Curious, Shaw watched him, then noticed another figure move across the courtyard. But there was no hesitation in this man’s stride: he seemed confident, almost arrogant, and so handsome Shaw felt an immediate and intense dislike. Surprised, he heard him call out Leon Golding’s name, the historian turning and automatically shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched his approach.

Straining, Jimmy Shaw could just make out what he said.

‘Mr Golding, I’d like a word, if I may.’

The man spoke in English, but with a pronounced Spanish accent. Leon smiled the faint smile of the polite.

‘Can I help you?’

‘You don’t remember me?’

Leon’s recall was swift. ‘Mr Ortega … How are you? I haven’t seen you since the auction.’

Easily, they shook hands, Shaw watching and sifting through his memory. It didn’t take him long to place the Ortega name. Or the reputation. He had lost out on several occasions to their money and their tactics. Fuck it, Shaw thought, don’t let this be what I think it is. Just let them be talking, just talking … Please …

Gabino was intent, leaning towards Leon. ‘It was a good auction.’

‘You did well. Bought that …’

‘Murillo.’

Leon nodded. ‘Yes, Murillo. It was a fine picture. Good price.’ His voice changed gear. Even from where he was standing Shaw could see that Leon was keen to move off.

But Gabino had other ideas.

‘I was wondering,’ he went on, tucking his hands into his pockets. ‘Have you heard the rumour about the Goya skull being found?’

Shaw swore under his breath, then wearily turned his gaze on to Leon Golding. He had expected a response, a giveaway movement from him, but Golding wasn’t as naive as he appeared and the lie was glossy, almost rehearsed.

‘Goya’s skull?’ He laughed, but the sound wasn’t as convincing as the voice. ‘They find one every few years.’

‘I heard you had it.’

‘Me?’ Leon said, but his tone was losing substance as Gabino leaned towards him, encroaching on his personal space, pushing himself in.

‘Yes, you. Someone was talking about it yesterday. I thought it was rubbish, but then I heard about it again, and I heard that you had it.’ He smiled, veneers sunny, shiny. ‘Have you?’

Shaw was holding his breath. He knew Leon had the skull, but he wondered how the hell Ortega had found out so soon. He also wondered how Leon Golding was going to answer.

‘I had a skull …’

Neither man had anticipated the words as Leon continued.

‘… but it was a fake.’ He shrugged, almost dropping his papers as his shoulders rose and fell. ‘I was hoping – praying – it was Goya. You know my interest – as great as your brother’s. It would have been a coup for me. But it wasn’t genuine. I feel rather foolish about it, actually,’ Leon went on. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep this quiet—’

‘How d’you know?’

‘What?’

Shaw could sense Gabino’s rage and disappointment. It came off him like a hiss, a noise so faint it was barely discernible. His hands left his pockets, clasped in front of his body instead. But what should have been a praying motion came off as curiously threatening.

‘I asked how you knew the skull was a fake.’

‘I … I … had it examined.’

‘By who?’

‘Mr Ortega,’ Leon started, his nerves beginning to show, ‘what’s all this about?’

‘The skull, Mr Golding,’ Gabino said coldly. ‘It’s about the skull. Who examined it?’

‘A colleague,’ Leon replied, ‘A man I trust implicitly—’

‘He could be wrong. Where’s the skull now?’

‘Buried,’ Leon said shortly.

‘Where?’

Disconcerted, Leon blundered on. ‘I gave it to the church to deal with—’

‘The church.’

‘Of course. So they could lay it to rest in consecrated ground …’ Leon glanced around, as though anxious no one should hear what he was about to say. ‘To be honest, I feel rather awkward about the whole matter. I was very nearly taken in, fooled. I should have known better after being in the business for so long. Should be used to disappointments. The art world’s full of forgeries. But you keep hoping … I’m afraid I have to be getting on now. I have an appointment.’ Leon ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his smile wavering. ‘It was good to see you again.’

Hurriedly, he turned and walked off, his gait stiff because this time he knew he was being watched.

10

Shaking two headache pills into the palm of his left hand, Leon took a gulp of water and swallowed them. How the hell had Gabino Ortega heard about the skull? Ortega of all people. If he’d heard about it, Bartolomé would want the skull, and Gabino would want to please his brother. He was always trying to ingratiate himself, or get more money off him. And Gabino would do anything to placate his brother after that public brawl with the banker … Jesus! Leon thought, panicked. He would go to any lengths to get hold of the skull. He was disreputable – everyone knew that. Besides, how easy would it be for Gabino Ortega to steal it?

But the skull was in London, Leon told himself. It was safe. Ben had it. Besides, Gabino looked like he had swallowed the story about it being a fake. He’d seemed shaken … Leon sighed raggedly. Who was he kidding? By now Gabino would have recovered his cunning. He’d be trying to find out more, like who had examined the skull or which church had been supposedly approached for burial … Leon found himself trembling, hardly able to hold the glass of water in his hand.

It was his find! He had been given the skull. It was his discovery, his stab at greatness. The Ortegas had no right to it. They had so much, why should they steal his triumph? Bartolomé Ortega had spent fortunes on trying to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings and failed – he wasn’t the man who was supposed to succeed. It was Leon’s triumph and his alone.

His anger was childish and desperate, the glass dropping from his hand and shattering on the floor just as Gina walked in.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine, fine …’

Puzzled, she glanced at the broken glass. Over his shoulder she could see the reproductions of Goya’s Black Paintings. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m working on the book. You’ve been encouraging me for weeks.’

She slid into his lap, red hair falling over her cheek. ‘I hardly see you any more, darling. And I could help, Leon – honestly I could.’

‘I can manage,’ he said, dismissing the idea out of hand. He didn’t want anyone interfering in his work, not even Gina.

Although she had encouraged him, researched books for him, even obtained reproductions of some of Goya’s more obscure works, as the days passed Leon had found himself becoming more absorbed with the painter and less with her. Reluctant to share his ideas, he cut Gina out. He realised he was embroiled, sliding in and out of the Black Paintings, reading them as if they were written works and then testing himself against the stack of research. But he wouldn’t – couldn’t – share his passion with her. Instead he consoled himself with the thought that he would present Gina with the solution, not the mechanics. That he would impress her with his insight, knowing all along that he was being selfishly, childishly, possessive. After all, Gina wasn’t a competitor. She was his lover.

But still he cut her out. All his energy and passion went into Goya … He had become convinced that he alone could solve the meaning of the paintings. Hadn’t he spent most of his childhood living within sight of where the Quinta del Sordo had once stood? Hadn’t Detita filled his mind with Goya’s life and works? Hadn’t the painter’s shadow fallen over Leon’s existence like Goya’s own picture of The Colossus? It was fate – even Diego Martinez finding and passing the skull on to him. What chance was there of that happening, if it hadn’t been meant?

For decades Leon had been rocked in a cradle of mental instability. He had felt like a man forever destined to float on a rolling tide, unable to stand, prone to every movement and tipping of the elements. But no longer. Suddenly he was in charge of something which could change the world and make him – and his memory – indelible.