‘You don’t answer your phone no more?’ Mama Gala snapped, catching hold of her son’s arm, her grip ferocious as she pulled him round to face her. ‘You look sick, boy. Your plan not working?’ Her turbaned head leaned to one side, her tongue jutting out momentarily like a snake tasting the air. ‘You failing me? Is that it – you failing me?’

His confidence collapsed, his longed-for escape from his mother derailed. He had money, yes, but not all of it – not enough. He had been cheated. Ben Golding had cheated him. He had upturned his plans and made a fool out of him. And Emile Dwappa couldn’t bear it. This was to have been his chance, his triumph. And Golding had beaten him.

But he would suffer for it. For every day Emile Dwappa had to stay with his mother, Golding would suffer. For every indignity, every torture she inflicted on him, Golding would suffer. For the postponement of his new life, Golding would suffer.

Shocked by what Bobbie Feldenchrist had told him, Dwappa had moved fast, organising his cousins in New York to pile on the pressure. After his meeting at the museum he had arranged to have the pig’s head left as a warning in Golding’s hotel room. Then he had gone back to London. On his return he had personally abducted Abigail and now he was waiting for Ben Golding to come back, but not before arranging his attack at Heathrow only minutes after he had landed.

Dwappa was piling shock on shock, throwing Golding into confusion, cranking up the fear so that in the end he would give up the skull without a fight. He wasn’t sure if Golding already knew of Abigail’s abduction – he was simply increasing the pressure so that he would realise just how much danger he was in. Dwappa knew that he would already be running scared. It didn’t even matter that Golding hadn’t had the skull in his luggage – Dwappa hadn’t expected him to be travelling with it. What he did expect was panic. And that would come soon, Dwappa told himself, just as soon as he knew that Abigail Harrop had been taken.

He could feel his hatred intensify. Other acts of aggression, even the killing of Jimmy Shaw, were bland by comparison. He would do to Ben Golding what had been done to him. He would buckle him, take everything from him, make him beg for his woman. Make him plead for Dwappa to take the skull. And then he would kill him.

‘Look at me, boy,’ Mama Gala said, her grip tightening on his arm.

Instantly Dwappa’s viciousness faltered, his aggression diluted in her presence. To her he was a gay boy, a queer, the son she had ridiculed and baited constantly, goading him and forcing him to please her, always please her. It should have worked out, Dwappa thought, panicked. He should be giving her the money now – money to keep her quiet. To get her a new house. To give him space. To buy his freedom from this terrifying maternal tyrant.

He remembered what had happened to his father and felt his bladder loosen.

‘You failed, boy?’

‘No,’ he said, repeating the word more loudly as he thought of Golding. ‘No. There’s just a delay.’

She touched his face, ran her heavy hand down his throat and then pressed against his windpipe, choking him. For a moment her eyes widened with pleasure, then she moved away.

He could hear the rain outside and see the street lights coming on as he watched her turn the sign on the door to CLOSED.

58

Certain that he was being watched, Ben let himself into his house just after dusk had fallen. Just as he did so, Roma Jaffe came running up the front steps and confronted him.

‘I need to talk to you.’

Surprised, he opened the door and stood back as she entered, followed by Duncan. Showing them into his sitting room, Ben turned on the lamps and took off his coat. He was trying to compose himself and clear his thoughts, wondering if they had already heard about the incident in New York. But how could they? He had used a false name and address. They couldn’t know about it.

More confident then he felt, Ben challenged Roma. ‘What d’you want?’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Why d’you want to know?’

Roma shook her head impatiently. ‘You should talk to us.’

‘Not without a lawyer present,’ Ben replied, on his guard.

‘Do you need a lawyer?’

‘I don’t know. But I’ve just been doorstepped by the police and they won’t tell me why—’

‘Your partner’s been abducted.’

He sat down, wondering for an instant if he had heard her correctly, his reaction muted with shock. ‘Abigail? When?’

‘In the early hours of this morning.’

‘This morning …’

‘Where were you?’

‘Where’s Abigail, more like!’ Ben snapped. ‘She was having an operation at the Whitechapel. She was in hospital.’ He was blustering, white-faced. ‘How was she taken from a hospital?’ He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, distracted. ‘Christ Almighty! Who took her?’

‘Mr Golding, we need—’

He cut her off. ‘What are you doing here? You should be looking for Abigail—’

‘Where should we look?’

‘Where should you look?’ he hurled back. ‘You’re the fucking police – you should know.’ Pausing, he stared at Roma, his expression incredulous. ‘You think I had something to do with this?’

‘Did you?’

‘I was in New York!’ he replied, pouring himself a scotch without offering one to Roma or Duncan. Downing it in one, he turned back to her.

‘You’ve got blood on your shirt, Mr Golding.’

The room fell silent as Ben turned away to look out of the window. He was trying to plan, but all he could think of was Abigail. He could see that the police had changed their attitude towards him. They were talking to him like a suspect. God, Ben thought, he had to get their attention off him! And fast, because he knew his girlfriend was going to be used as a bargaining tool. Abigail in return for the skull. If Ben antagonised the police – or worse, if he was taken into custody – he might never see her again.

The police would never find her. Or the abductor. No one knew who he was, or what he looked like. No one knew his name, not even Bobbie Feldenchrist … Ben kept staring out of the window, his face averted. It was obvious what would happen next. He would be approached, asked for Goya’s skull in return for Abigail. But he no longer had the skull. And without it he had nothing to bargain with.

‘Why is there blood on your shirt?’ Roma repeated.

‘I had a fall at the airport.’

‘Any witnesses?’

‘I was in the gents,’ Ben said curtly. ‘I slipped, hit the back of my head on the basin.’

Roma and Duncan exchanged a glance. ‘Do you know why anyone would abduct your partner?’

‘No. And shouldn’t you be looking for her instead of interrogating me?’ He relented. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just worried about her … You asked me where I was. I went to New York on a short trip to attend a conference and I’ve only just come back.’

‘You didn’t call the hospital while you were away?’

‘Of course I did! I called three times, last time yesterday morning. Abi was fine, making progress. She knew I was coming to see her tonight …’ he trailed off.

‘Has she any enemies?’

‘No.’

‘What about you?’

He lied without hesitation. ‘None that I know of.’

‘Really?’ Roma said. ‘But you’re having a hard time of it lately, Mr Golding, aren’t you?’

His expression fluttered, tiredness making his thoughts unsteady. Jesus! She thinks I’m involved. She thinks I’m after the skull for myself. He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Could only see images of Leon, Abigail, and the pig’s head jammed in the toilet bowl. Shaking, Ben struggled to control himself. You were in Madrid. You were the last person to talk to your brother … Your number was the last one called on Francis Asturias’s phone… He thought of Diego Martinez, had a sudden memory of a thin boy at the farmhouse many years earlier, followed by an image of the decapitated head. A murdered man, with Ben’s business card in his pocket … Unsteady, he reached for a chair and sat down.