‘It would be safer for you—’

‘Why don’t you just find the skull?’ she asked, impatient and rattled. ‘Don’t you know where it is?’ Suspicious, she stared at him. ‘You do, don’t you?’

A beat passed between them. Ben saw the hesitation and noted it. Did she think he was lying to her? And if so, why? Did she think he suspected her of something?

‘Well, do you know where the skull is?’

‘No,’ he lied.

‘But surely you could find out? You could ask around, track down Leon’s contacts. They would talk to you … Find it, Ben. Please. I’ll help you.’

Her voice dropped suddenly, as though she had lost power. Moving to the window, she closed the shutters, the house stifling and silent around them.

‘You don’t trust me, do you?’

He ignored the question and returned to something she had said earlier. ‘What did the man look like? The man who called here?’

She closed her eyes to help herself remember. ‘He was dark-skinned, maybe African, tall, about thirty-five.’

‘What was his name?’

She shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

‘Did he come by car?’

‘Yes, a cab.’

‘And he was on his own?’

‘Yeah … I showed him into the library and called for Leon.’

‘How did he react when he saw him?’

‘Fine. Said hello and offered him a seat. They seemed to get on.’

‘As though they already knew each other?’

She thought for a moment. ‘No, not like that. But the man was very charming, easy to like. In fact I could hear them laughing when I went to make some coffee. When I took it in to them the man was saying that he would contact Leon by email.’

‘Then what?’

‘A little while later Leon came to bed and fell asleep.’

‘He didn’t seem upset? Afraid?’

‘No. He fell asleep almost at once,’ she replied. ‘Is the visit important?’

‘I don’t know. But I want to see Leon’s emails.’

Surprised, Gina stared at him. ‘He never mentioned any emails from this man—’

‘You said he was being secretive.’

‘About some things!’ she snapped. ‘But not everything. Your brother always told me if he was worried. There was nothing he was scared of, nothing that spooked him. He would have told me.’

‘I still want to see the emails,’ Ben repeated. ‘Please.’

A low, dark headache beginning, he followed Gina as she moved into Leon’s study and flicked on the light. The memory was almost unbearable … Leon passing the skull to Ben that first day; Leon standing in the doorway, listening and watching, as astute and nervous as a child … Turning on the computer, Gina accessed the emails and then drew up the list of incoming messages, some with names as a heading, others completely anonymous. Unknown people from anonymous places, Ben thought uneasily. But they had all known where Leon Golding had been and where to find him.

Carefully Ben read every email. Some were in answer to Leon’s enquiries, others obvious cons.

I agree that the painter was not in his right mind. That is why the paintings are not to be trusted, or believed. However, if you send me $400 I can forward some original, and insightful, information.

‘Crazy.’

Over his shoulder, Gina was also reading the emails, her finger suddenly jabbing at the screen as an address came up: [email protected].

‘That rings a bell.’

The message read:

I could call by on Thursday. The gallery would be most interested and would give you full credit.

‘No name on it,’ Ben said. ‘Anything kosher would have a proper name.’

‘Unless they were trying to make sure no one else could contact them.’

Ben glanced over his shoulder. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in a conspiracy?’

‘I don’t know what to believe any more,’ she replied crisply, turning her gaze back to the screen. ‘What was it referring to?’

‘The skull, I suppose.’

She chewed the side of her fingernail thoughtfully, watching as Ben typed a note in reply to the email and pressed the SEND button. A moment later a reply came back stating that the message could not be received as the address no longer existed.

‘Dead end,’ he said bitterly.

‘Damn it! Do we have to wait until the authenticator of the skull gets in touch with us?’ Gina asked, her tone wary. ‘I mean, can’t we approach them?’

Inwardly, Ben flinched, thinking of the skull he had left at Francis’s laboratory in London. The skull Gina thought was still in Spain.

‘They would come back to us with the results, wouldn’t they? Or would they contact the Prado direct, now that Leon’s …?’ She stopped, fighting emotion. ‘You have to talk to them.’

‘I’ve been in touch already.’

‘Oh,’ she said listlessly. The computer screen threw a greenish cast on her face as she stared at the list of emails. ‘What did you say?’

‘That Leon didn’t commit suicide.’

‘Did you tell them that you thought he’d been murdered?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was that wise?’ she asked, turning to him, the green light playing on her profile.

‘We’re talking about the Prado, Gina. Not a bunch of gangsters.’

‘I don’t know what to think about anyone any more,’ she replied, her tone lost. ‘Did they ask you who killed Leon?’

‘No. I don’t think they believed me. After all, it was no secret that Leon had tried to commit suicide before.’

‘Was he … was he … dead when you found him?’ Gina asked, her voice breaking.

Ben closed his eyes for a moment before replying. ‘Yes, he was dead.’

‘I just wondered if he said anything … you know …’

‘He was dead when I got there,’ Ben repeated, touching the back of her hand briefly. ‘And no, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t leave a note either. No explanation. And if Leon had committed suicide, he would have left a note. He did before.’

Her head bowed, Gina dropped her voice even further.

‘Ben?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did Leon tell you about the baby?’

28

New York

‘You must keep it a secret. You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,’ Ellen Armstrong said, her voice lowered as she leaned across the table towards Bobbie Feldenchrist. ‘I would be in such trouble. But I’m telling you because you confided in me the other day and because it might be a way out of your … problem.’

Sipping a glass of Chablis, Bobbie raised her eyebrows. She was dressed in a cream Chanel suit with a brown silk blouse, her amber hair drawn back into a chignon. Immaculately distant, she observed the rotund woman in the seat next to hers. Bobbie knew only too well that Ellen needed her as a friend, just as she knew that Marty Armstrong was a brilliant man. His capacity for invention was impressive, but he had little business sense, and that was where Bobbie came in. On a number of occasions she had offered advice to Ellen, advice she knew would be passed on and acted on. Which it always was. In return, Bobbie had Ellen’s devotion. The only caring, maternal influence in her life. Because Ellen Armstrong was that rarity in New York – a kind woman who could keep her mouth shut.

‘What “problem”, Ellen?’

Her voice lowered. ‘About your adoption.’

‘It’s delayed.’

‘Oh, Bobbie,’ she said, pulling at the cuff of one of her sleeves. ‘We know that’s not true, honey. I heard it fell through.’

‘How did you hear that?’

‘Marty heard, and he told me.’

Taking another sip of Chablis, Bobbie stared across the restaurant, her face impassive. How Marty Armstrong knew so many intimate details, about so many important lives, was a mystery to everyone. But somehow he always knew the gossip, somehow he always sussed out a person’s secret or weakness. Luckily for Bobbie, the Armstrongs were on her side.

‘Ellen,’ she said quietly, ‘if you’ve something to say, say it. I hate mysteries.’

‘I know of someone who could get you a baby,’ Ellen replied. ‘Quickly. No questions asked. It would cost you, but that’s not a problem, is it? This man could be the answer to your prayers.’