Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

  She had carried him round the drawing room, pointing out the pictures. Didn’t some specialist believe that a baby could absorb information from its first months? He would learn about the Feldenchrist artworks, about the importance of maintaining the Collection, and the name itself. Pride had flushed through every pore as Bobbie had talked to her baby, her own passion finding outlet. In time Joseph would run the collection, own it; in time he would inherit every drawing, sculpture and painting. He would go to the auctions, bid the other dealers down, wield the Feldenchrist money as all fortunes should be wielded – with unquestionable confidence.

  Bobbie had learned that lesson a decade earlier, when her ruthless instinct made her tackle an important dealer from France. Later she bid against, and won against, Bartolomé Ortega. Their association then developed into an unlikely affair, their mutual interests and ambitions making them into a power couple. But the allegiance hadn’t lasted, Bartolomé ending the relationship when he met Celina. Within the year Bobbie was married too, but her ruthlessness had increased as she sought to make the Feldenchrist Collection ever more prestigious – some said in an attempt to show Bartolomé Ortega what he had lost.

  Bobbie’s marriage hadn’t lasted, but her ambition had grown. And now she had a son she would be even more ruthless.

  ‘Ellen, we have to keep this little secret to ourselves, you understand?’ she said, with an edge to her voice. The African had threatened her – he could do the same to her son. And worse, he could tarnish the Feldenchrist name irrevocably.

  ‘I won’t tell anyone!’

  ‘Good … I’ve been thinking about that project Marty was interested in.’ She threw out the words like a fishing net. ‘I think I might invest, after all.’

  Ellen caught the drift in a millisecond. ‘That would be marvellous. I wouldn’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘I just want your silence. You understand, Ellen? No gossip, no innuendoes, nothing. You can do that, can’t you?’

  Ellen was all hurried agreement. ‘Oh, of course, of course—’

  ‘Not a word, Ellen. Not a single word.’ It was very late that night, just edging into morning, when Bobbie woke and flicked on the lamp by her bed. Half asleep, half awake, she glanced at the clock. Three thirty. Her first instinct was to go back to sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t rest and instead made her way to her study. In the apartment there was absolute silence, the nanny asleep, Joseph in his room beside hers.

  Only Bobbie awake, only Bobbie pacing and thinking. Her gaze moved to the computer screen, fighting the impulse to turn it on. To trawl the internet for information, to investigate the man who had sold her a child … A moment lunged at her. Her hand moved over the keyboard. She hesitated, then turned the computer on.

  Automatically Bobbie glanced behind her, but there was no one in the room, no one watching, and the blinds were drawn at the windows. No one would know she had been on the computer, that she had been looking. No one would know … Warily she typed the words into the search box, then pressed ENTER, and a whole listing of information came on to the screen. All about child trafficking.

  Again Bobbie looked round, then turned back to the screen. Information came up – along with the remembered words:

  Keep quiet, tell no one …

  Her hands shook.

  She had to know.

  She had to look.

  Or did she?

  Flicking the OFF switch, Bobbie stumbled to her feet. Her legs unsteady, she walked down the corridor. Dear God! she thought. If anyone found out about her son, Joseph would be taken away from her. If the police discovered that she had had anything to do with the African they would take away her child.

  She would have to keep quiet – and not just because she had been threatened. She would keep quiet to protect herself and her child. No one would know about the African from her. No one would know the truth of where her adopted son had come from. If anyone asked, she knew nothing.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  35

  London, Whitechapel Hospital

  Tie unfastened, Ben Golding walked into the children’s ward, making for his patient’s bedside. The long, delayed flight from Madrid had caught him unawares, his eyes puffy, his breath smelling of fresh toothpaste from a quick clean-up in the doctors’ restroom. Pushing all thoughts of the farmhouse, his brother and Gina out of his mind, he smiled at his patient, a boy of six who was sitting on his bed with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Picking up the notes from the bottom of the bed, Ben read down the page and checked the blood results, finally smiling at the child and moving on to his next patient.

  ‘I thought you were still in Madrid.’

  Ben looked up to see Megan Griffiths walking over to him, her smile sympathetic but forced. ‘Sorry to hear about your brother’s suicide.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Suicide.’

  ‘But I heard—’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide,’ Ben repeated, gesturing to the patient nearest to them. His eyebrows raised, he glanced back at Megan. ‘What’s happening here?’

  Clearing her throat, Megan began. ‘Sean’s stable, even put on a little weight. Do you want to operate tomorrow? You’ve got a space in the afternoon.’

  He hesitated. ‘No, leave him for another couple of days.’

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘I’m the consultant in charge.’

  ‘But I was standing in for you while you were away, Mr Golding.’

  ‘Then it’s a good thing I’m back, isn’t it?’ he replied, walking off.

  Thirty-five minutes later Ben had finished his ward round, making for his consulting room with Sean’s file under his arm. Away from his patients he felt tiredness sidle up to him like an unwelcome mongrel rubbing at his calves and he paused, taking in a breath and leaning against an old wrought iron radiator. Behind him, the water pipes banged morosely to the timing of the corridor clock. His gaze moved over to the blank gold face, painted images marking out the corners of the clock’s surround: spring, summer, autumn and winter. His eyes fixed on the images, then on the clock again, on the large black hands and the ponderous swinging pendulum.

  Suddenly a gowned figure passed in the loggia, nodding to Ben, unrecognisable in his surgery greens. He nodded back, trying to straighten his tie along with his thoughts. But his mind buzzed with unease – with the image of his dead brother, and Gina, and the skull. Without telling Francis, Ben had removed the skull from the hospital storage and taken it home. Agitated, he had paced the house, going from room to room, thinking of his study and dismissing it as being too obvious a hiding place. Finally he had walked into the kitchen and stood for a long moment staring at the washing machine.

  He had taken his laundry out of his overnight bag and wrapped the skull in a shirt, together with the authentication papers and Francis Asturias’s report, pushing the bundle to the back of the drum. Slamming the door shut, he had then turned the dial to a full programme and heard the comforting click of the lock. Of course he hadn’t pressed the START button, but it would look more convincing if anyone broke in.

  He had had no idea who – if, anyone – would break in.

  All the way to the Whitechapel Hospital Ben had kept wondering if he was right about Leon. Just how well had he known his brother? Maybe Leon had committed suicide. Maybe his instability had made him hear voices in the house. Maybe, in his madness, he had taken his life, after all.

  But he didn’t believe it.

  Reaching the consulting rooms, Ben paused when he saw two decorators setting up ladders. One of the men setting about scraping down a door surround – apparently the area was about to be repainted. Momentarily catching his foot in a dustsheet, Ben turned to the nearest man. ‘How long will this take?’

  ‘Depends,’ the man replied sullenly. ‘Three days, at most.’

  ‘Three days?’

  ‘Or so.’

  Ben took in a breath. ‘It’s just that my co
nsulting room is over there and I need to use it for my patients.’

  ‘Didn’t you get the memo about the redecorating? It went all over the hospital yesterday.’

  ‘I was in Spain yesterday.’

  ‘Can’t blame me then if you didn’t see the memo, can you?’ the man replied sourly, then relented. ‘We knock off at five thirty. Then we’ll be out of your way till morning.’

  Nodding, Ben ducked under the ladder and walked into his consulting room. The smell of paint was not overly strong, the repetitive scraping on the woodwork outside soon dropping into the mixed clutter of background noise. A stack of mail was waiting for him together with some reports, typed and ready for signing. Turning up the gas fire, Ben heard the comforting hiss enter the room and sat down, picking up the first of the reports and beginning to read. A few minutes passed, the gas hissing, the rain beating against the window and the desk lamp making a yellow island of illumination on the papers as the daylight failed.

  Making a correction on one of the reports, he then signed another, leaning back to read a third. In the distance he heard the sound of the church clock chiming and realised that an hour had passed and that the decorators would soon be leaving. Pausing, he then heard the noises of the men packing up in the corridor outside, followed by the smack of the ladder hitting the side of the wall as they left it for the night.

  Concentrating, he steeled himself to think of work and not Spain, not the skull, or the lost baby. Not Leon or the man Gina had told him about. The stranger who had come visiting Leon during the last week of his life … Weary, Ben’s head nodded and he snapped himself awake impatiently. He would finish his reports and then go home, retire early and maybe find a few hours’ grace in sleep.

  Coughing, he turned on his recording machine. There was silence outside, and slowly he began to enter his report:

  ‘Case notes on Sean McGee, aged six years and three months. Admitted to the Whitechapel Hospital four months ago, to have a malignant tumour removed. Operation performed by Ben Golding. Operation successful, no recurrence of tumour at the site or elsewhere.’

  Pausing, Ben glanced at the child’s notes, then at the X-rays, holding then up to the lamplight to look more closely. The gas fire kept hissing, the corridor outside silent, the rain stilled. Satisfied, he laid the X-rays down on the desk and began to dictate.

  ‘The child’s overall condition is good, and he has lately regained some of his lost weight. Blood pressure and pulse normal, reflexes—’

  Suddenly there was a noise outside and Ben glanced towards the door. It began as a soft banging and then altered, becoming eerie, like someone scraping their fingernails along the wall.

  And then he heard footsteps, quiet but unmistakable. Bugger it, he thought. The decorators were back.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Silence from outside the door.

  Walking into the corridor, Ben glanced around. The place was deserted. No patients, staff or decorators. No lights on anywhere, except his room – and a soft glow coming from the loggia in the distance.

  ‘Is there anyone there?’

  Silence again.

  Impatiently he walked back into his room, then sat down and started to dictate again.

  ‘The patient presented with—’

  The sound came back. Only this time there was an accompanying noise, like two men walking and whispering. Frowning, Ben looked at his watch. It was later than he had thought, seven o’clock. No one would be in the consulting rooms now, and the nurses would be busy changing shifts. Unless … He wandered over to his secretary’s office and opened the door.

  ‘Sylvia, are you there?’

  No answer.

  Turning, Ben walked the length of the consulting room corridor, stopping at every door, opening it and looking inside. Every one was empty. No lights burning, no evidence of anyone working late. His thoughts shifted tack. Maybe the consulting rooms had been broken into? Addicts looking for drugs. It happened quite often. Curious, he moved down to the last room, opening the door and looking into the darkness.

  ‘Anyone there?’

  No response.

  But he felt something. A creeping sensation that he was being watched. Unnerved, Ben paused, his hand gripping the door handle. His breathing speeded up, sweat sheening his skin as he heard a movement behind him.

  ‘Who is it?’ he snapped, his voice loud to cover his anxiety. ‘Come on, who is it?’

  Silence. Slowly he looked around, then pulled the door closed and began to walk back down the corridor. He longed for the familiar sounds of the hospital – a stretcher clattering along the lino, a phone ringing, the siren as an ambulance arrived at A & E. But the consulting rooms of the Whitechapel Hospital were eerily silent, locked off from the main body of activity, not even a cleaner, bucket in hand, to break the quiet.

  He wondered suddenly if he should run, and then dismissed the idea, embarrassed by his own nerves. He was tired, that was all. Tired and spooked – which was hardly surprising considering what had happened in the last few days. His imagination was playing mental hopscotch with him, Ben told himself – that was all … Out of patience, he turned and made for his consulting room again, slamming the door behind him and sitting down at his desk.

  He would finish his work, and go home. Have a drink and get some sleep. Everything would be clearer in the morning. He couldn’t afford to let his imagination get out of control. Taking in a breath, once more he began to dictate:

  ‘… Sean will undergo a further operation shortly, undertaken by myself. Megan Griffiths will be in attendance, and George Turner the anaesthetist.’

  He paused, adding an afterthought for his secretary:

  ‘This is a message for you, Sylvia. Just in case I’m in theatre when—’

  Suddenly Ben stopped talking. There were footsteps outside the consulting room door. No mistake. No imagination this time. They were real. Automatically he looked behind him, then turned back to the door, staring at it. The whispering began again, together with a muffled shuffling, the handle of the door beginning to turn.

  In that instant the gas fire hissed, the noise spurting around the room as someone began to rattle the door handle. Mesmerised, Ben kept to his seat, a pulse throbbing in his neck, a feeling of dread overwhelming him. And as the door finally opened, he saw a rush of darkness and nothing more.

  36

  It was the aggressive, unending ringing of the telephone that finally jerked Ben out of his sleep. Leaping up, he knocked over some papers and for an instant couldn’t recall whether he was in Spain or London. Then he remembered the noises he had heard and realised he had simply fallen asleep at his desk and dreamt them.

  Feeling foolish, he snatched up the phone. ‘What?’

  ‘Ben?’

  He relaxed when he heard Abigail’s voice. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘In London. My father’s better and I wanted to come home to see you. I’m going back in a few days, but at the moment I’ve got a nurse to cover for me … Are you OK?’ she went on.

  She didn’t mention the problem she was having with her face, the swelling under her skin on the left side. A swelling no one knew about but her. Too small to be seen, but not too small for her to feel.

  ‘I’m fine, darling. Tired—’

  ‘You sound it. You didn’t stay at the hospital last night, did you?’

  He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

  ‘I came back for my clinic, but I must have been more tired than I thought and dropped off.’ Outside, the hospital clock chimed ten – and he suddenly remembered the skull. ‘Are you at my house?’

  ‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘I’m at my place.’

  ‘Don’t go to the house!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll explain later, but don’t go near my place.’

  ‘Is this anything to do with Leon?’ she asked, disturbed. ‘Ben, what’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t explain over the phone. I’ll tell you more wh
en I see you.’ He paused, then confided something which had been bothering him. ‘I spoke to Gina. She was still at the farmhouse. She told me she’d lost Leon’s baby.’

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry—’

  ‘I left Madrid without telling her. Just took Leon’s notes and his laptop—’

  ‘You didn’t tell her?’ Abigail said, surprised. ‘You just upped and left? That’s not like you, Ben.’

  ‘I don’t trust her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she lied to me. And if she lied to me once, she could lie to me about everything else. She was very interested in the skull – too interested. Gina doesn’t know I have it – she thinks it’s still in Madrid – but she seemed very keen to get hold of it.’ He thought back. ‘And she was reluctant to let me look at what Leon was working on—’

  ‘So you stole it?’

  ‘He was my brother!’

  ‘She was his lover,’ Abigail said softly. ‘And she was once carrying his child.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t.’

  ‘You just said—’

  ‘I know what I said – Gina told me that she had lost Leon’s baby. Well, she might have been pregnant, but not with his child. Leon had mumps when he was eighteen. My brother was sterile …’

  Abigail took in a breath.

  ‘The baby wasn’t his. Of course she could have made the whole story up just to get sympathy, get me on her side. She’s very manipulative and she had a big influence on Leon, always so keen on him writing that book about the Black Paintings. Even when I didn’t want him to do it, even when I warned him off, she kept pushing the idea.’ He thought of her behaviour the last time he saw her. ‘I don’t know if Gina was doing it deliberately, but I think she was screwing my brother’s head up. Leon wouldn’t have stood a chance with a woman like that.’

  A moment passed before Abigail spoke again. ‘You don’t think she had anything to do with his death, do you?’