Had he been in New York?

He couldn’t remember.

He was tired.

He’d been travelling.

He was back home.

No, he was in London.

Home in London.

Home in Madrid.

His eyes closed then reopened. Was he crazy? Christ, was he going crazy?

Roma was watching him, seeing what she thought was an imminent collapse. ‘First there was your brother’s suicide …’ She paused, waiting for Ben to correct her. But he didn’t, so she continued. ‘Then the murder of Francis Asturias. And before that, the death of Diego Martinez.’ She was certain of her theory, spelling it out for him. ‘All these incidents happening one after the other. It must be very hard to cope with. Confusing, even.’

He turned, stared at her, his expression bewildered.

‘But then again, they all have a common denominator, don’t they?’

Silent, Ben continued to look at her.

‘The skull. It all seems to have started with that Goya skull, and gone on from there.’ She was sure she had him. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Golding, that since it was found a lot of odd things have happened? You told me yourself that it’s very valuable. That some people would go to extremes to get it. I’m afraid to say that I’m not happy with what you’ve told me, Mr Golding. Don’t leave London again without telling me—’

‘What the hell!’

Poised, she went in for the kill. ‘I don’t have enough evidence to charge you. Yet. But I’ve got my suspicions and I’ll prove them—’

‘Based on what exactly?’

‘As I said before, the skull,’ Roma replied, her confidence rising. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking about this whole business, mulling it over, and I’ve come to a decision. Perhaps the person with the skull is the one we should be looking for? Perhaps he’s responsible for everything?’

Ben saw his chance and grabbed it.

‘But the skull’s in the Feldenchrist Collection, New York,’ he replied, holding her stunned gaze. ‘And the exhibition opened yesterday.’

59

Madrid

‘You stupid bitch,’ Gabino said sourly, looking over at Gina as she walked in. ‘They’ve got the skull in the Feldenchrist Collection.’

She had heard the news in Madrid, at the farmhouse. Had seen it reported on the internet and then left the house without talking to Ben. So the skull was found, she thought bleakly. Any chance of her securing it for Gabino was over. Any chance of winning him back was over too.

Unusually quiet, Gina looked around the familiar sitting room in Gabino’s flat. She had never anticipated being in such a precarious situation. Leon’s death had left her destabilised. After having him devoted to her, being able to control and manipulate him, it came as a shock to Gina to realise that her lover was gone, and with him, her power. She had not been Leon’s wife so she had no entitlement to his house or his money, and her attempt to gain the interest of Ben Golding had been a failure.

She was now looking at an uncertain future without male protection. Propelled from the safety of the farmhouse and the reclusive life she had led with Leon, Gina realised that going back to her old party girl existence wasn’t an option. She had been off the circuit too long and had become the ex-lover too many times to excite fresh interest.

For a while she might have fooled herself into thinking that she still had a chance with Gabino, but her promise to secure the skull for him had failed miserably, and now Gina found herself homeless and alone.

‘I thought I could get the skull for you,’ she said imploringly. ‘If Ben Golding still had it, I could have done—’

‘But he didn’t, did he?’ Gabino replied, his tone dismissive. ‘If I’d known you were going to waste my fucking time, I’d never have listened to you.’

Her temper flared.

‘You couldn’t get the skull either! If you were so smart, how come you didn’t get it?’ She moved towards him. ‘I’d have thought the Ortega money would have counted for something—’

‘I wasn’t on the doorstep, was I?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You were sleeping with Leon Golding. You were by his bloody side all day. If anyone could have got hold of the skull, it should have been you.’ He was snappy with anger. ‘You’re losing your touch, Gina – you must be. After all, Leon Golding was a walkover. Poor bastard, everyone knew he was crazy—’

‘He was twice the man you are!’

‘But with a fraction of the income,’ Gabino replied unpleasantly. ‘Which, let’s face it, is all that matters to you.’

‘It’s not all about money!’ she hissed. ‘I care about you!’

‘You care about yourself.’

‘There was more to it than that—’

‘Not for me,’ he said indifferently. ‘It was an affair, Gina, that was all. You’re not the kind of woman a man marries.’ She flinched at the words. ‘You’re one of a hundred other women on the make. We had a good time, but that was all it was.’ He stared at her, eager to vent his frustration on someone. ‘You didn’t think I was ever serious about you, did you?’ he smirked. ‘You did? God, Gina, women like you are just good for fucking—’

She slapped him hard, Gabino reacting immediately. Drawing back his fist he pounded it into her face, her nose bleeding with the impact as he grabbed her hair and pulled her on to the sofa.

‘You stupid bitch!’ he said, his mouth inches from her ear. ‘You could have saved me. You could have done something useful for once!’ Enraged, he slapped her hard across the face, Gina whimpering as she put up her hands to protect herself. ‘But you’re worthless.’ He punched her in the stomach. ‘Hopeless.’ Again he punched her, catching her forearm as she tried to fend him off. ‘Slut!’ Turning, he moved away, then ran back, kicking her in the stomach. ‘How dare you think I could love you! You’re a fucking whore!’ After one final kick, he bent down and picked up her handbag, tossing it on to her lap. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

Moaning, Gina clutched her stomach and staggered to her feet. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

He moved over to her, jutting his face into hers aggressively. ‘Why? What are you going to do about it?’ he sneered. ‘You’re nothing, Gina. Just a sad bitch with nowhere left to go.’

60

For once, Bartolomé had travelled without his wife. Celina was suffering from food poisoning and unable to leave Switzerland, even in a private jet. So he arrived alone at head office to meet up with his lawyer. Every month he came to the Spanish capital, leaving his reclusive bolt-hole in Switzerland and braving the heat and press of Madrid. He disliked the few days he spent in the city, and was particularly irked to find himself visiting not once, but three times within the space of a few weeks.

And all because of Gabino. All because his younger brother was due to attend court for a hearing regarding the charge of grievous bodily harm to a notable banker. At any other time Bartolomé would have suppressed the charges. He still could, if he chose to. But Gabino had committed an unforgivable sin in his brother’s eyes and had neither apologised nor explained why. The news that Bobbie Feldenchrist now owned the Goya skull had added further friction. To Bartolomé, it was inconceivable that an American could possess the skull of the greatest Spanish painter who had ever lived. It should have stayed in Spain, he thought bitterly, in the Ortega collection.

But although Gabino had known about it and had been on the spot in Madrid, although he had known of his brother’s passion for the painter, he had let the opportunity slip. It was something Bartolomé would never forgive him for. And because of Gabino’s casual neglect, all his other foibles seemed magnified. His recklessness and violence were suddenly no longer excusable; his boorish behaviour was repulsive. Bartolomé knew that if his wife had been with him she would have calmed him down, made the inevitable excuses for his brother. But Celina wasn’t with him and, freed from her judicious advice, he was looking for a way not to help Gabino, but to punish him.