‘I kept my word,’ Shaw said thickly. ‘Now you keep yours. Cure me.’
Ignoring him, Dwappa kept his eyes on the skull, imagining how proud his mother would be. Soon she could have the house she wanted, the clothes she wanted, the power she wanted. And get off his back. Stick to her potions and her lies, keep to her secrets – but keep away from him. And after he had done the final deal, he would have money enough to travel. He could go anywhere. No more Brixton, no more Mama Gala breathing her fetid breath down his neck.
Composed, Dwappa turned back to Jimmy Shaw. Surely he didn’t believe he could be cured? He couldn’t be that stupid! Although, Dwappa had to admit, the trick with the money had been an inspiration. Of course, he had had no real intention of giving Shaw cash in advance. It simply went into Jimmy Shaw’s bank – and was never transferred. Shaw received confirmation of the deposit, but by then Dwappa had moved the money on again. Back to his own account.
Tilting his head to one side, he stared at the sick man. ‘How many?’
‘What?’
‘How many people died to get hold of the skull?’
‘Three,’ Shaw lied.
He reasoned that the higher the body count, the more impressive it sounded, even though he had only been responsible for the deaths of Diego Martinez and Francis Asturias. Let Dwappa think he had killed Leon Golding too. No point disabusing him.
Panting, the fat man leaned against the wall, his left hand leaving a sweat mark on the paint. ‘Here are the authentication papers,’ he said, passing Dwappa the reconstructor’s notes. ‘It’s Goya’s head. Proven.’
‘You did well.’
‘Now you return the favour,’ Shaw said, swallowing with effort. ‘Get this fucking poison out of me.’
He was trying to bargain with a young, fit man who had no pity and no intention of saving him. Jimmy Shaw had served his purpose. His slow poisoning had kept him alive just long enough to find the skull. His belief in a cure had kept him going while his body grew steadily more toxic.
Shaw’s eyesight was beginning to blur and panic was only moments away.
‘You have to help me.’
He watched as Dwappa’s gaze moved to his bandaged hand.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘What the fuck d’you think?’ Shaw replied. ‘Give me something.’
‘Like what?’
‘Cure me!’
‘But I can’t do that.’
Shaw had suspected it all along. Although the medication he had been given in Spain had affected a temporary recovery, new symptoms had begun and his fingers were turning black. Blinking, he stared at Dwappa and then slid down the wall, ending up sitting on the floor. His throbbing hand lay against his bloated stomach, his fat thighs sweaty, greasy with the matter which was seeping out of his body. Across the room he could see the old woman watching, his eyes blurring as Dwappa stood over him.
‘What … what about the money?’
‘No money. No one gets one over on me …’ Dwappa replied, crouching down on his haunches and jabbing at the pus-filled wound on the back of the fat man’s hand.
Shaw winced, felt fresh blood soak the dressing, his heart thumping sluggishly, its action slow.
‘You’ll be dead in a few minutes.’
His eyelids were closing and his face muscles slackening, losing all expression. Emile Dwappa never saw Jimmy Shaw laughing at him, smirking, and thinking that it was almost worth dying to know that he had crossed the African.
All Dwappa saw was a gasping, bloated man. A fat, beaten, stupid man. A man who had been hired, used and disposed of. Emile Dwappa had never taken Jimmy Shaw seriously.
And never once suspected that he would – in the end – destroy him.
42
In the morgue, Ben was looking at his old friend’s body in the minutes before the autopsy began. The injuries were savage, the wound in Francis Asturias’s throat inflicted with force, his spinal cord severed by the plunging down of the knife blade. Shaken, Ben stared into the reconstructor’s face, knowing that he was responsible for his death. Just as he was responsible for Leon’s. The guilt was crippling.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Roma said, coming up behind him, ‘but we need to talk.’
The morgue was uninviting, the tiles glistening as though snow-covered, Francis’s body on the table, ash-white, darkening underneath where the blood had settled after death.
‘Mr Golding, can we talk in your office, please?’
Turning, he nodded, Roma following him as they made their way back to Ben’s consulting room. Gesturing for her to take a seat, he took his and stared at her. There was no animosity in the look, only a blind incredulity.
‘Do you know any reason why Francis Asturias was murdered?’
‘No.’
She changed tack abruptly, hoping to catch him out. ‘What about Diego Martinez?’
The name reverberated in Ben’s head. ‘Who?’
‘Oh, I think you know,’ Roma replied. ‘Mr Martinez’s father recognised his son from the reconstruction. He came in and told us about Diego. About how he had known your parents in Madrid. About how they had given him a loan when he was in difficulties. A loan which meant a lot to him.’
Ben considered before answering. ‘Now you mention it, I do remember Mr Martinez—’
‘What about his son? Remember him now? He knew you and your brother.’ She checked her notes. ‘When his father moved to London to marry an Englishwoman, Diego stayed on in Madrid to run the business. He did work for your brother recently. And his father said that he did Leon a favour.’
Ben said nothing, couldn’t control his thoughts. Leon dead, Francis dead, and now the police had found out about Diego Martinez. How long before they knew about the skull? Or did they already know? He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his forehead, hearing Francis’s voice on the phone and the last words he had said to him.
It’s a fake.
And then he thought of the message on his answer-phone.
Don’t talk to the police … I’m watching you.
Confused, he looked at Roma Jaffe. He wasn’t supposed to talk to the police. He had been warned …
‘Do you know what the favour was?’
‘What?’
‘I know this is very difficult for you, Mr Golding,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but I have to ask these questions. They could be important. Do you know what favour Diego Martinez did for your brother?’
‘No.’
She sighed, leaning forward. ‘He gave him a skull …’
Mute, Ben stared at her.
‘It’s Goya’s skull. Apparently worth a fortune. Mr Martinez knew your brother would want it.’ She hurried on. ‘He found it and gave it to Leon, and now both of them are dead. Murdered.’ She went on. ‘Mr Martinez’s father said that Diego had been threatened. Was your brother threatened?’
Again he said nothing.
‘I can help you—’
‘Help me?’ Ben replied curtly. ‘How can you help me? Leon’s dead, Francis is dead, this Diego Martinez is dead—’
‘Because of something they all had in common. Leon was given the skull in Madrid. Did he ask you to have it authenticated?’
Silence.
‘What about Francis Asturias? He was a reconstructor – he did the Martinez skull for us. Did he reconstruct the Goya head for you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly. ‘He was a friend of yours, the person you would be likely to go to first. Especially if you wanted to keep it quiet.’ Sighing, she leaned back. ‘If these three men were killed because of that skull, you’re involved. Which means that you might be in danger too … Where’s the skull now?’
Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘You must do! Leon was your brother. You were very close. He would have come to you—’
‘He had his own life!’
‘He relied on you. I’ve been told that. You were his elder brother, you were successful and stable.’
Flinching, Ben turned on her. ‘Meaning that he wasn’t?’