He shrugged, passing them over to her.

‘You checked these?’

‘Of course I did. Twice.’ He glanced at her, surprised that she should query his actions but not daring to show his annoyance.

Ignoring him, Bobbie stared at the skull. Her head reverberated with Ben Golding’s words. Was the skull a fake? Had the African duped her? Had she really paid out a fortune for a worthless lump of bone? Christ! she thought desperately. If anyone found out, her reputation was bankrupt. She would be a laughing stock, the supposed crowning achievement of her collection not the skull of a genius but a nobody.

She could hardly question the African. He would deny his deception, and even if he didn’t he could blackmail her into silence by threatening to expose Joseph’s adoption.

Trapped, Bobbie felt the dry taste of failure. ‘This is the head of Goya …’

‘Yes, the head of Francisco Goya,’ de la Valle replied with solemnity. ‘One of the most important art finds in history.’ Lovingly he let his forefinger trace the cranial markings on the skull, then move around the orbit of the eye sockets. ‘I’ve waited all my life for something like this.’

Close to retirement age, he had felt nothing but disappointment with his career – until the skull had been handed over to his care. From being a respected, if undistinguished specialist, he was suddenly promoted, even being photographed with Roberta Feldenchrist for a piece in Vanity Fair. Maurice felt a swelling of professional pleasure. His retirement – when it came – would be pedestrian no longer. Thanks to Francisco Goya he would be able to travel, giving lectures about the skull, explaining his pivotal role in the phenomenal find. The long dry years which had stretched before him, heading inexorably towards a lonely death, were now bulging with promise.

Bobbie was still reading Francis Asturias’s report, her gaze moving back to the skull.

‘How many holes in the skull?’

‘Three. Animal damage, or wear and tear,’ he said eagerly, pointing them out one by one.

‘But two of them aren’t really holes, are they, Maurice?’ Bobbie said firmly, looking at the skull. ‘Those two, they’re more like splits, breaks in the bone.’

His eyes flicked back to the skull and he took the notes out of her hands. Reading the report, he said:

‘“Three holes, two smaller than the third …” Yes, Ms Feldenchrist, but I’m sure they meant a hole.’ He looked at her questioningly. ‘A split, a hole – what difference? Only language.’

Oh, but was it? Bobbie thought. Perhaps, again, she had been too quick to see what she wanted to see.

‘What if this turned out not to be Goya’s skull?’

He felt a shifting sensation under his feet as his future shuddered in front of him.

‘You doubt its authenticity?’

‘What if I did?’

He was close to tears, disappointment making him emotional. ‘It is the skull, Ms Feldenchrist,’ he insisted desperately. ‘It’s Goya’s skull.’

‘Well, make sure you tell everyone that, Maurice,’ she said coolly. ‘You’re right. A split, a hole – what’s the difference?’

Leaving the laboratory, Bobbie walked back to her office and slammed the door closed. She had seen the evidence with her own eyes. Maurice de la Valle might fool himself, deny the obvious, but Ben Golding had been telling the truth. It wasn’t Goya’s skull.

Numbed, Bobbie stared at the desk, the intercom interrupting her thoughts, her secretary announcing that she had a visitor who refused to give his name.

‘Then tell him I can’t see him,’

‘He says you’ll want to see him. It’s about Joseph.’

Bobbie’s head shot up.

‘Show him in,’ she said, watching as Emile Dwappa entered. He was dressed in an exquisite suit, his hair newly cut. Her money was being put to good use, Bobbie thought bitterly.

‘I wasn’t expecting you today,’ she said.

He was momentarily taken aback. ‘You look angry.’

‘You bastard!’ she snorted, fighting to control her rage. ‘You robbed me—’

‘What?’

‘The skull’s not genuine,’ Bobbie went on, beside herself with anger and momentarily forgetting her fear of the African. ‘What did you come back for? To gloat? I mean, you’ve got me over a barrel, haven’t you? I can hardly expose you without exposing myself, can I? Jesus! I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. All that money …’ She paused, grabbed at a breath. ‘You can whistle for the other half of your payment!’

Dwappa blinked, the motion slowed down, oddly feline.

‘I want my money!’

‘We agreed that you’d get the rest when the skull was delivered. Well, it’s not the real skull!’

Dwappa was finding words difficult. ‘Who told you it wasn’t the real skull?’

‘Ben Golding. He came over to New York to tell me. And let’s face it, if anyone should know, he should.’

‘So he has the real skull?’

‘How the fuck would I know? I just know that I haven’t got it.’ She thought aloud. ‘But then again, if Golding knew about the swap, he must have the real one.’

‘Golding …’ Dwappa said simply, his body rigid.

And Bobbie Feldenchrist could see in that instant that the African hadn’t cheated her. He had believed the skull was Goya’s too. In fact, both of them had been cheated … Dwappa’s hands moved to his face, his eyes widening for an instant before he turned his gaze back to her. She could see his thoughts shifting, unnerved by her news, as his whole carefully constructed plot vaporised. His skin became ash coloured, shock-dry – and without thinking, she laughed at him.

She laughed because the man of whom she had been so afraid had turned out to be a fool.

52

Whitechapel Hospital, London

Struggling to open the door while carrying several patients’ file notes and a packet of biscuits, the ward sister finally pushed it open with her hip. Clicking her tongue, she then turned on the electric fire, her hand resting for an instant on the old radiator. Cold again. Bugger it! She would have to phone down to the caretaker and get him to drain the air out of the system. It always took hours. Hours in which the temperature could drop impressively.

She thought longingly of her sister, working in a private clinic off Wimpole Street. Now that was more like it – better wages and pleasant working conditions. Not like the Whitechapel Hospital – repaired, patched up, modernised in places like a transplant experiment.

Nibbling at a biscuit as she put the kettle on to boil, the sister glanced at the clock. Nine fifteen. She would be on shift until seven in the morning, but that was all right with her. The nights were usually quieter, although sometimes there were emergencies. A patient might start bleeding from an operation incision, or rupture internally. And if the operation site was infected, that was dangerous. Every nurse was trained to know that the facial/cranial area bled the most.

Luckily, such scares were rare. Both Ben Golding and the pompous Dr North were skilled surgeons. North might not empathise with his patients in the way Golding did, but he was steady as a judge in an emergency.

She looked up as a nurse walked in. ‘How goes it?’

‘Quiet,’ Kim Morley said, taking an offered biscuit. ‘Everyone’s settled. I’ve just checked on Abigail Harrop, and she’s comfortable. I was wondering why she’s no longer Dr Golding’s patient.’

‘Because now she’s his girlfriend.’

She raised one eyebrow. ‘That’s romantic. I used to dream about marrying a doctor, but now I’m not so sure. I fancy an IT engineer – someone who works regular hours.’

Smiling, the sister reached out for a stack of patients’ files and shivered.

‘I’m going to the storeroom to read these. Phone that bloody caretaker, will you, and get the radiator fixed.’

It took Kim Morley three calls before she finally managed to get hold of the caretaker. When he did answer his pager, he said he was stuck in the Intensive Care Unit.