‘Ben, give me the bat,’ Leon had said, the nervous tapping of his foot giving away his impatience. ‘I want to play cricket.’
‘You’re such a liar! You know damn well you just want to give it to that girl. And girls aren’t even interested in cricket. Dad gave you that bat—’
‘And Dad’s dead,’ Leon had replied. But the steam had gone out of him and, shrugging, he had glanced down, trailing his kid’s foot along the dry earth. ‘One day I’m going to be someone. I’m going to be famous. Marry the best-looking girl in Spain. One day people will know my name. You’ll see, Ben – one day everyone will know my name.’
The memory vanished as a car horn blasted alongside Ben, making him jump back from the kerb, the magazine dropping to his feet. Putting up his hand to stop the oncoming cars, he bent down to retrieve it, ignoring the impatient tooting as he moved back on to the sidewalk. Still immersed in his own thoughts, he walked into a cafe and ordered an espresso and Danish, opening the magazine and spreading it out on the table in front of him.
The piece described the impressive Feldenchrist Collection, their particular interest in Spanish art, and Harwood Feldenchrist’s ruthless acquisition techniques – techniques he had passed down to his daughter. As he sipped his coffee Ben read on about Bobbie Feldenchrist, her two failed marriages, her brush with cancer, and her recent adoption of an African baby.
An African baby …
Throwing some coins on to the table, Ben left the cafe, the magazine pushed deep into his pocket. Walking quickly, he hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the Feldenchrist Collection, off Park Avenue.
The cabbie looked at him through the rear-view mirror.
‘You English?’
‘Yes.’
‘This your first trip?’
‘No.’
‘You here on business?’
‘In a way.’
‘So, what you do for a living?’
‘I’m a surgeon.’
‘You’re kidding me!’ the cabbie replied, obviously shocked as he took another look at the big, crumpled man in the back seat. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, but you don’t look like no doctor to me.’
‘I had a bad flight,’ Ben said simply, lapsing into silence.
When the cab finally dropped him off at the main entrance to the Feldenchrist Collection Ben paused, catching a reflection of his image in a glass door. Taking off his coat and trying to smooth down his hair, he moved from the warmth of the city into the crisp, air-conditioned cool of the gallery building. Obviously the Goya skull was big news, posters already advertising Bobbie Feldenchrist’s coup, a massive image of the skull itself erected over the Reception desk.
Ben stared at it as though mesmerised. He thought of Detita and her stories, of his childhood growing up near the old site of the Quinta del Sordo, and of Leon showing him the skull that first time. On that hot afternoon, in his study … But what he also noticed was the absence of something. Goya’s skull had had three holes in it. This had only two.
It was definitely the fake.
A moment later a small group of people entered, walking in a huddle, a manicured woman in their midst. Her face was impassive, the same as it was on the magazine cover. Stepping back, Ben watched her progress as a photographers took a series of pictures, Bobbie Feldenchrist pausing momentarily under the vast poster of the skull.
‘Ms Feldenchrist,’ someone called out. ‘When is the skull going on display?’
‘We have to make sure that it’s completely protected before we can risk showing it to the public,’ she replied, sleek with success.
‘Will it be displayed behind bulletproof glass?’ another journalist asked.
‘My security advisors are looking into that at the moment.’
‘What about theft?’
‘The Feldenchrist Collection has never been burgled—’
‘But surely the skull of Goya would be a real target,’the woman persisted. Bobbie turned to her.
‘The skull will be exhibited only when we are convinced that it’s completely safe from harm.’
‘So where is it now?’ Ben asked suddenly. The group turned to look at him, Bobbie glancing over their heads to catch sight of the questioner.
‘Who are you?’
‘An art lover,’ Ben replied, walking closer, ‘… who would like to know where the skull’s being kept.’
‘I hardly think I could tell you that. It would be a breach of security.’
‘Are you sure it’s authentic?’ Ben continued, the journalists glancing from him to Bobbie and sensing that there was something more to his questioning than idle curiosity.
‘The skull is Francisco Goya’s,’ Bobbie replied. She was about to walk away when Ben called after her.
‘Who authenticated it?’
She stopped in her tracks, turning back to him. ‘When the skull is exhibited, its history will be published along with the authentication papers.’
Francis Asturias’s papers, stolen with the real skull. The same papers which had been stolen with the fake. Real papers, wrong skull.
‘Why can’t you tell me who authenticated it?’
‘Who are you?’ Bobbie asked curtly.
‘Someone who has a long-held interest in the skull.’
He could see her react. The momentary shimmer of unease.
‘Well, I’m sure if you leave your name and address my colleagues will be pleased to invite you to the opening night, where all your questions will be answered in full—’
‘I’d like to talk to you now,’ he retorted, moving to her side and edging one of the security guards out of the way. Dropping his voice, he said quietly, ‘My brother was Leon Golding. Talk to me – or I’ll talk to these journalists instead.’
Putting up her hand to keep the guards back, Bobbie forced herself to smile as she shook hands with Ben, throwing the journalists off balance and giving the photographers a posed shot. Then she guided him into the back of the gallery. When they were out of sight her smile faded and she ushered her unwelcome visitor into her office.
‘What the hell is all this about?’
‘The Goya skull was stolen. From me—’
‘Hah!’ she said shortly, ‘You can’t imagine how many lunatics have been writing to me saying the same.’
‘Their brothers weren’t murdered.’
She flinched. ‘I thought your brother committed suicide?’
‘Leon was killed. For the Goya skull.’
Laughing, she tried to appear nonchalant. ‘I don’t think so.’
It wasn’t entirely unexpected that someone would challenge her right to the skull, but she hadn’t expected the challenge to come from this quarter. Taking a deep breath, Bobbie looked at the man in front of her, wondering how to play him.
‘The Feldenchrist Collection bought the Goya skull for an undisclosed sum of money, in order that it be preserved and exhibited worldwide. We have been in touch with the Prado, Madrid, and are already in talks about allowing them to exhibit it on loan.’
‘Who did you buy it from?’
‘You don’t need to know that, Mr Golding,’ she replied. ‘It was purchased from a respectable source.’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t need to know that—’
‘But I do,’ Ben replied, leaning forward in his seat. He was cold with tiredness and exasperation, crumpled from a hurried flight, with nothing for company but the memory of his dead brother. ‘I think someone came to you with the skull – someone not in the least respectable. And I think you wanted that skull so much you didn’t ask too many questions, just forked out what they asked. It would be worth it to you – to get one over on all the other collectors and even the Prado. I can see how that would be difficult to resist. But still, dealing with the wrong type – weren’t you worried that it would get out? Tarnish the Feldenchrist name?’
She flinched and he caught the reaction.
‘Or maybe,’ – he paused, his thoughts clicking, ratchet by ratchet, into place – ‘maybe he had something on you? Did he blackmail you?’