Back in London, it had been easy to track Golding and later break into his home. It hadn’t even taken long to find the skull. But what had been really interesting was the phone message Shaw had heard while he was in the house. A message from Francis Asturias about the skull – a message he had not completed.

Although the message had said nothing specific, Shaw’s instincts had been roused. He didn’t know what Francis was alluding to, only that his antennae for deception were tipping him off. So he had shifted his watch from Golding to Asturias. Had tracked the reconstructor to the Whitechapel Hospital and watched him. Shaw knew he looked sick enough to be a patient and no one would ask him why he was there. And before long Shaw discovered that Francis Asturias was a close friend of Ben Golding, and that he had reconstructed the Little Venice murder head. Which meant that he would know about the card Shaw had planted on the victim – the card which pointed to Ben Golding’s involvement.

The rest was easy to guess. Who else would Golding allow access to the skull but Francis Asturias? Who else would Golding confide in after his brother’s death? Who else would be privy to the whereabouts of Goya’s head? All roads led back to one person and one person only – Francis Asturias.

Not that Shaw had meant to kill him. He had meant to scare him off, to warn him to keep his mouth shut. Time had been getting so short, he had known he was dying, but at least he had the skull. At least he could give Dwappa what he wanted in return for his life … But when Shaw had got to the laboratory the reconstructor had been talking on the phone. And Shaw had heard his words.

… I swapped skulls. I have the Goya. Whoever robbed you got a fake.

The misery of the words had slammed into Jimmy Shaw like a demolition ball. After all his striving, after all the tracking, the travelling, the threat of his own death creeping up closer – ever closer – behind him, he had ended up with the wrong skull.

In his rage he had struck out. And in killing Asturias he had not only expunged his own fury, but had made sure there was no one living who could question the validity of the skull. Because when Shaw had stolen it, he had taken Asturias’s authentication papers too. No one would challenge its authenticity, least of all Dwappa.

Jimmy Shaw had had no choice. He had been too sick to start looking for the real skull. Time had bested him, and he knew he would be lucky to make it to Dwappa before he passed out. There was to be no more running after skulls, from London to Madrid. It was over. Jimmy Shaw had got a skull.

Only he would know that it was the wrong one.

‘So, this is it?’ Dwappa said, taking the skull and weighing it in his hands. ‘Not as heavy as I thought.’ Slowly he unwrapped the package, staring at the head.

‘I kept my word,’ Shaw said thickly. ‘Now you keep yours. Cure me.’

Ignoring him, Dwappa kept his eyes on the skull, imagining how proud his mother would be. Soon she could have the house she wanted, the clothes she wanted, the power she wanted. And get off his back. Stick to her potions and her lies, keep to her secrets – but keep away from him. And after he had done the final deal, he would have money enough to travel. He could go anywhere. No more Brixton, no more Mama Gala breathing her fetid breath down his neck.

Composed, Dwappa turned back to Jimmy Shaw. Surely he didn’t believe he could be cured? He couldn’t be that stupid! Although, Dwappa had to admit, the trick with the money had been an inspiration. Of course, he had had no real intention of giving Shaw cash in advance. It simply went into Jimmy Shaw’s bank – and was never transferred. Shaw received confirmation of the deposit, but by then Dwappa had moved the money on again. Back to his own account.

Tilting his head to one side, he stared at the sick man. ‘How many?’

‘What?’

‘How many people died to get hold of the skull?’

‘Three,’ Shaw lied.

He reasoned that the higher the body count, the more impressive it sounded, even though he had only been responsible for the deaths of Diego Martinez and Francis Asturias. Let Dwappa think he had killed Leon Golding too. No point disabusing him.

Panting, the fat man leaned against the wall, his left hand leaving a sweat mark on the paint. ‘Here are the authentication papers,’ he said, passing Dwappa the reconstructor’s notes. ‘It’s Goya’s head. Proven.’

‘You did well.’

‘Now you return the favour,’ Shaw said, swallowing with effort. ‘Get this fucking poison out of me.’

He was trying to bargain with a young, fit man who had no pity and no intention of saving him. Jimmy Shaw had served his purpose. His slow poisoning had kept him alive just long enough to find the skull. His belief in a cure had kept him going while his body grew steadily more toxic.

Shaw’s eyesight was beginning to blur and panic was only moments away.

‘You have to help me.’

He watched as Dwappa’s gaze moved to his bandaged hand.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘What the fuck d’you think?’ Shaw replied. ‘Give me something.’

‘Like what?’

‘Cure me!’

‘But I can’t do that.’

Shaw had suspected it all along. Although the medication he had been given in Spain had affected a temporary recovery, new symptoms had begun and his fingers were turning black. Blinking, he stared at Dwappa and then slid down the wall, ending up sitting on the floor. His throbbing hand lay against his bloated stomach, his fat thighs sweaty, greasy with the matter which was seeping out of his body. Across the room he could see the old woman watching, his eyes blurring as Dwappa stood over him.

‘What … what about the money?’

‘No money. No one gets one over on me …’ Dwappa replied, crouching down on his haunches and jabbing at the pus-filled wound on the back of the fat man’s hand.

Shaw winced, felt fresh blood soak the dressing, his heart thumping sluggishly, its action slow.

‘You’ll be dead in a few minutes.’

His eyelids were closing and his face muscles slackening, losing all expression. Emile Dwappa never saw Jimmy Shaw laughing at him, smirking, and thinking that it was almost worth dying to know that he had crossed the African.

All Dwappa saw was a gasping, bloated man. A fat, beaten, stupid man. A man who had been hired, used and disposed of. Emile Dwappa had never taken Jimmy Shaw seriously.

And never once suspected that he would – in the end – destroy him.

42

In the morgue, Ben was looking at his old friend’s body in the minutes before the autopsy began. The injuries were savage, the wound in Francis Asturias’s throat inflicted with force, his spinal cord severed by the plunging down of the knife blade. Shaken, Ben stared into the reconstructor’s face, knowing that he was responsible for his death. Just as he was responsible for Leon’s. The guilt was crippling.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Roma said, coming up behind him, ‘but we need to talk.’

The morgue was uninviting, the tiles glistening as though snow-covered, Francis’s body on the table, ash-white, darkening underneath where the blood had settled after death.

‘Mr Golding, can we talk in your office, please?’

Turning, he nodded, Roma following him as they made their way back to Ben’s consulting room. Gesturing for her to take a seat, he took his and stared at her. There was no animosity in the look, only a blind incredulity.

‘Do you know any reason why Francis Asturias was murdered?’

‘No.’

She changed tack abruptly, hoping to catch him out. ‘What about Diego Martinez?’

The name reverberated in Ben’s head. ‘Who?’

‘Oh, I think you know,’ Roma replied. ‘Mr Martinez’s father recognised his son from the reconstruction. He came in and told us about Diego. About how he had known your parents in Madrid. About how they had given him a loan when he was in difficulties. A loan which meant a lot to him.’