Memory of Bones (7 page)

‘Just because I disagreed with you?’ She was down, but not out. ‘I don’t care what you say, you
can’t
make these children normal. Not some of the cases you take on. They’ll always be freaks—’

‘Yes, there
will
always be freaks,’ he agreed. ‘But as time goes on you come to realise that not all of them are in hospitals.’

Madrid

Having completed the equivalent of three miles on a running machine, Gabino Ortega stepped off and wrapped a towel around his neck. He found the sensation comforting, his tingling leg muscles a smug reminder of his triumphant challenge to middle age. After all, the men in his family were recognised as being the most handsome in Madrid – and he was never going to be a disappointment. Showering, Gabino admired his toned stomach and impressive penis, and thought that although he might be the shortest of the Ortega males, he was the best hung.

His family was an old one, tracing their ancestry back centuries; a family with wealth and business acumen, together with a certain reputation for ruthlessness. But for all their cultured learning and devotion to the arts, the Ortega family had never managed to shake off a veneer of clammy rumour which had come to a head with the infamous Adolfo Ortega. Physically massive, prodigiously
gifted in the world of finance and investments, it had been Adolfo who had cemented the family fortune by marrying the listless Fidelia. Knowing at the time of her wedding that the marriage was a union of business, not love, Fidelia had still accepted the deal. In return she was rewarded with a negligent husband – and two stillborn sons.

Becoming anxious that the Ortega line might die out, Adolfo had then acted with his typical ruthless and divorced Fidelia. Within eighteen months his second wife had given him an heir, but the rejected Fidelia was not so easily dismissed. Unbalanced by her abandonment, and jealous of the newborn, she hounded her ex-husband and threatened his new wife. At first merely irritated, Adolfo finally threatened Fidelia – something she made known to her friends. But no one took her seriously, and besides, Fidelia had lost her power. Desperate, she took to self-harming – that mental abyss that sucks the vulnerable in. No longer part of the Ortega family, she had become little more than an embarrassing outcast.

But the final outcome shook Spanish society. After Fidelia had been missing for several days, her body was found in the backstreets of Madrid. Rumours circulated like blowflies. Had Adolfo killed her? Or had he organised her murder? He had the money and power; he could easily have arranged it and got away with it … which he did. The Spanish police couldn’t – or didn’t dare – investigate the killing too deeply and the official conclusion was that the unbalanced Fidelia had wandered off from
her home, been robbed and killed. After all, she had been wearing expensive jewellery at the time, Adolfo told the police, and nothing had been found on her.

From then on, the Ortegas were treated with fear as well as respect. Respected for their money but feared for their power which had always been suspect. With the death of Fidelia, Adolfo lavished his wife and his new heir, Dino, with affection and money. As a result, the boy became spoilt, truculent and prone to angry outbursts, by the time he reached his teens he was a drug addict, hell-bent on destroying the family name and fortune. An early marriage produced no change in Dino’s character, but did provide two sons. By now old but no less ruthless, Adolfo disinherited his dissolute son and changed his will, so that the whole Ortega inheritance would eventually pass on to the elder grandson, Bartolomé.

The suicide of the rejected Dino proved it to be the wisest decision Adolfo had ever made.

Having dried himself off, Gabino dressed, finally combing his hair and thinking of his brother. It was tedious, but he would have to visit Bartolomé at his home in Switzerland that weekend to smooth over an unsettling matter with a banker who had reported Gabino to the police for assault. For once the Ortega money hadn’t been enough, and the man had refused to be placated, instead reporting the whole sleazy episode to the press. Although he could hardly have remained ignorant, Bartolomé hadn’t said anything to his brother. None of the usual frigid arguments, no admonishing telephone
calls. No remonstrations. Just silence – which was why Gabino was worried.

He had no intention of letting his brother get the upper hand and was keen to protect his lifestyle. Bartolomé might have chosen the life of an ascetic, but Gabino liked the social life of Madrid. It amused him to see the frisson of recognition when he was introduced to a woman, that sliver of interest always tempered by the Ortega reputation; the whispering of business hard-dealing and the ever shimmering ghost of Fidelia, making her presence felt more in death than she ever did in life. Gabino frowned. But had he gone too far this time? Pushed his brother’s patience too much? It was hard to read Bartolomé, harder still to see the workings of his mind behind the flawless face.

Although handsome, Gabino had none of his brother’s elegance: instead he was lustful, greedy and daring. Bartolomé had managed to escape the worst of the calumny, but Gabino had actively courted controversy. So far his charm had prevented a freefall, the actions of his grandfather an ever-present reminder that he could be ousted like his father had been. So for years Gabino had danced on the edges. Always an inch away from disgrace, he had somehow managed to keep his seat at the Ortega table. Many suspected his actions, but only a few dared to call Gabino an outright thief.

But someone
had
called him a thug. And the papers were busy drubbing the Ortega name again, a fact that would be more than a little unwelcome to his brother’s
ears … Aware that he had made himself vulnerable, Gabino thought of what he had heard that morning and smiled to himself. Luck had played him a trump card in the shape of a rumour which was circulating in Madrid. A rumour that – he was hoping – had not yet reached Switzerland. Apparently the skull of Francisco Goya had been found. The skull of the greatest Spanish painter who had ever lived. The skull Bartolomé would covet above anything … But even with all his contacts and money, Bartolomé wasn’t in Madrid. Wasn’t on the spot, ready to grab the opportunity. In fact, Gabino mused, there was a risk that someone else might get the skull before Bartolomé had a chance to.

Unless someone got it for him.

Relishing his newly birthed plan, Gabino decided that
he
would get the skull. He would win over Bartolomé with a present which would outdo all other gifts. The skull of Goya. The relic with which Gabino would win back his brother’s affection – and ensure his future at the same time.

The Prado, Madrid

Sweating in his suit, Jimmy Shaw felt his tongue dry in his mouth. Saliva wouldn’t come, his lips cracking at the corners, a little blood running on to his chin. He looked – without needing the confirmation of a mirror – repugnant. The kind of man
no one
would want to talk to, or be seen with, let alone some respectable art historian like Leon Golding. Leaning back against the stone wall, Shaw glanced at his hand, sniffing it and wincing at the unmistakable stench of decay. Perhaps he should ring Golding instead, make his case over the phone …

A sudden movement made Shaw glance across the courtyard – Leon Golding was walking through the entrance gates towards the Prado side door. Erect but ill at ease, his long shadow seemed more substantial than himself. Dressed with no little elegance, Golding should have been an imposing figure, but his movements were cautious,
almost like a man who had had a drink and was fighting its first effects.

Curious, Shaw watched him, then noticed another figure move across the courtyard. But there was no hesitation in this man’s stride: he seemed confident, almost arrogant, and so handsome Shaw felt an immediate and intense dislike. Surprised, he heard him call out Leon Golding’s name, the historian turning and automatically shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched his approach.

Straining, Jimmy Shaw could just make out what he said.

‘Mr Golding, I’d like a word, if I may.’

The man spoke in English, but with a pronounced Spanish accent. Leon smiled the faint smile of the polite.

‘Can I help you?’

‘You don’t remember me?’

Leon’s recall was swift. ‘Mr Ortega … How are you? I haven’t seen you since the auction.’

Easily, they shook hands, Shaw watching and sifting through his memory. It didn’t take him long to place the Ortega name. Or the reputation. He had lost out on several occasions to their money and their tactics. Fuck it, Shaw thought, don’t let this be what I think it is. Just let them be talking, just talking … Please …

Gabino was intent, leaning towards Leon. ‘It was a good auction.’

‘You did well. Bought that …’

‘Murillo.’

Leon nodded. ‘Yes, Murillo. It was a fine picture. Good
price.’ His voice changed gear. Even from where he was standing Shaw could see that Leon was keen to move off.

But Gabino had other ideas.

‘I was wondering,’ he went on, tucking his hands into his pockets. ‘Have you heard the rumour about the Goya skull being found?’

Shaw swore under his breath, then wearily turned his gaze on to Leon Golding. He had expected a response, a giveaway movement from him, but Golding wasn’t as naive as he appeared and the lie was glossy, almost rehearsed.

‘Goya’s skull?’ He laughed, but the sound wasn’t as convincing as the voice. ‘They find one every few years.’

‘I heard
you
had it.’

‘Me?’ Leon said, but his tone was losing substance as Gabino leaned towards him, encroaching on his personal space, pushing himself in.

‘Yes, you. Someone was talking about it yesterday. I thought it was rubbish, but then I heard about it again, and I heard that
you
had it.’ He smiled, veneers sunny, shiny. ‘Have you?’

Shaw was holding his breath. He knew Leon had the skull, but he wondered how the hell Ortega had found out so soon. He also wondered how Leon Golding was going to answer.

‘I
had
a skull …’

Neither man had anticipated the words as Leon continued.

‘… but it was a fake.’ He shrugged, almost dropping his papers as his shoulders rose and fell. ‘I was hoping –
praying
– it was Goya. You know my interest – as great as your brother’s. It would have been a coup for me. But it wasn’t genuine. I feel rather foolish about it, actually,’ Leon went on. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep this quiet—’

‘How d’you know?’

‘What?’

Shaw could sense Gabino’s rage and disappointment. It came off him like a hiss, a noise so faint it was barely discernible. His hands left his pockets, clasped in front of his body instead. But what should have been a praying motion came off as curiously threatening.

‘I asked how you knew the skull was a fake.’

‘I … I … had it examined.’

‘By who?’

‘Mr Ortega,’ Leon started, his nerves beginning to show, ‘what’s all this about?’

‘The skull, Mr Golding,’ Gabino said coldly. ‘It’s about the skull. Who examined it?’

‘A colleague,’ Leon replied, ‘A man I trust implicitly—’

‘He could be wrong. Where’s the skull now?’

‘Buried,’ Leon said shortly.

‘Where?’

Disconcerted, Leon blundered on. ‘I gave it to the church to deal with—’

‘
The church.
’

‘Of course. So they could lay it to rest in consecrated ground …’ Leon glanced around, as though anxious no one should hear what he was about to say. ‘To be honest, I feel rather awkward about the whole matter. I was very
nearly taken in, fooled. I should have known better after being in the business for so long. Should be used to disappointments. The art world’s full of forgeries. But you keep hoping … I’m afraid I have to be getting on now. I have an appointment.’ Leon ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his smile wavering. ‘It was good to see you again.’

Hurriedly, he turned and walked off, his gait stiff because this time he
knew
he was being watched.

Shaking two headache pills into the palm of his left hand, Leon took a gulp of water and swallowed them. How the hell had Gabino Ortega heard about the skull? Ortega of all people. If he’d heard about it, Bartolomé would want the skull, and Gabino would want to please his brother. He was always trying to ingratiate himself, or get more money off him. And Gabino would do anything to placate his brother after that public brawl with the banker … Jesus! Leon thought, panicked. He would go to any lengths to get hold of the skull. He was disreputable – everyone knew that. Besides, how easy would it be for Gabino Ortega to
steal
it?

But the skull was in London
, Leon told himself. It was safe. Ben had it. Besides, Gabino looked like he had swallowed the story about it being a fake. He’d seemed shaken … Leon sighed raggedly. Who was he kidding? By now Gabino would have recovered his cunning. He’d be trying to find out more, like who had examined the skull or which church had been supposedly approached for burial … Leon found himself trembling, hardly able to hold the glass of water in his hand.

It was
his
find!
He
had been given the skull. It was his discovery, his stab at greatness. The Ortegas had no right to it. They had so much, why should they steal
his
triumph? Bartolomé Ortega had spent fortunes on trying to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings and failed – he wasn’t the man who was supposed to succeed. It was Leon’s triumph and his alone.

His anger was childish and desperate, the glass dropping from his hand and shattering on the floor just as Gina walked in.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine, fine …’

Puzzled, she glanced at the broken glass. Over his shoulder she could see the reproductions of Goya’s Black Paintings. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m working on the book. You’ve been encouraging me for weeks.’

She slid into his lap, red hair falling over her cheek. ‘I hardly see you any more, darling. And I could help, Leon – honestly I could.’