‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course! I shall snap my way through old age like a cornered crocodile.’ She paused. ‘And you? How are you?’

‘Under pressure.’

‘Because of the missing skull?’

‘And other things.’

‘You sound exhausted. Shouldn’t you get some rest?’

‘I haven’t got time.’

Highly intelligent, she picked up on an undercurrent. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Yes, serious trouble. And it’s not just me.’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s good to be afraid sometimes, Mr Golding. It makes us fight for what we care about … Will you let me know what happens to you?’

‘If I can.’

They both knew what he meant.

‘Diego Martinez, your brother, Francis – they weren’t enough?’ she carried on hurriedly, without giving him time to reply. ‘Of course they weren’t. And now it’s your turn, is it?’

Ben avoided the question. ‘No one’s been bothering you, have they?’

‘No, Mr Golding! No one bothers old women. I dare say I shall have to live out the rest of my life unbothered.’

‘Promise me, Mrs Asturias, that you’ll never talk to anyone about any of this. Never mention our conversations or the skull—’

‘You told me once, you don’t need to repeat it!’ she snapped. Then her tone softened. ‘Make it worth it.’

‘What?’

‘My husband’s death. Make it matter. Or what’s the bloody point?’

66

It was just after eight p.m. when Ben reached the Whitechapel Hospital and parked around the back of the cardiac unit, avoiding the consultants’ spaces where someone would be sure to recognise his car. His trip across London had been delayed and he was almost running when he entered the back entrance of the hospital, taking the narrow stairs up to the laboratory two at a time.

Across the door was blue and white tape, POLICE – DO NOT ENTER, which fluttered as he opened the door and walked in. The darkness surprised him and for an instant he was tempted to turn on the light, but he waited until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Outside rain had begun to fall; it drummed on the glass roof of the hospital dome and rattled the metal sign which hung at the entrance to the Radiology department below. Six lengthy workbenches stretched out in front of Ben as he moved towards the first one, which Francis had always used. Moonlight, at once brilliant and sombre, lit the wooden surface and the chalk outline of the last of Francis Asturias.

It required no effort to conjure up the memory of Francis with his stringy grey hair, shabby suede shoes and gauntlets – madly, weirdly practical. Above Ben’s head he could see the punishingly bright lights Francis used when he was working, and on a plinth to his left a reconstructed head sat waiting for a master who would never return. In the sink lay an old mug and a glob of clay, their shabby poignancy surmounted by the silver shapers Francis used to smooth his sculptures. And more stirring than this, than any of his belongings, was the smell of chemicals and the soft, dry scent of discarded clay.

Could this man really have betrayed him? Ben thought, looking around and then moving over to the large walk-in fridge at the other end of the laboratory. Could Francis Asturias have cheated him? A noise overhead made him pause, but a few moments later the footsteps moved off and faded on the twisting stairs beyond.

Dry-mouthed, Ben ran his tongue over his lips and opened the fridge door. It swung towards him, heavy on its hinges and smelling of dead water. Inside, jars of specimens and dissected organs grinned from the shelves of their cold tomb. For over fifty years the laboratory had shared a fridge with the overspill from the clinical laboratory downstairs, Francis complaining monthly about the lack of space.

Curious, Ben walked further into the fridge, his body illuminated in the glare of the inside light, a warm dark outline against the white ice. Pulling back the cover from a partially dissected heart, he threw it back over then bent down and peered under the shelves, finding nothing. Still crouched down on his haunches, he tried to shape-shift himself into Francis Asturias’s thoughts. He had had the skull and then it had been stolen, but only after he had taken the original and replaced it with a fake. So where would he put the real skull? Where would a man like Francis Asturias hide such a prize?

Another sound made Ben jump to his feet. This time the footsteps had come to a halt. They had paused outside the laboratory door and torchlight shone into the room. Slowly and deliberately the light arced round. It hit the workbenches and the lamps overhead, darting across the windows and finally coming to rest on the table where Francis had been killed.

Then the light went out.

But a shadow remained on the other side of the door.

Immobile, watching, Ben hung back in the cold confines of the fridge. Anxious, he looked around for a way to escape, but he couldn’t move without being seen and realised that his only chance was to remain silent and unmoving. The cold leeched into his feet as the seconds passed, his breath white feathers tugged out of his lungs. And still the figure didn’t move.

Then, very slowly, the door of the laboratory opened. As it did so, the light from the corridor followed behind the outline of a figure. A figure which suddenly moved, lunging forward and slamming the fridge door shut.

It was eight fifteen p.m.

67

Knocking on Roma’s door, Duncan entered with the air of someone who has to report bad news and is trying desperately not to run away from it.

Sensing his anxiety, Roma raised her eyebrows. ‘All right, what is it?’

‘We lost Golding.’

‘You lost him?’ She was so angry she was hardly audible. ‘I thought you told me that since he came back to London we had him under surveillance.’

‘We did.’ Duncan hurried on. ‘Golding returned to his home, then went to see Carlos Martinez—’

‘Martinez?’ Roma queried.

‘Yeah, that was when we lost him. After he left. He took a cab and there was a diversion and we lost him in traffic on the Edgware Road.’ Duncan shrugged, trying to make the best of the complicated breakdown in communications. ‘It wasn’t my watch—’

‘So whose was it?’

‘Peter’s—’

‘Peter’s usually good …’

‘Yeah,’ Duncan said reluctantly, ‘but he’s getting slower. Look, it could have happened to me, Peter or Jimmy. It could have happened to anyone.’

‘Don’t bother with the excuses, just get on with it. What did Martinez say?’

‘No one’s spoken to him. No one said for us to watch Martinez—’

‘No, I said to watch Golding! And that means to watch anyone he sees!’ Maddened, Roma slammed her hands down on the desk. ‘Why d’you think he went to see Martinez when his partner’s just been abducted?’ Her eyes bored into Duncan. ‘They had a connection from the start, with that bloody skull. And I thought Golding was involved with its theft, but I was wrong—’

‘He was acting oddly—’

‘You don’t need to try to make me feel better, Duncan,’ she retorted, hurrying on. ‘Like I said, I was wrong about Golding’s motives, but I think I know what he’s up to now.’

‘You do?’

She leaned back in her seat, staring at Duncan. ‘What would you do if you were Ben Golding? I know what I’d do. I’d try to find Abigail Harrop. And get my back on my brother’s murderer at the same time.’

‘But if we don’t know who the killer is, how can Golding have found out?’

‘I don’t know,’ Roma admitted. ‘He’s played a very close game since the start. Everything he’s ever said has been half truth, half lie. He’s always kept more from us than he’s confided. We’ve been jerked around from Spain to London, New York to Spain, London to Spain, hearing bits of everything and the whole of nothing. Golding’s clever.’ She paused, holding Duncan’s gaze. ‘And he’s willing to take a risk because he’s lost a brother, a friend – and now perhaps his partner.’