So for a prolonged, overheated hour, Bartolomé had listened to his lawyer and heard all the details about Gabino’s attack on the hospitalised victim. He had also seen the photographs of the damage inflicted and felt a repulsion which was hard to shake. The photograph of Gabino at the police station was also shown to him, his brother’s drunken expression belligerent and threatening.

‘We could have a word with someone,’ his lawyer began. ‘Get the charges dropped.’

Shaking his handsome head, Bartolomé swallowed the fury which was curdling inside his stomach.

‘Why should we?’

‘The Ortega name, the publicity—’

‘Why should we always clean up after my brother?’ Bartolomé remarked.

‘Because if we don’t the damage will be much worse.’

‘We should get him into line—’

‘We can’t,’ the lawyer replied patiently. ‘You know that, Bartolomé. We’ve tried for years. Gabino’s out of control.’

‘So maybe this time we let him suffer the consequences.’

Folding his arms, the lawyer raised his eyebrows. He could feel Bartolomé’s frustration and shared it, but his advice would remain what it always had been – pay up and keep Gabino’s transgressions quiet. Not that they were that quiet. All Madrid knew about Gabino’s excesses, but the alternative was worse – having an Ortega in court. The press would relish such an opportunity; a scrum would ensue which would result in every uncomfortable detail being exposed. And with Gabino’s sins would be resurrected the murder of their grandmother, Fidelia.

How long, thought the lawyer, before a business enemy would seize their chance to undermine the whole Ortega fortune? They could prove nothing, but digging up the murder of Fidelia would remind everyone of the family’s cursed past.

‘You couldn’t handle the fallout—’

Bartolomé turned to him, his expression intense. ‘So I’m going to be tied to this madman all my life?’

‘You have a son,’ the lawyer said hurriedly. ‘Think of Juan.’

‘Think of my son? Excuse and protect my brother because of my son?’ Bartolomé snapped. ‘What has my son to do with this?’

‘His future—’

‘Is what he makes it!’ Bartolomé roared, then quickly dropped his voice, controlling himself. ‘My son is not Gabino. Juan’s growing up in Switzerland, away from Madrid, away from any reckless influences—’

‘Which is all the more reason to suppress Gabino’s assault charge,’ the lawyer interrupted him.

He had known the family and worked for them for over thirty years. There was nothing he wasn’t privy to, nothing he didn’t know or hadn’t concealed. And, as always, his sympathy lay with Bartolomé. He could see a respectable man struggling against his family’s reputation and knew that if Bartolomé had been an only child, the Ortega name would have flourished. Refined and cultured, Bartolomé was the perfect ambassador for a family who had a sordid past. As an only child, in time he could have buried all the old scandals.

But he wasn’t an only child.

‘Bartolomé, we have to suppress this charge.’

To the lawyer’s surprise, his client waved him away with his hand. ‘I have to think. I can’t make a decision now.’

‘You should—’

‘Give me time,’ Bartolomé replied, smiling fleetingly. ‘I know you’re trying to help me. I understand, but I have to think about this a little longer.’

The lawyer didn’t know about the Goya skull, didn’t know that Gabino’s failure to secure it for his brother had resulted in a cataclysmic emotional shift. But as he left the room and walked out into the over-heated sunshine he felt suddenly, overshadowed by the expectation of tragedy.

61

London

Having found the address among Leon’s possessions, Ben walked towards a row of old-fashioned red-brick terraced houses, the newer high-rise flats behind glowering over them. Between green wheelie bins was a discarded pram, a cat curled up in the seat, and beside it an overstuffed carrier bag reeking of sour food. Checking the house numbers, Ben knocked on the door of 289 and waited for a response.

‘What d’you want? Get off the doorstep!’

Surprised, Ben bent down, lifted the flap of the letterbox, and called out: ‘It’s me, Mr Martinez. Ben Golding.’

He could hear the opening of several locks, and finally Carlos Martinez opened the door and stepped back to let his visitor enter. They shook hands awkwardly, Carlos showing Ben into the front room, the street outside obliterated by net curtains stained with mould. Taking a seat in front of an old 1950s tiled fireplace, Ben watched as Carlos reached for roll-up and lit it.

He seemed sad, shrivelled. ‘I never thought I’d get to see you again,’ he said.

‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Yes, a long time.’

‘I wanted to talk to you about Diego. I’m very sorry about what happened.’

‘Yes …’

‘Your son knew my brother—’

‘And we’ve lost them both.’ His Spanish accent had softened, only the sibilant S’s making his origin obvious. ‘It was a bad way to die, Mr Golding. My son didn’t deserve that.’

‘Leon didn’t deserve to be killed either—’

Carlos’s head jerked up. ‘He was killed?’

‘Yes.’

‘I heard he committed suicide,’ the old man replied, his expression suspicious. ‘Why are you here? I mean, you’re welcome – my son thought the world of your brother – but I’d like to know why you’re here.’

It was a reasonable request.

‘I think that the deaths of your son and my brother are connected.’ Ben paused, noticing that Carlos’s hands had begun to shake. ‘Have you been threatened?’

‘No. But Diego was.’

‘By whom?’

Silence: Carlos was torn between confiding and lying.

‘Please, Mr Martinez,’ Ben urged him. ‘I wouldn’t be here unless it was very important. Someone I love is in trouble, and I think the man who has her was responsible for Diego and Leon’s deaths.’ He could see Carlos inhaling on his smoke, his glance moving to the telephone. ‘What is it?’

‘Diego had a call the night he went missing.’

‘Who called him?’

‘I dunno. But they invited him out for a pint at the Fox and Hounds, London Road. It’s a rough place, but Diego liked the barmaid.’ Carlos paused, as though the memory of his son’s love life was unbearably futile. ‘I went with him once – she was nothing. He could have done better, much better.’ He ground out his smoke and immediately began to roll another, Ben letting him take his time. ‘Diego always went to that pub when he was in London. The place has a bad reputation, but he said it was exaggerated.’

‘What kind of reputation?’

‘Petty criminals, old lags,’ he sighed, glancing over at a faded wedding photograph, a striking woman standing beside a younger version of himself. ‘That was his mother. She died over twenty years ago. I’m glad. Glad she didn’t have to live through this.’ He bowed his head, a perfect parting on the right-hand side of his scalp. ‘It’s a meeting place, the pub, where all the runners for the bosses hang out.’

‘Who’re the bosses?’

‘There’s a few, but two big names. It wasn’t always like this, but now the place has gone to seed, these are the last terraces to come down. To be honest, I don’t go out much any more. Don’t dare to. Larry Morgan runs half of Brixton, Emile Dwappa the other half. They split it between them. Morgan handles drugs and Dwappa handles all sorts …’ He stared hard at Ben. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Could I get into trouble talking to you?’

‘You might, but not with the police,’ Ben admitted, hurrying on. ‘I didn’t want to come to you, but I had no choice. I think your son’s at the heart of all this—’

‘How could he be?’

‘Because Diego found the skull.’

Nodding, Carlos glanced around the dismal room. Old-fashioned wallpaper, a 1970s gas fire and a mock leather sofa all pointed to poverty. To making do. The man in the wedding photograph had been handsome, almost cocky, but now Carlos Martinez was smoking too much and talking as though he couldn’t stop.