Memory of Bones (27 page)

‘How did Gina Austin get on with your brother?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’

‘We’ve tried. She’s not at the farmhouse any longer,’ Roma replied. ‘Do you know where she is now?’

He had the impression that he was drowning, pulled under dirty water and a slow choking of mud.

‘No.’

‘You’re not being very helpful—’

‘Well, neither are you!’ Ben hurled back. ‘You come here asking me questions. Why aren’t you trying to find out who killed Leon? And Diego Martinez? And Francis Asturias? Find out, because I’d like to know. Francis was a nice guy, eccentric, funny. I liked him. Perhaps I was even fond of him. All the time I’ve been at the Whitechapel I’ve known him. And he would do anything for anyone. And now someone’s stuck a knife in him and you –
you
– have the nerve to suggest that I did it!’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m not answering any more of your questions. If
you want to talk to me again, we’ll talk in front of my lawyer.’

Surprised, Roma stood up. ‘There’s a connection between these deaths and I’ll find it.’

‘Good. Well, let me know when you do.’

New York

He was the last person she wanted to see. But when the intercom buzzer sounded from below, Bobbie allowed Emile Dwappa to come up. She had made sure that her son and the nanny were out of the apartment and had dressed herself as though she was going to a business meeting. Which, in a way, she was. The African had to be made to realise that his usefulness to her was over. He had brought Joseph into her life and for that, she had paid him amply. There was nothing more she wanted from him. If he was difficult, she would have to put pressure on him.

Turning to the mirror in the entrance hall, Bobbie studied her reflection as though examining a painting. The Issy Miyake suit was flattering but dark. As for her make-up, there was nothing soft about it – nothing welcoming. Only she would know that behind the image she was moist with anxiety. She didn’t know the full extent of the African’s dealings – she didn’t want to. She just
wanted to make sure that when he left her apartment he would never return.

Expressionless, Bobbie watched the elevator come to a halt at the penthouse, saw the doors open and the African walk out with a small briefcase. He did not seem surprised to find her waiting for him. Instead he moved past her into the drawing room and sat down.

Infuriated by his familiarity, Bobbie’s tone was curt.

‘I thought our business was concluded. In fact, that was why I agreed to see you today, to impress upon you that there is no reason for us to meet again.’

He glanced round, unconcerned, Bobbie nonplussed.

‘Mr …’ She paused, realising that she had never known the man’s name and now certainly did not wish to learn it. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

His narrow face was as impassive as hers. Only he realised that she was affecting her stance, whereas he was fully in control.

‘What would you say would be the most important find in art?’

Her eyebrows rose, irritation barely concealed. ‘I don’t think—’

‘How’s your son?’

Again, she was taken unawares. ‘Joseph’s very well.’

‘Can I see him?’

A moment of unease threatened to capsize her.

‘He’s out with his nanny.’

‘He has a nanny?’ The African’s pale eyes seemed amused. ‘I bet you got him the best nanny in the world.
Who
are
the best nannies?’ he asked, then pretended to think. ‘Oh, yes, Norland nannies. English.’ He could see Bobbie flinch and carried on. ‘Do you really think I don’t know
everything
about your child?’

She swallowed, but kept her voice steady. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘You didn’t answer me.’

‘About what?’

‘About what would be the most important find in art.’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied shortly, ‘That would depend on what people were looking for. One person might want a piece of sculpture, another a Rembrandt.’

‘What if the piece wasn’t art, but something personal to the painter?’

Despite herself, Bobbie’s attention was caught. ‘What kind of personal thing?’

‘Like Leonardo’s hand.’

She laughed, surprising herself. ‘If you think someone has the hand of Leonardo you’ve been duped. People often try and pass off fakes as artistic relics.’

‘But what if this was
proven
to be authentic?’

For an instant she forgot her fear and felt only the thrill of the collector scenting a find. ‘You have proof?’

‘Yes. From a leading art historian and a top forensic reconstructor.’

She laughed nervously. ‘Indeed.’

‘I’ve become aware that many private collectors would be desperate to own this object. Bartolomé Ortega for one—’

‘
Bartolomé Ortega?
’ Bobbie repeated, startled by the name coming from such a source. ‘He’s involved?’

‘He wants to be.’

Her voice steadied. ‘What
is
the object?’

‘It’s very rare. Very rare indeed.’

‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’

‘A skull.’

Her eyes flickered. ‘Whose?’

‘Goya’s.’

To his surprise, she laughed. ‘Oh, not again! Poor Goya. To my reckoning his skull has been “found” three times. Each time it was a hoax.’

‘The Prado don’t think it’s a hoax.’

She stopped laughing. ‘
They have it?
’

‘No.’

‘But they’ve seen it?’

‘They know all about it. They allowed one of their leading historians to have it examined.’

Sitting down, Bobbie could feel her legs shake. So one of the great mysteries of art history had finally been solved. The missing head of Francisco Goya had been found after being stolen nearly two hundred years earlier. The head of the greatest Spanish master who had ever lived … She could imagine what her father’s reaction would have been – astonishment, followed by an overwhelming desire to own it. But how could an individual, even a Feldenchrist, add such a treasure to their private collection?

But then again, what was the African doing in her
apartment
unless
he was coming to sell? Jesus! Bobbie thought, her heart drumming. Did he have it?

‘Why did the Prado allow this historian free rein?’

‘Because he found it. Or rather, it was found and passed to him.’

She leaned forward slightly in her seat. ‘Who is he?’

‘Who
was
he,’ the African corrected her. ‘Leon Golding. He committed suicide only the other week and the skull left his hands.’

Bobbie had heard of Leon Golding, but she hadn’t known about his death. And she didn’t want to know because knowing might be dangerous for her. She was tempted to ask the African to leave, but instead her gaze moved to the small briefcase beside his feet, her breath quickening.

‘I hadn’t heard about Mr Golding’s death. He was a gifted historian.’ Her gaze fixed on the case, hardly daring to believe what she was thinking. ‘Was the skull found with Mr Golding?’

‘No, there was no sign of it in the hotel room.’

‘Was it at his house?’

‘No.’

‘So what happened to it?’

‘Apparently it was stolen.’

‘
Stolen?
’ she echoed, her eyes flicking from his face back to the bag at his feet. ‘Do the Prado know?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And Bartolomé Ortega?’

‘He knows it’s missing.’

‘But he hasn’t found it?’

‘No.’

‘He has a lot of contacts and money. I would have thought Mr Ortega would have been able to get hold of the skull—’

‘His contacts must have failed him.’

‘But he would want it badly.’

‘He must have had the wrong contacts.’

‘Do I have the right one?’ she asked, staring at the dark leather of the case and imagining what was inside.

The skull of Francisco Goya
– and she, Bobbie Feldenchrist, would own it. It wasn’t difficult to picture her coup, or the animosity which would follow from the likes of Bartolomé Ortega and the Prado. That an
American
would end up possessing a priceless Spanish treasure … The thought made her covet the skull even more. What a triumph for her and the Feldenchrist Collection. It would make the cover of
TIME
magazine, would be talked about in every artistic circle around the globe.

Bobbie tried to keep her thoughts composed, but longing overtook her. She sighed, taking in a breath. The skull wasn’t hers yet. Not yet.

‘Well,’ she repeated calmly, ‘
do
I have the right contact?’

In reply Dwappa bent down and lifted the case on to the table between them. Slowly he opened it. Bobbie leaned forward, her hands extended, but he brushed them away. Instead he lifted out the skull himself, passing it to her in silence.

She could feel her hands shake as they cupped the discoloured
bone, her gaze travelling across the empty eye sockets and the jawline, her memory fleshing out the bareness until she could imagine the artist restored. The man who had pictured the Spanish court, the
majas
, the Disasters of War … Swallowing became difficult, emotion so intense it was almost erotic. To own
this
, to own the head of one of the greatest painters who had ever lived! She could see it in a display cabinet, behind unbreakable, bulletproof glass, with one of Goya’s pictures on display beside it. People would come from all over the world to visit the skull, to pay homage to the artist and, in doing so, to the Feldenchrist name. She would be recognised as the greatest collector alive, because she would own the greatest artistic relic in existence.

Her voice was husky when she spoke again. ‘Are you sure it’s genuine?’

He nodded. ‘I told you, I have authentication.’

Then he put out his hands.

Bobbie immediately leaned back, out of his reach. It did not matter that she was holding the head of a dead man, a skull which had been wrenched from a corpse. To her it possessed no spirituality, but was merely an emblem of triumph.

‘Give it back to me, Ms Feldenchrist.’

She was curt with desire. ‘How much do you want for it?’

‘Five million dollars.’

She made a short, snorting sound. ‘Five million!’

‘You have it.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘So give the skull back to me,’ he replied implacably.

‘Three million.’

‘I won’t bargain,’ the African said, staring coldly at her. ‘It’s a lot less than you paid for your son.’

She winced, remembering Joseph – then put all thoughts of him aside. ‘Five million is too much.’

‘The Prado would want this skull. No doubt they could raise the money.’

‘Five million? I don’t think so. Besides, they wouldn’t pay
you
for it. They wouldn’t do anything illegal.’

‘But Bartolomé Ortega might. And he’s a rival of yours, isn’t he? And I believe he was more to you in the past

Bobbie shrugged, trying to bluff. ‘So why don’t you go to him?’

‘Maybe I already have. Maybe I’m just waiting for the highest bidder.’

Bobbie stared at the African, her confidence fading. ‘Has he put in an offer?’

‘He might have done. What’s your offer?’

‘I’ll match his.’

‘No,’ the African replied, suddenly changing tack. ‘I think I might ask something else from you. What if I asked you to exchange your son for the skull …?’

The words made a hissing sound in her ears.

‘What would you say, Ms Feldenchrist? Give me your son and I’ll give you the skull.’

‘You’re not serious?’ she croaked, still holding the skull to her, the hard bone pressing into her chest.

‘What if I am? Your son for the skull.’

Incredulous, she stared at him – at the narrow head, the smooth, dark features, the seeming absence of malice in this most malicious of men. The skull seemed to rest against her, warming, soothing. No one else possessed such an object. No one. A woman could adopt a child any day. Hadn’t she proved that? But there was only one Goya skull – and she was holding it.

‘So, Ms Feldenchrist, what’s it to be? Your son or the skull?’

Her fingers were holding the head so tightly she could hear her nails scratch against the bone.

‘Just give me back your baby and you’ll beat Bartolomé Ortega. It’s not a hard choice for you to make, is it?’

‘I … I …’ she stammered.

‘Come on, make the choice!’

Letting out an odd mewling noise, Bobbie stared at him.

‘I …’

The African laughed suddenly, taking the skull from her hands. ‘Relax. I wouldn’t be so cruel,’ he said, his taunting over. ‘What would I want with that kid of yours? No, Ms Feldenchrist, I want money. I want five million dollars for this skull.’

She was beaten and she knew it.

‘All right. I can get it for you.’

‘I know that,’ he replied, tucking the skull back into the packing and closing the case. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow at four. You give me the money then, in cash, and I’ll give you the skull.’

Quickly he moved to the door, pausing by the elevator. Behind him, Bobbie leant against a pillar, her face ash white, her body drained. Finally the elevator came to a halt at the penthouse and Dwappa turned back to her.

‘Aren’t you lucky, Ms Feldenchrist?’

‘Why?’

‘That I didn’t make you choose,’ he replied, walking into the elevator and turning back to her. ‘When you think about our meeting later you’ll remember the choice you were ready to make.’ He smiled as the doors began to close. ‘What
would
it have been, Ms Feldenchrist? The baby or the skull?’

London

‘I had to come,’ Abigail said, walking past Ben into the hallway. Once inside, she kissed him, then pulled back and looked into his face. ‘You look terrible. Handsome, but terrible—’

‘You shouldn’t have come here. I told you not to.’

She ignored him. ‘I heard about Francis. I rang your rooms. Your secretary told me.’

She could see that Ben was shaken, Francis’s death coming so soon after Leon’s. Concerned, she touched his cheek, trying to soothe him. His composure was weakening. Other people might not notice it, but Abigail could see the difference. His appearance was altering, his outer, physical size somehow overwhelming the inner man.