Memory of Bones (20 page)

Her eyebrows rose. ‘That’s odd.’

‘Why? You asked Golding for a professional opinion. He was working on the case.’

‘Did he mention anything about us finding his card on the body?’

‘No.’

‘Obviously he’s seen the reconstruction?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But he didn’t recognise the victim?’

‘Said not.’

Frowning, Roma pushed a stack of papers to one side of her desk and leaned forward. The chair creaked morosely as Duncan took a seat opposite his boss. Placing her hands over the Little Venice file, she stared at him. ‘Have we any leads on this?’

‘No,’ he said, trying to read her thoughts. ‘What is it?’

‘Huh?’

‘You look thoughtful. What about?’

She shrugged.

‘It just seems odd, that’s all. That business of Ben Golding’s card on the murder victim. And now his brother’s been killed.’

‘You think the cases are related?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s a hell of coincidence, isn’t it?’ She doodled on the pad in front of her, making looping spirals on the page. ‘Did Golding say
why
he thought his brother had been killed?’ She looked up. ‘No? Then we need to ask him.’

Madrid

In the glossy centre of Madrid, a solitary man was seated at a table, a half-empty coffee cup in front of him. Overhead the slow curl of a fan chugged into the afternoon warmth, the arched windows opening out on to a wrought iron terrace, rusted in places. Only minutes earlier a woman had come in and watered the plants outside, taking care not to splash the leaves or the flowers. A careless drop of water, magnified by Spanish sun, could work like a lens, scorching the fragile, pulpy greenness underneath.

From the open window came the sound of the city: car horns, shouts, the occasional punctuation of laughter. But inside the room was quiet, interrupted only by the noise of the lift shuddering to an impatient halt on the landing outside. Sighing, the man looked upwards into an inverted, painted well. Figures from pastoral mythology cavorted in fleshy groups, a painted sky the colour of a Russian
sapphire. A froth of clouds drew the eye downwards to the tops of carved pelmets and gilded pictures frames, standing cheek by jowl with ceremonial documents and antique weaponry.

The palatial office of Gabino Ortega told everyone immediately how wealthy he was. The fact that he did very little work in it did not matter. It was a front for him – a stage set for an actor playing a tycoon. But now Gabino was finding himself at a loss, his mobile still in his hand, his mind seething. Leon Golding was dead.

So where was the fucking skull?

His irritation accelerated into anger as he pushed back his chair and stood up. He had been too slow. He should have got the skull off Leon Golding as soon as he had heard that it was in his possession – either bought it or stolen it, but got hold of it nonetheless. The lame lie about the skull being a fake and buried in a churchyard had been almost laughable. Surely Golding had realised that he hadn’t believed him – that he had, instead, had him watched?

Thank God he hadn’t told Bartolomé about it, Gabino thought suddenly. He would have looked like a fool. Glancing up, he watched the man who had just entered the room, a scrawny picture restorer in his seventies, who nodded as he took the seat offered to him.

‘So, where is it?’

‘The chambermaid said she never saw any skull,’ Lopez replied. ‘She said she would have remembered something like that.’

‘Did she go through Leon Golding’s things?’

Lopez nodded, shifting in his seat. ‘You can’t let anyone know about this—’

‘About what? That you’ve got people working in the hotel, ready to thieve anything important they come across?’ Gabino pulled a face. ‘I’m not interested in what you do in your own time, only what you do for me. And now I want to know about Golding. Did the maid go through his things?’

‘She didn’t have time. The hotel room was never empty. Leon Golding checked in and stayed in. After he’d topped himself, his brother arrived and found the body—’

‘
His brother found him?
’

‘Yeah. And when the maid finally had the chance to get into the room, all Leon Golding’s stuff had gone.’

‘Ben Golding took it?’

‘Yeah.’ Lopez sucked at a hole in one of his back teeth. ‘But I know where he went – to the family house. His brother lived there with his girlfriend. She’s still there.’

‘And Golding’s there too?’

‘Yeah.’

Gabino paused, trying to think, trying to cover his annoyance at the fact that something which should have been so simple had turned out to be so complicated. Only an hour earlier he had received confirmation of his court hearing – the date set in a couple of weeks’ time. Even the Ortega money and lawyers had failed to get the assault charge dropped. There was a rumour that Gabino would
be made an example of, his violence curtailed by a long overdue jail sentence.

He realised that in Switzerland his brother would have heard the news by now. He also knew that, having endured many years of Gabino’s excessive behaviour, this might well turn out to be the act which finally broke Bartolomé patience and terminated the gravy train. And now Gabino had lost sight of the one thing which could have placated his brother: the skull of Goya.

‘There’s one other thing …’ the old man said carefully. ‘Leon Golding’s brother is challenging the fact that it was suicide.’

‘Of course he killed himself!’ Gabino said impatiently. ‘Leon Golding was unstable. Everyone knew that.’

‘Did you know he was having tests done on the skull when he was killed?’

Gabino’s head jerked up. ‘Who was doing them?’

‘Dunno. But they were done in London.’

‘
London?
’ Gabino took in an irritable breath. ‘How d’you know?’

‘I have my methods,’ Lopez replied enigmatically. ‘The skull is Goya’s. Proven.’

‘I knew it! He knew that bastard was lying when he said it was a fake … D’you know who found it and gave it to Leon Golding?’

‘Diego Martinez. A builder. Who’s since gone missing.’

‘Missing …’ Gabino replied thoughtfully, pulling at his shirt cuffs, the crescent-moon cufflinks catching the hot Madrid light.

‘I spoke to someone at the Prado,’ Lopez went on. ‘Since my restoring days I’ve had contacts—’

‘Get on with it!’

‘Apparently the Museum felt comfortable that Leon Golding should have carte blanche. He was one of their staff, after all. But he
could
have tricked the Prado. Gone somewhere else with the skull.’

Gabino could sense that the old man was working up to something. ‘Did he?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lopez replied. ‘But I saw him talking to an Englishman called Jimmy Shaw a few days ago. I also saw the same Jimmy Shaw outside the Hotel Melise on the night Leon Golding committed suicide. Or did he? If his brother’s right, maybe Leon
was
killed. By Jimmy Shaw.’

‘And?’

‘Jimmy Shaw might have the skull now.’

Thoughtful, Gabino took a long breath. ‘Find out who Jimmy Shaw’s working for.’

The old man nodded, but didn’t get up to leave. Instead he kept talking. ‘It seems to me that you’ve got a real problem. You’ve only got a short time to find that skull for your brother.’ Lopez had already worked out the connection between the court case and Gabino’s allowance. ‘The skull could be with Jimmy Shaw
or
Ben Golding.’

‘Start with Shaw.’

‘I would – but I can’t find him,’ Lopez replied, leaning forward in his seat. ‘I found out where he’d been staying, but no one’s seen him for twenty-four hours, since Leon Golding was killed. He’s gone missing.’

‘So the builder who gave the skull to Leon Golding is missing, Leon Golding is dead, and now this Jimmy Shaw has disappeared.’ Gabino took in a slow breath, trying to fight his impatience. ‘Talk to Ben Golding. Make him an offer.’

‘He might want to keep the skull, out of respect for his brother.’

‘It was Goya’s fucking skull, not Leon’s!’

‘Still,’ Lopez persisted, ‘Golding might want to keep it. Might want the kudos for himself. Goya’s head would be very welcome in London – build up their tourist trade nicely.’

Gabino’s face was tight. ‘Ben Golding’s a doctor. What would Goya’s skull mean to him?’

‘More than you might think. The Golding brothers grew up close to where the Quinta del Sordo used to stand. Leon was an art historian. They probably know as much about Goya as any Spaniard. Ben Golding might believe that he has a right to the skull.’

‘Then disabuse him of the notion,’ Gabino said sharply. ‘And do it soon.’

Switzerland

All morning Bartolomé had waited for a phone call from his brother. He had expected Gabino to apologise, to try to explain as he usually did. Try to shrug off the charge of assault as something unimportant, a light-hearted misunderstanding that would be sure to be thrown out of court. Bartolomé knew otherwise. Gabino wasn’t walking away from having smashed a glass into a banker’s face. No one walked away from that. Not even one of the richest families in Spain could smother that.

The victim’s photographs had underlined the casual violence. His check had been slashed to the bone, his trigeminal nerve severed, leaving his face with a slack, left-sided droop. Bartolomé knew that a jury would look at that face and Gabino would be damned … But why should he care any longer? Bartolomé thought. He had made too many allowances for a brother who was corrupt. Had tried to ameliorate too many unpleasant and sordid situations.

Strangely it wasn’t the assault which had finally turned Bartolomé against his brother. It was the fact that Gabino hadn’t told him about the Goya skull.

‘Are you working?’ Celina asked, walking over to her husband’s chair.

‘No … not really.’

‘But you were thinking,’ she prompted him. ‘About what?’

‘Gabino.’

Sighing, she leaned against the desk and looked at Bartolomé intently. ‘The case?’

‘No … something else,’ Bartolomé admitted. ‘Something I haven’t told you about.’ She was surprised, but said nothing, just let him continue. ‘The skull of Goya has been found …’

Her hand covered her mouth automatically, smothering her response.

‘And Gabino heard about it.’

‘… and he’s got it for you?’

Smiling bitterly, Bartolomé shook his head. ‘No, he never even told me about it.’

Her expression hardened. ‘How long has he known?’

‘A week. I kept expecting a call from him. I even thought he might visit, surprise me with the news. They found the skull in Madrid. Gabino
must
have heard about it.’

Celina sighed, finding herself in the position she had occupied, on and off, for many years – between the two Ortega brothers; between two totally dissimilar men who had only a fortune in common.

‘But Gabino had no reason
not
to tell you—’

‘Malice,’ Bartolomé said flatly. ‘He knew how much it would mean to me and so he didn’t want me to have it.’

‘No,’ Celina said, shaking her head. ‘No, I don’t believe it. Talk to him. Ask him about it.’

‘Never.’

Turning away, Bartolomé stared at the blank wall facing him. Nothing would induce him to talk to his brother about the Goya skull. Nothing. Gabino had been too secretive this time, too clever by half. And he would return his brother’s cunning in full measure.

‘I’m disinheriting him.’

‘What!’

‘I’m cutting him off from the family,’ Bartolomé replied, his tone fixed. ‘He’s done nothing for years except spend money and disgrace the Ortega name. I’ve talked to him about it over and over again, but he never listens. He runs with the wrong crowd, the wrong women; he plays at working, wastes money on the useless projects of his cronies and invests in the schemes of men eager – and clever enough – to dupe him.’ Straightening his tie, Bartolomé put up his hands to prevent his wife’s protestations. ‘I’ve tried for years to love him. Even like him. But when I look at Gabino I see only a liar and a fool—’

‘Bartolomé, he’s not like you. He’s reckless, but he has good qualities.’

‘He has no goodness in him. While I’ve spent years behind that desk working, he’s been undermining me.
Hard work is a joke to him, my pride in the family name regarded as comical. He pities me!’ Bartolomé said fiercely. ‘You think I don’t know it? You think I don’t look into Gabino’s eyes and see it? He wants to fuck and spend money, but nothing else. Nothing else is sacred to him.’

Her voice was soothing.

‘Darling, think about what you’re saying. Gabino is your brother—’

‘I have a son. I have Juan.’

‘
We
have a son,’ she corrected him, walking over to her husband and touching his shoulder.

Feeling the muscle tense under her fingers, Celina moved away. When Bartolomé was in one of his rare tempers, nothing could comfort him. Of course she realised the real reason for her husband’s decision. It wasn’t just that Gabino had been mean-minded, petty-spirited, withholding from his brother – who had given him so much, so willingly – something he would have treasured. It wasn’t the deception that hurt, it was the contempt. Despite decades of being indulged, Gabino was indifferent to his brother’s one passion.

‘Think about it—’

‘I
have
thought about it.’

‘He’s your brother,’ Celina said again, coolly controlled. ‘A member of the Ortega family.’

‘But is he a
worthy
one?’ Bartolomé asked. ‘Our name’s been corrupted in the past. I’ve spent my life trying to undo the damage my ancestors – especially my grandfather – inflicted on it.’

‘And what price a name?’ she asked, standing up to him. ‘You put a name above a brother?’

‘
This
brother, yes.’

‘But not another brother?’ she queried. ‘What kind of brother would you approve of? Someone hard-working, loyal? Trustworthy? Dull? What brother would suit you and the Ortega name?’

‘I hate him!’ Bartolomé spat out. ‘God forgive me, but I do. I hate his face, his mannerisms, his lies. And now he’s gone too far—’

‘Gabino’s no different to how he always was.’

‘And you always make excuses for him!’