‘Oh, don’t lie to me!’ she snapped fiercely. ‘I was married to him. I knew what was going on. Francis used to tell me everything. Of course I pretended that it bored me, but he knew I loved the gossip.’ She sighed, staring at her fingernails and wincing as the cleaner made another noise. ‘Go for the post, dear!’ she snapped. ‘Oh, and get some bread from the shop while you’re at it.’

They waited for the young woman to leave, Elizabeth watching her pass the window and go down the drive before turning back to Ben.

‘Now we can talk properly. Francis told me about that bloody skull of yours. Or should I say, your brother’s?’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘He’s dead too, isn’t he?’

Her directness caught Ben off guard. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘Killed, I believe?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Francis did! Don’t be bloody coy,’ she said shortly. ‘I’ve told you, he told me everything. He said you were insisting that your brother was murdered.’

Ben paused, surprised by how much she knew.

‘I came to pay my respects—’

‘Bullshit! You came for something else,’ she said perceptively. ‘I know you were in Madrid and couldn’t make the funeral, but you sent me a letter and a wreath – you had no need to come and pay your respects in person. Unless you wanted to ask me something.’

‘You’re smart.’

‘I know,’ she said bluntly. ‘Retired university lecturer in Classics. I was a psychotherapist too. Francis won’t have told you that; he hates – hated – shrinks.’ She glanced over to the window and the view of the drive. ‘I’m sorry I never met your brother – he sounded interesting.’

‘He was.’

‘Why do we always lose the good ones, hey?’ she queried, tapping the teapot with the arm of her glasses. ‘You want a cup?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t blame you. The cleaner makes bloody awful tea.’

Smiling, he thought for a moment then glanced back at her.

‘You’re right, I did come to ask you something. Francis reconstructed a skull for me—’

‘The Goya skull?’

‘Yes, the Goya skull,’ Ben replied, ‘but you don’t know that.’

‘I’ve just told you.’

‘But now you have to forget that you know about it, Mrs Asturias. It’s not safe for you to know about it.’ He paused, trying not to alarm her. ‘Francis rang me just before he was killed …’

‘And?’

‘He told me that someone had stolen the skull.’

She was genuinely shaken.

‘He didn’t tell me. Poor sod didn’t have time, I suppose.’ Her bravado was her way of coping, keeping back the grief. ‘You know who took it?’

‘No,’ Ben admitted. ‘But there’s more. The skull that was stolen wasn’t the real one. Francis had swapped them. Whoever has the skull now, has a fake.’

Caught off guard, she laughed, shaking her head.

‘How like him! Francis loved to make everything complicated. Couldn’t let anything be simple …’ Pausing, she caught Ben’s eye, her intelligence obvious. ‘So where’s Goya’s skull?’

‘I don’t know. Francis was going to tell me, but he didn’t have a chance. That’s why I’m here – to ask you if you know.’

‘No, I don’t.’ She was genuinely regretful. ‘If I did, I’d tell you.’

He had expected as much, but the disappointment still stung. ‘Did Francis have a workshop here? Or a study?’

Rising to her feet, Elizabeth moved over to the door. She was unexpectedly tall. Beckoning impatiently for Ben to follow her they moved through the hall and down a narrow passageway into the kitchen, then walked across a courtyard into an outbuilding. The property was decrepit and neglected, but obviously of considerable value. And Francis’s retreat was just as impressive.

‘He used to sulk in here,’ Elizabeth said fondly, holding back the door. ‘We had a wonderful sex life, you know. Even up until his death. Wonderful lover.’ She glanced over at Ben. ‘You’re shocked, of course. The ageing population isn’t supposed to have desires, is it?’

‘Why not?’

She winked, amused. ‘Good answer!’ Sweeping her arm across the room, she went on. ‘Help yourself. Have a rummage – I don’t mind. This is all of it. Francis loved machinery, computers, all kinds of technology – you name it. The dotty professor act was just that – an act. He could tackle anything.’

Walking around, Ben opened cupboards and searched them, bending down to look at the neatly stacked shelves. They were filled with paint tins, machinery, and hundreds of tools of all shapes and sizes. But no hidden boxes, no crumpled bags, no concealed skull.

Still searching, he asked, ‘Did he spend a lot of time surfing the net?’

‘The only net Francis surfed was the one he used when he went fishing.’ She pointed to his fishing tackle. ‘Have a look in the basket – it might be there.’

Ben did as he was told.

‘No, nothing.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Where would he hide something? You knew him, you knew how he thought. What would Francis use as a hiding place?’

‘He used to hide his cigars behind the bath panel, but I found them and he never did it again.’ She paused, thinking. ‘If he brought the skull home, he would have hidden it here for safety. Kept it away from me and the house. He knew what a bloody nosy old bat I am … But we don’t know for certain if he brought it home.’

‘No, we don’t.’ Hurriedly, Ben continued his search, then glanced over at the row of blank computers.

‘Did Francis use the internet for work?’

‘Oh no! He just liked to fix computers. Take them apart and then put them back together again. Or buy old ones’ – she gestured to one of the first Amstrad machines – ‘and repair them. I suppose it wasn’t so different from what he did at the hospital, putting people’s faces back together again.’

Ben pointed to a door. ‘May I go in here?’

‘If you want to have a pee, go ahead.’

Amused, Ben walked into the lavatory and checked the cistern. Empty.

‘Did Francis talk about all his reconstructions?’

‘What?’

He moved back into the main room so that she could hear him. ‘Did he talk about the reconstructions?’

‘Only the interesting ones.’

‘What about Diego Martinez?’

‘The man who was chopped up and left all over London?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘He liked that case, although he did say that when he’d reconstructed the head he was disappointed. Thought the man looked dull. He said that his death was probably the most dramatic thing that had ever happened to him. Francis felt sad about that one.’ Her expression veered between affection for his memory and the remembrance of his loss. ‘He had such respect for people. Such fondness …’

Still walking around, Ben opened the worktable drawers. ‘May I?’

‘Help yourself.’

‘What did he say about the Goya skull?’

‘He was proud to have reconstructed that head,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve always loved Goya’s work, but Francis wasn’t interested in art. Having said that, he was touched by what he did. I even found him looking at some of Goya’s work afterwards. That was a bloody surprise.’

He glanced over at her. ‘The skull’s not here, is it?’

‘I think you’d have found it if it was,’ Elizabeth replied, sighing. ‘D’you want to search the house?’

‘Can I?’

She shrugged.

‘I don’t mind, Mr Golding. The skull means nothing to me. And if it helps you to find out who killed your brother and my husband, I’ll give you all the help you need.’ She held his gaze. ‘Yes, I’ve worked it out. Diego Martinez, Francis – they’re connected by the skull, aren’t they, Mr Golding? I think they must be, because otherwise you would never have warned me to forget everything I knew about it.’ She turned to the door, flicking off the light but inadvertently turning on another switch.

Surprising both of them, the computer next to Ben came on.

‘Is this one fixed?’

‘The only one that is,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘The rest were work in progress.’

Connecting up to the internet, Ben ran down the Received and Sent emails. Elizabeth had been right: her late husband hadn’t spent much time using the computer, and less sending messages. There was nothing of interest, mostly spam. Then, for some reason Ben could never explain, he checked the Delete file.