Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

  Putting up her hand to keep the guards back, Bobbie forced herself to smile as she shook hands with Ben, throwing the journalists off balance and giving the photographers a posed shot. Then she guided him into the back of the gallery. When they were out of sight her smile faded and she ushered her unwelcome visitor into her office.

  ‘What the hell is all this about?’

  ‘The Goya skull was stolen. From me—’

  ‘Hah!’ she said shortly, ‘You can’t imagine how many lunatics have been writing to me saying the same.’

  ‘Their brothers weren’t murdered.’

  She flinched. ‘I thought your brother committed suicide?’

  ‘Leon was killed. For the Goya skull.’

  Laughing, she tried to appear nonchalant. ‘I don’t think so.’

  It wasn’t entirely unexpected that someone would challenge her right to the skull, but she hadn’t expected the challenge to come from this quarter. Taking a deep breath, Bobbie looked at the man in front of her, wondering how to play him.

  ‘The Feldenchrist Collection bought the Goya skull for an undisclosed sum of money, in order that it be preserved and exhibited worldwide. We have been in touch with the Prado, Madrid, and are already in talks about allowing them to exhibit it on loan.’

  ‘Who did you buy it from?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that, Mr Golding,’ she replied. ‘It was purchased from a respectable source.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that—’

  ‘But I do,’ Ben replied, leaning forward in his seat. He was cold with tiredness and exasperation, crumpled from a hurried flight, with nothing for company but the memory of his dead brother. ‘I think someone came to you with the skull – someone not in the least respectable. And I think you wanted that skull so much you didn’t ask too many questions, just forked out what they asked. It would be worth it to you – to get one over on all the other collectors and even the Prado. I can see how that would be difficult to resist. But still, dealing with the wrong type – weren’t you worried that it would get out? Tarnish the Feldenchrist name?’

  She flinched and he caught the reaction.

  ‘Or maybe,’ – he paused, his thoughts clicking, ratchet by ratchet, into place – ‘maybe he had something on you? Did he blackmail you?’

  God, Bobbie thought angrily. She had been so stupid to allow this man into her office. But then again, she had had no choice. She could hardly have walked off and left him to talk to the journalists. Not Leon Golding’s brother …

  ‘Blackmail me?’ she replied, amused. But her glance automatically went to the photograph of Joseph on her desk.

  And Ben noticed.

  ‘Is this your adopted son?’

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  ‘Where did he come from?’

  ‘That’s none of your business!’ she retorted, calming herself. ‘I can assure you that the Feldenchrist Collection purchased the skull through the correct channels. And my son was legally adopted.’

  ‘Did I suggest anything else?’

  ‘You said—’

  ‘What? Did I say anything about him not being legally adopted?’

  She faltered and changed the subject. ‘I understand that you must be very upset about your brother’s death, Mr Golding. I knew of his reputation. Because of that, we can forget that this unpleasant conversation ever took place. If you leave my office now there’ll be no need to call the police—’

  Instantly Ben was on his feet, leaning over the desk towards Bobbie Feldenchrist.

  ‘It’s a fake! Your skull is a fake. I saw the real skull, the one my brother was given. And it’s not this one—’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘I had the Goya skull in my possession and it was stolen from my house,’ Ben snapped, staring into her upturned face. ‘My brother died for that skull. My brother was murdered for it – you think I wouldn’t remember it? You think I wouldn’t know the real one? Who sold this skull to you?’

  ‘That’s not—’

  ‘Who?’ Ben pointed to the photograph of Joseph on her desk. ‘You reacted when I asked about the baby. Did the same person who sold you the skull get you the child?’

  She paled. ‘No!’

  Ben knew he was on the right track and pushed her. ‘You don’t know where that child came from, do you? You wanted to have an heir, and you didn’t ask questions. Is that why he brought you the skull, Ms Feldenchrist? To make sure you never asked questions?’

  ‘I want you to leave!’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with! This man’s responsible for the deaths of three men. Think about it. Three men directly involved with the skull are now dead.’ He paused, his voice warning. ‘But it’s the wrong skull. He fooled you. Or he was fooled. Either way, this is just the beginning—’

  ‘I want you to go!’

  ‘You think he won’t want more? Jesus! You can’t imagine what he could want. He’ll come back and you won’t be able to do anything about it – because you can’t even admit you know him.’

  Shaken, she flinched, trying to regulate her breathing. Bobbie had always been afraid of the African but now she could see the hopeless situation she was in. She wasn’t in control, he was. He had sold her a fake. And there was nothing she could do about it, because he could blackmail her into silence.

  ‘You have to tell me the truth,’ Ben said quietly. ‘That skull cost my brother his life.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Bobbie replied, her confidence returning as her thoughts cleared. If Ben Golding had any real proof, he would have gone to the police already. ‘How can you make a connection between your brother’s death and the skull? Everyone knows Leon Golding was unstable—’

  To her surprise, Ben nodded. ‘Yes, he was. And demanding – irritating at times. But he was my brother, and when I found him hanging behind the bathroom door in some bloody Spanish hotel room, it wasn’t right. And it still isn’t—’

  ‘None of this has anything to do with me!’

  Wearily, Ben stood up.

  ‘All right, have it your own way. But when you look at that skull, Ms Feldenchrist, I want you to remember that it’s a fake. It was never Goya’s skull. The real one was swapped at the last moment—’

  ‘This is ridiculous!’

  ‘It’s true.’ His voice fell. ‘I’m not lying to you. Aren’t you going to admit it’s a fake?’

  ‘Can you prove it is?’ she countered. ‘Remember, I have the authentication papers that were drawn up at the Whitechapel Hospital, London.’

  ‘They refer to the real skull—’

  ‘Oh dear, Mr Golding,’ she said with mock pity. ‘As I have those papers, which came with this skull, your theory won’t hold water, will it?’

  ‘It will if we compare Francis Asturias’s findings against your fake.’

  She took in her breath, outmanoeuvred, then rallied. ‘I’ll look into the matter—’

  ‘You won’t admit it, will you? You can’t – you’d look a fool. And I can’t prove it either, because you’ve got the only copy of the notes.’ Walking to the door, he paused, then turned back to her. ‘But when you look at that skull – that fake – I want you to see my brother’s face. When you pose for your photographs, I want you to know that it should have been him. He should have got his day in the sun – not rotting in a graveyard. And one day – God help you – you’ll regret this. You’ll wish that you weren’t so grasping and greedy that human lives counted less than your own bloody triumph.’

  51

  In the basement of the Feldenchrist Collection a morose-looking French forensic pathologist named Maurice de la Valle was pulling on his laboratory coat. Preoccupied, he washed his hands and then carefully stretched on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. With considerable caution, he made sure that the gloves fitted his fingers and allowed complete freedom of movement. Finally he walked towards a sealed storage vault and entered a fourteen-digit nu
mber, unfastening the lock and taking out a small box. He then placed the box on his worktable and, after wiping down the metal surface, spread out a piece of black plastic sheeting. Finally he took the lid off the box and lifted the skull out, placing it in the centre of the sheeting.

  He turned as Bobbie Feldenchrist came in. She seemed agitated. ‘I want to see the authentication papers again …’

  He shrugged, passing them over to her.

  ‘You checked these?’

  ‘Of course I did. Twice.’ He glanced at her, surprised that she should query his actions but not daring to show his annoyance.

  Ignoring him, Bobbie stared at the skull. Her head reverberated with Ben Golding’s words. Was the skull a fake? Had the African duped her? Had she really paid out a fortune for a worthless lump of bone? Christ! she thought desperately. If anyone found out, her reputation was bankrupt. She would be a laughing stock, the supposed crowning achievement of her collection not the skull of a genius but a nobody.

  She could hardly question the African. He would deny his deception, and even if he didn’t he could blackmail her into silence by threatening to expose Joseph’s adoption.

  Trapped, Bobbie felt the dry taste of failure. ‘This is the head of Goya …’

  ‘Yes, the head of Francisco Goya,’ de la Valle replied with solemnity. ‘One of the most important art finds in history.’ Lovingly he let his forefinger trace the cranial markings on the skull, then move around the orbit of the eye sockets. ‘I’ve waited all my life for something like this.’

  Close to retirement age, he had felt nothing but disappointment with his career – until the skull had been handed over to his care. From being a respected, if undistinguished specialist, he was suddenly promoted, even being photographed with Roberta Feldenchrist for a piece in Vanity Fair. Maurice felt a swelling of professional pleasure. His retirement – when it came – would be pedestrian no longer. Thanks to Francisco Goya he would be able to travel, giving lectures about the skull, explaining his pivotal role in the phenomenal find. The long dry years which had stretched before him, heading inexorably towards a lonely death, were now bulging with promise.

  Bobbie was still reading Francis Asturias’s report, her gaze moving back to the skull.

  ‘How many holes in the skull?’

  ‘Three. Animal damage, or wear and tear,’ he said eagerly, pointing them out one by one.

  ‘But two of them aren’t really holes, are they, Maurice?’ Bobbie said firmly, looking at the skull. ‘Those two, they’re more like splits, breaks in the bone.’

  His eyes flicked back to the skull and he took the notes out of her hands. Reading the report, he said:

  ‘“Three holes, two smaller than the third …” Yes, Ms Feldenchrist, but I’m sure they meant a hole.’ He looked at her questioningly. ‘A split, a hole – what difference? Only language.’

  Oh, but was it? Bobbie thought. Perhaps, again, she had been too quick to see what she wanted to see.

  ‘What if this turned out not to be Goya’s skull?’

  He felt a shifting sensation under his feet as his future shuddered in front of him.

  ‘You doubt its authenticity?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  He was close to tears, disappointment making him emotional. ‘It is the skull, Ms Feldenchrist,’ he insisted desperately. ‘It’s Goya’s skull.’

  ‘Well, make sure you tell everyone that, Maurice,’ she said coolly. ‘You’re right. A split, a hole – what’s the difference?’

  Leaving the laboratory, Bobbie walked back to her office and slammed the door closed. She had seen the evidence with her own eyes. Maurice de la Valle might fool himself, deny the obvious, but Ben Golding had been telling the truth. It wasn’t Goya’s skull.

  Numbed, Bobbie stared at the desk, the intercom interrupting her thoughts, her secretary announcing that she had a visitor who refused to give his name.

  ‘Then tell him I can’t see him,’

  ‘He says you’ll want to see him. It’s about Joseph.’

  Bobbie’s head shot up.

  ‘Show him in,’ she said, watching as Emile Dwappa entered. He was dressed in an exquisite suit, his hair newly cut. Her money was being put to good use, Bobbie thought bitterly.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you today,’ she said.

  He was momentarily taken aback. ‘You look angry.’

  ‘You bastard!’ she snorted, fighting to control her rage. ‘You robbed me—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The skull’s not genuine,’ Bobbie went on, beside herself with anger and momentarily forgetting her fear of the African. ‘What did you come back for? To gloat? I mean, you’ve got me over a barrel, haven’t you? I can hardly expose you without exposing myself, can I? Jesus! I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. All that money …’ She paused, grabbed at a breath. ‘You can whistle for the other half of your payment!’

  Dwappa blinked, the motion slowed down, oddly feline.

  ‘I want my money!’

  ‘We agreed that you’d get the rest when the skull was delivered. Well, it’s not the real skull!’

  Dwappa was finding words difficult. ‘Who told you it wasn’t the real skull?’

  ‘Ben Golding. He came over to New York to tell me. And let’s face it, if anyone should know, he should.’

  ‘So he has the real skull?’

  ‘How the fuck would I know? I just know that I haven’t got it.’ She thought aloud. ‘But then again, if Golding knew about the swap, he must have the real one.’

  ‘Golding …’ Dwappa said simply, his body rigid.

  And Bobbie Feldenchrist could see in that instant that the African hadn’t cheated her. He had believed the skull was Goya’s too. In fact, both of them had been cheated … Dwappa’s hands moved to his face, his eyes widening for an instant before he turned his gaze back to her. She could see his thoughts shifting, unnerved by her news, as his whole carefully constructed plot vaporised. His skin became ash coloured, shock-dry – and without thinking, she laughed at him.

  She laughed because the man of whom she had been so afraid had turned out to be a fool.

  52

  Whitechapel Hospital, London

  Struggling to open the door while carrying several patients’ file notes and a packet of biscuits, the ward sister finally pushed it open with her hip. Clicking her tongue, she then turned on the electric fire, her hand resting for an instant on the old radiator. Cold again. Bugger it! She would have to phone down to the caretaker and get him to drain the air out of the system. It always took hours. Hours in which the temperature could drop impressively.

  She thought longingly of her sister, working in a private clinic off Wimpole Street. Now that was more like it – better wages and pleasant working conditions. Not like the Whitechapel Hospital – repaired, patched up, modernised in places like a transplant experiment.

  Nibbling at a biscuit as she put the kettle on to boil, the sister glanced at the clock. Nine fifteen. She would be on shift until seven in the morning, but that was all right with her. The nights were usually quieter, although sometimes there were emergencies. A patient might start bleeding from an operation incision, or rupture internally. And if the operation site was infected, that was dangerous. Every nurse was trained to know that the facial/cranial area bled the most.

  Luckily, such scares were rare. Both Ben Golding and the pompous Dr North were skilled surgeons. North might not empathise with his patients in the way Golding did, but he was steady as a judge in an emergency.

  She looked up as a nurse walked in. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Quiet,’ Kim Morley said, taking an offered biscuit. ‘Everyone’s settled. I’ve just checked on Abigail Harrop, and she’s comfortable. I was wondering why she’s no longer Dr Golding’s patient.’

  ‘Because now she’s his girlfriend.’

  She raised one eyebrow. ‘That’s romantic. I used to dream about marrying a doctor, but now I’m not so sure. I fancy an IT engineer �
� someone who works regular hours.’

  Smiling, the sister reached out for a stack of patients’ files and shivered.

  ‘I’m going to the storeroom to read these. Phone that bloody caretaker, will you, and get the radiator fixed.’

  It took Kim Morley three calls before she finally managed to get hold of the caretaker. When he did answer his pager, he said he was stuck in the Intensive Care Unit.

  ‘We need the radiator fixing—’

  ‘I can’t be in two places at once,’ he replied. ‘There used to be three caretakers here. Now there’s only two. One man per shift. And every night I have to do everything –and all the time my pager going off like the bell on a bleeding ice-cream van.’

  ‘So come when you’re ready—’

  ‘Well, it’ll be when I’m ready, won’t it?’ he countered. ‘I’ll try and be up there in a hour or so.’

  Irritated, Kim clicked the pager off and looked out of the nurses station window on to the ward. Everyone was quiet, only one female patient reading a book, her light making a moody puddle in the semi-dark. It was getting colder and – despite the administration memo warning against spiralling electricity costs – she turned on the second bar of the electric fire. All was silent and calm, she thought with relief. Eleven p.m.

  Turning back to her notes, Kim was surprised when the caretaker suddenly walked in, tossing his bag down on to the floor.

  ‘Be quiet! You’ll wake the patients.’

  Ignoring her, he walked over to the radiator and felt round the back. In silence, he took a key from his bag and stuck it into the release knob and a hissing sound emerged.

  ‘Oh, Christ! You’ve got a bleeding leak, as well,’ he said, his hand reaching under the radiator. ‘You never said anything about a leak.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was one,’ Karen replied. ‘The radiator wasn’t working—’

  ‘Well, it’s working now. And it’s leaking now,’ he replied, exasperated, as he knelt down. ‘Look at this,’ he told her, jerking his head towards the bottom of the radiator. ‘Look, see that? That’s water, that’s what that is. Pass me my bag.’ Impatiently, he rummaged through the contents, then took out a monkey wrench and handed the nurse a torch. ‘Hold that, will you? This shouldn’t take a minute.’