Smiling, he thought for a moment then glanced back at her.
‘You’re right, I did come to ask you something. Francis reconstructed a skull for me—’
‘The Goya skull?’
‘Yes, the Goya skull,’ Ben replied, ‘but you don’t know that.’
‘I’ve just told you.’
‘But now you have to forget that you know about it, Mrs Asturias. It’s not safe for you to know about it.’ He paused, trying not to alarm her. ‘Francis rang me just before he was killed …’
‘And?’
‘He told me that someone had stolen the skull.’
She was genuinely shaken.
‘He didn’t tell me. Poor sod didn’t have time, I suppose.’ Her bravado was her way of coping, keeping back the grief. ‘You know who took it?’
‘No,’ Ben admitted. ‘But there’s more. The skull that was stolen wasn’t the real one. Francis had swapped them. Whoever has the skull now, has a fake.’
Caught off guard, she laughed, shaking her head.
‘How like him! Francis loved to make everything complicated. Couldn’t let anything be simple …’ Pausing, she caught Ben’s eye, her intelligence obvious. ‘So where’s Goya’s skull?’
‘I don’t know. Francis was going to tell me, but he didn’t have a chance. That’s why I’m here – to ask you if you know.’
‘No, I don’t.’ She was genuinely regretful. ‘If I did, I’d tell you.’
He had expected as much, but the disappointment still stung. ‘Did Francis have a workshop here? Or a study?’
Rising to her feet, Elizabeth moved over to the door. She was unexpectedly tall. Beckoning impatiently for Ben to follow her they moved through the hall and down a narrow passageway into the kitchen, then walked across a courtyard into an outbuilding. The property was decrepit and neglected, but obviously of considerable value. And Francis’s retreat was just as impressive.
‘He used to sulk in here,’ Elizabeth said fondly, holding back the door. ‘We had a wonderful sex life, you know. Even up until his death. Wonderful lover.’ She glanced over at Ben. ‘You’re shocked, of course. The ageing population isn’t supposed to have desires, is it?’
‘Why not?’
She winked, amused. ‘Good answer!’ Sweeping her arm across the room, she went on. ‘Help yourself. Have a rummage – I don’t mind. This is all of it. Francis loved machinery, computers, all kinds of technology – you name it. The dotty professor act was just that – an act. He could tackle anything.’
Walking around, Ben opened cupboards and searched them, bending down to look at the neatly stacked shelves. They were filled with paint tins, machinery, and hundreds of tools of all shapes and sizes. But no hidden boxes, no crumpled bags, no concealed skull.
Still searching, he asked, ‘Did he spend a lot of time surfing the net?’
‘The only net Francis surfed was the one he used when he went fishing.’ She pointed to his fishing tackle. ‘Have a look in the basket – it might be there.’
Ben did as he was told.
‘No, nothing.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Where would he hide something? You knew him, you knew how he thought. What would Francis use as a hiding place?’
‘He used to hide his cigars behind the bath panel, but I found them and he never did it again.’ She paused, thinking. ‘If he brought the skull home, he would have hidden it here for safety. Kept it away from me and the house. He knew what a bloody nosy old bat I am … But we don’t know for certain if he brought it home.’
‘No, we don’t.’ Hurriedly, Ben continued his search, then glanced over at the row of blank computers.
‘Did Francis use the internet for work?’
‘Oh no! He just liked to fix computers. Take them apart and then put them back together again. Or buy old ones’ – she gestured to one of the first Amstrad machines – ‘and repair them. I suppose it wasn’t so different from what he did at the hospital, putting people’s faces back together again.’
Ben pointed to a door. ‘May I go in here?’
‘If you want to have a pee, go ahead.’
Amused, Ben walked into the lavatory and checked the cistern. Empty.
‘Did Francis talk about all his reconstructions?’
‘What?’
He moved back into the main room so that she could hear him. ‘Did he talk about the reconstructions?’
‘Only the interesting ones.’
‘What about Diego Martinez?’
‘The man who was chopped up and left all over London?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘He liked that case, although he did say that when he’d reconstructed the head he was disappointed. Thought the man looked dull. He said that his death was probably the most dramatic thing that had ever happened to him. Francis felt sad about that one.’ Her expression veered between affection for his memory and the remembrance of his loss. ‘He had such respect for people. Such fondness …’
Still walking around, Ben opened the worktable drawers. ‘May I?’
‘Help yourself.’
‘What did he say about the Goya skull?’
‘He was proud to have reconstructed that head,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve always loved Goya’s work, but Francis wasn’t interested in art. Having said that, he was touched by what he did. I even found him looking at some of Goya’s work afterwards. That was a bloody surprise.’
He glanced over at her. ‘The skull’s not here, is it?’
‘I think you’d have found it if it was,’ Elizabeth replied, sighing. ‘D’you want to search the house?’
‘Can I?’
She shrugged.
‘I don’t mind, Mr Golding. The skull means nothing to me. And if it helps you to find out who killed your brother and my husband, I’ll give you all the help you need.’ She held his gaze. ‘Yes, I’ve worked it out. Diego Martinez, Francis – they’re connected by the skull, aren’t they, Mr Golding? I think they must be, because otherwise you would never have warned me to forget everything I knew about it.’ She turned to the door, flicking off the light but inadvertently turning on another switch.
Surprising both of them, the computer next to Ben came on.
‘Is this one fixed?’
‘The only one that is,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘The rest were work in progress.’
Connecting up to the internet, Ben ran down the Received and Sent emails. Elizabeth had been right: her late husband hadn’t spent much time using the computer, and less sending messages. There was nothing of interest, mostly spam. Then, for some reason Ben could never explain, he checked the Delete file.
And there, in among emails from seed catalogues and Amazon was the address Gortho@3000.com.
46
Madrid
Prosperous in a dark silk suit, Bartolomé Ortega walked towards the graveside. The heatwave had not returned; the weather had cooled its heels and the late sun was now limp, leaden with cloud. Outside the city, across the river, the old cemetery gates creaked solemnly in the dry, brisk breeze. Occasionally they shuddered against their rusty hinges, the lichen-coated stone eagles portentously silent on the gateposts above.
Also silent, Bartolomé Ortega glanced ahead. There was a reasonable turnout for Leon Golding’s funeral, and even though the coroner had ruled it a suicide he was pleased to see that the body would be laid in consecrated ground. Punishment after death was for God, not man. But although Bartolomé was feeling generous towards Leon Golding, his anger with his brother had not lessened. Every day he waited for Gabino to come to him with the news of the skull, and every day he stayed away deepened their rift.
Behind his sunglasses, Bartolomé looked around, his gaze fixing on the figure of Ben Golding standing as though immobilised beside his brother’s grave. His presence was as impressive as always, but there was a poignancy, a kind of desperation about the man which caught, and held, Bartolomé Ortega’s attention. Ben Golding’s grief was absolute, his silent guard as eloquent as a thousand pious words.
Slowly, Bartolomé’s gaze moved across the other mourners, nodding to several people he knew. Then he spotted a woman standing slightly to one side, a good-looking redhead who seemed familiar.