‘And?’

‘Jimmy Shaw might have the skull now.’

Thoughtful, Gabino took a long breath. ‘Find out who Jimmy Shaw’s working for.’

The old man nodded, but didn’t get up to leave. Instead he kept talking. ‘It seems to me that you’ve got a real problem. You’ve only got a short time to find that skull for your brother.’ Lopez had already worked out the connection between the court case and Gabino’s allowance. ‘The skull could be with Jimmy Shaw or Ben Golding.’

‘Start with Shaw.’

‘I would – but I can’t find him,’ Lopez replied, leaning forward in his seat. ‘I found out where he’d been staying, but no one’s seen him for twenty-four hours, since Leon Golding was killed. He’s gone missing.’

‘So the builder who gave the skull to Leon Golding is missing, Leon Golding is dead, and now this Jimmy Shaw has disappeared.’ Gabino took in a slow breath, trying to fight his impatience. ‘Talk to Ben Golding. Make him an offer.’

‘He might want to keep the skull, out of respect for his brother.’

‘It was Goya’s fucking skull, not Leon’s!’

‘Still,’ Lopez persisted, ‘Golding might want to keep it. Might want the kudos for himself. Goya’s head would be very welcome in London – build up their tourist trade nicely.’

Gabino’s face was tight. ‘Ben Golding’s a doctor. What would Goya’s skull mean to him?’

‘More than you might think. The Golding brothers grew up close to where the Quinta del Sordo used to stand. Leon was an art historian. They probably know as much about Goya as any Spaniard. Ben Golding might believe that he has a right to the skull.’

‘Then disabuse him of the notion,’ Gabino said sharply. ‘And do it soon.’

32

Switzerland

All morning Bartolomé had waited for a phone call from his brother. He had expected Gabino to apologise, to try to explain as he usually did. Try to shrug off the charge of assault as something unimportant, a light-hearted misunderstanding that would be sure to be thrown out of court. Bartolomé knew otherwise. Gabino wasn’t walking away from having smashed a glass into a banker’s face. No one walked away from that. Not even one of the richest families in Spain could smother that.

The victim’s photographs had underlined the casual violence. His check had been slashed to the bone, his trigeminal nerve severed, leaving his face with a slack, left-sided droop. Bartolomé knew that a jury would look at that face and Gabino would be damned … But why should he care any longer? Bartolomé thought. He had made too many allowances for a brother who was corrupt. Had tried to ameliorate too many unpleasant and sordid situations.

Strangely it wasn’t the assault which had finally turned Bartolomé against his brother. It was the fact that Gabino hadn’t told him about the Goya skull.

‘Are you working?’ Celina asked, walking over to her husband’s chair.

‘No … not really.’

‘But you were thinking,’ she prompted him. ‘About what?’

‘Gabino.’

Sighing, she leaned against the desk and looked at Bartolomé intently. ‘The case?’

‘No … something else,’ Bartolomé admitted. ‘Something I haven’t told you about.’ She was surprised, but said nothing, just let him continue. ‘The skull of Goya has been found …’

Her hand covered her mouth automatically, smothering her response.

‘And Gabino heard about it.’

‘… and he’s got it for you?’

Smiling bitterly, Bartolomé shook his head. ‘No, he never even told me about it.’

Her expression hardened. ‘How long has he known?’

‘A week. I kept expecting a call from him. I even thought he might visit, surprise me with the news. They found the skull in Madrid. Gabino must have heard about it.’

Celina sighed, finding herself in the position she had occupied, on and off, for many years – between the two Ortega brothers; between two totally dissimilar men who had only a fortune in common.

‘But Gabino had no reason not to tell you—’

‘Malice,’ Bartolomé said flatly. ‘He knew how much it would mean to me and so he didn’t want me to have it.’

‘No,’ Celina said, shaking her head. ‘No, I don’t believe it. Talk to him. Ask him about it.’

‘Never.’

Turning away, Bartolomé stared at the blank wall facing him. Nothing would induce him to talk to his brother about the Goya skull. Nothing. Gabino had been too secretive this time, too clever by half. And he would return his brother’s cunning in full measure.

‘I’m disinheriting him.’

‘What!’

‘I’m cutting him off from the family,’ Bartolomé replied, his tone fixed. ‘He’s done nothing for years except spend money and disgrace the Ortega name. I’ve talked to him about it over and over again, but he never listens. He runs with the wrong crowd, the wrong women; he plays at working, wastes money on the useless projects of his cronies and invests in the schemes of men eager – and clever enough – to dupe him.’ Straightening his tie, Bartolomé put up his hands to prevent his wife’s protestations. ‘I’ve tried for years to love him. Even like him. But when I look at Gabino I see only a liar and a fool—’

‘Bartolomé, he’s not like you. He’s reckless, but he has good qualities.’

‘He has no goodness in him. While I’ve spent years behind that desk working, he’s been undermining me. Hard work is a joke to him, my pride in the family name regarded as comical. He pities me!’ Bartolomé said fiercely. ‘You think I don’t know it? You think I don’t look into Gabino’s eyes and see it? He wants to fuck and spend money, but nothing else. Nothing else is sacred to him.’

Her voice was soothing.

‘Darling, think about what you’re saying. Gabino is your brother—’

‘I have a son. I have Juan.’

‘We have a son,’ she corrected him, walking over to her husband and touching his shoulder.

Feeling the muscle tense under her fingers, Celina moved away. When Bartolomé was in one of his rare tempers, nothing could comfort him. Of course she realised the real reason for her husband’s decision. It wasn’t just that Gabino had been mean-minded, petty-spirited, withholding from his brother – who had given him so much, so willingly – something he would have treasured. It wasn’t the deception that hurt, it was the contempt. Despite decades of being indulged, Gabino was indifferent to his brother’s one passion.

‘Think about it—’

‘I have thought about it.’

‘He’s your brother,’ Celina said again, coolly controlled. ‘A member of the Ortega family.’

‘But is he a worthy one?’ Bartolomé asked. ‘Our name’s been corrupted in the past. I’ve spent my life trying to undo the damage my ancestors – especially my grandfather – inflicted on it.’

‘And what price a name?’ she asked, standing up to him. ‘You put a name above a brother?’

‘This brother, yes.’

‘But not another brother?’ she queried. ‘What kind of brother would you approve of? Someone hard-working, loyal? Trustworthy? Dull? What brother would suit you and the Ortega name?’

‘I hate him!’ Bartolomé spat out. ‘God forgive me, but I do. I hate his face, his mannerisms, his lies. And now he’s gone too far—’

‘Gabino’s no different to how he always was.’

‘And you always make excuses for him!’

‘Yes, I do,’ Celina replied, her tone icy. ‘Because I try and make you see that this is more than just an argument between the two of you. You are more than siblings – you are part of a family, a business, a heritage. Your arguments can’t be petty – your lives are on a grander scale.’ Composed, she leaned against the desk again and folded her arms. ‘You’re right, we have a son. And because of Juan – because he will carry on the Ortega name – we can afford to be more lenient with Gabino.’

‘My grandfather would have cut my brother off—’

‘Your grandfather was a killer,’ she replied, without a flicker of emotion. ‘You know it, Madrid knows it, I know it. Where do you think Gabino’s aggression comes from? It’s in his blood. It’s in yours too, Bartolomé. It’s only your responses which differ. You control it, he does not. You fight it, he surrenders to it. You are afraid of it, Gabino revels in it.’