‘He committed suicide, Mr Golding.’ She paused. ‘But then again, you don’t believe that, do you? You’ve told everyone that you think Leon was murdered. So why deny it now?’
‘Did I deny it?’
Impatient, Roma changed tack. ‘Your card was found on Diego Martinez’s body. You were the last person to talk to your brother before his death. And oddly – going from his mobile phone records – you were talking to Francis Asturias around the time of his murder. You have to talk to me, Mr Golding, because this is beginning to look very suspicious.’
Incredulous, he stared at her.
‘You think I had something to do with Leon’s death? You think I killed these men?’
‘No,’ she replied, tempering her tone, ‘but it looks very odd that you won’t talk to me. Just answer my questions, please.’
His gaze moved away from her towards the door as she continued.
‘I’ve heard some things about your brother’s girlfriend, Gina Austin.’
He looked back at her. ‘What things?’
‘Did you know she was involved with Gabino Ortega? And that he dumped her?’
‘No,’ Ben said honestly, remembering how Gina had lied to him, pretending that she had only known the Ortegas by reputation.
‘How did Gina Austin get on with your brother?’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘We’ve tried. She’s not at the farmhouse any longer,’ Roma replied. ‘Do you know where she is now?’
He had the impression that he was drowning, pulled under dirty water and a slow choking of mud.
‘No.’
‘You’re not being very helpful—’
‘Well, neither are you!’ Ben hurled back. ‘You come here asking me questions. Why aren’t you trying to find out who killed Leon? And Diego Martinez? And Francis Asturias? Find out, because I’d like to know. Francis was a nice guy, eccentric, funny. I liked him. Perhaps I was even fond of him. All the time I’ve been at the Whitechapel I’ve known him. And he would do anything for anyone. And now someone’s stuck a knife in him and you – you– have the nerve to suggest that I did it!’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m not answering any more of your questions. If you want to talk to me again, we’ll talk in front of my lawyer.’
Surprised, Roma stood up. ‘There’s a connection between these deaths and I’ll find it.’
‘Good. Well, let me know when you do.’
43
New York
He was the last person she wanted to see. But when the intercom buzzer sounded from below, Bobbie allowed Emile Dwappa to come up. She had made sure that her son and the nanny were out of the apartment and had dressed herself as though she was going to a business meeting. Which, in a way, she was. The African had to be made to realise that his usefulness to her was over. He had brought Joseph into her life and for that, she had paid him amply. There was nothing more she wanted from him. If he was difficult, she would have to put pressure on him.
Turning to the mirror in the entrance hall, Bobbie studied her reflection as though examining a painting. The Issy Miyake suit was flattering but dark. As for her make-up, there was nothing soft about it – nothing welcoming. Only she would know that behind the image she was moist with anxiety. She didn’t know the full extent of the African’s dealings – she didn’t want to. She just wanted to make sure that when he left her apartment he would never return.
Expressionless, Bobbie watched the elevator come to a halt at the penthouse, saw the doors open and the African walk out with a small briefcase. He did not seem surprised to find her waiting for him. Instead he moved past her into the drawing room and sat down.
Infuriated by his familiarity, Bobbie’s tone was curt.
‘I thought our business was concluded. In fact, that was why I agreed to see you today, to impress upon you that there is no reason for us to meet again.’
He glanced round, unconcerned, Bobbie nonplussed.
‘Mr …’ She paused, realising that she had never known the man’s name and now certainly did not wish to learn it. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
His narrow face was as impassive as hers. Only he realised that she was affecting her stance, whereas he was fully in control.
‘What would you say would be the most important find in art?’
Her eyebrows rose, irritation barely concealed. ‘I don’t think—’
‘How’s your son?’
Again, she was taken unawares. ‘Joseph’s very well.’
‘Can I see him?’
A moment of unease threatened to capsize her.
‘He’s out with his nanny.’
‘He has a nanny?’ The African’s pale eyes seemed amused. ‘I bet you got him the best nanny in the world.Who are the best nannies?’ he asked, then pretended to think. ‘Oh, yes, Norland nannies. English.’ He could see Bobbie flinch and carried on. ‘Do you really think I don’t know everything about your child?’
She swallowed, but kept her voice steady. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
‘You didn’t answer me.’
‘About what?’
‘About what would be the most important find in art.’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied shortly, ‘That would depend on what people were looking for. One person might want a piece of sculpture, another a Rembrandt.’
‘What if the piece wasn’t art, but something personal to the painter?’
Despite herself, Bobbie’s attention was caught. ‘What kind of personal thing?’
‘Like Leonardo’s hand.’
She laughed, surprising herself. ‘If you think someone has the hand of Leonardo you’ve been duped. People often try and pass off fakes as artistic relics.’
‘But what if this was proven to be authentic?’
For an instant she forgot her fear and felt only the thrill of the collector scenting a find. ‘You have proof?’
‘Yes. From a leading art historian and a top forensic reconstructor.’
She laughed nervously. ‘Indeed.’
‘I’ve become aware that many private collectors would be desperate to own this object. Bartolomé Ortega for one—’
‘Bartolomé Ortega?’ Bobbie repeated, startled by the name coming from such a source. ‘He’s involved?’
‘He wants to be.’
Her voice steadied. ‘What is the object?’
‘It’s very rare. Very rare indeed.’
‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’
‘A skull.’
Her eyes flickered. ‘Whose?’
‘Goya’s.’
To his surprise, she laughed. ‘Oh, not again! Poor Goya. To my reckoning his skull has been “found” three times. Each time it was a hoax.’
‘The Prado don’t think it’s a hoax.’
She stopped laughing. ‘They have it?’
‘No.’
‘But they’ve seen it?’
‘They know all about it. They allowed one of their leading historians to have it examined.’
Sitting down, Bobbie could feel her legs shake. So one of the great mysteries of art history had finally been solved. The missing head of Francisco Goya had been found after being stolen nearly two hundred years earlier. The head of the greatest Spanish master who had ever lived … She could imagine what her father’s reaction would have been – astonishment, followed by an overwhelming desire to own it. But how could an individual, even a Feldenchrist, add such a treasure to their private collection?
But then again, what was the African doing in her apartment unless he was coming to sell? Jesus! Bobbie thought, her heart drumming. Did he have it?
‘Why did the Prado allow this historian free rein?’
‘Because he found it. Or rather, it was found and passed to him.’
She leaned forward slightly in her seat. ‘Who is he?’
‘Who was he,’ the African corrected her. ‘Leon Golding. He committed suicide only the other week and the skull left his hands.’
Bobbie had heard of Leon Golding, but she hadn’t known about his death. And she didn’t want to know because knowing might be dangerous for her. She was tempted to ask the African to leave, but instead her gaze moved to the small briefcase beside his feet, her breath quickening.