Memory of Bones (29 page)

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]

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.

Disappointment left Bartolomé limp. If only he had got the skull away from Golding, taken the object under his own weighty and wealthy wing. He would have offered his services to the Prado immediately, impressing upon them the importance of the find and the equal importance of preserving it, and how
he
was the best person to undertake the mission. But his brother had kept quiet and Bartolomé had missed his chance. And now where was the skull? London, probably, with Ben Golding, Bartolomé thought bitterly. It
could
have been his. It
should
have been his – if his idle brother had secured it for him.

His face expressionless, his eyes narrowed behind his dark glasses, Bartolomé kept watching Ben, thinking of the Golding brothers. Thinking enviously of their bond – a closeness he had never experienced with Gabino. He could see the loss in Ben Golding’s face and thought of the skull again and of the old rumour which had surrounded it. Some had sworn that it was cursed. That anyone who touched it was tainted. The same people spoke of the Black Paintings in hushed tones. There
was
a meaning to them, they said, but it was fatal to the person who uncovered it.

Such superstition used to amuse Bartolomé, but he was no longer quite so sure that mockery was justified. And,
as a cloud shifted over the cemetery, he felt a distinct unease. A hoarse wind blew up, throwing dust about the mourning stone angels and the dilapidated urns. Holding her hand to her face, Gina turned away, but Ben Golding stood motionless as though he hadn’t noticed the turn in the weather, the sun whey-faced behind a darkening cloud.

Glancing at the grave, Bartolomé stared at the coffin of Leon Golding, the varnished wood already spotted with the first bold shots of rain. Soon there would be a downpour, he thought. Water would fill the grave. Over time a little would leach into the coffin, the Spanish earth holding fast to its adopted son.

But it wasn’t Leon he pitied. Instead, Bartolomé looked back at Ben Golding and realised that if there was a curse, it had already found its next victim.

‘What do you want?’ Gabino asked, walking past Gina in his office and moving out on to the balcony.

The heat was stifling, the earlier storm having passed, the sound of traffic rising from the street below. He looked down, Gina moving over to him and standing only an inch away, their shoulders almost touching. She was banking on his previous desire for her, hoping it could help to reinstate her into the powerful Ortegas. But Gina was no fool. Gabino had rejected her once and she needed more than the lure of sex to reel him in.

‘I’ve missed you—’

‘Especially since Leon Golding killed himself,’ Gabino replied, bad-tempered with the heat, a sore throat making him irritable.

‘I loved you,’ she said, touching his arm. But the action only annoyed him and he shrugged her off.

‘It’s over. It was over a long time ago. Don’t come back here now you need another meal ticket.’ He leaned towards her, his face pushed close to hers. ‘You had your turn.’

Stung, she kept her temper. This was no time to lose control. Gina knew that her looks were at their height, but within a couple of years they would wane, their rangy athleticism lunging fast to wiriness. If truth be known she had latched on to Leon at a party, hoping that by being with him she might move on to his more illustrious brother. But Ben had never shown the least interest in her, and Gina had found herself in the tiresome position of being the girlfriend of a brilliant, but hysterical, man. Determined to make the most of her situation, she had given herself another year to entrap Leon and had been sure of success – until events had altered everything.