‘What the hell is all this about?’

‘The Goya skull was stolen. From me—’

‘Hah!’ she said shortly, ‘You can’t imagine how many lunatics have been writing to me saying the same.’

‘Their brothers weren’t murdered.’

She flinched. ‘I thought your brother committed suicide?’

‘Leon was killed. For the Goya skull.’

Laughing, she tried to appear nonchalant. ‘I don’t think so.’

It wasn’t entirely unexpected that someone would challenge her right to the skull, but she hadn’t expected the challenge to come from this quarter. Taking a deep breath, Bobbie looked at the man in front of her, wondering how to play him.

‘The Feldenchrist Collection bought the Goya skull for an undisclosed sum of money, in order that it be preserved and exhibited worldwide. We have been in touch with the Prado, Madrid, and are already in talks about allowing them to exhibit it on loan.’

‘Who did you buy it from?’

‘You don’t need to know that, Mr Golding,’ she replied. ‘It was purchased from a respectable source.’

‘Who?’

‘You don’t need to know that—’

‘But I do,’ Ben replied, leaning forward in his seat. He was cold with tiredness and exasperation, crumpled from a hurried flight, with nothing for company but the memory of his dead brother. ‘I think someone came to you with the skull – someone not in the least respectable. And I think you wanted that skull so much you didn’t ask too many questions, just forked out what they asked. It would be worth it to you – to get one over on all the other collectors and even the Prado. I can see how that would be difficult to resist. But still, dealing with the wrong type – weren’t you worried that it would get out? Tarnish the Feldenchrist name?’

She flinched and he caught the reaction.

‘Or maybe,’ – he paused, his thoughts clicking, ratchet by ratchet, into place – ‘maybe he had something on you? Did he blackmail you?’

God, Bobbie thought angrily. She had been so stupid to allow this man into her office. But then again, she had had no choice. She could hardly have walked off and left him to talk to the journalists. Not Leon Golding’s brother …

‘Blackmail me?’ she replied, amused. But her glance automatically went to the photograph of Joseph on her desk.

And Ben noticed.

‘Is this your adopted son?’

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

‘Where did he come from?’

‘That’s none of your business!’ she retorted, calming herself. ‘I can assure you that the Feldenchrist Collection purchased the skull through the correct channels. And my son was legally adopted.’

‘Did I suggest anything else?’

‘You said—’

‘What? Did I say anything about him not being legally adopted?’

She faltered and changed the subject. ‘I understand that you must be very upset about your brother’s death, Mr Golding. I knew of his reputation. Because of that, we can forget that this unpleasant conversation ever took place. If you leave my office now there’ll be no need to call the police—’

Instantly Ben was on his feet, leaning over the desk towards Bobbie Feldenchrist.

‘It’s a fake! Your skull is a fake. I saw the real skull, the one my brother was given. And it’s not this one—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘I had the Goya skull in my possession and it was stolen from my house,’ Ben snapped, staring into her upturned face. ‘My brother died for that skull. My brother was murdered for it – you think I wouldn’t remember it? You think I wouldn’t know the real one? Who sold this skull to you?’

‘That’s not—’

‘Who?’ Ben pointed to the photograph of Joseph on her desk. ‘You reacted when I asked about the baby. Did the same person who sold you the skull get you the child?’

She paled. ‘No!’

Ben knew he was on the right track and pushed her. ‘You don’t know where that child came from, do you? You wanted to have an heir, and you didn’t ask questions. Is that why he brought you the skull, Ms Feldenchrist? To make sure you never asked questions?’

‘I want you to leave!’

‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with! This man’s responsible for the deaths of three men. Think about it. Three men directly involved with the skull are now dead.’ He paused, his voice warning. ‘But it’s the wrong skull. He fooled you. Or he was fooled. Either way, this is just the beginning—’

‘I want you to go!’

‘You think he won’t want more? Jesus! You can’t imagine what he could want. He’ll come back and you won’t be able to do anything about it – because you can’t even admit you know him.’

Shaken, she flinched, trying to regulate her breathing. Bobbie had always been afraid of the African but now she could see the hopeless situation she was in. She wasn’t in control, he was. He had sold her a fake. And there was nothing she could do about it, because he could blackmail her into silence.

‘You have to tell me the truth,’ Ben said quietly. ‘That skull cost my brother his life.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Bobbie replied, her confidence returning as her thoughts cleared. If Ben Golding had any real proof, he would have gone to the police already. ‘How can you make a connection between your brother’s death and the skull? Everyone knows Leon Golding was unstable—’

To her surprise, Ben nodded. ‘Yes, he was. And demanding – irritating at times. But he was my brother, and when I found him hanging behind the bathroom door in some bloody Spanish hotel room, it wasn’t right. And it still isn’t—’

‘None of this has anything to do with me!’

Wearily, Ben stood up.

‘All right, have it your own way. But when you look at that skull, Ms Feldenchrist, I want you to remember that it’s a fake. It was never Goya’s skull. The real one was swapped at the last moment—’

‘This is ridiculous!’

‘It’s true.’ His voice fell. ‘I’m not lying to you. Aren’t you going to admit it’s a fake?’

‘Can you prove it is?’ she countered. ‘Remember, I have the authentication papers that were drawn up at the Whitechapel Hospital, London.’

‘They refer to the real skull—’

‘Oh dear, Mr Golding,’ she said with mock pity. ‘As I have those papers, which came with this skull, your theory won’t hold water, will it?’

‘It will if we compare Francis Asturias’s findings against your fake.’

She took in her breath, outmanoeuvred, then rallied. ‘I’ll look into the matter—’

‘You won’t admit it, will you? You can’t – you’d look a fool. And I can’t prove it either, because you’ve got the only copy of the notes.’ Walking to the door, he paused, then turned back to her. ‘But when you look at that skull – that fake – I want you to see my brother’s face. When you pose for your photographs, I want you to know that it should have been him. He should have got his day in the sun – not rotting in a graveyard. And one day – God help you – you’ll regret this. You’ll wish that you weren’t so grasping and greedy that human lives counted less than your own bloody triumph.’

51

In the basement of the Feldenchrist Collection a morose-looking French forensic pathologist named Maurice de la Valle was pulling on his laboratory coat. Preoccupied, he washed his hands and then carefully stretched on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. With considerable caution, he made sure that the gloves fitted his fingers and allowed complete freedom of movement. Finally he walked towards a sealed storage vault and entered a fourteen-digit number, unfastening the lock and taking out a small box. He then placed the box on his worktable and, after wiping down the metal surface, spread out a piece of black plastic sheeting. Finally he took the lid off the box and lifted the skull out, placing it in the centre of the sheeting.

He turned as Bobbie Feldenchrist came in. She seemed agitated. ‘I want to see the authentication papers again …’