And there, in among emails from seed catalogues and Amazon was the address [email protected].

46

Madrid

Prosperous in a dark silk suit, Bartolomé Ortega walked towards the graveside. The heatwave had not returned; the weather had cooled its heels and the late sun was now limp, leaden with cloud. Outside the city, across the river, the old cemetery gates creaked solemnly in the dry, brisk breeze. Occasionally they shuddered against their rusty hinges, the lichen-coated stone eagles portentously silent on the gateposts above.

Also silent, Bartolomé Ortega glanced ahead. There was a reasonable turnout for Leon Golding’s funeral, and even though the coroner had ruled it a suicide he was pleased to see that the body would be laid in consecrated ground. Punishment after death was for God, not man. But although Bartolomé was feeling generous towards Leon Golding, his anger with his brother had not lessened. Every day he waited for Gabino to come to him with the news of the skull, and every day he stayed away deepened their rift.

Behind his sunglasses, Bartolomé looked around, his gaze fixing on the figure of Ben Golding standing as though immobilised beside his brother’s grave. His presence was as impressive as always, but there was a poignancy, a kind of desperation about the man which caught, and held, Bartolomé Ortega’s attention. Ben Golding’s grief was absolute, his silent guard as eloquent as a thousand pious words.

Slowly, Bartolomé’s gaze moved across the other mourners, nodding to several people he knew. Then he spotted a woman standing slightly to one side, a good-looking redhead who seemed familiar.

‘That’s Leon Golding’s girlfriend. Well, she was …’ he heard someone whisper behind him.

So this was Gina Austin, was it?

Bartolomé studied the woman who had once been Gabino’s mistress, her honed, athletic body evident even under the mourning black. She was trying to be inconspicuous, but her movements were too extravagant for a funeral and he found himself automatically disliking her. There was no doubt she had beauty, but she seemed to be more interested in the living Golding than the dead one.

Solemnly, they all watched Leon Golding’s coffin being lowered into the ground, Bartolomé wondering momentarily why he had lost out on the greatest find in art history. If Gabino had told him about the Goya skull he would have got it away from the historian, would have made certain that an unbalanced man wasn’t left in charge of a priceless artefact. He had admired Leon Golding’s brain – and had always feared that the Englishman would solve the mystery of the Black Paintings before he did – but to be bested by him was unbearable. And it was all Gabino’s fault.

Disappointment left Bartolomé limp. If only he had got the skull away from Golding, taken the object under his own weighty and wealthy wing. He would have offered his services to the Prado immediately, impressing upon them the importance of the find and the equal importance of preserving it, and how he was the best person to undertake the mission. But his brother had kept quiet and Bartolomé had missed his chance. And now where was the skull? London, probably, with Ben Golding, Bartolomé thought bitterly. It could have been his. It should have been his – if his idle brother had secured it for him.

His face expressionless, his eyes narrowed behind his dark glasses, Bartolomé kept watching Ben, thinking of the Golding brothers. Thinking enviously of their bond – a closeness he had never experienced with Gabino. He could see the loss in Ben Golding’s face and thought of the skull again and of the old rumour which had surrounded it. Some had sworn that it was cursed. That anyone who touched it was tainted. The same people spoke of the Black Paintings in hushed tones. There was a meaning to them, they said, but it was fatal to the person who uncovered it.

Such superstition used to amuse Bartolomé, but he was no longer quite so sure that mockery was justified. And, as a cloud shifted over the cemetery, he felt a distinct unease. A hoarse wind blew up, throwing dust about the mourning stone angels and the dilapidated urns. Holding her hand to her face, Gina turned away, but Ben Golding stood motionless as though he hadn’t noticed the turn in the weather, the sun whey-faced behind a darkening cloud.

Glancing at the grave, Bartolomé stared at the coffin of Leon Golding, the varnished wood already spotted with the first bold shots of rain. Soon there would be a downpour, he thought. Water would fill the grave. Over time a little would leach into the coffin, the Spanish earth holding fast to its adopted son.

But it wasn’t Leon he pitied. Instead, Bartolomé looked back at Ben Golding and realised that if there was a curse, it had already found its next victim.

47

‘What do you want?’ Gabino asked, walking past Gina in his office and moving out on to the balcony.

The heat was stifling, the earlier storm having passed, the sound of traffic rising from the street below. He looked down, Gina moving over to him and standing only an inch away, their shoulders almost touching. She was banking on his previous desire for her, hoping it could help to reinstate her into the powerful Ortegas. But Gina was no fool. Gabino had rejected her once and she needed more than the lure of sex to reel him in.

‘I’ve missed you—’

‘Especially since Leon Golding killed himself,’ Gabino replied, bad-tempered with the heat, a sore throat making him irritable.

‘I loved you,’ she said, touching his arm. But the action only annoyed him and he shrugged her off.

‘It’s over. It was over a long time ago. Don’t come back here now you need another meal ticket.’ He leaned towards her, his face pushed close to hers. ‘You had your turn.’

Stung, she kept her temper. This was no time to lose control. Gina knew that her looks were at their height, but within a couple of years they would wane, their rangy athleticism lunging fast to wiriness. If truth be known she had latched on to Leon at a party, hoping that by being with him she might move on to his more illustrious brother. But Ben had never shown the least interest in her, and Gina had found herself in the tiresome position of being the girlfriend of a brilliant, but hysterical, man. Determined to make the most of her situation, she had given herself another year to entrap Leon and had been sure of success – until events had altered everything.

‘Don’t you feel anything for me?’ she asked, still standing beside him, as though she could force some intimacy.

He shrugged. ‘You were a good lay.’

The words punched the air out of her and cemented her plan.

‘I see … So you’re not interested in the Goya skull any more?’

He turned so quickly it was as though he had been spun round. ‘You’ve got it?’

‘What if I have?’

Suddenly he was all attention. The skull – the way back into his brother’s wallet.

‘Gina, you sly one,’ he teased. ‘What are you playing at? I mean, I knew Leon had the skull, but I didn’t imagine that he gave it to you … Or did you take it?’

Pausing, she juggled her words.

‘You want it?’

‘You know I do.’

‘For Bartolomé?’

He shrugged again, but this time Gina laughed.

‘Don’t try and fool me! I heard about the court case. Well, everyone in Madrid’s heard about it. I suppose your luck would run out eventually – everyone’s does.’ She was baiting him, back in control and repaying him fully for insulting her. ‘I imagine that if you could give Bartolomé the one thing he wants above anything else he would do you a favour in return. Perhaps see to it that you don’t go to jail.’ She sat down, crossing her legs, mean-spirited. ‘Your brother could do that, couldn’t he? I mean, he has the money to organise something like that.’