‘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 usuaclass="underline" 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?’
‘Yes.’
‘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.