‘Come to bed,’ Gina said softly.

‘It’s too early.’

‘You’re not getting enough sleep—’

‘Stop nagging,’ Leon retorted, pulling his notes towards him. ‘I have to work this out before someone else does.’

‘The Black Paintings have been around for centuries, Leon. No one’s going to pip you to the post now.’ She stroked his narrow forehead tenderly. ‘Haven’t you got any results on the skull yet?’

He tensed. ‘Nothing yet.’

‘Who’s doing the research?’

‘Some Spanish doctor at the University,’ he replied, wondering how the lie had come so easily to him – and why he hadn’t told Gina that his brother had taken the skull back to London.

‘So, was Goya involved in witchcraft?’ she asked, nuzzling Leon’s neck.

‘Maybe. He was involved up to a point.’

‘You think that’s what the Black Paintings are all about?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why are you being so distant with me?’ she asked, her tone injured. ‘You used to love talking about your ideas.’

His enthusiasm momentarily overshadowed his reserve.

‘Look, Gina, keep this quiet but I think I might be close to solving what the Black Paintings actually mean. I think Goya was leaving a message behind, but he had to keep the meaning secret because otherwise it would have been dangerous for him.’

‘My God,’ she said breathlessly. ‘When will you know if you’re right?’

‘I don’t know. I have to keep on with it. I think there’s an order to them. Goya didn’t give the titles to the paintings – those were picked later by Yriarte, Imbert or Brugada. So, if you take away the titles, you see the pictures from a totally different angle.’ He looked away, uncertain. ‘But I’m not sure. Not yet.’

A shiver passed between them, a frisson of unease, before Gina spoke again.

‘Why don’t we have a seance?’

‘What?’

She smiled, shrugging. ‘Why not? I know someone who’s a medium.’ Leon flinched. ‘It’s OK, nothing bad will happen. I’ve known Frederick for years. He’s not weird, he’s just gifted. I believe in these kinds of things. Anyway, what harm could it do? He might even help you with your work.’

Baffled, Leon stared at her. ‘Help me?’

‘Frederick knows a lot of different kinds of people. He’s got a lot of contacts … Some are interested in satanism now. Right now.’

Transfixed, Leon listened. He was suddenly back to being a young boy, held captivated by one of Detita’s stories. Outside he could hear a summer wind blow up, and wondered for an instant if it was blowing across the old site of the Quinta del Sordo. Maybe something was still there, he thought, manic with excitement. Maybe something that could be conjured up. His breathing rate increased, his skin clammy. It was almost within his reach – the respect he had craved for so long. He would be world famous; he would translate Goya’s dying works, tell posterity what the Black Paintings really meant.

‘Darling,’ Gina whispered softly, ‘if you got the skull back we could use that in a ritual. Call Goya up.’

Leon smiled, as though it was absurd. But part of him believed it. Longed to believe it. ‘Call him up? Christ, Gina, you’re joking.’

‘What if I wasn’t?’ she replied. ‘If we could contact him, Goya might help you. Guide your work.’ She stroked the back of his head tenderly. ‘For centuries people have tried to contact the dead. Many believe they’ve succeeded. I’ve been to seances and visited mediums. When my father died I spent a lot of time trying to contact him.’

Leon’s eyes were fixed on her. ‘Did you succeed?’

She nodded again, smiling. ‘Yes.’

A soft hot wind blew in from the window, sighing around them.

‘How did you know it was your father?’

‘The medium told me things only he would have known. I was in contact with my dead father.’

Unnerved, Leon shuddered. ‘I don’t think—’

‘You have to get the skull back,’ Gina went on hurriedly. ‘This means so much to you, Leon. You have a chance to make your mark now. A chance to solve a problem no one has ever come close to. You would be the most famous art historian in the world. Think about it – why did the skull come to you? Maybe you have to use it to contact the painter. If anyone else hears about it, they’ll want the skull—’

He thought of Gabino Ortega and panicked. ‘I know, I know!’

‘They’ll try and steal it from you. They’ll put it in a museum or some collection out of sight. They might even try to use it in a ritual—’

He turned to her. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Goya was interested in the occult. Present-day believers would long to get hold of his skull, just to see if they could prove a connection.’

‘Detita said something like that once …’ His mind shifted backwards, the old woman’s voice echoing in his ears. ‘In Black Magic people use skulls to resurrect the dead, to bring the Devil from underground. Goya’s head was stolen …’ Leon turned back to Gina, his voice hushed. ‘Detita said that witches made Goya ill, that they made him deaf. They stole his hearing.’

‘D’you think it’s true?’

‘I don’t know … Goya was dangerously ill. He nearly died in the Quinta del Sordo. No one knows what the sickness was.’ Leon felt queasy, as if he had already gone too far and should back off now, while there was still time. But he knew he wasn’t going to. ‘Some said Goya lost his mind in that house.’

‘You think he was mad?’

‘No, I think he was desperate. He wanted to leave a testimony behind. But no one can prove it—’

‘You might be able to. You know about psychometry? That a medium only has to hold an object that the person owned to contact them? Well, think about it, Leon – if they had Goya’s skull how powerful would that be?’ She stroked his forehead, urging him gently. ‘Please, darling, don’t let it fall into the wrong hands.’

He was confused, his thoughts jumbling. ‘I don’t know about all of this—’

‘But I know something about the occult,’ Gina went on, soothing him. ‘Enough to fear it. Enough to know that I have to protect you. I love you, Leon – let me help you. We have to make sure that you keep the skull. That you keep it safe. It’s common knowledge that Aleister Crowley wanted to find Goya’s skull years ago. And Crowley was known as the wickedest man in England. You don’t want someone like Crowley to get hold of the skull, do you?’

She was swaying his judgement, and before he knew it Leon was hypnotised by her, her body pressed against his, her voice low, enticing. Suddenly he wanted Gina to be involved. Wanted to be close to her, safe with her.

‘Get the skull back, Leon.’

‘But—’

Leon was just about to admit that the skull was in London when the phone rang beside them. In that instant the spell was shattered and Gina climbed off his knee and walked away into the shadowy back of the house.

When he picked up the phone, the line was dead.

11

Gstaad, Switzerland

Bartolomé Ortega studied his secretary calmly, then glanced away. He resisted an impulse to bite down on his lip, to draw blood, to release a tumour of rage which was threatening to seep out of his skin as sweat, or out of his lungs as one long protracted scream. His extraordinary face, fine-boned and impassive, betrayed nothing of his anger, his hands clasped on the top of his desk, the glass reflecting the top half of his body. Like an elegant island he sat in the vast, minimal surroundings of his office, two windows on his left opened to let in some breeze, the smell of hibiscus innocently irritating.

Having been ill for the previous week Bartolomé had had little time for business. In fact he had enjoyed his sabbatical and the indulgent attention of his wife, Celina. It had even made him contemplate taking more time off in the future, just to be with her and their son, Juan.

Bartolomé knew that his grandfather would never have been as patient as he had been. Adolfo would have disposed of any barren consort within a few years. But Bartolomé loved his wife, and even though she failed to bear a child for many years, he never considered divorcing her. Instead he had made discreet enquiries through his lawyer about adoption. Previously Celina had always rejected the idea out of hand, but as she approached forty and the likelihood of becoming a mother had grown slight, she had finally become receptive to it.