‘Francis has already done it,’ Ben said patiently. ‘That’s one of the reasons I was ringing you. The reconstruction looks good. I’ve seen it—’
‘And?’
‘It’s Goya. What d’you want me to do with it?’ He waited, expecting an answer. ‘Leon, are you there?’
‘It really is Goya’s skull …’ He was whispering, hardly audible. Unnerved, spooked.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I dreamt it would be Goya’s and it really is …’ Leon’s exhilaration fluttered, then faltered as he remembered Jimmy Shaw. The enormity of the situation overweighed his excitement and he found himself – as always – turning to Ben for reassurance.
‘Gabino Ortega was asking me about the skull—’
‘How did he know about it?’
Leon stood up and closed the window. Even though it was hot and the room would be suffocating within minutes, he didn’t want to risk being overheard.
‘I don’t know how he heard. No one was supposed to know apart from me, the Prado, and obviously the builder who found it.’
‘D’you think he talked? Regretted giving the skull to you when he could have sold it to someone like Ortega?’
‘No! Diego Martinez is a simple man, a good man. His father owed our parents a favour and it was his way of repaying them. By giving me the skull …’ Leon trailed off, clinging to the phone. ‘I told Gabino Ortega it was a fake, that I’d got rid of it. I said I’d given it to the church for burial.’
Knowing Gabino Ortega’s reputation, Ben was wary. ‘Did he believe you?’
‘I think so … no, probably not.’ Leon turned away from the window. ‘Gabino’s brother, Bartolomé, lives in Switzerland. He’s the respectable face of the Ortega clan – and he’s desperate to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings. We’ve talked about it on the few occasions we’ve run into each other at auctions – he’s always asking me how my research is going. As though I’d tell him!’ Leon’s voice speeded up. ‘He’s obsessed by Goya. He’d do anything to get the skull off me.’
‘But you said it was Gabino who approached you.’
‘Yes, it was. But think about it! Gabino would want to get the skull for his brother. He’s always sucking up to Bartolomé, because he funds his lifestyle. Gabino would see the skull as a way to ingratiate himself. Besides, he’s here in Madrid. He probably thinks he has a better shot at getting it than Bartolomé in Switzerland—’
‘Leon—’
He wasn’t about to be interrupted.
‘Gabino’s a thug. Everyone knows that. Their grandfather killed his own wife, for Christ’s sake! Of course they couldn’t prove it and bought the police off. With that kind of blood in your veins, it’s no surprise Gabino turned out the way he is. Always in fights. All kinds of rumours follow him around. I heard he’d—’
‘Leon,’ Ben said quietly, ‘donate the skull to the Prado. That way it belongs to Spain and no individual can own it.’
‘Give it away?’ Leon shouted. ‘Are you bloody crazy? Can’t you see that all these people who want it only prove how important it is?’
‘Who are “all these people”?’
‘What?’
‘You said “all these people”, but you’ve only told me about the Ortega brothers. So who are they?’ Ben was silent for a minute, then pushed his brother. ‘Leon, tell me what’s going on.’
‘The other day … a man approached me in the Prado. A big fat Englishman. Sick, very sick.’ Leon automatically wiped his hand down his trouser leg as though wiping off all traces of Jimmy Shaw. ‘He said someone had hired him to get the Goya skull. Said that he had a buyer for it. He warned me that the man was very dangerous—’
‘Christ!’
‘He scared the hell out of me!’ Leon admitted. ‘He offered money, any amount I wanted – just said that if I had any sense I’d get rid of the skull. He said, “If you knew what’s coming to you, you’d sell it to me now. You’d get the fucking thing off your hands and keep yourself safe.”’
‘Go to the police—’
‘He said he was trying to save me. And that I could save him.’ Leon thought back. I’m trying to save you, Mr Golding. Please, save me. Once he had started to confide, he couldn’t stop, his panic rising. ‘That was two days ago. I came back home and I haven’t been out since. Just been working on my theory about the paintings. Just stayed home working … you know, working …’
Anxious, Ben tried to calm his brother down. ‘How did you leave it with Gabino Ortega?’
‘I said the skull was a fake.’
‘And the Englishman? Did you get a name?’
‘No.’ Leon glanced at the paper half hidden under the desk lamp. ‘Just a mobile number.’
‘Give me the number.’
‘I won’t have time,’ Leon said suddenly.
‘Time for what?’
‘To finish! To finish!’ he cried, distraught. ‘I nearly solved the last part this morning … I have to write it down, Ben. If I don’t get there first, I’ll lose. Someone will get the answer before me; they’ll get the glory—’
‘What answer?’
‘To what the Black Paintings mean!’ Leon snapped. ‘I’ve got it solved. I know what Goya did. Why he was ill. I know something that could have changed history. But I need the skull back now. I have to get it back!’
Ben could hear the staccato rhythm of his brother’s voice, the threat of hysteria which always precipitated another attack.
‘Leon, you are taking your medication, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t want the fucking medication! It makes me slow; I can’t think when I take it. I’ve found out so much – things you wouldn’t believe—’
‘I don’t care about your work, I care about you. I’m worried about you.’ Ben’s voice was steady. ‘Go to the police—’
‘Fuck off!’
‘OK, then give me the number of the man who approached you—’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll give it to the police.’
‘And then they’ll know about the skull!’ Leon shrieked. ‘It would be all over the papers within hours. You’re worried about me now – what about then? When it’s public knowledge, how many more people will want to get hold of it?’
‘Then do what I suggested, Leon. Get it off your hands. Donate the skull to the Prado. Make an announcement publicly so everyone knows you don’t have it any more—’
‘I can’t give up on it! I’m inches away from telling the world what happened to Goya. I can’t just walk away now!’
‘You can’t do this alone—’
‘I’m not doing it alone! Gina’s trying to help—’
It was the last thing Ben wanted to hear. ‘Gina!’
‘She told me that we have to keep the skull safe. She wants to protect me and my work.’
‘What the hell does she know about it?’
‘We had a seance—’
‘Oh, Christ, Leon!’
‘The medium thought that if we had Goya’s skull we much be able to reach him.’
Incredulous, Ben struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘You really think you can get in contact with Goya?’
‘Why not? The medium contacted Detita.’
The name swung into action and with it a malignancy which took Ben straight back to his childhood.
‘Detita is dead. No one can bring back the dead. Detita is dead and Goya is dead, Leon … Listen to me. This is bloody ridiculous. You can’t let people fill your head with all this crap. As for Gina, I know you care about her, but she’s not reliable—’
Leon dropped his voice, almost shamefaced. ‘She’s done some research on the internet for me—’
‘Please, stop this.’
‘I can’t,’ Leon replied, his tone distant, resigned.
Behind Ben, the door of his consulting room closed suddenly, making him jump. Looking round, he checked that no was listening and then realised that he was clinging on to the phone so tightly the bones of his knuckles were straining against the skin. The hand found in the Little Venice canal came into his mind unbidden, followed by an image of the head the police had found later, the face mashed into nothingness.