Her fingers were holding the head so tightly she could hear her nails scratch against the bone.

‘Just give me back your baby and you’ll beat Bartolomé Ortega. It’s not a hard choice for you to make, is it?’

‘I … I …’ she stammered.

‘Come on, make the choice!’

Letting out an odd mewling noise, Bobbie stared at him.

‘I …’

The African laughed suddenly, taking the skull from her hands. ‘Relax. I wouldn’t be so cruel,’ he said, his taunting over. ‘What would I want with that kid of yours? No, Ms Feldenchrist, I want money. I want five million dollars for this skull.’

She was beaten and she knew it.

‘All right. I can get it for you.’

‘I know that,’ he replied, tucking the skull back into the packing and closing the case. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow at four. You give me the money then, in cash, and I’ll give you the skull.’

Quickly he moved to the door, pausing by the elevator. Behind him, Bobbie leant against a pillar, her face ash white, her body drained. Finally the elevator came to a halt at the penthouse and Dwappa turned back to her.

‘Aren’t you lucky, Ms Feldenchrist?’

‘Why?’

‘That I didn’t make you choose,’ he replied, walking into the elevator and turning back to her. ‘When you think about our meeting later you’ll remember the choice you were ready to make.’ He smiled as the doors began to close. ‘What would it have been, Ms Feldenchrist? The baby or the skull?’

44

London

‘I had to come,’ Abigail said, walking past Ben into the hallway. Once inside, she kissed him, then pulled back and looked into his face. ‘You look terrible. Handsome, but terrible—’

‘You shouldn’t have come here. I told you not to.’

She ignored him. ‘I heard about Francis. I rang your rooms. Your secretary told me.’

She could see that Ben was shaken, Francis’s death coming so soon after Leon’s. Concerned, she touched his cheek, trying to soothe him. His composure was weakening. Other people might not notice it, but Abigail could see the difference. His appearance was altering, his outer, physical size somehow overwhelming the inner man.

‘What’s going on?’

‘You know what’s going on—’

She shook her head. ‘No, I know some of it, but not all. Talk to me.’

‘I can’t. I daren’t,’ he said, turning away from her and walking into his study. Alarmed, she followed him. ‘I want you to go back to France, Abi. Go back there until all this is sorted out.’

‘All what?’ she queried. ‘I’ve only got half the story, Ben. You have to talk to me. Don’t cut me out.’

‘Talk to you?’ he said simply. ‘Jesus! That’s the last thing I’d do. Francis is dead because I involved him. I can’t risk you. You have to go back to France—’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Don’t do that,’ he said anxiously, touching her face. ‘Please, don’t do that.’

Pulling her to him, he rested his lips against her hair, breathing in the scent of her. He knew that in rejecting her he was exiling his last ally, but he had no choice. From the moment Leon had been given the Goya skull all their lives had changed. A malignancy had begun which was now spreading hourly. Knowing that his own safety was in question, Ben was aware that he might not be able to stop its progress, but he wasn’t going to sacrifice anyone else.

‘Go back to France,’ he repeated, kissing her cheek. Then he drew back, touching her skin and feeling the slight swelling underneath. ‘Abi, what’s this?’

She smiled lightly. ‘Nothing. I’m having it checked out.’

‘Let me look,’ he replied, turning her to the light and staring at her face. The doctor again. ‘You’ve got to have that seen to. It might be nothing, but—’

‘Stop worrying,’ she said, hurrying to reassure him. ‘It’s all organised. I’m having a biopsy. I’m going into the Whitechapel tomorrow.’

‘Without telling me?’

‘Ben, stop it! I was going to tell you, but other things have happened before I could. Don’t look at me like that – it’s nothing to worry about. You’re not my doctor any more – Mr North is doing it. He was going to talk to you about it this afternoon.’ Her voice softened. ‘Relax, darling. This is me, Abigail. I’ll be fine and everything will work out in the end.’ She led him to the sofa, sitting down beside him and resting her head on his shoulder. ‘You have to get some rest.’

‘Malcolm North’s a good doctor,’ Ben said, preoccupied. ‘He knows his stuff. You’ll be in safe hands.’

‘And what about you? Whose safe hands are you in?’

‘Not yours, Abi.’

She smiled, almost regretfully. ‘I know you’re trying to protect me – and I love you for it – but you have to trust someone.’

‘Not you. I won’t put you in danger.’

‘What danger?’ she pressed him, sitting up and looking into his drawn face. ‘Is there a connection between the deaths of Leon and Francis Asturias?’

‘Let it rest—’

‘I’m not a fool, Ben!’ she snapped. ‘I know about Leon and the skull. And I know you gave it to Francis to authenticate—’

He gripped her hands so tightly she winced. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Forget everything I told you, Abi. Please, leave it alone.’

‘Why? What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know who killed Leon or Francis, so how can I do anything?’

‘You need to sleep—’

‘I can’t sleep!’ he snapped back. ‘I have to go to Madrid tomorrow, to Leon’s funeral—’

‘Then let me come with you.’

‘No!’ Turning away, he shook his head. ‘I wish my brother had never got hold of that bloody skull. I wish he’d never seen it. The moment Leon touched it, his life fell apart. It tipped him over the edge.’

‘He was always near the edge—’

‘And they pushed him over.’

‘For a skull? Abigail asked incredulously.

‘We’re talking about Goya’s skull – what wouldn’t a collector do to own that? Dreams are made on lesser stuff. Leon used to talk about the competitiveness of the business. How a dealer or historian was desperate to find something valuable, or prove a theory. Poor bastard,’ Ben said gently. ‘Poor, sorry bastard …’

She took his hands in her own.

‘… Leon thought that the skull would make his name. And if he solved the Black Paintings, he’d be set for life. But he was competing with the likes of Bartolomé Ortega, and God knows who else.’

‘You don’t have the skull any more, do you?’

He was desperate to confide – to tell her about Francis’s confession and about being threatened – but he held back, giving her the partial truth.

‘I don’t have the skull.’

‘Thank God,’ she said with feeling. ‘But surely whoever has it will have to explain how they came by it?’

He smiled bitterly. ‘No one will ever know that it was stolen from me. People would deny knowing how it came into their hands. The provenance would be blurred. Leon used to tell me all about it – the fudged backgrounds, the made-up histories. There would just be vague stories of the skull being found—’

‘That was Leon’s story.’

‘That wasn’t his story, it was the truth. The skull was found and passed over to my brother—’

‘But now it could be anywhere,’ Abi said, her head on one side. ‘Why don’t you let it be?’

‘What?’

‘What can you do, Ben? Leave it to the police. Let them handle it. If there’s anything to find, let them find it.’

She was afraid for him, and for herself. Afraid of losing the man who had given her back her life. Afraid to lose the protector she had fallen in love with. To her shame Abigail realised that despite her sympathy for Ben, she was angry with Leon. Angry with the dead man who was threatening her security and the life she prized.

‘Just back off—’

‘My brother was murdered!’

‘You’ve no proof of that. The Spanish coroner ruled it suicide. You’ve no evidence, and with Leon’s background of mental instability no one would believe you.’ She leaned towards Ben, her mouth dry. ‘Leave it alone. Whoever wanted the skull has got it back. Forget about it, then you’ll be safe. They have no reason to come after you unless you give them a reason.’