But who needed respectability when they had a fortune? And Jimmy Shaw could see a huge fortune waiting for him. Goya’s skull had been found – let the bear-baiting begin. Of course he realised that competition for the relic would be intense. Everyone would want to own the skull. Collectors, dealers, museums – all of them grubbing around in the artistic mire to pluck an opal out of the shit.

The power and fame of Francisco Goya had never waned. His paintings were reproduced endlessly, his pictures and etchings revered, the notorious Black Paintings as frightening and compelling as they had always been. Oh yes, Shaw thought, he would make a fortune out of Goya’s skull. A fortune Emile Dwappa wasn’t going to snatch out of his hands.

‘It might be a rumour.’

‘What?’

Shaw coughed. ‘The finding of the Goya skull – it might just be a rumour. People have claimed that it was found before. But they were always fakes—’

‘I want it.’

I bet you do. You want it to sell it on – and then what do I get? A handler’s fee? Fuck off, Shaw thought to himself. The skull was his prize.

He could remember several years earlier when a supposed strand of Leonardo da Vinci’s hair had come on to the black market. Within hours Shaw had contacted collectors overseas, whipping up a frantic auction. In the end the relic was purchased by an Italian connoisseur in Milan. Hair, fingers or other bones from such legendary figures rarely came on the market, which was why they were so sought after. But a whole skull – Francisco Goya’s skull – would set a record.

Curious, Dwappa leaned forward in his seat. ‘I’ll pay you for bringing it to me.’

‘I don’t know if I can—’

‘You said it was in Spain.’

Fuck! Shaw thought. Why had he said that? He was nervous, that was why, but he couldn’t afford to be. Dwappa had a reputation, but so did he. A reputation for cunning. Perhaps he could outsmart the African.

‘I’ll ask around for you.’

‘What do you weigh?’

Shaw blinked, wrong-footed. ‘Huh?’

‘What do you weigh?’

‘Three hundred and forty pounds.’

‘Heavy …’

Shaw shifted around awkwardly on the hard chair. OK, so I’m a fat, ugly bastard, he thought – but I’m the one who’ll end up with the skull.

‘You have to get the skull for me. I have a buyer.’

Only one? Shaw thought, unimpressed. His confidence was beginning, slowly, to return. He knew that Emile Dwappa had never dealt in art before; he was naive. Perhaps a lot easier to cheat than he had first suspected.

‘As I say, I’ll ask around. But it might be difficult.’

‘I’ll pay you well,’ Dwappa replied.

Shaw allowed a glint of smugness to enter his tone. ‘I’ve already got plenty of money.’

‘I heard that.’

‘And I don’t need any more work.’

‘I heard that too.’

Smiling, Shaw turned his puffy face to the woman, then glanced back at Dwappa, who was watching him avidly. He could recognise something in the amber eyes: a cold heat and a total lack of empathy. Be careful, Shaw told himself. Be careful and you can still come out of this the winner.

‘Mr Dwappa,’ he went on pleasantly, ‘all I know is that the skull’s been found in Spain. That’s all the information I have.’

‘Who has it?’

Shaw shrugged. ‘I don’t know …’

He was lying. The man now in possession of Goya’s skull was an art historian called Leon Golding. An aesthetic intellectual who had lived and worked in Madrid all his life.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.’

Dwappa’s expression was unreadable. ‘You have to get that skull.’

‘Look, even if I could, it would take time. It’s not as easy as it sounds—’

‘You’ve stolen before—’

‘But not the skull of Goya!’ Shaw whined, wriggling on his seat. ‘Even if I could find it – which I doubt – I couldn’t do it in a couple of days.’

‘I’ll give you time.’

Wrong-footed, Shaw took a moment to reply. ‘Like I said, I don’t know anything—’

In one fluid movement the African lurched forward and struck. Shaw felt the blow and reeled back, then screamed with pain – Dwappa had driven a knife through the back of his hand, pinning it to the table underneath.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Shaw gabbled, blood spurting out from the pale, fatty flesh. ‘Jesus Christ …’

‘Get the Goya skull,’ Dwappa said, leaning forward and twisting the knife around in the wound, ripping up the flesh.

Screaming again, Shaw felt tears come into his eyes, his fingernails scratching at the table top in desperation as Dwappa’s hand moved towards the knife again. ‘No!’ he shrieked. ‘I’ll get the skull. I’ll get it!’

Leaning back in his seat, Dwappa watched the fat man’s face, greasy with fear. Sweat was soaking into his expensive suit, his flabby legs shaking.

‘You said the skull was in Spain?’

The fat man nodded. ‘Yes! Yes! In Spain.’

‘You know who has it?’

Despite his terror, Shaw’s guile was automatic. ‘I’m not sure. I think so … Anyway, I can find out.’

‘Good. Get the skull. For your own sake.’

Shaking uncontrollably, Shaw flinched when he saw the African raise his hand again. But he was only beckoning to someone across the room and a moment later the old woman walked over to him. Without saying a word, she handed Dwappa a paper with a ground-up substance on it. Behind him Shaw could hear the little girl laughing softly … Quickly, Dwappa pulled out the knife, then poured the soothing white powder over the wound in Shaw’s hand. His head slumped forward, the powder clotting and turning red as it mingled with his blood.

‘You can go now.’

The words took a while to register in Shaw’s brain, and then he stood up, swaying on his feet for an instant before he headed for the stairs. Holding his bloodied hand to his chest, he paused, but didn’t dare look back. The room undulated with heat and the oppressive odour of herbs and sweat. From the couch came the sound of the woman moaning and from below echoed the scrabbling of the monkeys’ claws.

As Shaw staggered downstairs, a sudden, hot burst of wind blew in from the back yard, making the macaw screech and claw at the cage bars and the snakes rise up and hiss. It shook the meat carcasses so violently that they lurched and jerked, swinging on their butchers’ hooks like a row of skinned men.

3

Madrid, Spain

The two Golding brothers stood beside the grave in a dry cemetery outside Madrid. The heat was building, the sun unhindered by clouds, the brass plaque on the coffin glistening like a lizard’s eye.

‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ Leon said, his voice so low Ben had to strain to catch it.

They were attending the funeral of the woman who had raised them. Head bowed, Ben could feel the sun burning the skin on the back of his neck and longed for the cool drizzle of London. He could sense Leon’s excitement as his brother stood beside him, the nervous scuffling of his feet, the intermittent hoarse coughs. Was he taking his medication? Ben wondered, stealing a glance at Leon, who was gazing, unblinking, into the grave. He wondered momentarily how his brother would cope with the loss of Detita – if the old woman’s death would herald another breakdown. But apparently Leon had something else on his mind, something so important that it overshadowed the funeral of a woman he had loved since childhood.

‘We have to talk—’ Leon said urgently.

‘We will. Later,’ Ben replied, looking down at the grave.

Irritated, Leon studied his brother. Tall and olive-skinned, any other man would have taken advantage of his appeal, but Ben had no vanity. He wasn’t a player either. In fact, for the last six years Ben had lived with Abigail Harrop, disappointing many nurses – and a couple of female doctors – at the Whitechapel Hospital in London, where he worked as a reconstructive plastic surgeon.