‘It was just a story.’
‘Maybe …’ Leon said finally. ‘So, what d’you want to take?’
Ben glanced round the room and shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
Together they walked back downstairs into Leon’s study. It was conspicuously tidy but overheated, the windows bolted shut, flies buzzing against the glass. Frowning, Leon opened the nearest window as Ben stared at a small cardboard box on the desk. Carefully he opened it. Inside was an old skull, lying among some shredded newspaper. It was discoloured, with several holes in the cranium.
‘So …’ Leon paused, trying to hide his excitement as his brother picked up the skull. ‘What d’you think?’
‘He’s dead, I can tell you that,’ Ben said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Can I take it back to London with me? I’d like Francis Asturias to have a look at it.’
‘I thought he was dead.’
‘His wife lives in hope. No, Francis is still working. Still the best facial reconstructor there is.’ Ben studied the skull, turning it in his hands. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me taking it? I might need to keep it for a while.’
‘No, it’s OK,’ Leon said, adding hurriedly, ‘to be honest, I don’t like it around … Don’t tell Gina though. She doesn’t have to know you’ve got it. Keep that between us, will you?’
Nodding, Ben put the skull back in the box as Leon moved over to the window. ‘So, what d’you think of her?’
‘She seems nice.’
‘Nice,’ Leon repeated dully.
‘And very proud of you,’ Ben added, trying to avoid a semantical skirmish. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think, Leon, if she makes you happy—’
A flutter of malice entered his brother’s voice. ‘How’s Abigail?’
‘She’s fine.’
Leon had always found Abigail difficult. Not as a person, but as someone faulted. Her facial scars, although faint, seemed to evoke some peculiar resentment on his part. Almost as though his mental instability should have been as obvious to an onlooker – and provoke as much sympathy.
‘Is she still having treatment?’
‘Not at the moment,’ Ben replied. ‘She agreed to leave it for a while—’
‘She agreed? Or you talked her into it?’
Ben refused the bait. ‘We agreed.’
‘Poor Abigail could hardly argue with you even if she did want more treatment, could she?’
‘She doesn’t want—’
‘You being her lover and her doctor. You being Ben Golding.’
‘I’m not her doctor any more.’
‘Whatever …’ Leon’s jumpiness was gathering speed, his brother the nearest target. ‘You were never influenced by anyone, were you? I was. First with our parents, then Detita, now Gina. And always you. But not this time.’ Leon paused. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he embraced his brother, releasing him just as quickly. His pique had taken a sidestep, balance coming back sweet and sure. ‘Stop worrying about me. I know you do – you always have. But this is the start of something important. This is my big chance.’
‘Just take it steady, hey? And if you need me, phone.’ Ben tapped the box holding the skull. ‘As for this, I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Goya’s skull will make my name.’
‘You’ve already made your name, Leon. You’re a respected historian.’
‘Respected, but not famous.’
Ben wondered fleetingly how his brother would cope with notoriety. How press attention and any prying would affect him. All his life Leon had longed for attention – but on his terms. Attention which could be corralled, fenced in. But fame wasn’t like that. Renown flicked its victim like a bagatelle ball from one pitfall to another. It could test a strong man, a weak one it could destroy.
‘For your sake I want it to be Goya’s skull …’
‘It is,’ Leon insisted. ‘It is. I can feel it.’
‘… I want it to be genuine because you want it so much. Because you think it’ll bring so much. But if it isn’t—’
‘It will be,’ Leon insisted quietly. ‘It has to be.’
6
London
As it had done for centuries, the Whitechapel Hospital crouched disconsolately among the warren of East End streets. Slivers of alleyways dating back centuries snaked between the modern concrete smack of office blocks. Overhead, the bridge joined the separate wings of the hospital and straddled the road like a birthing stool. The oldest part of the building had been standing when Jack the Ripper was active, the Whitechapel streets housing some of the poorest of London. In among slums, the overcrowded hovels had paid court to prostitution, thievery and gambling.
It was a part of London overhung with its own grim allure, where part-time enthusiasts held murder tours and overseas visitors thrilled to the knowledge that the skeleton of the Elephant Man was housed in the hospital across the road. Time and progress had smartened up some of the area, but a few hidden warrens and alleyways still lurked. The names of the places where Jack the Ripper killed his victims had been changed too. There was no Miller Court, no Buck’s Row any more, but the stubborn, unremitting atmosphere of gloom remained. And over this thick knotting of streets and memory glowered the edifice of the Whitechapel Hospital.
Pounding towards his consulting room in the oldest part of the building, Professor Francis Asturias paused at a door marked EXIT, then hurried on to the fire escape outside. Lighting a cigar, he drew in the smoke hungrily, pushing the half-empty packet back into his pocket. Smoking was forbidden in every area of the hospital, but Francis always managed to find somewhere to take his intermittent nicotine breaks. Well into his seventies, he cut an eccentric figure, straight, greying hair reaching his shoulders, his eyes slyly amused. Beneath his white coat he wore faded corduroy trousers and suede loafers, bending up at the toes with age.
For ten years various Principals had tried to fire Francis Asturias, but he wasn’t going anywhere. His father had donated a large amount of money to the Whitechapel Hospital and Francis took care to remind everyone of the next legacy which would follow – after his own death. So they let him stay on, long after anyone else would have been retired, working in the Forensic Department on archaeological remains or reconstructions of the victims of murder cases.
‘You shouldn’t smoke,’ a voice said suddenly as the Fire Exit door opened and Ben walked out.
Francis shrugged. ‘Fuck you. I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow.’
‘I came back early,’ Ben replied, helping himself to one of his colleague’s cigars and putting it into the top pocket of his white coat. ‘I’ve brought something for you.’
‘Not one of those straw donkeys with a sun hat?’
‘I thought it would go nicely with your plastic bull-fighter.’
‘You spoil me,’ Francis replied, amused. ‘So what it is?’
‘Something special. Well, it could be. I want you to reconstruct a face for me.’
Stubbing out his cigar, Francis raised his eyebrows. ‘One of your patients?’
‘No. This is a very old skull – possibly of world importance.’
‘They burnt Hitler.’
‘They didn’t burn Goya.’
Francis blew out his cheeks. ‘Where’s the rest of the body?’
‘Still in his tomb. The head went missing a long time ago, apparently stolen by the French. Look, to be frank, it’s unlikely to be genuine, but I want to check it out for my brother. He’s an art historian and it would mean a lot to him.’
‘Wouldn’t hinder his career much either,’ Francis remarked mischievously.
‘Can you do it?’
‘Sure, I can date it for you too. What about DNA?’
‘No point. Goya has no living relatives. No points of comparison.’
‘So you’re relying on the dating and the reconstruction of the skull?’