‘What if the piece wasn’t art, but something personal to the painter?’

Despite herself, Bobbie’s attention was caught. ‘What kind of personal thing?’

‘Like Leonardo’s hand.’

She laughed, surprising herself. ‘If you think someone has the hand of Leonardo you’ve been duped. People often try and pass off fakes as artistic relics.’

‘But what if this was proven to be authentic?’

For an instant she forgot her fear and felt only the thrill of the collector scenting a find. ‘You have proof?’

‘Yes. From a leading art historian and a top forensic reconstructor.’

She laughed nervously. ‘Indeed.’

‘I’ve become aware that many private collectors would be desperate to own this object. Bartolomé Ortega for one—’

‘Bartolomé Ortega?’ Bobbie repeated, startled by the name coming from such a source. ‘He’s involved?’

‘He wants to be.’

Her voice steadied. ‘What is the object?’

‘It’s very rare. Very rare indeed.’

‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’

‘A skull.’

Her eyes flickered. ‘Whose?’

‘Goya’s.’

To his surprise, she laughed. ‘Oh, not again! Poor Goya. To my reckoning his skull has been “found” three times. Each time it was a hoax.’

‘The Prado don’t think it’s a hoax.’

She stopped laughing. ‘They have it?’

‘No.’

‘But they’ve seen it?’

‘They know all about it. They allowed one of their leading historians to have it examined.’

Sitting down, Bobbie could feel her legs shake. So one of the great mysteries of art history had finally been solved. The missing head of Francisco Goya had been found after being stolen nearly two hundred years earlier. The head of the greatest Spanish master who had ever lived … She could imagine what her father’s reaction would have been – astonishment, followed by an overwhelming desire to own it. But how could an individual, even a Feldenchrist, add such a treasure to their private collection?

But then again, what was the African doing in her apartment unless he was coming to sell? Jesus! Bobbie thought, her heart drumming. Did he have it?

‘Why did the Prado allow this historian free rein?’

‘Because he found it. Or rather, it was found and passed to him.’

She leaned forward slightly in her seat. ‘Who is he?’

‘Who was he,’ the African corrected her. ‘Leon Golding. He committed suicide only the other week and the skull left his hands.’

Bobbie had heard of Leon Golding, but she hadn’t known about his death. And she didn’t want to know because knowing might be dangerous for her. She was tempted to ask the African to leave, but instead her gaze moved to the small briefcase beside his feet, her breath quickening.

‘I hadn’t heard about Mr Golding’s death. He was a gifted historian.’ Her gaze fixed on the case, hardly daring to believe what she was thinking. ‘Was the skull found with Mr Golding?’

‘No, there was no sign of it in the hotel room.’

‘Was it at his house?’

‘No.’

‘So what happened to it?’

‘Apparently it was stolen.’

‘Stolen?’ she echoed, her eyes flicking from his face back to the bag at his feet. ‘Do the Prado know?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And Bartolomé Ortega?’

‘He knows it’s missing.’

‘But he hasn’t found it?’

‘No.’

‘He has a lot of contacts and money. I would have thought Mr Ortega would have been able to get hold of the skull—’

‘His contacts must have failed him.’

‘But he would want it badly.’

‘He must have had the wrong contacts.’

‘Do I have the right one?’ she asked, staring at the dark leather of the case and imagining what was inside.

The skull of Francisco Goya – and she, Bobbie Feldenchrist, would own it. It wasn’t difficult to picture her coup, or the animosity which would follow from the likes of Bartolomé Ortega and the Prado. That an American would end up possessing a priceless Spanish treasure … The thought made her covet the skull even more. What a triumph for her and the Feldenchrist Collection. It would make the cover of TIME magazine, would be talked about in every artistic circle around the globe.

Bobbie tried to keep her thoughts composed, but longing overtook her. She sighed, taking in a breath. The skull wasn’t hers yet. Not yet.

‘Well,’ she repeated calmly, ‘do I have the right contact?’

In reply Dwappa bent down and lifted the case on to the table between them. Slowly he opened it. Bobbie leaned forward, her hands extended, but he brushed them away. Instead he lifted out the skull himself, passing it to her in silence.

She could feel her hands shake as they cupped the discoloured bone, her gaze travelling across the empty eye sockets and the jawline, her memory fleshing out the bareness until she could imagine the artist restored. The man who had pictured the Spanish court, the majas, the Disasters of War … Swallowing became difficult, emotion so intense it was almost erotic. To own this, to own the head of one of the greatest painters who had ever lived! She could see it in a display cabinet, behind unbreakable, bulletproof glass, with one of Goya’s pictures on display beside it. People would come from all over the world to visit the skull, to pay homage to the artist and, in doing so, to the Feldenchrist name. She would be recognised as the greatest collector alive, because she would own the greatest artistic relic in existence.

Her voice was husky when she spoke again. ‘Are you sure it’s genuine?’

He nodded. ‘I told you, I have authentication.’

Then he put out his hands.

Bobbie immediately leaned back, out of his reach. It did not matter that she was holding the head of a dead man, a skull which had been wrenched from a corpse. To her it possessed no spirituality, but was merely an emblem of triumph.

‘Give it back to me, Ms Feldenchrist.’

She was curt with desire. ‘How much do you want for it?’

‘Five million dollars.’

She made a short, snorting sound. ‘Five million!’

‘You have it.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘So give the skull back to me,’ he replied implacably.

‘Three million.’

‘I won’t bargain,’ the African said, staring coldly at her. ‘It’s a lot less than you paid for your son.’

She winced, remembering Joseph – then put all thoughts of him aside. ‘Five million is too much.’

‘The Prado would want this skull. No doubt they could raise the money.’

‘Five million? I don’t think so. Besides, they wouldn’t pay you for it. They wouldn’t do anything illegal.’

‘But Bartolomé Ortega might. And he’s a rival of yours, isn’t he? And I believe he was more to you in the past

Bobbie shrugged, trying to bluff. ‘So why don’t you go to him?’

‘Maybe I already have. Maybe I’m just waiting for the highest bidder.’

Bobbie stared at the African, her confidence fading. ‘Has he put in an offer?’

‘He might have done. What’s your offer?’

‘I’ll match his.’

‘No,’ the African replied, suddenly changing tack. ‘I think I might ask something else from you. What if I asked you to exchange your son for the skull …?’

The words made a hissing sound in her ears.

‘What would you say, Ms Feldenchrist? Give me your son and I’ll give you the skull.’

‘You’re not serious?’ she croaked, still holding the skull to her, the hard bone pressing into her chest.

‘What if I am? Your son for the skull.’

Incredulous, she stared at him – at the narrow head, the smooth, dark features, the seeming absence of malice in this most malicious of men. The skull seemed to rest against her, warming, soothing. No one else possessed such an object. No one. A woman could adopt a child any day. Hadn’t she proved that? But there was only one Goya skull – and she was holding it.

‘So, Ms Feldenchrist, what’s it to be? Your son or the skull?’