Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

  ‘What does it mean?’ Arrieta asked, then repeated the words slowly so that Goya could lip-read.

  He had taken a long moment to reply, then he had rubbed his temple, leaving a streak of paint at the corner of his eye.

  ‘When I am are finished, then you will understand.’

  A cat had leapt from the window sill on to the dining room floor. It had walked slowly towards the lemons then paused, a black shadow passing over the swollen fruit. And a memory came back to Arrieta in that moment; of a duchess rubbing lemon peel into her skin, trying, uselessly, to kill the smell of her dying.

  20

  Little Venice, London

  ‘Nothing …’

  Nodding, Roma Jaffe turned to see her second-in-command, Duncan Thorpe, walking over to join her on the restaurant balcony. He was thin, fair-haired, hardly out of his twenties, almost slow-looking, but clever.

  ‘Nothing else on the canal, or the banks …’

  ‘What about the card?’

  ‘Just the two numbers on it,’ Duncan replied, shrugging. ‘Ben Golding’s and another mobile number.’

  ‘Not Golding’s mobile?’

  ‘I dunno. When I rang it was disconnected. We can’t trace it.’

  ‘And the laboratory couldn’t get any prints on the card?’

  ‘No prints either. It had been in the water so long there was nothing left.’

  ‘The number must have been important, or it wouldn’t have been left on the body.’ Roma paused. ‘After all, there was nothing else in the pockets. Someone wanted us to find those numbers.’

  ‘We know one of them belongs to Dr Golding. That’s a start.’

  She nodded, thoughtful, as Duncan glanced behind him into the restaurant. ‘I brought my girlfriend here once. Christ, they know how to charge.’

  Roma let the comment pass. ‘Nothing unusual about the blanket?’

  ‘Cut from a piece of cloth which went out of production five years ago.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Roma checked her watch. ‘They’re doing the reconstruction at the Whitechapel now. Should be ready later today, or tomorrow. Then we do the usual: put up the posters and see who recognises him.’

  ‘You want a coffee?’

  She smiled wryly. ‘Here? Can you afford it?’

  ‘The manager said it was on the house,’ Duncan replied, smiling as he walked off.

  Her hair damped down from the rain, Roma Jaffe stood on the restaurant balcony overlooking the Little Venice canal. Behind her a group of waiters watched listlessly, as the manager tried to field off a reporter on the phone. His voice was raised, out of patience, the resounding bang of the receiver echoing out to the balcony where Roma was staring down into the water. A duck – that most innocuous of birds – paddled a comical pattern down the canal, disappearing under the stone archway, taking the same route as the mutilated body parts had done two days earlier.

  Much as Roma had tried to prevent it, the press had got hold of the story and it had made headlines in the Evening Standard and in the dailies the following morning.

  DISMEMBERED BODY FOUND IN THAMES

  The canal water was flicked with rain, drops making dwarf fountains on the surface. Perhaps it was because she was tired, but suddenly Roma wished that she had never taken on the task of heading up her own team of investigators. As Acting Head of the Murder Squad, her ambition had made her no friends. If anything, it had disturbed her previously smooth climb to the higher reaches of the London Metropolitan Police. After all the praise and promises of support, she had been left short-handed and short-funded, an opinionated harpy with something to prove.

  ‘Coffee. Latte,’ Duncan said, joining her. ‘D’you think we’ll ever find out who the victim was?’

  ‘I hope so.’ She changed the subject deftly. ‘I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.’

  ‘Well, I see her now and again. Not really close.’

  Roma sipped her coffee slowly, taking her time. She was hanging on to the priceless few minutes of quiet, watching the canal, relishing the escape from the phones. Her last case had been a murder in Holland Park. A drug addict had broken into an empty house to squat and found the remains of a woman who had been dead six months. Six whole months, Roma thought, in which no one had missed a visit or a phone call. Six months in which a young woman had mouldered in an expensive house. Eventually the victim had been named and her murderer caught. His explanation was simple: he picked her because he knew she wouldn’t be missed.

  He had been right.

  ‘Well, here we go …’ Roma said, staring at a text which had just appeared on her phone. ‘Francis Asturias has come up trumps. Our faceless victim is no more. We’ve got a reconstruction.’

  21

  Humming to himself, Francis took off his gauntlets and looked at the reconstruction he had just completed. Not bad – not bad at all, he thought. All this practice was refining his art. He tilted his head to one side, scrutinising the very ordinary face he had just reconstructed. Caucasian male, around forty, with a slightly overshot jaw. Having toyed with the colour of the eyes, Francis had finally guessed grey; somehow it seemed to go with the man’s face better than a darker shade. In fact, if he was honest, the victim’s face was bland, his features veering on weakness. A man who would have passed unnoticed in a crowd.

  Footsteps behind him made Francis turn as Ben walked up to the workbench and stared at the reconstructed head.

  ‘You get the first look,’ Francis told him. ‘The police are on their way, but I promised you could have the first sneaky peek … So, do you recognise him?’

  ‘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?’

  ‘Ye
s.’

  ‘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.’

  22

  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.

  23

  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?’