That was the man he had left in Madrid.

This man was different. This man was obsessed, driven. For the first time Ben understood something of his brother’s sickness. Or maybe it wasn’t just Leon’s illness. After all, hadn’t Detita seen it in him too once, many years before? But Ben had cheated her out of her hopes of manipulation. Turning weakness into order and protecting his brother, he had swerved around his own mental potholes. But now his whole focus – and his hold on sanity – was fixed on finding his brother’s killer. The person who had stolen the Goya skull.

He stared at the magazine again, then smoothed it out on top of the paper booth. In all her callous triumph, Bobbie Feldenchrist stared out at him, the caption underneath reading:

GREATEST FIND IN ART HISTORY

GOYA’S SKULL IN

FELDENCHRIST COLLECTION

Ben didn’t know how it had arrived in the Feldenchrist Collection, and he knew that no one ever would. Its provenance would be sanitised, its sojourn in a London washing machine overlooked, its resurrection in Francis Asturias’s hands denied. It had come to rest in one of the wealthiest and most powerful collections in the world. In New York. The Spaniard’s head, so used to majas and hunting, would be gawped at by gum-chewing crowds and camera-punching tourists.

It was, Ben thought, so shabby. So out of place among the car horns and police sirens. It should have rested with the painter’s corpse, or within sound of the Manzanares and the river birds. Within sight of Madrid, not in New York. And if there had been any justice in the world, Leon should have been on the cover of the magazine, his alert, slightly nervous face stamped with his achievement.

‘Give it to me,’ Leon had said imperiously when they were boys. ‘I want it!’

It had been a summer, but overcast, the Spanish sun taking a day-long siesta. In the garden, an emerald lizard had shuffled its cool way across the lawn and from the kitchen had come the smell of herbs, cooking slowly in an earthenware pot.

‘Ben, give me the bat,’ Leon had said, the nervous tapping of his foot giving away his impatience. ‘I want to play cricket.’

‘You’re such a liar! You know damn well you just want to give it to that girl. And girls aren’t even interested in cricket. Dad gave you that bat—’

‘And Dad’s dead,’ Leon had replied. But the steam had gone out of him and, shrugging, he had glanced down, trailing his kid’s foot along the dry earth. ‘One day I’m going to be someone. I’m going to be famous. Marry the best-looking girl in Spain. One day people will know my name. You’ll see, Ben – one day everyone will know my name.’

The memory vanished as a car horn blasted alongside Ben, making him jump back from the kerb, the magazine dropping to his feet. Putting up his hand to stop the oncoming cars, he bent down to retrieve it, ignoring the impatient tooting as he moved back on to the sidewalk. Still immersed in his own thoughts, he walked into a cafe and ordered an espresso and Danish, opening the magazine and spreading it out on the table in front of him.

The piece described the impressive Feldenchrist Collection, their particular interest in Spanish art, and Harwood Feldenchrist’s ruthless acquisition techniques – techniques he had passed down to his daughter. As he sipped his coffee Ben read on about Bobbie Feldenchrist, her two failed marriages, her brush with cancer, and her recent adoption of an African baby.

An African baby …

Throwing some coins on to the table, Ben left the cafe, the magazine pushed deep into his pocket. Walking quickly, he hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the Feldenchrist Collection, off Park Avenue.

The cabbie looked at him through the rear-view mirror.

‘You English?’

‘Yes.’

‘This your first trip?’

‘No.’

‘You here on business?’

‘In a way.’

‘So, what you do for a living?’

‘I’m a surgeon.’

‘You’re kidding me!’ the cabbie replied, obviously shocked as he took another look at the big, crumpled man in the back seat. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, but you don’t look like no doctor to me.’

‘I had a bad flight,’ Ben said simply, lapsing into silence.

When the cab finally dropped him off at the main entrance to the Feldenchrist Collection Ben paused, catching a reflection of his image in a glass door. Taking off his coat and trying to smooth down his hair, he moved from the warmth of the city into the crisp, air-conditioned cool of the gallery building. Obviously the Goya skull was big news, posters already advertising Bobbie Feldenchrist’s coup, a massive image of the skull itself erected over the Reception desk.

Ben stared at it as though mesmerised. He thought of Detita and her stories, of his childhood growing up near the old site of the Quinta del Sordo, and of Leon showing him the skull that first time. On that hot afternoon, in his study … But what he also noticed was the absence of something. Goya’s skull had had three holes in it. This had only two.

It was definitely the fake.

A moment later a small group of people entered, walking in a huddle, a manicured woman in their midst. Her face was impassive, the same as it was on the magazine cover. Stepping back, Ben watched her progress as a photographers took a series of pictures, Bobbie Feldenchrist pausing momentarily under the vast poster of the skull.

‘Ms Feldenchrist,’ someone called out. ‘When is the skull going on display?’

‘We have to make sure that it’s completely protected before we can risk showing it to the public,’ she replied, sleek with success.

‘Will it be displayed behind bulletproof glass?’ another journalist asked.

‘My security advisors are looking into that at the moment.’

‘What about theft?’

‘The Feldenchrist Collection has never been burgled—’

‘But surely the skull of Goya would be a real target,’the woman persisted. Bobbie turned to her.

‘The skull will be exhibited only when we are convinced that it’s completely safe from harm.’

‘So where is it now?’ Ben asked suddenly. The group turned to look at him, Bobbie glancing over their heads to catch sight of the questioner.

‘Who are you?’

‘An art lover,’ Ben replied, walking closer, ‘… who would like to know where the skull’s being kept.’

‘I hardly think I could tell you that. It would be a breach of security.’

‘Are you sure it’s authentic?’ Ben continued, the journalists glancing from him to Bobbie and sensing that there was something more to his questioning than idle curiosity.

‘The skull is Francisco Goya’s,’ Bobbie replied. She was about to walk away when Ben called after her.

‘Who authenticated it?’

She stopped in her tracks, turning back to him. ‘When the skull is exhibited, its history will be published along with the authentication papers.’

Francis Asturias’s papers, stolen with the real skull. The same papers which had been stolen with the fake. Real papers, wrong skull.

‘Why can’t you tell me who authenticated it?’

‘Who are you?’ Bobbie asked curtly.

‘Someone who has a long-held interest in the skull.’

He could see her react. The momentary shimmer of unease.

‘Well, I’m sure if you leave your name and address my colleagues will be pleased to invite you to the opening night, where all your questions will be answered in full—’

‘I’d like to talk to you now,’ he retorted, moving to her side and edging one of the security guards out of the way. Dropping his voice, he said quietly, ‘My brother was Leon Golding. Talk to me – or I’ll talk to these journalists instead.’

Putting up her hand to keep the guards back, Bobbie forced herself to smile as she shook hands with Ben, throwing the journalists off balance and giving the photographers a posed shot. Then she guided him into the back of the gallery. When they were out of sight her smile faded and she ushered her unwelcome visitor into her office.