Memory of Bones (35 page)

London

The young man off the 16.35 flight from Berlin to London was washing his hands in the men’s room at Heathrow airport. Idly, he checked his reflection in the mirror, then leaned forward to squeeze a blackhead on his nose. Deep in concentration, he jumped as he heard an odd sound behind him.

‘Hello?’

No answer.

‘Hello?’ he asked again, surprised as he had thought himself alone.

Warily he moved over to the cubicles. All the doors were open, apart from two. Curious, he pushed the first door. It swung open. The cubicle was empty. Then he pushed the second door.

‘Fucking hell!’ he said, rushing in. ‘Hang on, mate, just hang on!’

He thought the man was dead at first, jammed between
the side of the cubicle and the toilet, tied to the cistern pipe by a rope around his neck. If he had lost consciousness he would have fallen forward and choked to death. His attacker had drawn his knees under his chin, tied his arms behind his back and taped over his mouth. Blood was coming from a cut over his eye and from a deep incision on the back of his head.

Hurriedly the young man untied him, unknotting the rope around his neck. Once released, he slumped forward on to the floor.

‘Hang on! I’ll get an ambulance.’

Gasping, Ben took in a breath and struggled to get up, the young man helping him on to the toilet seat. He was reeling in shock, trying to get his bearings.

‘I’m OK. I’m OK.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I’m OK–’

‘You need a doctor—’

‘I
am
a doctor.’

Trying to get some feeling back into his arms, Ben rubbed at the aching muscles. He hadn’t anticipated the attack. He should have done, but he had let down his guard momentarily and been jumped. The blow to the back of his head had knocked him unconscious, only regaining his senses when his attacker had gone.

‘You’ve been robbed,’ the young man said, pointing to Ben’s bag, its contents scattered around the toilet. Leon’s notes and laptop had been taken out and discarded. Obviously the skull was all that had mattered
to his attacker. The theory was unimportant.

Struggling to his feet, Ben stuffed the contents back into his bag. So Bobbie Feldenchrist had talked. She must have challenged the man who had sold her the fake, and he had come after Ben to get hold of the real skull. Which he didn’t have … The killer must be panicking now, Ben thought, desperate that the Goya had eluded him. After so much bloodshed, so many deaths, how pointless to know that it had all come down the wrong piece of bone!

The young man was still hovering over Ben, concerned. ‘I should get help.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘But why would anyone hurt a doctor?’

‘Mistaken identity. Forget it, please. Don’t tell anyone.’

His rescuer was suddenly suspicious. ‘And why didn’t they take the laptop? I mean, if you were mugged—’

Ben put up his hands.

‘Ok, I’ll tell you the truth. It was someone’s husband …’ He paused, wanting to throw the young man off track and to elicit some male sympathy. ‘I was fooling around with his wife.’

The young man grinned. ‘Got caught out, did you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Was she worth it?’

Slowly Ben dabbed at the wound on his head. ‘Yes,’ he said wryly. ‘She was worth it.’

‘How long is she staying here?’ Mama Gala shouted at her son as he came into the shop, slamming the door behind him. ‘I’ve got some white bitch upstairs and you go off and leave me to it!’

Rain had seeped into the shoulders of Dwappa’s jacket, his expression strained as he turned to his mother.

‘I had to make a trip—’

She slammed her meaty hands down on the counter and walked over to her son, looking him up and down like a side of bad meat. Above their heads was a locked room, the old woman outside guarding the entrance, and inside was an unconscious Englishwoman, Abigail Harrop. A couple of times Mama Gala had gone into the room and stared down at the mattress on the floor on which Abigail lay drugged. She had wondered about the bandage around her head, the blond hair matted with blood and sweat, but had not interfered. Instead she had made sure that the drugged woman stayed drugged. And silent.

‘Is she’ – Mama Gala jerked her head upwards – ‘part of your plan?’

She is now, Dwappa wanted to retort. She wasn’t originally, but now she certainly is.

He had left New York before Golding, numbed by the news of the skull being a fake. And on the flight over he had decided to raise the stakes and abduct Ben Golding’s partner. Dwappa knew the woman was in the Whitechapel Hospital because, having been watching Golding for days, he had discovered her identity. At first Abigail Harrop had seemed unimportant, but suddenly her role had turned out to be pivotal. Because as soon as Golding heard about her abduction he would give up the skull.

‘You don’t answer your phone no more?’ Mama Gala snapped, catching hold of her son’s arm, her grip ferocious as she pulled him round to face her. ‘You look sick, boy. Your plan not working?’ Her turbaned head leaned to one side, her tongue jutting out momentarily like a snake tasting the air. ‘You failing me? Is that it – you failing me?’

His confidence collapsed, his longed-for escape from his mother derailed. He had money, yes, but not all of it – not enough. He had been cheated. Ben Golding had cheated him. He had upturned his plans and made a fool out of him. And Emile Dwappa couldn’t bear it. This was to have been his chance, his triumph. And Golding had beaten him.

But he would suffer for it. For every day Emile Dwappa had to stay with his mother, Golding would suffer. For every indignity, every torture she inflicted on him, Golding would suffer. For the postponement of his new life, Golding would suffer.

Shocked by what Bobbie Feldenchrist had told him, Dwappa had moved fast, organising his cousins in New York to pile on the pressure. After his meeting at the museum he had arranged to have the pig’s head left as a warning in Golding’s hotel room. Then he had gone back to London. On his return he had personally abducted Abigail and now he was waiting for Ben Golding to come back, but not before arranging his attack at Heathrow only minutes after he had landed.

Dwappa was piling shock on shock, throwing Golding into confusion, cranking up the fear so that in the end he would give up the skull without a fight. He wasn’t sure if Golding already knew of Abigail’s abduction – he was simply increasing the pressure so that he would realise just how much danger he was in. Dwappa knew that he would already be running scared. It didn’t even matter that Golding hadn’t had the skull in his luggage – Dwappa hadn’t expected him to be travelling with it. What he
did
expect was panic. And that would come soon, Dwappa told himself, just as soon as he knew that Abigail Harrop had been taken.

He could feel his hatred intensify. Other acts of aggression, even the killing of Jimmy Shaw, were bland by comparison. He would do to Ben Golding what had been done to him. He would buckle him, take everything from him, make him beg for his woman. Make him plead for Dwappa to take the skull. And then he would kill him.

‘Look at me, boy,’ Mama Gala said, her grip tightening on his arm.

Instantly Dwappa’s viciousness faltered, his aggression diluted in her presence. To her he was a gay boy, a queer, the son she had ridiculed and baited constantly, goading him and forcing him to please her, always please her.
It should have worked out
, Dwappa thought, panicked. He should be giving her the money now – money to keep her quiet. To get her a new house. To give him space. To buy his freedom from this terrifying maternal tyrant.

He remembered what had happened to his father and felt his bladder loosen.

‘You failed, boy?’

‘No,’ he said, repeating the word more loudly as he thought of Golding. ‘No. There’s just a delay.’

She touched his face, ran her heavy hand down his throat and then pressed against his windpipe, choking him. For a moment her eyes widened with pleasure, then she moved away.

He could hear the rain outside and see the street lights coming on as he watched her turn the sign on the door to CLOSED.

Certain that he was being watched, Ben let himself into his house just after dusk had fallen. Just as he did so, Roma Jaffe came running up the front steps and confronted him.

‘I need to talk to you.’

Surprised, he opened the door and stood back as she entered, followed by Duncan. Showing them into his sitting room, Ben turned on the lamps and took off his coat. He was trying to compose himself and clear his thoughts, wondering if they had already heard about the incident in New York. But how could they? He had used a false name and address. They couldn’t know about it.

More confident then he felt, Ben challenged Roma. ‘What d’you want?’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Why d’you want to know?’

Roma shook her head impatiently. ‘You should talk to us.’

‘Not without a lawyer present,’ Ben replied, on his guard.

‘Do you
need
a lawyer?’

‘I don’t know. But I’ve just been doorstepped by the police and they won’t tell me why—’

‘Your partner’s been abducted.’

He sat down, wondering for an instant if he had heard her correctly, his reaction muted with shock. ‘
Abigail?
When?’

‘In the early hours of this morning.’

‘This morning …’

‘Where were you?’

‘Where’s Abigail, more like!’ Ben snapped. ‘She was having an operation at the Whitechapel. She was in hospital.’ He was blustering, white-faced. ‘How was she taken from a hospital?’ He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, distracted. ‘Christ Almighty! Who took her?’

‘Mr Golding, we need—’

He cut her off. ‘What are you doing here? You should be looking for Abigail—’

‘Where should we look?’

‘
Where should you look?
’ he hurled back. ‘You’re the fucking police – you should know.’ Pausing, he stared at Roma, his expression incredulous. ‘You think I had something to do with this?’

‘Did you?’

‘I was in New York!’ he replied, pouring himself a scotch without offering one to Roma or Duncan. Downing it in one, he turned back to her.

‘You’ve got blood on your shirt, Mr Golding.’

The room fell silent as Ben turned away to look out of
the window. He was trying to plan, but all he could think of was Abigail. He could see that the police had changed their attitude towards him. They were talking to him like a suspect. God, Ben thought, he had to get their attention off him! And fast, because he knew his girlfriend was going to be used as a bargaining tool. Abigail in return for the skull. If Ben antagonised the police – or worse, if he was taken into custody – he might never see her again.

The police would never find her. Or the abductor. No one knew who he was, or what he looked like. No one knew his name, not even Bobbie Feldenchrist … Ben kept staring out of the window, his face averted. It was obvious what would happen next. He would be approached, asked for Goya’s skull in return for Abigail.
But he no longer had the skull
. And without it he had nothing to bargain with.

‘Why is there blood on your shirt?’ Roma repeated.

‘I had a fall at the airport.’

‘Any witnesses?’

‘I was in the gents,’ Ben said curtly. ‘I slipped, hit the back of my head on the basin.’

Roma and Duncan exchanged a glance. ‘Do you know why anyone would abduct your partner?’

‘No. And shouldn’t you be looking for her instead of interrogating me?’ He relented. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just worried about her … You asked me where I was. I went to New York on a short trip to attend a conference and I’ve only just come back.’

‘You didn’t call the hospital while you were away?’

‘Of course I did! I called three times, last time yesterday morning. Abi was fine, making progress. She knew I was coming to see her tonight …’ he trailed off.

‘Has she any enemies?’

‘No.’

‘What about you?’

He lied without hesitation. ‘None that I know of.’

‘Really?’ Roma said. ‘But you’re having a hard time of it lately, Mr Golding, aren’t you?’

His expression fluttered, tiredness making his thoughts unsteady. Jesus! She thinks I’m involved. She thinks I’m after the skull for myself. He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Could only see images of Leon, Abigail, and the pig’s head jammed in the toilet bowl. Shaking, Ben struggled to control himself.
You were in Madrid. You were the last person to talk to your brother … Your number was the last one called on Francis Asturias’s phone
… He thought of Diego Martinez, had a sudden memory of a thin boy at the farmhouse many years earlier, followed by an image of the decapitated head. A murdered man, with Ben’s business card in his pocket … Unsteady, he reached for a chair and sat down.

Had
he been in New York?

He couldn’t remember.

He was tired.

He’d been travelling.

He was back home.

No, he was in London.

Home in London.

Home in Madrid.

His eyes closed then reopened. Was he crazy?
Christ, was he going crazy?

Roma was watching him, seeing what she thought was an imminent collapse. ‘First there was your brother’s
suicide
…’ She paused, waiting for Ben to correct her. But he didn’t, so she continued. ‘Then the murder of Francis Asturias. And before that, the death of Diego Martinez.’ She was certain of her theory, spelling it out for him. ‘All these incidents happening one after the other. It must be very hard to cope with. Confusing, even.’

He turned, stared at her, his expression bewildered.

‘But then again, they all have a common denominator, don’t they?’

Silent, Ben continued to look at her.

‘The skull. It all seems to have started with that Goya skull, and gone on from there.’ She was sure she had him. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Golding, that since it was found a lot of odd things have happened? You told me yourself that it’s very valuable. That some people would go to extremes to get it. I’m afraid to say that I’m not happy with what you’ve told me, Mr Golding. Don’t leave London again without telling me—’