‘I hadn’t heard about Mr Golding’s death. He was a gifted historian.’ Her gaze fixed on the case, hardly daring to believe what she was thinking. ‘Was the skull found with Mr Golding?’
‘No, there was no sign of it in the hotel room.’
‘Was it at his house?’
‘No.’
‘So what happened to it?’
‘Apparently it was stolen.’
‘Stolen?’ she echoed, her eyes flicking from his face back to the bag at his feet. ‘Do the Prado know?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And Bartolomé Ortega?’
‘He knows it’s missing.’
‘But he hasn’t found it?’
‘No.’
‘He has a lot of contacts and money. I would have thought Mr Ortega would have been able to get hold of the skull—’
‘His contacts must have failed him.’
‘But he would want it badly.’
‘He must have had the wrong contacts.’
‘Do I have the right one?’ she asked, staring at the dark leather of the case and imagining what was inside.
The skull of Francisco Goya – and she, Bobbie Feldenchrist, would own it. It wasn’t difficult to picture her coup, or the animosity which would follow from the likes of Bartolomé Ortega and the Prado. That an American would end up possessing a priceless Spanish treasure … The thought made her covet the skull even more. What a triumph for her and the Feldenchrist Collection. It would make the cover of TIME magazine, would be talked about in every artistic circle around the globe.
Bobbie tried to keep her thoughts composed, but longing overtook her. She sighed, taking in a breath. The skull wasn’t hers yet. Not yet.
‘Well,’ she repeated calmly, ‘do I have the right contact?’
In reply Dwappa bent down and lifted the case on to the table between them. Slowly he opened it. Bobbie leaned forward, her hands extended, but he brushed them away. Instead he lifted out the skull himself, passing it to her in silence.
She could feel her hands shake as they cupped the discoloured bone, her gaze travelling across the empty eye sockets and the jawline, her memory fleshing out the bareness until she could imagine the artist restored. The man who had pictured the Spanish court, the majas, the Disasters of War … Swallowing became difficult, emotion so intense it was almost erotic. To own this, to own the head of one of the greatest painters who had ever lived! She could see it in a display cabinet, behind unbreakable, bulletproof glass, with one of Goya’s pictures on display beside it. People would come from all over the world to visit the skull, to pay homage to the artist and, in doing so, to the Feldenchrist name. She would be recognised as the greatest collector alive, because she would own the greatest artistic relic in existence.
Her voice was husky when she spoke again. ‘Are you sure it’s genuine?’
He nodded. ‘I told you, I have authentication.’
Then he put out his hands.
Bobbie immediately leaned back, out of his reach. It did not matter that she was holding the head of a dead man, a skull which had been wrenched from a corpse. To her it possessed no spirituality, but was merely an emblem of triumph.
‘Give it back to me, Ms Feldenchrist.’
She was curt with desire. ‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Five million dollars.’
She made a short, snorting sound. ‘Five million!’
‘You have it.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘So give the skull back to me,’ he replied implacably.
‘Three million.’
‘I won’t bargain,’ the African said, staring coldly at her. ‘It’s a lot less than you paid for your son.’
She winced, remembering Joseph – then put all thoughts of him aside. ‘Five million is too much.’
‘The Prado would want this skull. No doubt they could raise the money.’
‘Five million? I don’t think so. Besides, they wouldn’t pay you for it. They wouldn’t do anything illegal.’
‘But Bartolomé Ortega might. And he’s a rival of yours, isn’t he? And I believe he was more to you in the past
Bobbie shrugged, trying to bluff. ‘So why don’t you go to him?’
‘Maybe I already have. Maybe I’m just waiting for the highest bidder.’
Bobbie stared at the African, her confidence fading. ‘Has he put in an offer?’
‘He might have done. What’s your offer?’
‘I’ll match his.’
‘No,’ the African replied, suddenly changing tack. ‘I think I might ask something else from you. What if I asked you to exchange your son for the skull …?’
The words made a hissing sound in her ears.
‘What would you say, Ms Feldenchrist? Give me your son and I’ll give you the skull.’
‘You’re not serious?’ she croaked, still holding the skull to her, the hard bone pressing into her chest.
‘What if I am? Your son for the skull.’
Incredulous, she stared at him – at the narrow head, the smooth, dark features, the seeming absence of malice in this most malicious of men. The skull seemed to rest against her, warming, soothing. No one else possessed such an object. No one. A woman could adopt a child any day. Hadn’t she proved that? But there was only one Goya skull – and she was holding it.
‘So, Ms Feldenchrist, what’s it to be? Your son or the skull?’
Her fingers were holding the head so tightly she could hear her nails scratch against the bone.
‘Just give me back your baby and you’ll beat Bartolomé Ortega. It’s not a hard choice for you to make, is it?’
‘I … I …’ she stammered.
‘Come on, make the choice!’
Letting out an odd mewling noise, Bobbie stared at him.
‘I …’
The African laughed suddenly, taking the skull from her hands. ‘Relax. I wouldn’t be so cruel,’ he said, his taunting over. ‘What would I want with that kid of yours? No, Ms Feldenchrist, I want money. I want five million dollars for this skull.’
She was beaten and she knew it.
‘All right. I can get it for you.’
‘I know that,’ he replied, tucking the skull back into the packing and closing the case. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow at four. You give me the money then, in cash, and I’ll give you the skull.’
Quickly he moved to the door, pausing by the elevator. Behind him, Bobbie leant against a pillar, her face ash white, her body drained. Finally the elevator came to a halt at the penthouse and Dwappa turned back to her.
‘Aren’t you lucky, Ms Feldenchrist?’
‘Why?’
‘That I didn’t make you choose,’ he replied, walking into the elevator and turning back to her. ‘When you think about our meeting later you’ll remember the choice you were ready to make.’ He smiled as the doors began to close. ‘What would it have been, Ms Feldenchrist? The baby or the skull?’
44
London
‘I had to come,’ Abigail said, walking past Ben into the hallway. Once inside, she kissed him, then pulled back and looked into his face. ‘You look terrible. Handsome, but terrible—’
‘You shouldn’t have come here. I told you not to.’
She ignored him. ‘I heard about Francis. I rang your rooms. Your secretary told me.’
She could see that Ben was shaken, Francis’s death coming so soon after Leon’s. Concerned, she touched his cheek, trying to soothe him. His composure was weakening. Other people might not notice it, but Abigail could see the difference. His appearance was altering, his outer, physical size somehow overwhelming the inner man.
‘What’s going on?’
‘You know what’s going on—’
She shook her head. ‘No, I know some of it, but not all. Talk to me.’
‘I can’t. I daren’t,’ he said, turning away from her and walking into his study. Alarmed, she followed him. ‘I want you to go back to France, Abi. Go back there until all this is sorted out.’