Memory of Bones (18 page)

She shook her head.

‘Gabino Ortega?’

‘I’ve read about the Ortega family.’ She paused, staring at Ben. ‘What have they got to do with any of this?’

‘Leon didn’t kill himself. There was more to it than that.’

She shook her head impatiently. ‘You
can’t
make a conspiracy out of this, Ben. You have to admit the truth. Your brother was only ever a danger to himself. We both know he’d been suicidal before—’

‘Leon
didn’t
kill himself.’

She stiffened in her seat, her eyes suspicious. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because my brother was on to something. He had the one thing he’d been searching for all his life. A way to make the big time. He would never have killed himself.’

‘He was hyper, manic,’ she blundered on. ‘I kept telling him to go back on his medication. I begged him, but he refused. And then he told me was taking it again. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t want to argue with him in case he did something stupid.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like go away. Cut me out entirely.’

‘Leon would never have gone away,’ Ben replied dismissively. ‘He was committed to what he was working on. He was excited about it—’

‘He was sick!’

‘
He was winning
,’ Ben insisted. ‘You knew him, Gina, but I knew him better. When he attempted suicide before, it was because he was lost, drifting. But when he got that skull, Leon knew he was on the edge of a triumph. That’s why I
know
he didn’t kill himself.‘

‘But if he didn’t commit suicide, that means someone killed him.’ She shuddered. ‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

Unnerved, she struggled with the idea. ‘But why would anyone kill Leon?’

‘I don’t know that either.’

He wasn’t sure of anything any more – whether Gina was in some way culpable, or whether she was also in danger. He couldn’t read her.

‘Leon told me that he was talking to people on the phone and over the internet.’

‘He was,’ she agreed. ‘And a man came to talk to him last week … What’s all this about? The skull?’ She turned to Ben, her face as white as a dying moon. ‘
Does someone want that skull?
’

‘Gina—’

‘
But he didn’t have it!
’ she shouted, suddenly panicking.
‘He was having it authenticated in Madrid. You know that. He didn’t have it.’

‘Gina, try and calm down—’

But she was scared, getting to her feet and moving around restlessly. ‘I don’t know where it is now. God, what if someone thinks it’s here? They could come here …
Could they hurt me?
’

‘No one’s going to harm you—’

‘How d’you know that?’ she countered. ‘You’re talking about Leon being murdered, and going on about that bloody skull. Well, I was involved. Jesus,
I was involved.
’

Levelly, he held her gaze.

‘It might be safer if you left here. Go home to the USA, Gina. Let me sort this out.’

‘I can’t go away! I can’t just up and leave. This was
my
home too. Leon was my partner – how can you expect me to walk away?’

‘It would be safer for you—’

‘Why don’t you just find the skull?’ she asked, impatient and rattled. ‘Don’t
you
know where it is?’ Suspicious, she stared at him. ‘You do, don’t you?’

A beat passed between them. Ben saw the hesitation and noted it. Did she think he was lying to her? And if so, why? Did she think he suspected her of something?

‘Well,
do
you know where the skull is?’

‘No,’ he lied.

‘But surely you could find out? You could ask around, track down Leon’s contacts. They would talk to you … Find it, Ben. Please. I’ll help you.’

Her voice dropped suddenly, as though she had lost power. Moving to the window, she closed the shutters, the house stifling and silent around them.

‘You don’t trust me, do you?’

He ignored the question and returned to something she had said earlier. ‘What did the man look like? The man who called here?’

She closed her eyes to help herself remember. ‘He was dark-skinned, maybe African, tall, about thirty-five.’

‘What was his name?’

She shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

‘Did he come by car?’

‘Yes, a cab.’

‘And he was on his own?’

‘Yeah … I showed him into the library and called for Leon.’

‘How did he react when he saw him?’

‘Fine. Said hello and offered him a seat. They seemed to get on.’

‘As though they already knew each other?’

She thought for a moment. ‘No, not like that. But the man was very charming, easy to like. In fact I could hear them laughing when I went to make some coffee. When I took it in to them the man was saying that he would contact Leon by email.’

‘Then what?’

‘A little while later Leon came to bed and fell asleep.’

‘He didn’t seem upset? Afraid?’

‘No. He fell asleep almost at once,’ she replied. ‘Is the visit important?’

‘I don’t know. But I want to see Leon’s emails.’

Surprised, Gina stared at him. ‘He never mentioned any emails from this man—’

‘You said he was being secretive.’

‘About some things!’ she snapped. ‘But not everything. Your brother always told me if he was worried. There was nothing he was scared of, nothing that spooked him. He would have told me.’

‘I still want to see the emails,’ Ben repeated. ‘Please.’

A low, dark headache beginning, he followed Gina as she moved into Leon’s study and flicked on the light. The memory was almost unbearable … Leon passing the skull to Ben that first day; Leon standing in the doorway, listening and watching, as astute and nervous as a child … Turning on the computer, Gina accessed the emails and then drew up the list of incoming messages, some with names as a heading, others completely anonymous. Unknown people from anonymous places, Ben thought uneasily. But they had all known where Leon Golding had been and where to find him.

Carefully Ben read every email. Some were in answer to Leon’s enquiries, others obvious cons.

I agree that the painter was not in his right mind. That is why the paintings are not to be trusted, or believed. However, if you send me $400 I can forward some original, and insightful, information
.

‘Crazy.’

Over his shoulder, Gina was also reading the emails, her finger suddenly jabbing at the screen as an address came up: [email protected].

‘That rings a bell.’

The message read:

I could call by on Thursday. The gallery would be most interested and would give you full credit
.

‘No name on it,’ Ben said. ‘Anything kosher would have a proper name.’

‘Unless they were trying to make sure no one else could contact them.’

Ben glanced over his shoulder. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in a conspiracy?’

‘I don’t know what to believe any more,’ she replied crisply, turning her gaze back to the screen. ‘What was it referring to?’

‘The skull, I suppose.’

She chewed the side of her fingernail thoughtfully, watching as Ben typed a note in reply to the email and pressed the SEND button. A moment later a reply came back stating that the message could not be received as the address no longer existed.

‘Dead end,’ he said bitterly.

‘Damn it! Do we
have
to wait until the authenticator of the skull gets in touch with us?’ Gina asked, her tone wary. ‘I mean, can’t we approach them?’

Inwardly, Ben flinched, thinking of the skull he had left at Francis’s laboratory in London. The skull Gina thought was still in Spain.

‘They
would
come back to us with the results, wouldn’t they? Or would they contact the Prado direct, now that Leon’s …?’ She stopped, fighting emotion. ‘You have to talk to them.’

‘I’ve been in touch already.’

‘Oh,’ she said listlessly. The computer screen threw a greenish cast on her face as she stared at the list of emails. ‘What did you say?’

‘That Leon didn’t commit suicide.’

‘Did you tell them that you thought he’d been murdered?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was that wise?’ she asked, turning to him, the green light playing on her profile.

‘We’re talking about the Prado, Gina. Not a bunch of gangsters.’

‘I don’t know what to think about anyone any more,’ she replied, her tone lost. ‘Did they ask you
who
killed Leon?’

‘No. I don’t think they believed me. After all, it was no secret that Leon had tried to commit suicide before.’

‘Was he … was he … dead when you found him?’ Gina asked, her voice breaking.

Ben closed his eyes for a moment before replying. ‘Yes, he was dead.’

‘I just wondered if he said anything … you know …’

‘He was dead when I got there,’ Ben repeated, touching the back of her hand briefly. ‘And no, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t leave a note either. No explanation. And if Leon
had
committed suicide, he would have left a note. He did before.’

Her head bowed, Gina dropped her voice even further.

‘Ben?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did Leon tell you about the baby?’

New York

‘You must keep it a secret. You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,’ Ellen Armstrong said, her voice lowered as she leaned across the table towards Bobbie Feldenchrist. ‘I would be in such trouble. But I’m telling you because you confided in me the other day and because it might be a way out of your … problem.’

Sipping a glass of Chablis, Bobbie raised her eyebrows. She was dressed in a cream Chanel suit with a brown silk blouse, her amber hair drawn back into a chignon. Immaculately distant, she observed the rotund woman in the seat next to hers. Bobbie knew only too well that Ellen needed her as a friend, just as she knew that Marty Armstrong was a brilliant man. His capacity for invention was impressive, but he had little business sense, and that was where Bobbie came in. On a number of occasions she had offered advice to Ellen, advice she knew would be passed on and acted on. Which it always was. In return,
Bobbie had Ellen’s devotion. The only caring, maternal influence in her life. Because Ellen Armstrong was that rarity in New York – a kind woman who could keep her mouth shut.

‘What “problem”, Ellen?’

Her voice lowered. ‘About your adoption.’

‘It’s delayed.’

‘Oh, Bobbie,’ she said, pulling at the cuff of one of her sleeves. ‘We know that’s not true, honey. I heard it fell through.’

‘How did you hear that?’

‘Marty heard, and he told me.’

Taking another sip of Chablis, Bobbie stared across the restaurant, her face impassive. How Marty Armstrong knew so many intimate details, about so many important lives, was a mystery to everyone. But somehow he always knew the gossip, somehow he always sussed out a person’s secret or weakness. Luckily for Bobbie, the Armstrongs were on her side.

‘Ellen,’ she said quietly, ‘if you’ve something to say, say it. I hate mysteries.’

‘I know of someone who could get you a baby,’ Ellen replied. ‘Quickly. No questions asked. It would cost you, but that’s not a problem, is it? This man could be the answer to your prayers.’

‘Who is he?’

Ellen leaned back in her seat. ‘Are you interested?’

‘I might be,’ Bobbie admitted, a vein in her neck beginning to throb. ‘How quickly could he get me a child?’

‘Within days.’

Bobbie’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is it legal?’

‘Does that matter?’ Ellen countered, leaning back over the table. ‘You want a baby, Bobbie, and I don’t believe that postponement story of yours. No one does really. We all think you were let down.’ She paused, her tone sympathetic. ‘Everyone knows how difficult the adoption services are. All that paperwork, even for someone like you. And there’s a shortage of American babies. Children that would be more likely to go to a proper family. Or at least a couple.’ The words hit deep and Bobbie pushed her glass away from her.

‘I know all this.’

‘So let me help you to cut through all the red tape.’

‘I don’t want to get involved in anything illegal, Ellen. It wouldn’t do for the Feldenchrist name.’

‘How badly do you want a baby?’

‘You know how badly.’

‘Then take this help.’ Ellen smiled, hurrying on. ‘Oh, Bobbie, you have a score of lawyers on your side. If anything went wrong you could bury this man without breaking into a sweat. You’ve got a name that no one would go up against.’

Pausing, Bobbie allowed the waiter to lay down her meal in front of her. The steam rose up from the poached salmon, the scent of the fresh fish suddenly intoxicating. As she stared at the plate, every portion seemed brighter, the colours psychedelic, vegetables humming with vibrancy, white sauce ethereal, pale as a goose feather.

Excitement made her hand shake as she reached for her fork. ‘Does this man work on his own?’

‘Of course.’

‘Where does he come from?’

‘Africa.’

‘Oh … Would the baby be African?’

‘I believe so.’

Pausing, Bobbie was about to refuse the offer and then considered the idea further. A black child was not something she had imagined for herself, but then again, why not? How magnanimous would she appear adopting not some healthy WASP child but a baby from an impoverished country? Mentally Bobbie rewrote her previous scenario, tried it on to see if she could accommodate it, and decided that she could. An African child, a black baby – how radical, how modern, how like Madonna. How free-thinking of her.

‘You said this man could get me a baby within days?’

‘By the weekend.’

So the party could still go ahead, Bobbie thought, her spirits lifting. She would have her baby, just as she had said. And more than that, she would make a real statement about adoption. Stop her detractors short and prove herself again
… No one
denied Bobbie Feldenchrist what she wanted. Not some Puerto Rican slut or some by-the-book adoption society.

‘I would want the child to be healthy. And it would have to be a boy.’

‘I know that.’

‘Who is this African man? What do you know about him?’

‘Not much.’

‘You’re making me nervous now.’ Her tone hardened ‘Is he a criminal?’