‘Who is it?’ he snapped, his voice loud to cover his anxiety. ‘Come on, who is it?’
Silence. Slowly he looked around, then pulled the door closed and began to walk back down the corridor. He longed for the familiar sounds of the hospital – a stretcher clattering along the lino, a phone ringing, the siren as an ambulance arrived at A & E. But the consulting rooms of the Whitechapel Hospital were eerily silent, locked off from the main body of activity, not even a cleaner, bucket in hand, to break the quiet.
He wondered suddenly if he should run, and then dismissed the idea, embarrassed by his own nerves. He was tired, that was all. Tired and spooked – which was hardly surprising considering what had happened in the last few days. His imagination was playing mental hopscotch with him, Ben told himself – that was all … Out of patience, he turned and made for his consulting room again, slamming the door behind him and sitting down at his desk.
He would finish his work, and go home. Have a drink and get some sleep. Everything would be clearer in the morning. He couldn’t afford to let his imagination get out of control. Taking in a breath, once more he began to dictate:
‘… Sean will undergo a further operation shortly, undertaken by myself. Megan Griffiths will be in attendance, and George Turner the anaesthetist.’
He paused, adding an afterthought for his secretary:
‘This is a message for you, Sylvia. Just in case I’m in theatre when—’
Suddenly Ben stopped talking. There were footsteps outside the consulting room door. No mistake. No imagination this time. They were real. Automatically he looked behind him, then turned back to the door, staring at it. The whispering began again, together with a muffled shuffling, the handle of the door beginning to turn.
In that instant the gas fire hissed, the noise spurting around the room as someone began to rattle the door handle. Mesmerised, Ben kept to his seat, a pulse throbbing in his neck, a feeling of dread overwhelming him. And as the door finally opened, he saw a rush of darkness and nothing more.
36
It was the aggressive, unending ringing of the telephone that finally jerked Ben out of his sleep. Leaping up, he knocked over some papers and for an instant couldn’t recall whether he was in Spain or London. Then he remembered the noises he had heard and realised he had simply fallen asleep at his desk and dreamt them.
Feeling foolish, he snatched up the phone. ‘What?’
‘Ben?’
He relaxed when he heard Abigail’s voice. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘In London. My father’s better and I wanted to come home to see you. I’m going back in a few days, but at the moment I’ve got a nurse to cover for me … Are you OK?’ she went on.
She didn’t mention the problem she was having with her face, the swelling under her skin on the left side. A swelling no one knew about but her. Too small to be seen, but not too small for her to feel.
‘I’m fine, darling. Tired—’
‘You sound it. You didn’t stay at the hospital last night, did you?’
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
‘I came back for my clinic, but I must have been more tired than I thought and dropped off.’ Outside, the hospital clock chimed ten – and he suddenly remembered the skull. ‘Are you at my house?’
‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘I’m at my place.’
‘Don’t go to the house!’
‘But—’
‘I’ll explain later, but don’t go near my place.’
‘Is this anything to do with Leon?’ she asked, disturbed. ‘Ben, what’s going on?’
‘I can’t explain over the phone. I’ll tell you more when I see you.’ He paused, then confided something which had been bothering him. ‘I spoke to Gina. She was still at the farmhouse. She told me she’d lost Leon’s baby.’
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry—’
‘I left Madrid without telling her. Just took Leon’s notes and his laptop—’
‘You didn’t tell her?’ Abigail said, surprised. ‘You just upped and left? That’s not like you, Ben.’
‘I don’t trust her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she lied to me. And if she lied to me once, she could lie to me about everything else. She was very interested in the skull – too interested. Gina doesn’t know I have it – she thinks it’s still in Madrid – but she seemed very keen to get hold of it.’ He thought back. ‘And she was reluctant to let me look at what Leon was working on—’
‘So you stole it?’
‘He was my brother!’
‘She was his lover,’ Abigail said softly. ‘And she was once carrying his child.’
‘No, she wasn’t.’
‘You just said—’
‘I know what I said – Gina told me that she had lost Leon’s baby. Well, she might have been pregnant, but not with his child. Leon had mumps when he was eighteen. My brother was sterile …’
Abigail took in a breath.
‘The baby wasn’t his. Of course she could have made the whole story up just to get sympathy, get me on her side. She’s very manipulative and she had a big influence on Leon, always so keen on him writing that book about the Black Paintings. Even when I didn’t want him to do it, even when I warned him off, she kept pushing the idea.’ He thought of her behaviour the last time he saw her. ‘I don’t know if Gina was doing it deliberately, but I think she was screwing my brother’s head up. Leon wouldn’t have stood a chance with a woman like that.’
A moment passed before Abigail spoke again. ‘You don’t think she had anything to do with his death, do you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ben said honestly. ‘But I wonder what it would have been like living with her, in that house. What Leon’s last weeks and days were like … The whole atmosphere was eerie there. Not just because Leon was dead – there was more to it than that.’
‘You’re tired, darling. Get some rest.’
‘I will, and I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, hurrying on. ‘But don’t come round to the house—’
‘I won’t, I promise. But you’re scaring me, Ben. If you’re in trouble, call the police.’
‘No, not yet,’ he replied. ‘I will if I have to. But not yet.’
He was lying to her and his conscience needled him. But what was the alternative? To tell her he had the skull at his home? The skull which had already cost two lives? And how could he risk telling her about Diego Martinez, the builder whose find had set the whole series of events into motion. Had he been killed because of the skull? And if so, why had he been murdered in London, not Madrid? Did the same person who had killed Martinez also kill Leon? Abigail was right about one thing, Ben thought. He would go to the police when he had proof, but not before. It was his brother who had been murdered and it was up to him to prove it.
Reaching for his coat, Ben walked out, locking the door of his consulting room behind him. Skirting the decorators’ ladders, he hurried towards the loggia, the glass windows and ceiling full of London greyness. In the distance he could hear a phone ringing, and as he approached the back entrance he saw an ambulance pull up, its light flashing.
Preoccupied, Ben walked to his car and got in, turning on the wipers to clear the rain off the windows. In the rear-view mirror he watched a stretcher being taken out of the ambulance and hurried into the A & E department, the ambulance men returning a moment later with the stretcher empty and folded. Sighing, Ben started the car and pulled out on to the Whitechapel Road, waiting at the first set of traffic lights and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Still weary, he rubbed his eyes and then moved on when the lights changed, making for home.
It was nearly half an hour later that Ben finally arrived back, finding a parking space opposite his house. Hurrying up the front steps, he fumbled with the lock, pushing open the door and walking in. The place seemed unwelcoming as he put down his overnight bag and flicked on the hall light. Picking up his post from the floor, he moved into his study, spotting a fax and scanning it.