‘Go on …’ he said quietly. ‘Go on.’

Diego hesitated for a moment before continuing.

‘I thought that if it was Goya’s skull, if it was, then you should have it. You know all about him, you’ve always been interested in him …’ He paused, staring at Leon, who had now lifted the skull and was staring into the open eye sockets. ‘It was meant to come to you.’

‘You’ve told no one else?’

‘No, no one,’ Diego assured him, hurrying on. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. It could just be any skull. But Goya did live there, and his head is missing …’

Curious, Diego Martinez trailed off, staring at the man in front of him. Leon had now regained his seat and had the skull in front of him, his hands cupped around it as a child would cup a bowl of hot chocolate. He seemed unnervingly close to tears.

In that instant the years fell away. They were children again, and Diego had been temporarily banished from the Golding farmhouse. Not because of anything he had done, but because Leon was seriously ill. He had had a fall, they said, a bad fall, and it would take a while for him to recover.

All that long, protracted, eerie summer, Leon stayed in the hospital in Madrid. And Diego wrote him a few badly spelled letters, but never asked how Leon had fallen. It was the summer that changed them all. The Goldings, the Martinezes, even the farmhouse. And within a year, the Golding parents were killed in a plane crash and the two brothers closed ranks against the world.

But for some reason, as he looked at Leon now, all Diego could remember was the summer of his fall …

‘Did I do the right thing, bringing it to you? I wondered—’

Leon cut him off. ‘Are you sure that no one else knows about this?’

Diego shook his head. ‘No one. I found it and I brought it here—’

‘And you had it with you last night?’

Diego faltered momentarily. ‘No, I left it where I found it.’ He could see the anxiety in Leon’s face. ‘But the house was locked up all night—’

‘You were the only man working there?’

‘No, there are two others.’

‘With keys?’

‘No one came back,’ Diego said firmly. ‘I found the skull, I covered it, and I locked up the house when I left. I was the last man there. When I went back early this morning, the skull hadn’t been touched.’ He paused, confused. ‘Why would someone take it anyway? It might not even be important—’

‘Goya’s skull, not important?’

‘But it might not be his skull.’

Frowning, Leon’s tone became curt. ‘It is his skull. It is.’ He sighed, controlling himself. ‘I’ll have it checked, dated. Authenticated. I’ll have it proved—’

‘They can do that?’

‘Yes,’ Leon said distantly. ‘They can do that.’

A silence fell between them. Diego spoke first.

‘And if it’s the right date, and it turns out to be Goya’s skull – would it be worth a lot?’

‘Priceless,’ Leon replied, reaching into the middle drawer of his desk. ‘I can pay you—’

‘No!’ Diego replied, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘You helped my father when he needed it. This is my way to repay you.’

He could see that Leon wasn’t really listening, that his attention had wandered, his interest fixed on the head in front of him. Uneasy, Diego stood up to leave. The sun had moved behind clouds and it seemed it might rain. It was as though the morning had sobered up.

Walking to the door, he turned. ‘I wish you luck with it.’

Leon looked up. ‘What?’

‘The skull. I wish you luck,’ Diego repeated kindly. ‘I hope it brings you everything you want.’

Five

London, 11.30 p.m.

Glancing at his watch, Jimmy Shaw hesitated outside the hotel on Park Lane. As each car pulled up at the entrance he watched, checking the passengers as they alighted, disappointed when he didn’t recognise anyone. Perhaps his invitation had been ignored? Perhaps the teasing missive had failed to ignite the expected interest? But then again, the others he’d contacted had been excited, almost maddened with lust.

Shaw smirked to himself. He had a theory that art dealers and connoisseurs thought about art more than sex. Instead of chasing a woman, they chased a painting or a relic. Instead of bedding some whore, they bought an object they could hog, gloat over, knowing that others wanted it. But they possessed it.

As for Goya’s skull, Shaw thought, amused, what a fuss for an old fucking bone.

Disgruntled, Shaw stayed for another thirty minutes, checking his texts and his watch repeatedly and wondering why the dealer hadn’t arrived for their meeting. Perhaps he hadn’t said enough to tempt him? But then again, why would he advertise finding Goya’s skull? He hadn’t told anyone to whom the object had belonged, just that it was an infamous relic. And that had been enough to get the foreplay started.

Of course, it was still in Madrid, but that wasn’t going to be a problem. All Shaw had to do was to ensure his fee and then go and pick up the prize … He had a sudden memory of the note left on his car. Had his rival got to the dealer first …? The thought made Shaw queasy as he turned his steps away from the hotel and towards the narrow warren of streets. Cutting behind the back of the building, he passed the opened doors of the kitchens, their swamp of vapour clouding the alleyway, his steps disembodied in the mist.

An uneasy feeling made Shaw stop. His own footsteps seemed to have an echo … Straining to see into the fog, he stared ahead. Nothing. Then suddenly a shape came into view. The shape of a man. But instead of approaching further, the figure stopped walking and paused, watching. For an instant they faced each other, then a porter came out of the kitchen pushing a trolley, its wheels clattering on the street and startling Shaw.

When he looked back, the figure had gone. Uneasy, Shaw hurried away, turning at the corner into another alleyway. He was getting too old for this, he thought grimly. Too old, too fat and too slow. His heartbeat sped up, his palms sweaty as he moved on. But although he could hear no footsteps, and the path was empty ahead, he knew without looking that someone was following him. Someone who had the advantage of knowing who Shaw was while they remained a stranger.

And then Jimmy Shaw realised why he was being watched. Not because of his meeting with the dealer, who, he suspected, had been scared off, but because if they followed him they would be led to the skull of Goya. And after that, Shaw was redundant. Dead men never fought back.

The hairs rising on the back on his neck, he paused. He could hear nothing unusual, see nothing strange. Just his own future, as dark and unavoidable as a tomb.

*

As he walked into his mother’s shop, Dwappa looked round. ‘Where’s Hiller?’

‘He left.’

‘I wanted him to help me empty the car,’ Dwappa went on, frowning as he looked at his mother. ‘Left? When did he leave?’

She straightened up, gross in a print dress.

‘Yesterday.’ Her eyes fixed on her son. ‘You’ve been out late. Business?’

‘Yeah, business.’

‘Business to get me that big house?’

He nodded wearily. ‘Yeah. Is he coming back?’

‘Who?’

‘Hiller.’

‘Nah. He’s gone.’

‘Why?’

She moved around her son, fingering the lapel of his jacket. ‘Nice cloth. I could do with some new clothes. Something good quality. I’d say I’d earned that, wouldn’t you?’

Suddenly he was afraid of her. Her mood was shifting, she was baiting him, working herself up to a fight. Someone had displeased her, some debt had not been paid on time, and now here she was, past midnight, barefoot, poised.

‘What’s in the car?’

His voice came out thin. ‘What?

‘The car. You said you wanted the car emptying. What’s in the car?’

‘Booze,’ he said, clearing his thoughts. ‘I’m selling on some booze.’ His gaze moved around the shop, then back to his mother. ‘Hiller never said he was leaving.’


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