No flesh remained, only a few tufts of hair. The black eye sockets – blank and damning – staring directly at him.
4
Madrid
In the Spanish capital they were having a heatwave. It was 96 degrees in the shade, and rising. Even for Spain, that was hot. Outside the Prado a queue formed under the lemon-yellow sun: tourists in their new lightweight clothes, their feet pallid in gaudy sandals, their shoulders peeling and their necks rubbed raw by the sudden heat. Slowly, the front of the queue edged towards the Prado Museum entrance and the welcome shade. At the front, a red-haired man was reading a copy of the English Telegraph. Beside him waited a group of American students, talking in awestruck tones about La Quinta del Sordo. Tell a kid a ghost story and you have him hooked. Tell an old man a ghost story and you make him think of death.
Sweating, Jimmy Shaw made a path through the queue, a woman automatically pulling her child away from the bloated, unkempt man. Shaw was feverish, overheated, holding his bandaged hand to his chest protectively as fluid seeped through the dressing, a sticky yellow plasma which pre-empted infection. Jesus! Shaw thought. How could the wound be infected so fast? Another thought followed on immediately. Maybe Dwappa had put something on the knife. Or had the white powder – which had momentarily soothed – been poisoned?
Oh, Christ! Oh, Jesus! Pausing, Shaw breathed in with effort, his jacket slimy with sweat. He had told his cohorts in London and New York about the Goya skull – many had heard rumours already – and promised them a decent fee for stealing it. He explained all he knew – that the skull was in Madrid and in the possession of Leon Golding, although he suspected Golding – a part-time lecturer at the Prado – had already informed the museum and possibly handed the relic over to them for safe keeping. So far, so good. But when Shaw mentioned Emile Dwappa, everyone backed off. One look at his hand told them everything they needed to know. So Shaw had been forced to undertake the task himself. No minions this time, no remote orders – this time Jimmy Shaw was on his own.
Dwappa’s words came back to him with added resonance – Get the skull. For your own sake … Shaw knew what he meant. He was being poisoned and the longer it took him to find the skull, the less chance he had to survive. His only hope was to find the skull and get back to Dwappa as soon as he could.
‘Hey, watch out!’ an American boy shouted at him as Shaw lunged away from the wall. Curious, the lad looked at the obese grey-skinned man. ‘You OK?’
‘Fine …’
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘I shut it in a car door.’
The boy’s eyes narrowed, two of his friends coming over and staring at the fat man.
‘Fucking hell!’ one said. ‘You look like shit.’
Grunting, Shaw pushed his way past the boys, following the sign to the Prado staff entrance. His head buzzed with fever and sickness, his tongue felt thick and dry, his skin chafed with heat rash. Before he left London, and then later on his way over to Madrid, he had researched Leon Golding and the Prado. Apparently the staff and affiliates had an exclusive entrance at the rear of the museum, on the left. Well away from the tourists was a door leading to a pristine enclave, nesting among libraries and cool rooms.
As for Leon Golding, Shaw had found out quite a lot about the man. Apparently Golding was respected, but highly strung. A scandalous Spanish newspaper had reported a suicide attempt a few years earlier, which had been duly denied. There was also an interview about Golding’s longstanding interest in Spanish art and about how he was trying to restore the family house outside Madrid, a rambling farmhouse that had seen better days. Perhaps he would like some money to help with the restoration? Shaw wondered. If experience was anything to go by quite a few of the art world’s intelligentsia could be persuaded to exchange morals for money.
Taking a press cutting out of his inside pocket, Shaw stared at the photograph of Leon Golding: a handsome if delicate-looking man. Carefully he studied the face. He wanted to make certain he would recognise Golding, a man he was certain he could bully. Or buy off … Suddenly dizzy, Shaw crammed the photograph back into his pocket and moved over to a nearby water fountain. Leaning on the button, he bent down and felt the tepid liquid fill his mouth. In front of him his shadow fell, huge and bloated, as he wiped his lips and headed for the back entrance of the Prado. His plan was blindingly simple – he would seek out Leon Golding and offer to buy the skull. If he refused, he would increase the offer. If Golding still refused, Shaw would steal the skull.
His hand throbbing, the fat man looked at the stinking bandage and swallowed. Time was in short supply – both to find the skull and to get back to London. Shaw could feel himself getting weaker by the minute, his blood thickening with infection, every breath pumping bacteria through his heart and organs. Fighting panic, he tried to steady himself. He had been to the hospital in Madrid, but although treated and reassured by the A & E doctor on duty, Shaw didn’t believe that the poison had been controlled, let alone dissipated. Instinct told him that his time was limited. Very limited. He had to get the skull. He had to get the antidote. Whatever it took.
Leon Golding didn’t stand a chance.
5
‘Abigail?’
As her voice came down the line, Ben could tell she was smiling. Could imagine the upturn of her mouth, the incline of her head when she was listening. She would be sitting at the table by the window, within sight of the overgrown garden that Ben had promised – every week in summer – to bring to heel. In the end Abigail had hired someone and Ben had come home to a memory, to a reconstruction of the garden he first remembered when he had bought the house seven years earlier. And she had teased him about it. Said it was her only little miracle of surgery.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Thinking about going back to work full time.’
He was surprised that her confidence allowed her to articulate the thought. How long it would take for the thought it be turned into action he didn’t know.
‘At the advertising agency?’
She paused before answering, but the pause told Ben everything he needed to know. She wasn’t ready. And somehow, to his shame, he was glad.
‘I was thinking it was time,’ Abigail went on, feeling her way around the words and then changing the subject. ‘Anyway, I was expecting you to call later tonight. Why are you ringing now?’
‘Just to say I miss you.’
He could hear her smiling again.
‘I miss you too. When are you coming home?’
‘Tomorrow. I’m catching the last flight. I’ve got to do something for Leon first …’ Ben paused, found himself waiting for some kind of response. But Leon’s animosity towards Abigail was never reciprocated. ‘You know something?’
‘I know loads.’
‘Smart-arse.’ He dropped his tone. ‘You’re making a fool of me.’
‘Don’t give me all the credit – you did that yourself.’
He laughed, then became gentle. ‘Every time I leave you I leave a part of myself behind …’
She rested her head against the phone, closing her eyes as she listened. For an attractive man, who could have manipulated women easily, his honesty was tender. And seductive.
‘… you know how much I love you, don’t you? Or do you?’ He hesitated momentarily. ‘I keep thinking that I know, but then I go away from you and realise that it increases, that what I felt before was nothing in comparison … How d’you do that?’ he asked gently. ‘How do you keep refilling my heart?’
How? she wondered. How could she not? After the accident Abigail had seen herself destroyed, her confidence as bloodied as her face. In the first weeks the shock had obliterated all feeling, but then, finally, she realised that the beauty she had taken for granted was no longer hers. Reassurance did nothing to help her, and when Ben Golding had taken over her case Abigail didn’t believe his encouragement either. He said he would remake her face. She doubted it. He said he would give her back her looks. She didn’t believe him.