God, Bobbie thought angrily. She had been so stupid to allow this man into her office. But then again, she had had no choice. She could hardly have walked off and left him to talk to the journalists. Not Leon Golding’s brother …
‘Blackmail me?’ she replied, amused. But her glance automatically went to the photograph of Joseph on her desk.
And Ben noticed.
‘Is this your adopted son?’
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
‘Where did he come from?’
‘That’s none of your business!’ she retorted, calming herself. ‘I can assure you that the Feldenchrist Collection purchased the skull through the correct channels. And my son was legally adopted.’
‘Did I suggest anything else?’
‘You said—’
‘What? Did I say anything about him not being legally adopted?’
She faltered and changed the subject. ‘I understand that you must be very upset about your brother’s death, Mr Golding. I knew of his reputation. Because of that, we can forget that this unpleasant conversation ever took place. If you leave my office now there’ll be no need to call the police—’
Instantly Ben was on his feet, leaning over the desk towards Bobbie Feldenchrist.
‘It’s a fake! Your skull is a fake. I saw the real skull, the one my brother was given. And it’s not this one—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘I had the Goya skull in my possession and it was stolen from my house,’ Ben snapped, staring into her upturned face. ‘My brother died for that skull. My brother was murdered for it – you think I wouldn’t remember it? You think I wouldn’t know the real one? Who sold this skull to you?’
‘That’s not—’
‘Who?’ Ben pointed to the photograph of Joseph on her desk. ‘You reacted when I asked about the baby. Did the same person who sold you the skull get you the child?’
She paled. ‘No!’
Ben knew he was on the right track and pushed her. ‘You don’t know where that child came from, do you? You wanted to have an heir, and you didn’t ask questions. Is that why he brought you the skull, Ms Feldenchrist? To make sure you never asked questions?’
‘I want you to leave!’
‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with! This man’s responsible for the deaths of three men. Think about it. Three men directly involved with the skull are now dead.’ He paused, his voice warning. ‘But it’s the wrong skull. He fooled you. Or he was fooled. Either way, this is just the beginning—’
‘I want you to go!’
‘You think he won’t want more? Jesus! You can’t imagine what he could want. He’ll come back and you won’t be able to do anything about it – because you can’t even admit you know him.’
Shaken, she flinched, trying to regulate her breathing. Bobbie had always been afraid of the African but now she could see the hopeless situation she was in. She wasn’t in control, he was. He had sold her a fake. And there was nothing she could do about it, because he could blackmail her into silence.
‘You have to tell me the truth,’ Ben said quietly. ‘That skull cost my brother his life.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Bobbie replied, her confidence returning as her thoughts cleared. If Ben Golding had any real proof, he would have gone to the police already. ‘How can you make a connection between your brother’s death and the skull? Everyone knows Leon Golding was unstable—’
To her surprise, Ben nodded. ‘Yes, he was. And demanding – irritating at times. But he was my brother, and when I found him hanging behind the bathroom door in some bloody Spanish hotel room, it wasn’t right. And it still isn’t—’
‘None of this has anything to do with me!’
Wearily, Ben stood up.
‘All right, have it your own way. But when you look at that skull, Ms Feldenchrist, I want you to remember that it’s a fake. It was never Goya’s skull. The real one was swapped at the last moment—’
‘This is ridiculous!’
‘It’s true.’ His voice fell. ‘I’m not lying to you. Aren’t you going to admit it’s a fake?’
‘Can you prove it is?’ she countered. ‘Remember, I have the authentication papers that were drawn up at the Whitechapel Hospital, London.’
‘They refer to the real skull—’
‘Oh dear, Mr Golding,’ she said with mock pity. ‘As I have those papers, which came with this skull, your theory won’t hold water, will it?’
‘It will if we compare Francis Asturias’s findings against your fake.’
She took in her breath, outmanoeuvred, then rallied. ‘I’ll look into the matter—’
‘You won’t admit it, will you? You can’t – you’d look a fool. And I can’t prove it either, because you’ve got the only copy of the notes.’ Walking to the door, he paused, then turned back to her. ‘But when you look at that skull – that fake – I want you to see my brother’s face. When you pose for your photographs, I want you to know that it should have been him. He should have got his day in the sun – not rotting in a graveyard. And one day – God help you – you’ll regret this. You’ll wish that you weren’t so grasping and greedy that human lives counted less than your own bloody triumph.’
51
In the basement of the Feldenchrist Collection a morose-looking French forensic pathologist named Maurice de la Valle was pulling on his laboratory coat. Preoccupied, he washed his hands and then carefully stretched on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. With considerable caution, he made sure that the gloves fitted his fingers and allowed complete freedom of movement. Finally he walked towards a sealed storage vault and entered a fourteen-digit number, unfastening the lock and taking out a small box. He then placed the box on his worktable and, after wiping down the metal surface, spread out a piece of black plastic sheeting. Finally he took the lid off the box and lifted the skull out, placing it in the centre of the sheeting.
He turned as Bobbie Feldenchrist came in. She seemed agitated. ‘I want to see the authentication papers again …’
He shrugged, passing them over to her.
‘You checked these?’
‘Of course I did. Twice.’ He glanced at her, surprised that she should query his actions but not daring to show his annoyance.
Ignoring him, Bobbie stared at the skull. Her head reverberated with Ben Golding’s words. Was the skull a fake? Had the African duped her? Had she really paid out a fortune for a worthless lump of bone? Christ! she thought desperately. If anyone found out, her reputation was bankrupt. She would be a laughing stock, the supposed crowning achievement of her collection not the skull of a genius but a nobody.
She could hardly question the African. He would deny his deception, and even if he didn’t he could blackmail her into silence by threatening to expose Joseph’s adoption.
Trapped, Bobbie felt the dry taste of failure. ‘This is the head of Goya …’
‘Yes, the head of Francisco Goya,’ de la Valle replied with solemnity. ‘One of the most important art finds in history.’ Lovingly he let his forefinger trace the cranial markings on the skull, then move around the orbit of the eye sockets. ‘I’ve waited all my life for something like this.’
Close to retirement age, he had felt nothing but disappointment with his career – until the skull had been handed over to his care. From being a respected, if undistinguished specialist, he was suddenly promoted, even being photographed with Roberta Feldenchrist for a piece in Vanity Fair. Maurice felt a swelling of professional pleasure. His retirement – when it came – would be pedestrian no longer. Thanks to Francisco Goya he would be able to travel, giving lectures about the skull, explaining his pivotal role in the phenomenal find. The long dry years which had stretched before him, heading inexorably towards a lonely death, were now bulging with promise.
Bobbie was still reading Francis Asturias’s report, her gaze moving back to the skull.