She nodded.
‘Diego was my only child. He grew up with me, but when he was in his twenties I met someone and I moved over to London to be with her.’
‘And your son stayed in Madrid?’
‘He had friends there.’
‘Family?’
‘No, Diego was divorced.’
Roma nodded, her voice gentle. ‘Do you know if your son had any enemies?’
‘Because he was killed? He was, wasn’t he? He was killed.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he was.’
‘Who did it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly. ‘But now we know who he was, we can move the case forward. Did your son have any enemies?’
He shrugged. ‘No, he wasn’t a man like that. No one envied Diego.’ There was a long pause. ‘I don’t think he knew a lot of people in London, apart from me.’
‘What was the business?’
‘Builder.’
‘Had he had any arguments with clients lately?’
‘Who would kill him? No!’ Carlos Martinez replied shortly. ‘Diego kept himself to himself. He was quiet. He would do anything for anyone. He was kind, almost too kind.’
Pausing, Roma remembered the card found on the body and fired a volley into the air. ‘Did your son know a Doctor Ben Golding?’
‘We all did,’ Carlos said, smiling. ‘A long time ago, Dr Golding’s parents gave me a loan which saved my business. I never forgot it. We owed them a lot.’
‘So you knew the family?’
‘Dr and Mrs Golding were killed when the boys were in their early teens.’ Carlos paused, rubbing his right eye. ‘I’d known Miriam – Mrs Golding – when she worked at the Prado. I’d done some building repairs there and she hired me to work on their family house.’ He was looking back, remembering. ‘It needed work. Big old house, with bad plumbing. Rundown, always something needing repair. I had to replace the guttering too …’ He trailed off, then rallied. ‘There were two boys – Ben and Leon. Ben came to London—’
‘Did you know him here?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah, we weren’t in touch. I haven’t seen him since he was a teenager.’
‘What about Leon?’
‘Oh, I knew Leon. And Diego knows – knew – Leon quite well.’
Roma leaned forward in her seat, intrigued. ‘Did your son work for Leon Golding?’
‘On and off,’ Carlos replied. ‘Leon’s a bit … troubled, but pleasant enough. Diego did some repairs for him quite recently. I know because he told me all about it on his visit and about Leon’s girlfriend. He said she was beautiful, but he didn’t trust her.’
‘Why not?’
‘He knew her already,’ Carlos continued. ‘Diego said that she didn’t remember him, but he’d done some urgent repair work for Gabino Ortega in Madrid – and she’d been Gabino’s girlfriend at the time. He remembered her because they’d argued and Gabino had ended the affair and she’d taken it badly. Threatened him, said she’d pay him back.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Gina … I don’t know her surname. Diego would know …’ He trailed off, biting his lip to stop himself crying. It took him several seconds before he could speak again. ‘On his last visit, my son seemed different. He said he’d just seen Leon Golding and that he’d done him a favour.’
‘A favour? What kind of favour?’
‘Diego found something in the cellar of an old house in the centre of Madrid. They had been digging up the floor, which hadn’t been touched for centuries, and he found this skull. It was interesting because Diego knew the history of the house, knew that Goya had stayed there.’
She was baffled. ‘Goya?’
‘The painter, Goya. He’d lived there for a little while,’ Carlos went on. ‘The skull had been hidden for a long time and when Diego found it he thought it might be the painter’s … Leon had talked to Diego about Goya for years, so he gave it to him. Our whole family owed them a debt. I mean, I paid back the money a long time ago, but there was more to it than that. Leon was the right person to give the skull to. And besides, Diego knew how much it would mean to him.’
Roma studied the old man. ‘I don’t understand. Why would it mean so much?’
‘Leon Golding’s an art historian, very well known. An expert on Goya.’ He took in a breath, tugging at his keys, making them jingle erratically. ‘Diego said he was over the moon with it. Thought it would make his name. Leon took Diego out for dinner as a thank you.’
Was this the time to tell him that Leon Golding was dead? Roma wondered. He had just found out his son had been murdered – did he need to know about Leon? Thoughtful, she glanced away, making some notes. So there was a link between Ben Golding and the victim. More than a link – a bond. And he’d denied it. Why?
‘I was going to come and talk to the police anyway,’ Carlos said quietly, lifting his head and fixing his eyes on Roma. ‘Diego wouldn’t say anything, but he was being followed.’
‘Did he know who was following him?’
‘No. It was in Madrid.’ Carlos sighed. ‘He came to London to see me, but also to get away from Spain. He said his house and his business had been watched. He was scared. Really scared. I told him to go to the police, but he wouldn’t.’
‘Did he say why he thought he was being watched?’
‘The skull,’ Carlos said flatly. ‘It’s worth a fortune. The art world would want it, and private collectors. I know because of the conversations I used to have with Miriam Golding. She said that one day the skull would turn up—’
‘Why isn’t it with the body?’
‘It was stolen,’ Carlos said. ‘A long time ago. The story’s well known in Spain. Not over here, but at home, yes. Goya’s our most famous painter and the tale of the skull’s a legend. You know, folklore. People have been looking for it for a long time. They say it’s cursed, but who knows …’ Again he trailed off, remembering his son. ‘Maybe they were right.’
‘Did your son say anything about the people he thought were following him? Any descriptions?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Did he receive any phone calls? Messages?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Did you know that Diego had Ben Golding’s card in his pocket?’
He didn’t react as Roma reached into her desk drawer and pushed the evidence across to him. After another moment, she flipped the card over to reveal the mobile number on the other side.
‘D’you know this number?’
‘Of course I do. It’s Leon’s number. Leon Golding’s.’
She sighed deeply, the old man watching her. ‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Martinez, but Leon Golding is dead.’
39
In the Whitechapel Hospital Ben was walking down the Loggia with Sean McGee’s file under his arm, Megan Griffiths running behind to keep up. The boy’s operation had been a success, but Ben was late for his afternoon clinic and had missed lunch. Having stood in for Ben when he was in Madrid, Megan was surprised to see a file she didn’t recognise – the notes on the Little Venice murder.
‘Can I look at it?’ she asked.
Ben shook his head. ‘No, it’s confidential.’
‘It’s all over the newspapers. It can’t be that confidential.’
‘My part in it is,’ he replied, putting the file into his briefcase.
Expecting his registrar to leave, Ben was surprised to find Megan hovering as they reached his consulting rooms.
‘You were asked for your medical opinion, weren’t you? Can I help?’
‘I’ve already done the examination,’ Ben replied, curious. ‘Why do you want to be involved?’
‘It’s not the kind of thing that happens every day. Murder, involving a patient who had had facio-maxillary surgery—’
‘Which is something you couldn’t have known unless you had already looked at the file,’ Ben replied, infuriated. ‘I’ll have to put that in your assessment, Dr Griffiths–’
‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same!’
‘I probably would have, yes,’ he admitted, ‘but not for the same reasons. I suppose you want to write up the case?’