A solution to his problems came to Bartolomé in that instant. He might not have the skull of Goya, but he had the theory of the Black Paintings. True or not, it was artistic Semtex, enough to cause an explosion of interest in his own collection overnight. If he said the theory was his, who would challenge him? And if anyone did, he had been working on the paintings’ meanings for years so it was quite plausible that he might have come to the same conclusions as Leon Golding …

Bartolomé’s usual integrity deserted him, bitterness taking precedence. Honour was for fools. His grandfather had known that. Gabino knew that. So why should he behave differently? he asked himself. What reward was there in being noble? What recompense for industry and integrity? What was the prize awarded him for a blameless life? A cheating wife. A treacherous brother. Another man’s child foisted upon him.

His thoughts slid onwards. No, he couldn’t punish his wife or his brother publicly, but he could torture them privately. Clutching the papers, Bartolomé thought of Gina and how she would make Gabino jump. How every day of their marriage she would torment and hound him, curtailing his activities, and if he resisted she had only to come to Bartolomé and he would reduce his brother’s allowance to a pittance.

As for his wife … Bartolomé’s hands rested on the papers, then he reached for the phone and tapped out a number he hadn’t used for over a decade.

And in New York, Bobbie Feldenchrist answered and began to listen.

65

London

Anxious for the safety of Carlos Martinez, Ben drove over to the old man’s house and knocked. Then he knocked again. Impatiently, he waited, looking around, but the place was in darkness and when he peered through the letter box, the hall was cool and empty.

‘What you doing?’

Ben turned to find a sullen girl watching him. She had a baby balanced on her hip and was wearing a plastic bomber jacket, with three rows of silver rings in her ears.

‘I was looking for Carlos—’

‘He’s not in.’

‘D’you know where he is?’

She shook her head, shifting her baby from one hip to another. ‘I dunno. Why d’you want him?’

‘I was just coming to see him—’

‘I never seen you round her before,’ she said, her plucked eyebrows raised. ‘You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen round here. You police?’

‘No.’

She thought for a moment. ‘He went out – Mr Martinez. He went out a bit back. Rushed off, in a hell of a hurry.’

‘Did he say where?’

‘Nah, I just saw him. I didn’t talk to him.’

‘Was he on his own?’

‘Relative?’

Ben frowned. ‘What?’

‘Are you a relative? I mean, coming here, asking all these questions. You must be family.’

‘No, I’m a friend.’ Ben paused, then corrected himself. ‘I was a friend, a long time ago … Mr Martinez’s son—’

‘He was killed, wasn’t he?’ she said, putting a dummy in her baby’s mouth and jiggling him on her hip. ‘Shame that. People round here talked about it a lot—’

‘Did you know Diego?’

‘Nah.’ She studied Ben, curious and wanting to talk to ease her boredom. ‘Never met him.’

‘Does anyone know why he was killed?’

She cocked her head over to one side. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘I’m worried about Mr Martinez,’ Ben said in reply. ‘You said he left in a hurry.’

‘That don’t mean nothing.’

Glancing about him, Ben hesitated before asking the next question. ‘Look I need some information and I’m wondering if you can you help me. I’m looking for a shop.’

‘You do a lot of looking too.’

He smiled, the girl smiling back in return. ‘What kind of shop?’

‘Mama Gala’s.’

Her friendliness closed off as she turned and began to walk away, Ben following. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you …’

She was walking fast, the baby mewling and mouthing at its dummy.

‘Just tell me where the shop is.’

She stopped and turned to him. ‘Three streets from here. Turn left, right, walk to the end of Lamb Lane, cut through the alley into Gardenia Street. It’s the shop in the middle of the row – you can’t miss it. Although, frankly, I would.’

‘Has it any connection to Emile Dwappa?’

‘It’s his mother’s place,’ she replied, turning then turning back. ‘It’s not for the likes of you—’

‘How d’you know that?’

‘You’ll see,’ she said, moving off. ‘You’ll see.’

Mama Gala was sitting in the semi-dark. She had closed the shop and finished cashing up, and was now listening to the soft moaning coming from the room above. The bloody Englishwoman had woken up. Fuck her. Heaving herself to her feet, Mama Gala walked to the bottom of the stairs, calling for the old woman above. A moment later, her wizened head appeared over the banister.

‘Shut her up,’ Mama Gala said simply. ‘Shut her the fuck up.’

The old woman said nothing, just moved off. Mama Gala waited – two seconds, three seconds, four, and then silence. The moaning had stopped. Her slow gaze moved to the front door of the shop and then out into the street beyond as she scratched the back of her head.

She had given her son one last chance to prove himself. She hadn’t asked what the drugged woman was for; she wasn’t interested what Emile did with her. All that concerned her was money and the getting of it. She had guessed that the woman was to be bartered – for what, she didn’t know and wouldn’t ask. All Mama Gala had done was to elicit a promise – under threat – that her son would make a deal to transport them from Gardenia Street to Money Land and remain firmly, irrevocably, under her greasy thumb.

Sitting down again, she stared at the locked door of the shop. Something told her that tonight would bring changes, that by morning the life she knew would be over. Slowly and deliberately Mama Gala hummed under her breath, her breathing rank and quick with excitement.

Checking his watch, Ben frowned. Time was slipping away from him and before long he would face Emile Dwappa and be forced to admit that he didn’t have the skull. That he had nothing to offer in return for Abigail. And then what?

Ben knew that if he had any chance of saving his lover he had to find the real skull before ten p.m. Getting back into the car, he reached for his mobile and put in a call.

Mrs Asturias answered immediately, her tone imperious. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Ben Golding. I came to see you the other day—’

‘I remember, I’m not senile!’ she snapped. ‘What is it now? Did you find the skull?’

‘No,’ Ben replied, ‘and I have to. You’ve no idea how important it is that I do.’

‘My husband died because of that bloody skull, so I can guess.’ Her tone was sharp, businesslike. ‘You rushed off very quickly the other day after you’d read something on Francis’s computer. I have to admit I couldn’t help looking at it afterwards. Meant nothing to me. What was it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Ben said honestly, ‘but—’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Have you any idea where Francis could have hidden that skull?’

‘I’ve thought about that ever since you came to see me, but I’ve no more idea than I had then.’

‘He had a strange sense of humour. Maybe he put it somewhere only you could guess? Or maybe the hiding place is a play on words?’ He was scrabbling for inspiration. ‘Francis liked reading, liked crosswords and jokes. He always had a clever turn of phrase. He was good with words—’

‘Especially four-letter ones.’

‘Perhaps he put it somewhere funny.’

‘Funny?’

‘Humorous. Somewhere that would be a joke.’ Ben faltered. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.’

‘Believe me, Mr Golding, if there was anything obvious – or even peculiar to us, to Francis and me – I would have told you.’ She sighed expansively. ‘I went through all his things, like people do when someone dies. I thought I’d find something which might help you, or maybe even a love letter he had never sent. To me, of course. I find I’m rather sentimental all of a sudden.’ Her voice teetered, then righted itself. ‘In some ways, Francis was a bloody fool of a man. I used to tell him that I’d leave him and find myself someone better, but he knew I never would … God loves drunks and fools – and I find I agree with Him on the latter.’