretted giving the skull to you when he could have sold it to someone like Ortega?’

‘No! Diego Martinez is a simple man, a good man. His father owed our parents a favour and it was his way of repaying them. By giving me the skull …’ Leon trailed off, clinging to the phone. ‘I told Gabino Ortega it was a fake, that I’d got rid of it. I said I’d given it to the church for burial.’

Knowing Gabino Ortega’s reputation, Ben was wary. ‘Did he believe you?’

‘I think so … no, probably not.’ Leon turned away from the window. ‘Gabino’s brother, Bartolomé, lives in Switzerland. He’s the respectable face of the Ortega clan – and he’s desperate to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings. We’ve talked about it on the few occasions we’ve run into each other at auctions – he’s always asking me how my research is going. As though I’d tell him!’ Leon’s voice speeded up. ‘He’s obsessed by Goya. He’d do anything to get the skull off me.’

‘But you said it was
Gabino
who approached you.’

‘Yes, it was. But think about it! Gabino would want to get the skull for his brother. He’s always sucking up to Bartolomé, because he funds his lifestyle. Gabino would see the skull as a way to ingratiate himself. Besides, he’s here in Madrid. He probably thinks he has a better shot at getting it than Bartolomé in Switzerland—’

‘Leon—’

He wasn’t about to be interrupted.

‘Gabino’s a thug. Everyone knows that. Their grandfather killed his own wife, for Christ’s sake! Of course they couldn’t prove it and bought the police off. With that kind of blood in your veins, it’s no surprise Gabino turned out the way he is. Always in fights. All kinds of rumours follow him around. I heard he’d—’

‘Leon,’ Ben said quietly, ‘donate the skull to the Prado. That way it belongs to Spain and no individual can own it.’

‘
Give it away?
’ Leon shouted. ‘Are you bloody crazy? Can’t you see that all these people who want it only prove how important it is?’

‘Who are “all these people”?’

‘What?’

‘You said “all these people”, but you’ve only told me about the Ortega brothers. So who are they?’ Ben was silent for a minute, then pushed his brother. ‘Leon, tell me what’s going on.’

‘The other day … a man approached me in the Prado. A big fat Englishman. Sick, very sick.’ Leon automatically wiped his hand down his trouser leg as though
wiping off all traces of Jimmy Shaw. ‘He said someone had hired him to get the Goya skull. Said that he had a buyer for it. He warned me that the man was very dangerous—’

‘Christ!’

‘He scared the hell out of me!’ Leon admitted. ‘He offered money, any amount I wanted – just said that if I had any sense I’d get rid of the skull. He said, “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.”’

‘Go to the police—’

‘He said he was trying to save me. And that I could save him.’ Leon thought back.
I’m trying to save you, Mr Golding. Please, save me
. Once he had started to confide, he couldn’t stop, his panic rising. ‘That was two days ago. I came back home and I haven’t been out since. Just been working on my theory about the paintings. Just stayed home working … you know, working …’

Anxious, Ben tried to calm his brother down. ‘How did you leave it with Gabino Ortega?’

‘I said the skull was a fake.’

‘And the Englishman? Did you get a name?’

‘No.’ Leon glanced at the paper half hidden under the desk lamp. ‘Just a mobile number.’

‘Give me the number.’

‘I won’t have time,’ Leon said suddenly.

‘Time for what?’

‘
To finish! To finish!
’ he cried, distraught. ‘I nearly solved the last part this morning … I have to write it down, Ben.
If I don’t get there first, I’ll lose. Someone will get the answer before me; they’ll get the glory—’

‘
What answer?
’

‘To what the Black Paintings mean!’ Leon snapped. ‘I’ve got it solved. I know what Goya did. Why he was ill. I know something that could have changed history. But I need the skull back now.
I have to get it back
!’

Ben could hear the staccato rhythm of his brother’s voice, the threat of hysteria which always precipitated another attack.

‘Leon, you are taking your medication, aren’t you?’

‘
I don’t want the fucking medication!
It makes me slow; I can’t think when I take it. I’ve found out so much – things you wouldn’t believe—’

‘I don’t care about your work, I care about you. I’m worried about you.’ Ben’s voice was steady. ‘Go to the police—’

‘Fuck off!’

‘OK, then give me the number of the man who approached you—’

‘Why?’

‘
I’ll
give it to the police.’

‘And then they’ll know about the skull!’ Leon shrieked. ‘It would be all over the papers within hours. You’re worried about me now – what about then? When it’s public knowledge, how many more people will want to get hold of it?’