Bobbie had learned that lesson a decade earlier, when her ruthless instinct made her tackle an important dealer from France. Later she bid against, and won against, Bartolomé Ortega. Their association then developed into an unlikely affair, their mutual interests and ambitions making them into a power couple. But the allegiance hadn’t lasted, Bartolomé ending the relationship when he met Celina. Within the year Bobbie was married too, but her ruthlessness had increased as she sought to make the Feldenchrist Collection ever more prestigious – some said in an attempt to show Bartolomé Ortega what he had lost.

Bobbie’s marriage hadn’t lasted, but her ambition had grown. And now she had a son she would be even more ruthless.

‘Ellen, we have to keep this little secret to ourselves, you understand?’ she said, with an edge to her voice. The African had threatened her – he could do the same to her son. And worse, he could tarnish the Feldenchrist name irrevocably.

‘I won’t tell anyone!’

‘Good … I’ve been thinking about that project Marty was interested in.’ She threw out the words like a fishing net. ‘I think I might invest, after all.’

Ellen caught the drift in a millisecond. ‘That would be marvellous. I wouldn’t know how to thank you.’

‘I just want your silence. You understand, Ellen? No gossip, no innuendoes, nothing. You can do that, can’t you?’

Ellen was all hurried agreement. ‘Oh, of course, of course—’

‘Not a word, Ellen. Not a single word.’ It was very late that night, just edging into morning, when Bobbie woke and flicked on the lamp by her bed. Half asleep, half awake, she glanced at the clock. Three thirty. Her first instinct was to go back to sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t rest and instead made her way to her study. In the apartment there was absolute silence, the nanny asleep, Joseph in his room beside hers.

Only Bobbie awake, only Bobbie pacing and thinking. Her gaze moved to the computer screen, fighting the impulse to turn it on. To trawl the internet for information, to investigate the man who had sold her a child … A moment lunged at her. Her hand moved over the keyboard. She hesitated, then turned the computer on.

Automatically Bobbie glanced behind her, but there was no one in the room, no one watching, and the blinds were drawn at the windows. No one would know she had been on the computer, that she had been looking. No one would know … Warily she typed the words into the search box, then pressed ENTER, and a whole listing of information came on to the screen. All about child trafficking.

Again Bobbie looked round, then turned back to the screen. Information came up – along with the remembered words:

Keep quiet, tell no one …

Her hands shook.

She had to know.

She had to look.

Or did she?

Flicking the OFF switch, Bobbie stumbled to her feet. Her legs unsteady, she walked down the corridor. Dear God! she thought. If anyone found out about her son, Joseph would be taken away from her. If the police discovered that she had had anything to do with the African they would take away her child.

She would have to keep quiet – and not just because she had been threatened. She would keep quiet to protect herself and her child. No one would know about the African from her. No one would know the truth of where her adopted son had come from. If anyone asked, she knew nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

35

London, Whitechapel Hospital

Tie unfastened, Ben Golding walked into the children’s ward, making for his patient’s bedside. The long, delayed flight from Madrid had caught him unawares, his eyes puffy, his breath smelling of fresh toothpaste from a quick clean-up in the doctors’ restroom. Pushing all thoughts of the farmhouse, his brother and Gina out of his mind, he smiled at his patient, a boy of six who was sitting on his bed with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Picking up the notes from the bottom of the bed, Ben read down the page and checked the blood results, finally smiling at the child and moving on to his next patient.

‘I thought you were still in Madrid.’

Ben looked up to see Megan Griffiths walking over to him, her smile sympathetic but forced. ‘Sorry to hear about your brother’s suicide.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘What?’

‘Suicide.’

‘But I heard—’

‘It wasn’t suicide,’ Ben repeated, gesturing to the patient nearest to them. His eyebrows raised, he glanced back at Megan. ‘What’s happening here?’

Clearing her throat, Megan began. ‘Sean’s stable, even put on a little weight. Do you want to operate tomorrow? You’ve got a space in the afternoon.’

He hesitated. ‘No, leave him for another couple of days.’

‘But I thought—’

‘I’m the consultant in charge.’

‘But I was standing in for you while you were away, Mr Golding.’

‘Then it’s a good thing I’m back, isn’t it?’ he replied, walking off.

Thirty-five minutes later Ben had finished his ward round, making for his consulting room with Sean’s file under his arm. Away from his patients he felt tiredness sidle up to him like an unwelcome mongrel rubbing at his calves and he paused, taking in a breath and leaning against an old wrought iron radiator. Behind him, the water pipes banged morosely to the timing of the corridor clock. His gaze moved over to the blank gold face, painted images marking out the corners of the clock’s surround: spring, summer, autumn and winter. His eyes fixed on the images, then on the clock again, on the large black hands and the ponderous swinging pendulum.

Suddenly a gowned figure passed in the loggia, nodding to Ben, unrecognisable in his surgery greens. He nodded back, trying to straighten his tie along with his thoughts. But his mind buzzed with unease – with the image of his dead brother, and Gina, and the skull. Without telling Francis, Ben had removed the skull from the hospital storage and taken it home. Agitated, he had paced the house, going from room to room, thinking of his study and dismissing it as being too obvious a hiding place. Finally he had walked into the kitchen and stood for a long moment staring at the washing machine.

He had taken his laundry out of his overnight bag and wrapped the skull in a shirt, together with the authentication papers and Francis Asturias’s report, pushing the bundle to the back of the drum. Slamming the door shut, he had then turned the dial to a full programme and heard the comforting click of the lock. Of course he hadn’t pressed the START button, but it would look more convincing if anyone broke in.

He had had no idea who – if, anyone – would break in.

All the way to the Whitechapel Hospital Ben had kept wondering if he was right about Leon. Just how well had he known his brother? Maybe Leon had committed suicide. Maybe his instability had made him hear voices in the house. Maybe, in his madness, he had taken his life, after all.

But he didn’t believe it.

Reaching the consulting rooms, Ben paused when he saw two decorators setting up ladders. One of the men setting about scraping down a door surround – apparently the area was about to be repainted. Momentarily catching his foot in a dustsheet, Ben turned to the nearest man. ‘How long will this take?’

‘Depends,’ the man replied sullenly. ‘Three days, at most.’

‘Three days?’

‘Or so.’

Ben took in a breath. ‘It’s just that my consulting room is over there and I need to use it for my patients.’

‘Didn’t you get the memo about the redecorating? It went all over the hospital yesterday.’

‘I was in Spain yesterday.’

‘Can’t blame me then if you didn’t see the memo, can you?’ the man replied sourly, then relented. ‘We knock off at five thirty. Then we’ll be out of your way till morning.’

Nodding, Ben ducked under the ladder and walked into his consulting room. The smell of paint was not overly strong, the repetitive scraping on the woodwork outside soon dropping into the mixed clutter of background noise. A stack of mail was waiting for him together with some reports, typed and ready for signing. Turning up the gas fire, Ben heard the comforting hiss enter the room and sat down, picking up the first of the reports and beginning to read. A few minutes passed, the gas hissing, the rain beating against the window and the desk lamp making a yellow island of illumination on the papers as the daylight failed.