Ben considered before answering. ‘Now you mention it, I do remember Mr Martinez—’

‘What about his son? Remember him now? He knew you and your brother.’ She checked her notes. ‘When his father moved to London to marry an Englishwoman, Diego stayed on in Madrid to run the business. He did work for your brother recently. And his father said that he did Leon a favour.’

Ben said nothing, couldn’t control his thoughts. Leon dead, Francis dead, and now the police had found out about Diego Martinez. How long before they knew about the skull? Or did they already know? He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his forehead, hearing Francis’s voice on the phone and the last words he had said to him.

It’s a fake.

And then he thought of the message on his answer-phone.

Don’t talk to the police … I’m watching you.

Confused, he looked at Roma Jaffe. He wasn’t supposed to talk to the police. He had been warned …

‘Do you know what the favour was?’

‘What?’

‘I know this is very difficult for you, Mr Golding,’ she said sympathetically, ‘but I have to ask these questions. They could be important. Do you know what favour Diego Martinez did for your brother?’

‘No.’

She sighed, leaning forward. ‘He gave him a skull …’

Mute, Ben stared at her.

‘It’s Goya’s skull. Apparently worth a fortune. Mr Martinez knew your brother would want it.’ She hurried on. ‘He found it and gave it to Leon, and now both of them are dead. Murdered.’ She went on. ‘Mr Martinez’s father said that Diego had been threatened. Was your brother threatened?’

Again he said nothing.

‘I can help you—’

‘Help me?’ Ben replied curtly. ‘How can you help me? Leon’s dead, Francis is dead, this Diego Martinez is dead—’

‘Because of something they all had in common. Leon was given the skull in Madrid. Did he ask you to have it authenticated?’

Silence.

‘What about Francis Asturias? He was a reconstructor – he did the Martinez skull for us. Did he reconstruct the Goya head for you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly. ‘He was a friend of yours, the person you would be likely to go to first. Especially if you wanted to keep it quiet.’ Sighing, she leaned back. ‘If these three men were killed because of that skull, you’re involved. Which means that you might be in danger too … Where’s the skull now?’

Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

‘You must do! Leon was your brother. You were very close. He would have come to you—’

‘He had his own life!’

‘He relied on you. I’ve been told that. You were his elder brother, you were successful and stable.’

Flinching, Ben turned on her. ‘Meaning that he wasn’t?’

‘He committed suicide, Mr Golding.’ She paused. ‘But then again, you don’t believe that, do you? You’ve told everyone that you think Leon was murdered. So why deny it now?’

‘Did I deny it?’

Impatient, Roma changed tack. ‘Your card was found on Diego Martinez’s body. You were the last person to talk to your brother before his death. And oddly – going from his mobile phone records – you were talking to Francis Asturias around the time of his murder. You have to talk to me, Mr Golding, because this is beginning to look very suspicious.’

Incredulous, he stared at her.

‘You think I had something to do with Leon’s death? You think I killed these men?’

‘No,’ she replied, tempering her tone, ‘but it looks very odd that you won’t talk to me. Just answer my questions, please.’

His gaze moved away from her towards the door as she continued.

‘I’ve heard some things about your brother’s girlfriend, Gina Austin.’

He looked back at her. ‘What things?’

‘Did you know she was involved with Gabino Ortega? And that he dumped her?’

‘No,’ Ben said honestly, remembering how Gina had lied to him, pretending that she had only known the Ortegas by reputation.

‘How did Gina Austin get on with your brother?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’

‘We’ve tried. She’s not at the farmhouse any longer,’ Roma replied. ‘Do you know where she is now?’

He had the impression that he was drowning, pulled under dirty water and a slow choking of mud.

‘No.’

‘You’re not being very helpful—’

‘Well, neither are you!’ Ben hurled back. ‘You come here asking me questions. Why aren’t you trying to find out who killed Leon? And Diego Martinez? And Francis Asturias? Find out, because I’d like to know. Francis was a nice guy, eccentric, funny. I liked him. Perhaps I was even fond of him. All the time I’ve been at the Whitechapel I’ve known him. And he would do anything for anyone. And now someone’s stuck a knife in him and you – you– have the nerve to suggest that I did it!’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m not answering any more of your questions. If you want to talk to me again, we’ll talk in front of my lawyer.’

Surprised, Roma stood up. ‘There’s a connection between these deaths and I’ll find it.’

‘Good. Well, let me know when you do.’

43

New York

He was the last person she wanted to see. But when the intercom buzzer sounded from below, Bobbie allowed Emile Dwappa to come up. She had made sure that her son and the nanny were out of the apartment and had dressed herself as though she was going to a business meeting. Which, in a way, she was. The African had to be made to realise that his usefulness to her was over. He had brought Joseph into her life and for that, she had paid him amply. There was nothing more she wanted from him. If he was difficult, she would have to put pressure on him.

Turning to the mirror in the entrance hall, Bobbie studied her reflection as though examining a painting. The Issy Miyake suit was flattering but dark. As for her make-up, there was nothing soft about it – nothing welcoming. Only she would know that behind the image she was moist with anxiety. She didn’t know the full extent of the African’s dealings – she didn’t want to. She just wanted to make sure that when he left her apartment he would never return.

Expressionless, Bobbie watched the elevator come to a halt at the penthouse, saw the doors open and the African walk out with a small briefcase. He did not seem surprised to find her waiting for him. Instead he moved past her into the drawing room and sat down.

Infuriated by his familiarity, Bobbie’s tone was curt.

‘I thought our business was concluded. In fact, that was why I agreed to see you today, to impress upon you that there is no reason for us to meet again.’

He glanced round, unconcerned, Bobbie nonplussed.

‘Mr …’ She paused, realising that she had never known the man’s name and now certainly did not wish to learn it. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

His narrow face was as impassive as hers. Only he realised that she was affecting her stance, whereas he was fully in control.

‘What would you say would be the most important find in art?’

Her eyebrows rose, irritation barely concealed. ‘I don’t think—’

‘How’s your son?’

Again, she was taken unawares. ‘Joseph’s very well.’

‘Can I see him?’

A moment of unease threatened to capsize her.

‘He’s out with his nanny.’

‘He has a nanny?’ The African’s pale eyes seemed amused. ‘I bet you got him the best nanny in the world.Who are the best nannies?’ he asked, then pretended to think. ‘Oh, yes, Norland nannies. English.’ He could see Bobbie flinch and carried on. ‘Do you really think I don’t know everything about your child?’

She swallowed, but kept her voice steady. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘You didn’t answer me.’

‘About what?’

‘About what would be the most important find in art.’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied shortly, ‘That would depend on what people were looking for. One person might want a piece of sculpture, another a Rembrandt.’