She nodded eagerly. She would have agreed to anything just to prevent him from walking out.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘I can have the baby here on Saturday.’
‘Saturday …’ she repeated, frowning as he handed her a piece of paper.
‘That’s a precaution. Just in case you’re recording my visit …’ Dwappa explained, pointing to one of the cameras. ‘… I thought you might prefer to have the finances remain a private matter.’
She read the amount of money written and laughed. ‘This is absurd!’
‘How much is a baby worth? You have to ask yourself that question, Ms Feldenchrist. Ask yourself how much you want a baby for your “baby shower”. How much you want a little Feldenchrist heir. You don’t want to look like a failure, do you? I mean, you can’t have children naturally, can you? So how embarrassing would it be if you failed to adopt one?’
She took a step back. ‘How dare you!’
‘Dare what?’ he responded. ‘You wanted to meet me. You wanted me to get you a child. I’m offering you that – for a fee.’
‘It’s a massive sum!’
‘Like you haven’t got it.’
Her composure was disintegrating fast. Threatened, she knew she had no choice but to agree. She would pay up and then she would have her child. After that, she could forgot the whole sordid affair. Uncharacteristically, she ducked the reality of her situation. That this man would have something on her for life. That he would have control and the means to exploit her if he chose.
She knew, but she still agreed. ‘All right.’
‘I want the money in cash.’
‘Of course,’ Bobbie replied, hardly able to keep the bitterness out of her tone. ‘Is the baby a healthy boy?’
‘One hundred per cent. I’d like the money when I bring the child here on Saturday.’
She nodded, her voice low. ‘What time?’
‘I’ll call and tell you exactly,’ he replied, ‘and when we’ve concluded our business deal, Ms Feldenchrist, I want you to promise that you won’t say anything to anyone about me. Instead you’ll say that your original adoption went through. It was postponed, that was all. You let everyone think this was the only baby you were ever going to adopt.’ He turned to go, then turned back. ‘It’s very aware of you to adopt a coloured baby. I’m sure you’ll be admired by all of your friends. The Third World needs more people like you.’
She caught the sarcasm in his tone and flushed. ‘I just want a child—’
‘And I just want to fulfil your wish. But remember, never mention me. If you do, neither your name nor your money will save you.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, taking one last look at the paintings which surrounded him. ‘You have a good life. You don’t want to risk that, Ms Feldenchrist …’
She was rigid with shock, all colour going from her lips.
‘So remember this. If you mention me to anyone – if you even drop a hint that I exist – I’ll personally make you sorry you were ever born.’
Frightened, she stepped back, bumping into the settee behind her. In that instant she realised exactly what she had done – that the pact she had made was for life. And she also knew that if she broke it, he would kill her.
30
London
‘I got a call from Ben Golding,’ Duncan said, glancing over at Roma. ‘He’s viewed the remains of the Little Venice murder victim and faxed his report through to your office. Professional, huh?’
‘Usual practice.’
‘He could have cried off.’
She glanced at him, puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘His brother’s just died.’
‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘What happened?’
‘He committed suicide, in Spain.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Oddly enough, Ben Golding’s insisting that his brother didn’t kill himself. He says he’s been murdered.’
Surprised, she took a breath. ‘What makes him think that?’
‘Didn’t say, but he was emphatic about it. Mind you, he was in shock, I could tell that. He was talking too much over the phone. Not like himself at all. You know, talking like he couldn’t stop. He said that everyone was putting his brother’s death down to a suicide, but he had found the body and he reckoned he’d been killed. Then he just shut up, like he’d said too much.’
Roma frowned. ‘Imagine finding your own brother dead … What else did he say?’
‘He said he was still in Madrid—’
‘Madrid?’
‘That’s where his brother lived.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing else. Not about his brother anyway. Started talking about the Little Venice case instead.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘That’s odd.’
‘Why? You asked Golding for a professional opinion. He was working on the case.’
‘Did he mention anything about us finding his card on the body?’
‘No.’
‘Obviously he’s seen the reconstruction?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But he didn’t recognise the victim?’
‘Said not.’
Frowning, Roma pushed a stack of papers to one side of her desk and leaned forward. The chair creaked morosely as Duncan took a seat opposite his boss. Placing her hands over the Little Venice file, she stared at him. ‘Have we any leads on this?’
‘No,’ he said, trying to read her thoughts. ‘What is it?’
‘Huh?’
‘You look thoughtful. What about?’
She shrugged.
‘It just seems odd, that’s all. That business of Ben Golding’s card on the murder victim. And now his brother’s been killed.’
‘You think the cases are related?’
‘I don’t know. But it’s a hell of coincidence, isn’t it?’ She doodled on the pad in front of her, making looping spirals on the page. ‘Did Golding say why he thought his brother had been killed?’ She looked up. ‘No? Then we need to ask him.’
31
Madrid
In the glossy centre of Madrid, a solitary man was seated at a table, a half-empty coffee cup in front of him. Overhead the slow curl of a fan chugged into the afternoon warmth, the arched windows opening out on to a wrought iron terrace, rusted in places. Only minutes earlier a woman had come in and watered the plants outside, taking care not to splash the leaves or the flowers. A careless drop of water, magnified by Spanish sun, could work like a lens, scorching the fragile, pulpy greenness underneath.
From the open window came the sound of the city: car horns, shouts, the occasional punctuation of laughter. But inside the room was quiet, interrupted only by the noise of the lift shuddering to an impatient halt on the landing outside. Sighing, the man looked upwards into an inverted, painted well. Figures from pastoral mythology cavorted in fleshy groups, a painted sky the colour of a Russian sapphire. A froth of clouds drew the eye downwards to the tops of carved pelmets and gilded pictures frames, standing cheek by jowl with ceremonial documents and antique weaponry.
The palatial office of Gabino Ortega told everyone immediately how wealthy he was. The fact that he did very little work in it did not matter. It was a front for him – a stage set for an actor playing a tycoon. But now Gabino was finding himself at a loss, his mobile still in his hand, his mind seething. Leon Golding was dead.
So where was the fucking skull?
His irritation accelerated into anger as he pushed back his chair and stood up. He had been too slow. He should have got the skull off Leon Golding as soon as he had heard that it was in his possession – either bought it or stolen it, but got hold of it nonetheless. The lame lie about the skull being a fake and buried in a churchyard had been almost laughable. Surely Golding had realised that he hadn’t believed him – that he had, instead, had him watched?
Thank God he hadn’t told Bartolomé about it, Gabino thought suddenly. He would have looked like a fool. Glancing up, he watched the man who had just entered the room, a scrawny picture restorer in his seventies, who nodded as he took the seat offered to him.