Despite herself, Megan smiled.

‘I could experiment with you, Dr Griffiths. See how far a few well-chosen words on your reference could go to wreck your career.’

‘Just because I disagreed with you?’ She was down, but not out. ‘I don’t care what you say, you can’t make these children normal. Not some of the cases you take on. They’ll always be freaks—’

‘Yes, there will always be freaks,’ he agreed. ‘But as time goes on you come to realise that not all of them are in hospitals.’

8

Madrid

Having completed the equivalent of three miles on a running machine, Gabino Ortega stepped off and wrapped a towel around his neck. He found the sensation comforting, his tingling leg muscles a smug reminder of his triumphant challenge to middle age. After all, the men in his family were recognised as being the most handsome in Madrid – and he was never going to be a disappointment. Showering, Gabino admired his toned stomach and impressive penis, and thought that although he might be the shortest of the Ortega males, he was the best hung.

His family was an old one, tracing their ancestry back centuries; a family with wealth and business acumen, together with a certain reputation for ruthlessness. But for all their cultured learning and devotion to the arts, the Ortega family had never managed to shake off a veneer of clammy rumour which had come to a head with the infamous Adolfo Ortega. Physically massive, prodigiously gifted in the world of finance and investments, it had been Adolfo who had cemented the family fortune by marrying the listless Fidelia. Knowing at the time of her wedding that the marriage was a union of business, not love, Fidelia had still accepted the deal. In return she was rewarded with a negligent husband – and two stillborn sons.

Becoming anxious that the Ortega line might die out, Adolfo had then acted with his typical ruthless and divorced Fidelia. Within eighteen months his second wife had given him an heir, but the rejected Fidelia was not so easily dismissed. Unbalanced by her abandonment, and jealous of the newborn, she hounded her ex-husband and threatened his new wife. At first merely irritated, Adolfo finally threatened Fidelia – something she made known to her friends. But no one took her seriously, and besides, Fidelia had lost her power. Desperate, she took to self-harming – that mental abyss that sucks the vulnerable in. No longer part of the Ortega family, she had become little more than an embarrassing outcast.

But the final outcome shook Spanish society. After Fidelia had been missing for several days, her body was found in the backstreets of Madrid. Rumours circulated like blowflies. Had Adolfo killed her? Or had he organised her murder? He had the money and power; he could easily have arranged it and got away with it … which he did. The Spanish police couldn’t – or didn’t dare – investigate the killing too deeply and the official conclusion was that the unbalanced Fidelia had wandered off from her home, been robbed and killed. After all, she had been wearing expensive jewellery at the time, Adolfo told the police, and nothing had been found on her.

From then on, the Ortegas were treated with fear as well as respect. Respected for their money but feared for their power which had always been suspect. With the death of Fidelia, Adolfo lavished his wife and his new heir, Dino, with affection and money. As a result, the boy became spoilt, truculent and prone to angry outbursts, by the time he reached his teens he was a drug addict, hell-bent on destroying the family name and fortune. An early marriage produced no change in Dino’s character, but did provide two sons. By now old but no less ruthless, Adolfo disinherited his dissolute son and changed his will, so that the whole Ortega inheritance would eventually pass on to the elder grandson, Bartolomé.

The suicide of the rejected Dino proved it to be the wisest decision Adolfo had ever made.

Having dried himself off, Gabino dressed, finally combing his hair and thinking of his brother. It was tedious, but he would have to visit Bartolomé at his home in Switzerland that weekend to smooth over an unsettling matter with a banker who had reported Gabino to the police for assault. For once the Ortega money hadn’t been enough, and the man had refused to be placated, instead reporting the whole sleazy episode to the press. Although he could hardly have remained ignorant, Bartolomé hadn’t said anything to his brother. None of the usual frigid arguments, no admonishing telephone calls. No remonstrations. Just silence – which was why Gabino was worried.

He had no intention of letting his brother get the upper hand and was keen to protect his lifestyle. Bartolomé might have chosen the life of an ascetic, but Gabino liked the social life of Madrid. It amused him to see the frisson of recognition when he was introduced to a woman, that sliver of interest always tempered by the Ortega reputation; the whispering of business hard-dealing and the ever shimmering ghost of Fidelia, making her presence felt more in death than she ever did in life. Gabino frowned. But had he gone too far this time? Pushed his brother’s patience too much? It was hard to read Bartolomé, harder still to see the workings of his mind behind the flawless face.

Although handsome, Gabino had none of his brother’s elegance: instead he was lustful, greedy and daring. Bartolomé had managed to escape the worst of the calumny, but Gabino had actively courted controversy. So far his charm had prevented a freefall, the actions of his grandfather an ever-present reminder that he could be ousted like his father had been. So for years Gabino had danced on the edges. Always an inch away from disgrace, he had somehow managed to keep his seat at the Ortega table. Many suspected his actions, but only a few dared to call Gabino an outright thief.

But someone had called him a thug. And the papers were busy drubbing the Ortega name again, a fact that would be more than a little unwelcome to his brother’s ears … Aware that he had made himself vulnerable, Gabino thought of what he had heard that morning and smiled to himself. Luck had played him a trump card in the shape of a rumour which was circulating in Madrid. A rumour that – he was hoping – had not yet reached Switzerland. Apparently the skull of Francisco Goya had been found. The skull of the greatest Spanish painter who had ever lived. The skull Bartolomé would covet above anything … But even with all his contacts and money, Bartolomé wasn’t in Madrid. Wasn’t on the spot, ready to grab the opportunity. In fact, Gabino mused, there was a risk that someone else might get the skull before Bartolomé had a chance to.

Unless someone got it for him.

Relishing his newly birthed plan, Gabino decided that he would get the skull. He would win over Bartolomé with a present which would outdo all other gifts. The skull of Goya. The relic with which Gabino would win back his brother’s affection – and ensure his future at the same time.

9

The Prado, Madrid

Sweating in his suit, Jimmy Shaw felt his tongue dry in his mouth. Saliva wouldn’t come, his lips cracking at the corners, a little blood running on to his chin. He looked – without needing the confirmation of a mirror – repugnant. The kind of man no one would want to talk to, or be seen with, let alone some respectable art historian like Leon Golding. Leaning back against the stone wall, Shaw glanced at his hand, sniffing it and wincing at the unmistakable stench of decay. Perhaps he should ring Golding instead, make his case over the phone …

A sudden movement made Shaw glance across the courtyard – Leon Golding was walking through the entrance gates towards the Prado side door. Erect but ill at ease, his long shadow seemed more substantial than himself. Dressed with no little elegance, Golding should have been an imposing figure, but his movements were cautious, almost like a man who had had a drink and was fighting its first effects.