Memory of Bones (15 page)

‘No, I’ve never seen him before in my life.’ He glanced over at Francis. ‘How about you?’

‘Means nothing to me.’

Ben watched as Francis turned away from the reconstruction, heading for the coffee machine. Careful not to be seen, he quickly took a photograph of the reconstruction, tucking his mobile back into his pocket as Francis returned.

Francis looked at his work thoughtfully. ‘I’m fucking good at this, you know. I missed my calling – I should have been an artist. My old teacher said I had talent, but—’

Ben cut him off. ‘Where’s the Goya skull?’

Francis jerked his head towards a locked cupboard. ‘In there. What’s the problem?’

‘And the reconstruction?’

‘With it.’

‘I have to ask you something, Francis. I need your help. I want you to make sure that the skull’s safe. And that it stays here.’

Francis shrugged. ‘It’s going nowhere. No one even knows about it.’

‘Good, because I’m going to Madrid tonight. Leon’s sick. He wants the skull, but he mustn’t have it. If he phones you, tell him I took it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Don’t tell him I’m on my way over to Spain,’ Ben replied. ‘I think he’s in trouble.’

Francis sighed. ‘I think you nursemaid your brother.’

‘No, this is serious. Leon’s off his medication, he’s hyper, and I doubt he’s had any sleep for days. Soon he’ll have a collapse. Which could be dangerous, particularly now.’

‘Why now?’

‘Because he’s in a mess.’

Francis laughed. ‘Leon’s
always
in a mess.’

‘He’s got obsessed with something he’s working on. And it’s unbalanced him … He was fifteen the first time he tried to kill himself. Of course, he might not be so bad this time. He might just start acting crazy. Like setting fire to his hair because he thinks it’s full of spiders.’

‘Shit …’

‘It can get bad, and I don’t want that.’

His mobile phone rang, interrupting them. Glancing at the unknown number, Ben picked up.

Leon’s voice was shaking, panicked. ‘
You hung up on me!
’

‘No, I didn’t. The line failed. I’m glad you got another mobile.’ Nodding to Francis, Ben walked out into the corridor to continue the conversation. ‘Are you in your study?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Go on the internet and get into your emails.’ He paused, waiting for Leon to do as he said. ‘I sent you a photograph a little while ago. Is it there?’

‘What photograph?’

‘Just open the file, look at it, and tell me if you recognise the person.’

There was a short pause before Leon picked up the phone again. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘Just tell me if you recognise him.’

‘It’s the wrong hair colour, and his eyes were hazel. But yes, I know who it is. It’s Diego Martinez. The builder who found Goya’s skull and brought it to me.’ Leon’s voice
wavered. ‘Why have you got a photograph?’

‘He was the man who was murdered in London. The man who had my card with your mobile number written on the back of it.’

Silence fell over the phone line. In Madrid Leon was staring at his computer screen, the face of the builder looking back at him. And as he looked at Diego Martinez he thought of Gabino Ortega and the fat man from England.

‘Why would they kill Diego Martinez? Because of the skull …? Oh, Jesus,
because of the skull
?’

In London, Ben was trying to collect his thoughts.

‘Leon, you have to stay calm. Take your tablets. Take them now while I’m on the phone. Can you hear me? Are you there? Hurriedly he moved into a vacant side ward, waiting for his brother’s response. ‘
Are you there?
’

‘Yes, yes,’ Leon replied.

‘Have you got your pills?’

He could hear banging on the other end of the phone, then Leon’s bewildered voice. ‘They aren’t here!’

‘They must be. Look again.’

‘They’re not bloody here!’ he shouted. ‘And Gina’s not here either.’

Down the line, Ben could hear his brother’s panic and the sound of running footsteps. Short of breath, Leon was panting down the phone.

‘Her clothes are all gone! She’s gone! Jesus, she’s disappeared!’

‘She might just have gone out—’

‘
And leave the place messed up like this?
’ Leon countered, his voice dropping, thick with unease. ‘There’s been a struggle here! There’s been a fight. Someone must have taken her. Or they were looking for the skull. Or my papers. My papers! Jesus, where are my papers?’ There was a flurry of activity over the line, then he spoke again. ‘It’s OK, I’ve got them! They’re safe. I’ve got the papers. Jesus, it was that man at the Prado. It must be him. Or Gabino Ortega—’

‘Leon, get out of the house.’

‘They took her!’

Ben could feel his own heart speeding up. ‘Do as I say, get out of there—’

‘
Someone’s taken Gina
!’

‘Leon.’ Ben fought to keep his voice steady. ‘Listen to me—’

‘
She’s gone!
’

‘Listen to me!’ Ben shouted. ‘Get a cab into Madrid.’

He could hear Leon’s panic and the sound of him running from room to room in the old house. Then his brother’s breathing, short and sharp, as though he was in shock.

‘Leon, what is it? What is it?’

‘I can hear footsteps upstairs.’

‘Footsteps? Maybe it’s Gina.’

Leon’s voice was hardly audible. ‘No, too heavy for her. It’s a man’s footsteps.
There’s someone in the house
… Jesus! There’s someone in the house.’

‘Get out now!’ Ben snapped. ‘Go to the Melise hotel –
you know where that is. Get a room, and lock yourself in. Don’t answer the phone or the door. I’ll be there as soon as I can get to you.
Leon, are you listening?
’

‘I should have rung that man back. I should have called him—’

‘Get out of the house!’

‘He said something would happen to me, and now he’s taken Gina.’ Suddenly Leon’s voice stopped, silence over the line. Then he whispered. ‘Someone’s here. Someone’s coming for me.’

‘
Get out of there!
’ Ben shouted.

An instant later he could hear the sound of his brother moving, running, taking the stairs hurriedly, the front door opening and then slamming closed. Clinging to the phone, Ben followed the rhythm of Leon’s running feet: ‘Are you out of the house?’

‘I’m out,’ Leon panted, ‘I’m OK.’

‘Make for the Hotel Melise. Stay there and wait for me.’ He swallowed, fighting panic. ‘Where are you now?’

‘On the road. There’s a car coming—’

‘Make for the bridge, run over it, and keep running to the city. Don’t get in any cars, unless a taxi comes along.’

‘Jesus!’ Leon panted, rapidly getting out of breath. ‘I’m so scared.’

‘Don’t be scared. You’re going to be OK. Where are you now?’

‘There’s a cab coming!’

‘You’re sure? It’s got a light on it?’

‘
Yes, yes! It’s a cab!
’ Leon shouted triumphantly.

Struggling to pick up the words, Ben could hear his brother talking to someone, then giving the address of the Hotel Melise. Finally he heard the sound of the car door slamming and the engine starting up.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ Leon answered. ‘I’m on my way to the hotel.’

‘Now, listen to me and do
exactly
what I say. Wait for me at the hotel. Don’t go out, don’t do anything. Don’t trust anyone. Just wait for me. I’m coming, Leon. I’m on my way.’

Ten minutes later, Leon booked himself into the Hotel Melise, still clutching his notes and drawings. Hurriedly he flung them on to the hotel bed, locked the door and windows, then turned on the air conditioning. His head buzzed with the sonorous, mechanical sound, fear and fatigue dragging at him. Patting his pockets, he felt for his wallet and went over to the French windows that looked down into the street. There was no one around, certainly no one watching him.

He wondered if he could risk going out to see his doctor, but decided against it and instead lay down on the bed. The air conditioning murmured in the background, the fan whirling overhead as the sound of Madrid’s night traffic mumbled behind the drawn blinds. Confused, Leon tried to reason with himself.
Had
he heard someone in the house or was he imagining it? But he hadn’t imaged Gina’s disappearance – she had gone. Or had she been taken? Where was she now? Was she alive or dead? He felt suddenly afraid, confused. Was it because he hadn’t got in touch with the Englishman? Or because of Gabino
Ortega? Or was it because of what he’d found out? Was Goya’s secret
that
important?

The fan coiled round and round overhead as Leon’s eyes began to close. He should have taken his medication. Ben was right, he should have taken it. Not taking it meant he couldn’t tell reality from fantasy.
Had
there been footsteps in the house? A burglary?
Had
Gina gone? His hands reached out across the bed to his briefcase, his fingers resting on the leather. Inside were his notes, his theory. Safe.

He would let himself sleep. The door was locked, the blinds drawn. He was safe. No one could see into the room, no one even knew he was there. And his brother was coming. Ben was on his way … Slicing the thick air, the fan blade spun, the sound mesmeric, hypnotic. Turning over on the bed, Leon closed his eyes. But the only images which came to him were of Goya and the Black Paintings, and the skull in the old cardboard box. Then Gina, leaning down to kiss him … Sweltering in the heat, he pulled off his shirt and trousers and walked into the bathroom. He would shower, wash the sweat off, make himself presentable for when his brother arrived. Prove that he wasn’t a hysteric, out of control.

Turning on the taps, Leon stepped under the shower head. The water soaked his hair immediately, the perspiration and grime washing off his aching skin. His eyes closed and he fought a sudden desire to laugh.
He was safe; he was safe
. But the euphoria lasted only an instant, and in its place came pure, undiluted terror.

Someone was knocking on the door
.

Pulling on a bathrobe, Leon moved into the bedroom and turned off the lamp and the fan. The place was suddenly silent, and clammy, the heat building up in seconds as he backed up against the wall. His head hummed, noises fluttering behind his eyes. He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t crazy, he told himself. He
had
heard footsteps at the house. And Gina
had
gone … Under the door he could see the shadow of feet moving against the light, and held his breath. He wasn’t mad. Someone was looking for him. He hadn’t imagined it, after all. Someone was coming for him.

And he’d nowhere left to go.

Standing on the corner of the street, Jimmy Shaw watched the Hotel Melise. He had hardly slept the previous night, restless with pains in his back and legs, blood in his urine, his tongue darkening around the edges. Poisoned, alone and in a strange city, he had cried into his pillow like a child. His lumpen body hung on his bones heavily, his feet swelling painfully. His desire to live surprised him. He had no family and nothing to live for, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to die.

For the first time Jimmy Shaw was experiencing the sordid lifestyle of his minions. People he had hired to do his dirty work in a dozen cities around the globe. Men he didn’t care about or even think about. People paid, chivvied, threatened and cheated into line. Old lags, youngsters fresh off the streets, men who had fallen on hard times and into harder circles. People as remote from him as a maggot on the end of a fisherman’s line. And now he was one of them. But not quite … Breathing heavily, air thick as soup in his lungs, Jimmy Shaw’s voice was strained when he answered his mobile.

‘Hello?’

‘Shaw? It’s Dwappa.’ The African’s voice was flat, without emotion. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘You’re killing me.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Dwappa agreed. ‘Which is why you have to get back to me soon. With the skull.’

‘I’m on to it.’

‘You know where it is?’

Shaw kept staring at the lighted hotel window, then wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. As he moved, he could smell the stench from his other hand and a burning sensation creeping up the veins of his arm. But his plan was still there, slipping through the miasma of his sickness.

‘What if I die before I get the skull?’

‘You won’t.’

‘What if I do?’ Shaw persisted. ‘You’ve poisoned me, you fucker, what if I don’t get back to you in time?’

‘You want to live, don’t you?’

Shaw was sticky with sweat, matter collected at the corners of his eyes. ‘What if you’ve tricked me?’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘What if you
can’t
cure me? What if I get back to London, give you the skull – and I still die?’ His cunning was automatic, vicious. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. And wondering – what’s to stop me getting the skull for myself and selling it to someone else?’

Dwappa kept the surprise out of his voice. ‘By your reasoning, you’d still die.’

‘But you wouldn’t get the skull, would you?’ Shaw
remarked, coughing and then spitting into the gutter. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking about it, Dwappa, and I think that if I return with the skull you won’t let me live anyway. Why should you? Why should you pay me when you can just wait for the poison to finish me off? No fee, no witness.’ He was still watching the lighted hotel window, dangerous and desperate.

‘I’m the only one who can save you, Shaw.’

‘Well, be that as it may, I’m the only one who can get the skull. So, you see, I want a new arrangement.’

Wrong-footed, Dwappa hissed down the line: ‘What new arrangement?’

‘I want my fee now—’

‘Hah!’

‘I want the money now, Dwappa,’ Shaw warned him, thinking of Gabino Ortega, ‘or I sell the skull to someone else. You won’t get it—’

‘If I don’t get it, you’ll die.’

‘My life for the skull.’

Dwappa took in a breath. ‘It was
always
your life for the skull.’

‘Pay me my fee in advance and I’ll deliver,’ Shaw replied steadily. ‘I’ll send details of the bank account to pay the money into, then wait till it’s cleared.
Then
I’ll come back with the skull.’