by Alex Connor
And now here he comes, Goya whistling under his breath, notes that he can’t hear. And swinging a block of drawings under his arm. Detita is talking about the old man, and the black horses that come over the bridge at night.
‘There never was a skull of Goya. Leon never had it. No one ever had it. You were running after an illusion. You all were – you, Bobbie Feldenchrist, the Ortegas. The skull you got is worthless. An old skull that could have belonged to a pauper. I lied to make my brother happy.’ He paused. ‘I never realised what would happen until it was too late.’
‘You made it all up?’
Ben nodded, calm, because it was all so very calming in the end. Because he could believe what he was saying, and felt a drowsy removal from a sane world. The lie swung him up higher than a falcon. But soon the air would no longer be able to hold him and he knew he would have to make that long swoop, down into grass, and claws, and prey – and he held his breath.
‘There was no Goya skull?’ Dwappa said hoarsely, standing up.
Ben could feel the draught from the door increase. This time he knew someone was coming up behind him, a shadow shifting across the table from a lighted passage beyond.
‘You fucking idiot,’ someone said, voice coarse and reproachful.
Slowly, Ben turned his head as a huge woman came into view. Her bulk was commanding, her head swathed in a greasy turban, big hands holding a tray with glasses on it.
‘My son! My useless son! Promising to get me out of here. Promising to make money, lots of money.’ She slammed down the tray and the glasses tinkled. ‘You fucked up. Again.’
Pulling up a chair, she sat down, the seat creaking under her weight, her yellowed eyes turning to Ben. Her face was devoid of expression, her tongue flicking out to moisten her lips as she studied him. From the back door came the night air, fluting against the table top as she poured herself a drink and then swallowed it in one.
Filling the three glasses, she pushed one towards Ben.
‘No.’
Her eyes were dead, blank, without feeling.
‘Drink it.’
‘No.’
Shrugging, she pushed a glass over to her son, and then refilled her own, her disgust thick in the air. Dwappa watched his mother drain her glass again. Dry-mouthed, he sipped at his own and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. His eyes flicked over to her and then looked away, as though he was afraid he might catch her glance. Together they drank, Mama Gala staring at Ben and then turning back to her son.
He shrank. Not physically, but emotionally. Buckled under a lifetime of abuse.
‘Fucking moron,’ she said, leaning back. The chair creaked as she folded her gigantic arms across the wide girth of her stomach. She smelt sour, unwashed. ‘ “There was no skull, after all,”’ she mimicked, then leaned towards Ben. ‘This skull – was it supposed to be valuable?’
He nodded, watching the two of them, his back to the door.
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s worthless?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’ve nothing to give us in exchange for the woman?’
The words struck out at Ben. ‘I didn’t abduct her. Your son did that. He wanted to use her to bargain with me—’
‘For something you don’t have?’
Ben nodded, Mama Gala laughing like a lunatic. As quickly as she had started, she stopped, turning to her son. Her gaze moved over him slowly, her contempt corrosive.
‘You failed.’
‘I—’
‘You failed,’ she said again, then emptied her glass, refilling Dwappa’s. ‘What are we going to do now?’ she asked, taking another greedy drink, her eyes watching him over the rim of the glass. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come good for years,’ she went on, putting down her glass and picking at the corner of her left eye. ‘Waiting on all your promises. Waiting for the good times. The big time. So many plans and promises you made me. And nothing came of any of them. Such big dreams for such a little runt.’
‘I can—’
‘No,’ she said coldly, ‘that’s the point, you can’t. You never could. You aren’t able. You sick fuck. You queer …’
Watching them, Ben waited. They had believed his story, but what were they going to do next? With him? With Abigail? How likely was it that they would let them go after what had happened? But then again, what would be the point of killing two more people for nothing?
In the dim light he watched the couple facing him across the table. A grotesque mother and her murderous son.
‘I’ll go back to see the woman in New York, blackmail her—’
‘Hah! You’ve been outsmarted, like always. Whatever you try won’t come good. People are too clever for you.’ She swigged back another drink, the flesh slack under her chin. ‘You’re no use to me, Emile. No use to me. You disappointed me. I gave you so many chances, but you never came good.’ To Ben’s surprise, her voice was changing, taking on an odd crooning tone. ‘But what does it matter now? It’s over. All over.’
A long malicious moment hung between them, Dwappa watching his mother then suddenly beginning to choke, his hands going to his throat, clutching for air.
Slowly Mama Gala leaned towards her son, stroking his face. ‘No, just relax. Just be calm, be calm,’ she told him, Dwappa’s eyes wide, then suddenly drooping. From one moment of bulging terror they had changed into a flat incredulity, his face slackening as he slumped in his seat.
Stunned, Ben watched her. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
She turned her great head, the thick neck wrinkling. ‘What I should have done a long time ago.’
‘You can’t kill your own son.’
‘I’m not going to,’ she replied, loosening Dwappa’s collar and placing his slack hands on his thighs.
‘Is he poisoned?’
She shrugged, as though the matter was of no interest.
‘Have you poisoned him?’
‘Get out!’ she said simply. ‘Go on, get out!’
Shaken, Ben rose to his feet. He could see Dwappa’s eyes following him, imploring him, as he backed away.
‘But he’s your son—’
‘He killed your brother!’ she snapped. ‘You want him to get away with that? Where are your fucking balls? Why don’t you want him dead? I bred him and I can do what I want with him. He’ll just be one more animal to keep. Mute, helpless, needing me.’ She smiled like a devil, making a kissing sound with her lips as she looked at her son. ‘I can keep him with me forever now. You think I don’t know what he really wanted? To leave me. To make money and get away from me. Now he’ll never leave me.’
She rolled her massive head, loosening her neck muscles as Dwappa stared at her, knowing she had won. Knowing he was locked in, at her mercy, facing interminable imprisonment. Trapped in a useless body, when every day would hold fresh torture. He would beg for death, would long for the end. And Mama Gala would make sure it didn’t come quickly.
It was a fitting punishment.
Rising to his feet, Ben moved to the door quickly. He was waiting to be stopped, for Mama Gala to get out of her chair and come after him, for someone – anyone – to prevent him from leaving that terrible room.
‘Wait!’
He stopped, turning back to her.
‘Remember what I tell you,’ she said, her expression lethal. ‘Breathe a word of this and you’ll regret it. I know you. I know her. I can – I will – find you anywhere.’ She jerked her head upstairs, to where Abigail was being held. ‘I know how to make people suffer. I know deeper and darker then you can imagine. I know tricks to make men mad.’ She was talking without emotion, a blank mask of hatred. ‘I know a hell within hells. I’ve been there, and I’ll take you with me if you speak a word about this.’
In silent agreement, Ben nodded. Then, taking one last look at his brother’s killer, he ran upstairs.
70
Still unconscious and scarcely breathing, Abigail didn’t move as Ben drove her back to his
house. Although he knew he was taking a chance, he decided that it was too risky to return her to the Whitechapel Hospital. After settling her into bed, he then made a few hurried phone calls and a nurse arrived soon after with the dressings and medication he had requested.
Gently he removed the soiled bandage from around Abigail’s head. Wincing as he saw the onset of infection, he bathed the operation site and gave her an antibiotic injection. Abigail never stirred, never woke. He checked her pulse, noting that it was really sluggish, and sat down beside the bed.
Five minutes later he checked her pulse again, but there was no change. He leaned towards her, stroking her face, talking to her.
‘Darling, wake up. It’s me, Ben. Wake up, sweetheart.’
She shifted in her sleep, sweating, breathing rapidly. Her eyes were puffy from water retention, her hair damp with sweat. Tenderly, he combed it away from her face, sticky tendrils smearing the pillow. Her beauty, marred and scarred, was an ache in his heart.
‘Abi, you’re safe now.’
Still she didn’t wake.
‘You’re home. With me. You’re safe, baby.’
Taking off his shoes, Ben lay down on the bed beside her, holding her to him, her head against his chest. Every breath she took echoed inside his own chest, every flutter of her pulse mirrored his own. He held her and watched the ceiling above them. He watched the darkness deepen, then lift with the first slow-building nudge of dawn, morning coming sleepy on the new day. Once or twice in the early hours he heard an alarm go off, but nothing woke her. Exhausted, he thought he might sleep but remained wakeful, listening, hoping for the first signs that she was going to come round.
He didn’t know what toxic substance she had been given, just as he knew the hospital wouldn’t be able to help her any more than he could. All he could do was to wait for her. Talk to her, comfort her. Make her hear him.
And come back.
71
Watching from outside Ben’s house, Duncan rang the police station. Roma came on to the line immediately.
‘Have you found him?’
‘Ben Golding’s back home,’ Duncan replied. ‘And I think he brought Abigail Harrop back with him.’
‘You think?’
‘He was carrying a woman. I suppose it was her,’ Duncan replied. ‘You want me to find out?’
‘No, stay there. I’m on my way.’
When he heard the doorbell ring, Ben was tempted to ignore it. But when it kept on ringing he left Abigail and walked downstairs. Through the spyhole he could see Roma Jaffe, and waited a moment longer before opening the door.
Her expression was one of pure annoyance. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course,’ Ben replied, stepping back for her to enter. ‘I was just going to ring you—’
‘I’m sure you were.’
‘I’ve got Abigail back.’ He paused, handling his words like rare china, terrified they might chip and shatter even as he said them.
‘Got her back?’ Roma queried, following Ben as he moved into the sitting room. Refusing a seat, she glanced around. ‘Can I see her?’
‘She’s asleep.’
‘But she’s OK?’
He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I think she’s going to be OK … I did try to ring you—’
‘Who had her?’
‘The person who wanted the Goya skull—’
‘The skull that’s in the Feldenchrist Museum, New York?’
He skirted the question. ‘Abigail’s home – that’s all that matters.’
‘Oh, and that’s the end of it, is it?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? The deaths of Diego Martinez, your brother, Francis Asturias. You think that’s done with?’
‘I know who killed them.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’
‘Jimmy Shaw.’ The name meant something to her, he could tell. ‘D’you know him?’
‘Shaw’s a criminal, a fixer. But he’s not a killer—’
‘He is now. He killed all three of them.’
‘He told you this?’
‘I was told, yes.’
‘Don’t bugger me about, Golding!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve been messed around long enough on this case. I need to know what happened.’
Ben hesitated, listening for some movement from above, something to tell him that Abigail had finally woken.
‘Well?’ Roma snapped. ‘Get on with it!’
‘Jimmy Shaw was hired to find the Goya skull. In the process, he killed Diego Martinez, my brother and Francis Asturias—’
‘Why?’
‘They were in his way.’
‘So Shaw’s got the skull?’ She frowned. ‘How can he have it if it’s in New York?’
Ben hesitated. ‘There are two skulls.’
‘Two?’
‘One’s the genuine skull of Goya, the other’s a fake.’ He paused, then carried on, the lie prepared. ‘The skull I exchanged Abi for is now with the person who hired Jimmy Shaw.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘I can’t say.’
Infuriated, she studied him. ‘This case involves three murders. You do realise that I could charge you with withholding evidence?’
‘I’m not withholding evidence. I don’t know anything.’
She paused, unwilling to confide in him, then relented. ‘What if I were to tell you that Jimmy Shaw’s body was found this morning. He’d drowned – and he had Francis Asturias’s blood on his clothes.’
‘So that proves it.’
‘It only proves he was involved with Francis Asturias’s death. What else do you know?’
Ben shrugged, lying deftly. ‘I can’t tell you anything else. The exchange was prearranged. I delivered the skull and Abigail was given back to me.’
He was punchy from lack of sleep, willing Abigail to wake, and knowing that to keep them both safe he had to stay silent about Emile Dwappa. The police could never know about him or Mama Gala. Because if they did, Ben would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. If he led the police to Gardenia Street he would never sleep safely again. Every day he would be watched. Every night he would wait for the break-in. And constantly he would wonder how, or when, Abigail would be taken from him – this time permanently.
‘I saw no one,’ Ben insisted.
‘Not even Jimmy Shaw?’
‘No, no one.’
Roma let out a long, regretful sigh. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘No.’
‘So who did?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You can’t tell me half a story and I’ll back off! People died—’
‘My brother included,’ Ben interrupted. ‘You think I’ll ever forget that? I’m telling you, it was Jimmy Shaw who killed them. He did it to get the skull. You’ve got his body – it’s over.’
‘But if you had the skull all along …’ she asked, her tone deadly, ‘why didn’t you give it to him at the beginning?’
‘You want more deaths?’ Ben countered. ‘Because if you press me, that’s what you’ll get. My death and Abigail’s death. Two more murders to explain. And you won’t be able to stop it. Even if you put a policeman outside that door, the day will come when he’s caught off guard. Are you going to watch us day and night? Put someone on duty to trail us? How about at the hospital, Ms Jaffe? Francis was murdered there, Abigail was taken from there. You feel confident you can protect us there?’ He shook his head. ‘There will always be the one moment, the one street corner, the one night when there’s a slip – and then it happens. And you think I’ll risk that? You think I’ll take that chance when I have the means to keep her safe? Jimmy Shaw committed all three murders, and now Jimmy Shaw is dead. It’s over.’
Thoughtful, Roma walked over to the window, staring at Duncan in the car outside. She was trying to weigh up the advantage of arresting Golding, knowing that he would never give her any further information. He would deny knowing anything more than he had told her because she knew he was afrai
d. Something or someone had thrown a scare into him which would ensure his silence … But if she left it like this, then what? She fixed her gaze on Duncan intently, relieved that he had not been with her to hear what Ben Golding had said. Relieved that she could – if she chose – come up with a version of events which no one would question. Jimmy Shaw was dead. He wasn’t going to give his account.
It was her decision to make. If she chose, the case was solved. Jimmy Shaw had killed the three victims and thrown himself in the Thames. It was neat. Tidy. And it would look good on her record.
Expressionless, she stared at Ben. ‘Where’s the skull now?’
‘The real one?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, the real one.’
‘Missing—’
‘That’s convenient.’
‘It’s the truth,’ Ben continued. ‘The one in New York’s a fake. The real one’s disappeared. I don’t know where it is. I did have it, but I don’t have it now.’
‘What’s to stop someone else looking for it?’
‘Why would they?’ Ben asked, his tone reasonable. ‘Bobbie Feldenchrist is hardly going to announce that she has a fake. As far as everyone knows, Goya’s skull is in New York. No one looks for something that’s already been found.’
‘D’you really think it’s that easy? D’you really expect me to go along with your story, and lie for you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, exhausted and desperate. ‘I’m hoping Jimmy Shaw’s death will be the end of it. You have a solution, an ending. To all intents and purposes, you’ve solved the case. You’ve got Shaw’s body and the evidence that ties him to Francis Asturias’s death. Let it rest. I’m begging you to let it rest. Because if you pursue it, if you question me further or charge me, no one will believe I didn’t talk and Abigail will be the next victim.’ He held her gaze. ‘I know what I’m asking, believe me. But I’ve lost enough. Please don’t take anything else.’
72
‘We heard that your partner’s been found …’ Megan Griffiths said, dropping into step with Ben as he arrived the following morning. He was back at the Whitechapel, taking on his patients and his operations again. Trying to resume normality, although Abigail was still unconscious, a nurse looking after her at the house. ‘We’re … I’m so relieved.’
