‘So, where is it?’
‘The chambermaid said she never saw any skull,’ Lopez replied. ‘She said she would have remembered something like that.’
‘Did she go through Leon Golding’s things?’
Lopez nodded, shifting in his seat. ‘You can’t let anyone know about this—’
‘About what? That you’ve got people working in the hotel, ready to thieve anything important they come across?’ Gabino pulled a face. ‘I’m not interested in what you do in your own time, only what you do for me. And now I want to know about Golding. Did the maid go through his things?’
‘She didn’t have time. The hotel room was never empty. Leon Golding checked in and stayed in. After he’d topped himself, his brother arrived and found the body—’
‘His brother found him?’
‘Yeah. And when the maid finally had the chance to get into the room, all Leon Golding’s stuff had gone.’
‘Ben Golding took it?’
‘Yeah.’ Lopez sucked at a hole in one of his back teeth. ‘But I know where he went – to the family house. His brother lived there with his girlfriend. She’s still there.’
‘And Golding’s there too?’
‘Yeah.’
Gabino paused, trying to think, trying to cover his annoyance at the fact that something which should have been so simple had turned out to be so complicated. Only an hour earlier he had received confirmation of his court hearing – the date set in a couple of weeks’ time. Even the Ortega money and lawyers had failed to get the assault charge dropped. There was a rumour that Gabino would be made an example of, his violence curtailed by a long overdue jail sentence.
He realised that in Switzerland his brother would have heard the news by now. He also knew that, having endured many years of Gabino’s excessive behaviour, this might well turn out to be the act which finally broke Bartolomé patience and terminated the gravy train. And now Gabino had lost sight of the one thing which could have placated his brother: the skull of Goya.
‘There’s one other thing …’ the old man said carefully. ‘Leon Golding’s brother is challenging the fact that it was suicide.’
‘Of course he killed himself!’ Gabino said impatiently. ‘Leon Golding was unstable. Everyone knew that.’
‘Did you know he was having tests done on the skull when he was killed?’
Gabino’s head jerked up. ‘Who was doing them?’
‘Dunno. But they were done in London.’
‘London?’ Gabino took in an irritable breath. ‘How d’you know?’
‘I have my methods,’ Lopez replied enigmatically. ‘The skull is Goya’s. Proven.’
‘I knew it! He knew that bastard was lying when he said it was a fake … D’you know who found it and gave it to Leon Golding?’
‘Diego Martinez. A builder. Who’s since gone missing.’
‘Missing …’ Gabino replied thoughtfully, pulling at his shirt cuffs, the crescent-moon cufflinks catching the hot Madrid light.
‘I spoke to someone at the Prado,’ Lopez went on. ‘Since my restoring days I’ve had contacts—’
‘Get on with it!’
‘Apparently the Museum felt comfortable that Leon Golding should have carte blanche. He was one of their staff, after all. But he could have tricked the Prado. Gone somewhere else with the skull.’
Gabino could sense that the old man was working up to something. ‘Did he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lopez replied. ‘But I saw him talking to an Englishman called Jimmy Shaw a few days ago. I also saw the same Jimmy Shaw outside the Hotel Melise on the night Leon Golding committed suicide. Or did he? If his brother’s right, maybe Leon was killed. By Jimmy Shaw.’
‘And?’
‘Jimmy Shaw might have the skull now.’
Thoughtful, Gabino took a long breath. ‘Find out who Jimmy Shaw’s working for.’
The old man nodded, but didn’t get up to leave. Instead he kept talking. ‘It seems to me that you’ve got a real problem. You’ve only got a short time to find that skull for your brother.’ Lopez had already worked out the connection between the court case and Gabino’s allowance. ‘The skull could be with Jimmy Shaw or Ben Golding.’
‘Start with Shaw.’
‘I would – but I can’t find him,’ Lopez replied, leaning forward in his seat. ‘I found out where he’d been staying, but no one’s seen him for twenty-four hours, since Leon Golding was killed. He’s gone missing.’
‘So the builder who gave the skull to Leon Golding is missing, Leon Golding is dead, and now this Jimmy Shaw has disappeared.’ Gabino took in a slow breath, trying to fight his impatience. ‘Talk to Ben Golding. Make him an offer.’
‘He might want to keep the skull, out of respect for his brother.’
‘It was Goya’s fucking skull, not Leon’s!’
‘Still,’ Lopez persisted, ‘Golding might want to keep it. Might want the kudos for himself. Goya’s head would be very welcome in London – build up their tourist trade nicely.’
Gabino’s face was tight. ‘Ben Golding’s a doctor. What would Goya’s skull mean to him?’
‘More than you might think. The Golding brothers grew up close to where the Quinta del Sordo used to stand. Leon was an art historian. They probably know as much about Goya as any Spaniard. Ben Golding might believe that he has a right to the skull.’
‘Then disabuse him of the notion,’ Gabino said sharply. ‘And do it soon.’
32
Switzerland
All morning Bartolomé had waited for a phone call from his brother. He had expected Gabino to apologise, to try to explain as he usually did. Try to shrug off the charge of assault as something unimportant, a light-hearted misunderstanding that would be sure to be thrown out of court. Bartolomé knew otherwise. Gabino wasn’t walking away from having smashed a glass into a banker’s face. No one walked away from that. Not even one of the richest families in Spain could smother that.
The victim’s photographs had underlined the casual violence. His check had been slashed to the bone, his trigeminal nerve severed, leaving his face with a slack, left-sided droop. Bartolomé knew that a jury would look at that face and Gabino would be damned … But why should he care any longer? Bartolomé thought. He had made too many allowances for a brother who was corrupt. Had tried to ameliorate too many unpleasant and sordid situations.
Strangely it wasn’t the assault which had finally turned Bartolomé against his brother. It was the fact that Gabino hadn’t told him about the Goya skull.
‘Are you working?’ Celina asked, walking over to her husband’s chair.
‘No … not really.’
‘But you were thinking,’ she prompted him. ‘About what?’
‘Gabino.’
Sighing, she leaned against the desk and looked at Bartolomé intently. ‘The case?’
‘No … something else,’ Bartolomé admitted. ‘Something I haven’t told you about.’ She was surprised, but said nothing, just let him continue. ‘The skull of Goya has been found …’
Her hand covered her mouth automatically, smothering her response.
‘And Gabino heard about it.’
‘… and he’s got it for you?’
Smiling bitterly, Bartolomé shook his head. ‘No, he never even told me about it.’
Her expression hardened. ‘How long has he known?’
‘A week. I kept expecting a call from him. I even thought he might visit, surprise me with the news. They found the skull in Madrid. Gabino must have heard about it.’
Celina sighed, finding herself in the position she had occupied, on and off, for many years – between the two Ortega brothers; between two totally dissimilar men who had only a fortune in common.
‘But Gabino had no reason not to tell you—’
‘Malice,’ Bartolomé said flatly. ‘He knew how much it would mean to me and so he didn’t want me to have it.’