‘That skull … it started it all, didn’t it? I told Diego when he found it to leave it alone. In Spain we think such things are dangerous. And Goya – well he was a madman at the end, wasn’t he?’

‘Where did Diego find the skull?’

‘Under a concrete basement in an old house, in the centre of Madrid. He was called in to do some work, and had to get the floor up. It hadn’t been touched for years. About eighty-odd years ago someone had poured concrete over it to make it level. Diego said it took nearly a week to break the floor up and get to the tiles underneath.’ Carlos took a drag of his cigarette. The first two fingers of his right hand were yellow, nicotine-stained. ‘A few of the tiles got broken, and that was when he found the skull … Jesus! I wish he’d never touched it.’

‘Why did he think it was Goya’s skull?’

Carlos glanced away, remembering. ‘The painter had stayed in the house—’

‘But he didn’t die there?’

‘No, he died a long time afterwards, in France.’

‘So why would the skull have come back to Spain?’

‘Who knows? The owner of the house might have been responsible for the skull being stolen. They might have felt guilty and buried what they’d done, thinking it would never be found. How do I know?’ Carlos replied shortly. ‘I only know this much because I admired your mother and she used to tell me about her work and about Goya.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I was a builder, just a builder, but I liked her stories. And then later she used to talk to Diego and he used to come over when I was working at your house and play with Leon. And you … You don’t remember him?’

‘I remember him very well,’ Ben replied. ‘He used to get sunburned.’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’ Carlos frowned. ‘The day Diego found the skull, he rang and told me about it—’

‘Did he tell anyone else?’

‘I don’t know. I doubt it. He wasn’t the type to go around bragging …’ Carlos trailed off.

‘What is it?’

‘He couldn’t hold his drink. Two beers and he’d talk. He could have told the barmaid at the pub when he came to London. Boasting a bit, trying to impress her.’

‘So anyone could have overheard?’

‘I suppose.’

‘And passed on the information to Dwappa?’

Distressed, Carlos shook his head. ‘I told him to get rid of the skull! Give it to a priest and have it buried. It’s bad luck to handle the dead. It was bad luck for my son. Bad luck for your brother. Bad luck for you.’ He stared at Ben. ‘Is your friend in danger?’

He nodded.

‘Yes, she’s in real trouble and I have to find her. Like I said, the man responsible for the deaths of Diego and Leon now has Abigail.’

‘He was after the skull?’

‘And he got it.’

Deliberately lying, Ben tried to protect Carlos Martinez from the whole truth, but the Spaniard was no fool.

‘But if he has the skull, why is he still after you?’

Ben let the question pass.

‘And why would he take your friend?’ Carlos sat upright, his back pressed against the chair as though he was bracing himself. ‘Have you got the skull?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Oh, God Almighty—’

‘Just help me,’ Ben pleaded. ‘Tell me what I need to know to find Abigail. I have to know who this man is. So far he’s had the upper hand. He watches me, follows me, threatens me – but I can’t see who I’m up against. And I have to, or he’ll win. D’you understand? I’m going to lose her.’ He was almost pleading. ‘I’m fighting a phantom, Mr Martinez, and I need your help.’

‘I don’t know what I can tell you.’

‘You said your son was being watched?’

‘He thought he was being followed in Madrid. And he knew he was being watched in London.’

‘Did he see who was watching him?’

‘He said it was a white man …’ Carlos concentrated. ‘Very fat.’

Tensing, Ben remembered what Leon had told him about being approached outside the Prado. By a sick, obese man. ‘Did he have a name for him?’

‘No.’

‘What about the two men you mentioned before? Larry Morgan and …’

‘Emile Dwappa.’

‘What can you tell me about them?’

‘Morgan went to jail last month—’

‘What about Dwappa?’

‘That bastard’s always around. Got his fingers in everything. Comes from a Nigerian family. There are dozens of them, all over the place. Some in the USA, some in Europe, a few in London. He’s always got people working for him – you can never get to him direct. Cruel bastard, they say.’ He hesitated, spooked. ‘I don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, Mr Golding. I want to help you, but—’

‘Don’t you want to know who killed your son?’

‘He’s dead. Knowing who killed him won’t bring him back,’ Carlos replied. ‘Knowing who murdered your brother won’t bring Leon back either—’

‘It might save the woman I love,’ Ben replied, knowing how much he was asking but unable to hold back. ‘If you want me to go, tell me now. I’ll go, I’ll understand. Just tell me to go and I will.’

Outside, a car horn sounded in the street, followed by the faint jingle of a mobile. Lighting up another smoke, Carlos stared blankly at the fireplace, trying to decide what to do. He was wondering how much he wanted to live, having lost his wife and son. Wondering how much he wanted a life away from the terrace he knew, transported into a high-rise ghetto. He was wondering what his wife would say – and then, finally, he leaned forward in his seat.

‘Dwappa’s into gambling and trafficking—’

‘Trafficking?’

‘Rumours, yes. They say he traffics kids for adoption by rich white people.’ Carlos could see he had said something important and hurried on. ‘They said he can get anything for a price. He’s very clever, never been jailed, never been charged with anything. Probably because everyone’s so scared of him.’

‘And he’s scared of nothing?’

‘His mother,’ Carlos replied, glancing around as though he expected her to be in the room, listening. ‘If Emile Dwappa’s dangerous, his mother is ten times more so. If I remember rightly, I think she’s got a shop—’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. Because if I do, I might recognise it. I might have bought something in it. Might have given money to the mother of man who killed my son.’ He bit down on his lip to calm himself. ‘She deals in animals …’

Ben thought of the pig’s head which had been stuffed into the hotel lavatory.

‘Imports them from all over. Monkeys, reptiles, rare animals. And she deals in black magic, they say. Maybe that’s what some of the animals are for. Voodoo.’ He smiled hopelessly. ‘I’ve never seen her, but people talk about her like you’d talk about the Devil. I’ve never known anyone inspire such fear. Someone said she’s responsible for eleven deaths over the last twenty years.’

‘And you believed them?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But it’s a reputation which would put the fear of God into anyone, isn’t it?’

Of everything he had heard, it had been the trafficking which had caught Ben’s attention most. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Bobbie Feldenchrist had just got a child from the same man who had sold her the skull. It had to be Dwappa … Slowly he ran the name over in his mind, learning to hate it. Emile Dwappa. Emile. Dwappa.

‘Are you going to try and find him?’ Carlos asked quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t mess with people like him. Look what happened to your brother, to my son—’

‘How can I not mess with him?’ Ben countered. ‘I have to get Abigail back—’

‘And the skull?’

‘What about it?’

‘I’m guessing he wants the skull in return for her.’ When Ben didn’t answer, Carlos continued. ‘So give it to him, Mr Golding!’ He paused, seeing the empty look on Ben’s face, a shudder going through him. ‘Oh, Christ, you haven’t got it, have you?’

Without answering, Ben rose to his feet and walked out.

62

As he walked back along the street, Ben could sense that he was being watched and felt in his pocket for the Stanley knife he had bought. If anyone attacked him again, he would have something to fight with. He could at least leave a mark on his assailant. Hurriedly, he crossed at the lights, making for his car and getting into the front seat. Locking the doors, he thought over what Carlos Martinez had told him.