Memory of Bones by Alex Connor Read Free Book Online Page A

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?’
    Ben nodded. ‘Your facial reconstruction’s important because we can see if it matches the known images of Goya.’
    ‘I could cheat, mug up on his self-portraits,’ Francis suggested archly.
    ‘You won’t do that, because if the skull is genuine, just think how much it would do for your career when we release the news,’ Ben replied. ‘Keep you here for at least another fifty years, however many Principals come and go.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘Keep it quiet.’
    ‘Don’t tell me your brother stole it?’
    ‘No, but news travels fast. I don’t want people to start asking questions, leaking it to the press. If it got out, everyone would be after the bloody thing—’
    Francis looked over, his expression dubious. ‘What the hell for?’
    ‘It’s a relic. An artistic object of worship—’
    ‘It’s a lump of bone.’
    ‘It’s a lump of
famous
bone,’ Ben corrected him. ‘Because it’s Goya’s skull it would be worth a fortune on the open market. Or the not-so-open market. There’s a big trade in art relics.’
    ‘In that case, someone should find Van Gogh’s ear.’
    ‘Actually, they said they
had
found it only a few years ago. Said it had come down the family from the prostitute Van Gogh gave it to originally.’
    ‘And they didn’t want to keep it?’ Francis replied sarcastically. ‘Mind you, Napoleon’s penis has been going the rounds for decades. Probably getting more action now than it ever did.’
    Smiling, Ben tapped Francis on the shoulder. ‘Seriously, keep it quiet. The art world can be a dangerous place. Collectors will pay people to find the skull. By whatever means.’

7
    Trying not to show her nerves, Megan Griffiths walked into the Reconstructive Department of the Whitechapel Hospital, situated above the hospital kitchens. The patients in this particular ward were children, the most serious cases sectioned off in isolation wards to allow their wounds to heal in sterile conditions. Not that these areas were only for children. It was to one of the side wards that Abigail Harrop had been taken when she first came to the Whitechapel Hospital. And it was the reputation of Ben Golding – not the surroundings – which had kept her there.
    Megan paused, listening. Outside, rain – its rhythm as persistent as a tin drum – scuffed the high windows and dripped from Victorian gutters and lintels. In private clinics around London the rich and famous paid for their treatment, their buttocks filled or noses straightened in privacy. But in the National Health sector burns were treated side by side with deformities and car accident injuries.
    Still thinking about Francis Asturias, Ben was preoccupied when he arrived on the ward and surprised to seeMegan Griffiths there. Moving into the nurses’ station he paused in front of the electric fire to warm his hands and thought of the heatwave in Spain, hardly able to reconcile the damp London chill with the smouldering dryness of Madrid.
    ‘How long has she been here?’ Ben asked the sister, jerking his head towards the window which looked out over the ward.
    ‘About half an hour. Dr Griffiths often comes to see the patients. One of your keener registrars.’
    Curious, Ben glanced back through the partition glass, watching Megan examine a patient. The child’s injured head was encased in a metal frame,