Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

  Moaning, Gina clutched her stomach and staggered to her feet. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  He moved over to her, jutting his face into hers aggressively. ‘Why? What are you going to do about it?’ he sneered. ‘You’re nothing, Gina. Just a sad bitch with nowhere left to go.’

  60

  For once, Bartolomé had travelled without his wife. Celina was suffering from food poisoning and unable to leave Switzerland, even in a private jet. So he arrived alone at head office to meet up with his lawyer. Every month he came to the Spanish capital, leaving his reclusive bolt-hole in Switzerland and braving the heat and press of Madrid. He disliked the few days he spent in the city, and was particularly irked to find himself visiting not once, but three times within the space of a few weeks.

  And all because of Gabino. All because his younger brother was due to attend court for a hearing regarding the charge of grievous bodily harm to a notable banker. At any other time Bartolomé would have suppressed the charges. He still could, if he chose to. But Gabino had committed an unforgivable sin in his brother’s eyes and had neither apologised nor explained why. The news that Bobbie Feldenchrist now owned the Goya skull had added further friction. To Bartolomé, it was inconceivable that an American could possess the skull of the greatest Spanish painter who had ever lived. It should have stayed in Spain, he thought bitterly, in the Ortega collection.

  But although Gabino had known about it and had been on the spot in Madrid, although he had known of his brother’s passion for the painter, he had let the opportunity slip. It was something Bartolomé would never forgive him for. And because of Gabino’s casual neglect, all his other foibles seemed magnified. His recklessness and violence were suddenly no longer excusable; his boorish behaviour was repulsive. Bartolomé knew that if his wife had been with him she would have calmed him down, made the inevitable excuses for his brother. But Celina wasn’t with him and, freed from her judicious advice, he was looking for a way not to help Gabino, but to punish him.

  So for a prolonged, overheated hour, Bartolomé had listened to his lawyer and heard all the details about Gabino’s attack on the hospitalised victim. He had also seen the photographs of the damage inflicted and felt a repulsion which was hard to shake. The photograph of Gabino at the police station was also shown to him, his brother’s drunken expression belligerent and threatening.

  ‘We could have a word with someone,’ his lawyer began. ‘Get the charges dropped.’

  Shaking his handsome head, Bartolomé swallowed the fury which was curdling inside his stomach.

  ‘Why should we?’

  ‘The Ortega name, the publicity—’

  ‘Why should we always clean up after my brother?’ Bartolomé remarked.

  ‘Because if we don’t the damage will be much worse.’

  ‘We should get him into line—’

  ‘We can’t,’ the lawyer replied patiently. ‘You know that, Bartolomé. We’ve tried for years. Gabino’s out of control.’

  ‘So maybe this time we let him suffer the consequences.’

  Folding his arms, the lawyer raised his eyebrows. He could feel Bartolomé’s frustration and shared it, but his advice would remain what it always had been – pay up and keep Gabino’s transgressions quiet. Not that they were that quiet. All Madrid knew about Gabino’s excesses, but the alternative was worse – having an Ortega in court. The press would relish such an opportunity; a scrum would ensue which would result in every uncomfortable detail being exposed. And with Gabino’s sins would be resurrected the murder of their grandmother, Fidelia.

  How long, thought the lawyer, before a business enemy would seize their chance to undermine the whole Ortega fortune? They could prove nothing, but digging up the murder of Fidelia would remind everyone of the family’s cursed past.

  ‘You couldn’t handle the fallout—’

  Bartolomé turned to him, his expression intense. ‘So I’m going to be tied to this madman all my life?’

  ‘You have a son,’ the lawyer said hurriedly. ‘Think of Juan.’

  ‘Think of my son? Excuse and protect my brother because of my son?’ Bartolomé snapped. ‘What has my son to do with this?’

  ‘His future—’

  ‘Is what he makes it!’ Bartolomé roared, then quickly dropped his voice, controlling himself. ‘My son is not Gabino. Juan’s growing up in Switzerland, away from Madrid, away from any reckless influences—’

  ‘Which is all the more reason to suppress Gabino’s assault charge,’ the lawyer interrupted him.

  He had known the family and worked for them for over thirty years. There was nothing he wasn’t privy to, nothing he didn’t know or hadn’t concealed. And, as always, his sympathy lay with Bartolomé. He could see a respectable man struggling against his family’s reputation and knew that if Bartolomé had been an only child, the Ortega name would have flourished. Refined and cultured, Bartolomé was the perfect ambassador for a family who had a sordid past. As an only child, in time he could have buried all the old scandals.

  But he wasn’t an only child.

  ‘Bartolomé, we have to suppress this charge.’

  To the lawyer’s surprise, his client waved him away with his hand. ‘I have to think. I can’t make a decision now.’

  ‘You should—’

  ‘Give me time,’ Bartolomé replied, smiling fleetingly. ‘I know you’re trying to help me. I understand, but I have to think about this a little longer.’

  The lawyer didn’t know about the Goya skull, didn’t know that Gabino’s failure to secure it for his brother had resulted in a cataclysmic emotional shift. But as he left the room and walked out into the over-heated sunshine he felt suddenly, overshadowed by the expectation of tragedy.

  61

  London

  Having found the address among Leon’s possessions, Ben walked towards a row of old-fashioned red-brick terraced houses, the newer high-rise flats behind glowering over them. Between green wheelie bins was a discarded pram, a cat curled up in the seat, and beside it an overstuffed carrier bag reeking of sour food. Checking the house numbers, Ben knocked on the door of 289 and waited for a response.

  ‘What d’you want? Get off the doorstep!’

  Surprised, Ben bent down, lifted the flap of the letterbox, and called out: ‘It’s me, Mr Martinez. Ben Golding.’

  He could hear the opening of several locks, and finally Carlos Martinez opened the door and stepped back to let his visitor enter. They shook hands awkwardly, Carlos showing Ben into the front room, the street outside obliterated by net curtains stained with mould. Taking a seat in front of an old 1950s tiled fireplace, Ben watched as Carlos reached for roll-up and lit it.

  He seemed sad, shrivelled. ‘I never thought I’d get to see you again,’ he said.

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Yes, a long time.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Diego. I’m very sorry about what happened.’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Your son knew my brother—’

  ‘And we’ve lost them both.’ His Spanish accent had softened, only the sibilant S’s making his origin obvious. ‘It was a bad way to die, Mr Golding. My son didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘Leon didn’t deserve to be killed either—’

  Carlos’s head jerked up. ‘He was killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I heard he committed suicide,’ the old man replied, his expression suspicious. ‘Why are you here? I mean, you’re welcome – my son thought the world of your brother – but I’d like to know why you’re here.’

  It was a reasonable request.

  ‘I think that the deaths of your son and my brother are connected.’ Ben paused, noticing that Carlos’s hands had begun to shake. ‘Have you been threatened?’

  ‘No. But Diego was.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Silence: Carlos was torn between confiding and lying.

  ‘Please, Mr Martinez,’ Ben urged him. ‘I wouldn’t be h
ere unless it was very important. Someone I love is in trouble, and I think the man who has her was responsible for Diego and Leon’s deaths.’ He could see Carlos inhaling on his smoke, his glance moving to the telephone. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Diego had a call the night he went missing.’

  ‘Who called him?’

  ‘I dunno. But they invited him out for a pint at the Fox and Hounds, London Road. It’s a rough place, but Diego liked the barmaid.’ Carlos paused, as though the memory of his son’s love life was unbearably futile. ‘I went with him once – she was nothing. He could have done better, much better.’ He ground out his smoke and immediately began to roll another, Ben letting him take his time. ‘Diego always went to that pub when he was in London. The place has a bad reputation, but he said it was exaggerated.’

  ‘What kind of reputation?’

  ‘Petty criminals, old lags,’ he sighed, glancing over at a faded wedding photograph, a striking woman standing beside a younger version of himself. ‘That was his mother. She died over twenty years ago. I’m glad. Glad she didn’t have to live through this.’ He bowed his head, a perfect parting on the right-hand side of his scalp. ‘It’s a meeting place, the pub, where all the runners for the bosses hang out.’

  ‘Who’re the bosses?’

  ‘There’s a few, but two big names. It wasn’t always like this, but now the place has gone to seed, these are the last terraces to come down. To be honest, I don’t go out much any more. Don’t dare to. Larry Morgan runs half of Brixton, Emile Dwappa the other half. They split it between them. Morgan handles drugs and Dwappa handles all sorts …’ He stared hard at Ben. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Could I get into trouble talking to you?’

  ‘You might, but not with the police,’ Ben admitted, hurrying on. ‘I didn’t want to come to you, but I had no choice. I think your son’s at the heart of all this—’

  ‘How could he be?’

  ‘Because Diego found the skull.’

  Nodding, Carlos glanced around the dismal room. Old-fashioned wallpaper, a 1970s gas fire and a mock leather sofa all pointed to poverty. To making do. The man in the wedding photograph had been handsome, almost cocky, but now Carlos Martinez was smoking too much and talking as though he couldn’t stop.

  ‘That skull … it started it all, didn’t it? I told Diego when he found it to leave it alone. In Spain we think such things are dangerous. And Goya – well he was a madman at the end, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Where did Diego find the skull?’

  ‘Under a concrete basement in an old house, in the centre of Madrid. He was called in to do some work, and had to get the floor up. It hadn’t been touched for years. About eighty-odd years ago someone had poured concrete over it to make it level. Diego said it took nearly a week to break the floor up and get to the tiles underneath.’ Carlos took a drag of his cigarette. The first two fingers of his right hand were yellow, nicotine-stained. ‘A few of the tiles got broken, and that was when he found the skull … Jesus! I wish he’d never touched it.’

  ‘Why did he think it was Goya’s skull?’

  Carlos glanced away, remembering. ‘The painter had stayed in the house—’

  ‘But he didn’t die there?’

  ‘No, he died a long time afterwards, in France.’

  ‘So why would the skull have come back to Spain?’

  ‘Who knows? The owner of the house might have been responsible for the skull being stolen. They might have felt guilty and buried what they’d done, thinking it would never be found. How do I know?’ Carlos replied shortly. ‘I only know this much because I admired your mother and she used to tell me about her work and about Goya.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I was a builder, just a builder, but I liked her stories. And then later she used to talk to Diego and he used to come over when I was working at your house and play with Leon. And you … You don’t remember him?’

  ‘I remember him very well,’ Ben replied. ‘He used to get sunburned.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he did.’ Carlos frowned. ‘The day Diego found the skull, he rang and told me about it—’

  ‘Did he tell anyone else?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. He wasn’t the type to go around bragging …’ Carlos trailed off.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He couldn’t hold his drink. Two beers and he’d talk. He could have told the barmaid at the pub when he came to London. Boasting a bit, trying to impress her.’

  ‘So anyone could have overheard?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And passed on the information to Dwappa?’

  Distressed, Carlos shook his head. ‘I told him to get rid of the skull! Give it to a priest and have it buried. It’s bad luck to handle the dead. It was bad luck for my son. Bad luck for your brother. Bad luck for you.’ He stared at Ben. ‘Is your friend in danger?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yes, she’s in real trouble and I have to find her. Like I said, the man responsible for the deaths of Diego and Leon now has Abigail.’

  ‘He was after the skull?’

  ‘And he got it.’

  Deliberately lying, Ben tried to protect Carlos Martinez from the whole truth, but the Spaniard was no fool.

  ‘But if he has the skull, why is he still after you?’

  Ben let the question pass.

  ‘And why would he take your friend?’ Carlos sat upright, his back pressed against the chair as though he was bracing himself. ‘Have you got the skull?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Oh, God Almighty—’

  ‘Just help me,’ Ben pleaded. ‘Tell me what I need to know to find Abigail. I have to know who this man is. So far he’s had the upper hand. He watches me, follows me, threatens me – but I can’t see who I’m up against. And I have to, or he’ll win. D’you understand? I’m going to lose her.’ He was almost pleading. ‘I’m fighting a phantom, Mr Martinez, and I need your help.’

  ‘I don’t know what I can tell you.’

  ‘You said your son was being watched?’

  ‘He thought he was being followed in Madrid. And he knew he was being watched in London.’

  ‘Did he see who was watching him?’

  ‘He said it was a white man …’ Carlos concentrated. ‘Very fat.’

  Tensing, Ben remembered what Leon had told him about being approached outside the Prado. By a sick, obese man. ‘Did he have a name for him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the two men you mentioned before? Larry Morgan and …’

  ‘Emile Dwappa.’

  ‘What can you tell me about them?’

  ‘Morgan went to jail last month—’

  ‘What about Dwappa?’

  ‘That bastard’s always around. Got his fingers in everything. Comes from a Nigerian family. There are dozens of them, all over the place. Some in the USA, some in Europe, a few in London. He’s always got people working for him – you can never get to him direct. Cruel bastard, they say.’ He hesitated, spooked. ‘I don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, Mr Golding. I want to help you, but—’

  ‘Don’t you want to know who killed your son?’

  ‘He’s dead. Knowing who killed him won’t bring him back,’ Carlos replied. ‘Knowing who murdered your brother won’t bring Leon back either—’

  ‘It might save the woman I love,’ Ben replied, knowing how much he was asking but unable to hold back. ‘If you want me to go, tell me now. I’ll go, I’ll understand. Just tell me to go and I will.’

  Outside, a car horn sounded in the street, followed by the faint jingle of a mobile. Lighting up another smoke, Carlos stared blankly at the fireplace, trying to decide what to do. He was wondering how much he wanted to live, having lost his wife and son. Wondering how much he wanted a life away from the terrace he knew, transported into a high-rise ghetto. He was wondering what his wife would say – and then, finally, he leaned forward in his seat.

  ‘Dwappa’
s into gambling and trafficking—’

  ‘Trafficking?’

  ‘Rumours, yes. They say he traffics kids for adoption by rich white people.’ Carlos could see he had said something important and hurried on. ‘They said he can get anything for a price. He’s very clever, never been jailed, never been charged with anything. Probably because everyone’s so scared of him.’

  ‘And he’s scared of nothing?’

  ‘His mother,’ Carlos replied, glancing around as though he expected her to be in the room, listening. ‘If Emile Dwappa’s dangerous, his mother is ten times more so. If I remember rightly, I think she’s got a shop—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. Because if I do, I might recognise it. I might have bought something in it. Might have given money to the mother of man who killed my son.’ He bit down on his lip to calm himself. ‘She deals in animals …’

  Ben thought of the pig’s head which had been stuffed into the hotel lavatory.

  ‘Imports them from all over. Monkeys, reptiles, rare animals. And she deals in black magic, they say. Maybe that’s what some of the animals are for. Voodoo.’ He smiled hopelessly. ‘I’ve never seen her, but people talk about her like you’d talk about the Devil. I’ve never known anyone inspire such fear. Someone said she’s responsible for eleven deaths over the last twenty years.’

  ‘And you believed them?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But it’s a reputation which would put the fear of God into anyone, isn’t it?’

  Of everything he had heard, it had been the trafficking which had caught Ben’s attention most. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Bobbie Feldenchrist had just got a child from the same man who had sold her the skull. It had to be Dwappa … Slowly he ran the name over in his mind, learning to hate it. Emile Dwappa. Emile. Dwappa.

  ‘Are you going to try and find him?’ Carlos asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t mess with people like him. Look what happened to your brother, to my son—’