Now he had a name: Emile Dwappa. Finally he knew his adversary, knew the man who had abducted Abigail. The man who would ask for the skull in return for her safety. The skull he didn’t have, Ben thought hopelessly. If Francis had lived only moments longer he would know where it was, but Francis had died with the secret. And now he had nothing to bargain with. Empty-handed, impotent … Ben thought of the contact he had found on Francis’s computer, the email [email protected] – the same contact that had been in touch with Leon. The address that must belong to Emile Dwappa.

And yet Francis had never mentioned receiving that email. Had he hidden the fact deliberately? Was he – God forbid – involved with Dwappa in some way? Ben wanted to reject the idea, but forced himself to consider it. Had Francis Asturias betrayed him and tried to do business with Dwappa directly? Or had he overplayed his hand and swapped the skulls, believing that he could sell the original without anyone knowing? Was his supposed confusion during their last telephone conversation a double bluff? A way of pretending that he had been helping Ben, while instead he had secreted the skull away for his own later advantage?

Certainly Francis Asturias was clever enough to pull off a deception, but would he? Had boredom made him reckless? Or greedy? Turning on the engine, Ben suddenly noticed a piece of paper stuck under his windscreen wiper. Getting out of the car, he looked round the deserted street, then read the words.

THE SKULL FOR THE GIRL.

YOUR CHOICE.

He scanned the street again, but saw no one. Parked cars, a pub at the end of the road, but no people. No one suspicious. No one passing. No one watching. But he knew that in one of the houses, behind a door or at a boarded-up window, he was being scrutinised. Tense, he got back into the car and drove off, checking his rear-view mirror every few seconds on the uneventful ride home.

When he got back to his house Ben hurried in, locking the door behind him. Drawing the curtains and flicking on a lamp, he then glanced at his answering machine, but there were no messages. Surprised, he flipped on the computer. Among several emails – one from the principal of the hospital asking why he had temporarily passed over his patients to Megan Griffiths – there was an address Ben recognised: [email protected].

Taking in a slow breath, Ben opened the message.

Come to Lincoln’s Inn. Wait outside the Hunterian Museum at l0 p.m.

Bring the skull.

Sitting down, Ben typed a reply.

How will I know you?

He waited several minutes for an answer. It was short and clear.

I know you, that’s enough.

He could feel his heartbeat increase and glanced at the clock – four ten p.m. He had just under six hours to find Emile Dwappa.

Carlos’s words came back to him – Dwappa’s mother had a shop … She dealt in animals … voodoo … Animals. Ben paused, reaching for the phone book and looking under the heading Pet Stores. He knew that it had to be either in, or close by, Brixton, but other than that he had nothing to go on. Running down the list, he stopped as he saw Mama Gala’s Supplies. Something about the African name in among all the Indian and English names jumped out at him.

Reaching for the phone, he punched out a number. The handset picked up on the third ring.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you again. I just have to ask you one more thing,’ Ben said hurriedly. ‘Does the name Mama Gala’s mean anything?’

There was a tense silence.

‘Mr Martinez?’

Whoever was on the other end of the line said nothing, just replaced the receiver with a resounding click.

Unnerved, Ben stared at the phone. Had Carlos cut him off? Or was there a more sinister explanation? Ben knew he was being watched. Had someone followed him to Carlos Martinez’s house? Was someone there now, threatening the old man?

As if in answer the phone rang out beside him and Ben snatching it up.

‘Mr Martinez?’

‘No, it’s Mark Steinman,’ the principal of the Whitechapel Hospital replied shortly. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he snapped. ‘You’ve left your patients—’

‘In the care of my registrar.’

‘You think she’s capable?’ Steinman retorted.

‘It’s only temporary.’

‘I don’t care. You don’t just go off like that without getting authorisation.’

‘I had good bloody reason. Abigail Harrop was abducted from your hospital. Francis Asturias was murdered there. You think I’m upset? You’re fucking right I am!’

There was a pause before Steinman spoke again.

‘Face it, Ben, you’ve not been yourself since your brother died. I understand, but it was hardly a shock to anyone, was it? Your brother had always been unstable – his suicide was only a matter of time.’ His tone was midway between irritation and commiseration. ‘You have to see it from my point of view—’

‘Your point of view?’

‘As you’ve just pointed out, Francis Asturias was murdered here and your partner was abducted from one of our side wards. We’ve had the police around asking questions. It’s causing all kinds of disturbance, and frankly, your behaviour hasn’t helped matters.’ He paused, forming the next insult. ‘I thought you were a steady pair of hands, but I was mistaken. Megan Griffiths told me that you’d been preoccupied, jumpy, and that you’d been taking a lot of time off, getting her to fill in for you.’

And there it was – hospital politics. Ben’s personality clash with his registrar had finally given her an opportunity to undermine him – to make her first play for the top job. Megan Griffiths might want Harley Street, but she was savvy enough to know that being consultant, then senior consultant at the NHS Whitechapel, would shoo her in nicely for private practice.

To his chagrin, Ben realised he had played into her hands. At any other time he would have been more astute, but events had hobbled him and she had taken advantage.

‘I’ve worked at the Whitechapel for twenty years,’ he said slowly. ‘My work has been exemplary—’

‘I don’t argue with that,’ Steinman replied, ‘but what’s been happening lately would affect any man. No one blames you for being preoccupied, but your registrar isn’t the only person to notice the … change in you.’

What the hell was he intimating? Ben wondered. That he was losing his mind?

‘Change?’

‘Perhaps you’re tired. You should take some time off until everything’s sorted out. No one wants to see you having a breakdown.’

‘With due respect, Mr Steinman, I doubt you would have said that to any other consultant. Just because my brother was unstable doesn’t mean I am.’ He could feel his throat taut with anger. At the time he most needed support, there was none. Instead he was being threatened from every quarter, each part of his life capsized: his partner, his work, his life, even his sanity.

‘Ben, take a week off. Keep away from the hospital—’

‘Keep away?’

‘You need a change of environment.’

Furious, Ben snapped back. ‘Have you been talking to the police?’

‘Not about you. I just think you should take a week off.’

‘Are you sure a week’s enough for a breakdown?’

‘Well,’ Steinman replied damningly, ‘that depends on you, doesn’t it?’

Slamming down the phone, Ben ran his hands through his hair, struggling to contain his anger. He had been sucker-punched by Megan Griffiths and resented it. Resented being excluded from the Whitechapel. Resented being edged out by the police and his colleagues. He was, he realised, completely on his own. He had no allies. All he loved most had been destroyed or taken from him.

His gaze fixed on the clock. He had just under six hours to trace the man who had killed his brother and abducted his partner.