‘Did he know who was following him?’

‘No. It was in Madrid.’ Carlos sighed. ‘He came to London to see me, but also to get away from Spain. He said his house and his business had been watched. He was scared. Really scared. I told him to go to the police, but he wouldn’t.’

‘Did he say why he thought he was being watched?’

‘The skull,’ Carlos said flatly. ‘It’s worth a fortune. The art world would want it, and private collectors. I know because of the conversations I used to have with Miriam Golding. She said that one day the skull would turn up—’

‘Why isn’t it with the body?’

‘It was stolen,’ Carlos said. ‘A long time ago. The story’s well known in Spain. Not over here, but at home, yes. Goya’s our most famous painter and the tale of the skull’s a legend. You know, folklore. People have been looking for it for a long time. They say it’s cursed, but who knows …’ Again he trailed off, remembering his son. ‘Maybe they were right.’

‘Did your son say anything about the people he thought were following him? Any descriptions?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Did he receive any phone calls? Messages?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Did you know that Diego had Ben Golding’s card in his pocket?’

He didn’t react as Roma reached into her desk drawer and pushed the evidence across to him. After another moment, she flipped the card over to reveal the mobile number on the other side.

‘D’you know this number?’

‘Of course I do. It’s Leon’s number. Leon Golding’s.’

She sighed deeply, the old man watching her. ‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Martinez, but Leon Golding is dead.’

39

In the Whitechapel Hospital Ben was walking down the Loggia with Sean McGee’s file under his arm, Megan Griffiths running behind to keep up. The boy’s operation had been a success, but Ben was late for his afternoon clinic and had missed lunch. Having stood in for Ben when he was in Madrid, Megan was surprised to see a file she didn’t recognise – the notes on the Little Venice murder.

‘Can I look at it?’ she asked.

Ben shook his head. ‘No, it’s confidential.’

‘It’s all over the newspapers. It can’t be that confidential.’

‘My part in it is,’ he replied, putting the file into his briefcase.

Expecting his registrar to leave, Ben was surprised to find Megan hovering as they reached his consulting rooms.

‘You were asked for your medical opinion, weren’t you? Can I help?’

‘I’ve already done the examination,’ Ben replied, curious. ‘Why do you want to be involved?’

‘It’s not the kind of thing that happens every day. Murder, involving a patient who had had facio-maxillary surgery—’

‘Which is something you couldn’t have known unless you had already looked at the file,’ Ben replied, infuriated. ‘I’ll have to put that in your assessment, Dr Griffiths–’

‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same!’

‘I probably would have, yes,’ he admitted, ‘but not for the same reasons. I suppose you want to write up the case?’

She nodded, holding his gaze defiantly. ‘It would be the chance of a lifetime. You know how difficult it is to get a posting at a good hospital. A doctor needs every bit of help they can find. And an innovative paper, with a well-known case, would help me a lot.’

Sighing, Ben moved behind his desk and sat down. He knew that if he tried to stop her, Megan Griffiths would do the paper anyway. She would gamble on the notoriety of her work outweighing her mentor’s disapproval. He was tired and under stress, and her interference rankled.

‘You realise that it would be unethical for you to publish anything until the murder becomes public knowledge? Or until it has been solved?’

‘What if it isn’t solved?’

‘There’s nothing to stop you from writing it up anonymously,’ Ben replied, ‘but that would defeat the point, wouldn’t it?’

Defiant, she went on the attack. ‘You don’t like me, do you?’

‘You’re right, I don’t.’

Without saying another word, she turned on her heel and left.

For the remainder of the day Ben regretted the altercation and he knew he had made an enemy out of a colleague – something he would normally have avoided at all costs. But life wasn’t normal at the moment. Leon was dead and the police were asking him questions, and instead of seeking their help, Ben was lying to them.

Returning home later that evening Ben paused at the doorway, almost reluctant to enter. When he did walk in and turn on the light, he half expected his house to be broken into again. But the furniture was in the same place as it always was, the post on the mat at his feet. As he bent to retrieve it, he could hear the answerphone clicking off in the study.

By the time he got to it, the caller had rung off, the red light flashing three times. Three messages. Checking the room, he pulled the curtains closed, then flicked the PLAY button.

‘Ben, hi, it’s me …’

He relaxed at the sound of Abigail’s voice.

‘… I just wanted to say hello. I wondered when you were coming round. Anyway, phone me when you get in.’

A pause followed, then her voice again, gentle.

‘I miss you. Bye.’

Saving the message, Ben played the next, smiling when he heard Francis Asturias’s booming voice. His tone was pretend outrage, mock angry.

‘Bloody Golding! Call me back, you prick. I’ve got some news.’

Replaying both messages, Ben realised that Abigail would be safer if she returned to France and stayed with her father. In France she would be away from him. In France, she would be safe … An unexpected noise behind him made him turn, but it was only a pigeon on to the window ledge outside. Rolling his head to loosen his neck muscles, he clicked on the answerphone to access his last message.

The voice was a man’s. Disguised and ominous.

‘I’ve got the skull, Mr Golding …’

Ben stared at the phone as the muffled voice continued.

‘If you’re tempted to talk to the police, remember Leon. Remember your brother and what happened to him.

‘I’m watching you.’

40

There are fifty-nine steps leading from the back exit of the Whitechapel Hospital to the laboratory. There is a lift but it’s seldom used, too erratic to be trusted. Staff climb the stairs or take a short cut through the main body of the hospital, via Reception. The fifty-nine steps at the back are divided into dozens, a landing after every twelve except for the last flight. No one knows why there are only eleven steps here, but the last leads to a landing, the laboratory and, off that, storage.

Baffled, Francis Asturias stood in the storage room of the Whitechapel Hospital. He thought at first that he was imagining things, but then opened the box marked CAUTION – ANIMAL REMAINS again and felt inside. It was empty. The skull was gone. Tipping up the box, he rummaged through the shredded paper, but he could see at once that there was nothing there and glanced back to the shelf. It was definitely the right box. It was the only box marked CAUTION – ANIMAL REMAINS.

Reaching for a cigar stub in his pocket, Francis remembered that he couldn’t light up inside the hospital and chewed the end of the smoke instead. The skull had been there the previous day – he had checked – but now the box was empty. Preoccupied, he moved over to the door, fingering the key. Perhaps he had left the storage room open? He dismissed the idea immediately. For over thirty years Francis Asturias had locked up at night. The laboratory and the storage room. He’d never missed once.

So maybe there was another key. But who would have access to another key? And even if they did, why would they bother to go into a storage room which was just a repository for old files and junk? How would they know what to look for? Deep in thought, he walked downstairs to the back of the hospital and then moved behind a row of waste bins. Lighting up, he inhaled morosely on his cigar and nodded to a colleague who passed on his way to the car park. The evening was unseasonably cold and Francis shivered and pulled his white coat around him.