great as your brother’s. It would have been a coup for me. But it wasn’t genuine. I feel rather foolish about it, actually,’ Leon went on. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep this quiet—’
‘How d’you know?’
‘What?’
Shaw could sense Gabino’s rage and disappointment. It came off him like a hiss, a noise so faint it was barely discernible. His hands left his pockets, clasped in front of his body instead. But what should have been a praying motion came off as curiously threatening.
‘I asked how you knew the skull was a fake.’
‘I … I … had it examined.’
‘By who?’
‘Mr Ortega,’ Leon started, his nerves beginning to show, ‘what’s all this about?’
‘The skull, Mr Golding,’ Gabino said coldly. ‘It’s about the skull. Who examined it?’
‘A colleague,’ Leon replied, ‘A man I trust implicitly—’
‘He could be wrong. Where’s the skull now?’
‘Buried,’ Leon said shortly.
‘Where?’
Disconcerted, Leon blundered on. ‘I gave it to the church to deal with—’
‘
The church.
’
‘Of course. So they could lay it to rest in consecrated ground …’ Leon glanced around, as though anxious no one should hear what he was about to say. ‘To be honest, I feel rather awkward about the whole matter. I was verynearly taken in, fooled. I should have known better after being in the business for so long. Should be used to disappointments. The art world’s full of forgeries. But you keep hoping … I’m afraid I have to be getting on now. I have an appointment.’ Leon ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his smile wavering. ‘It was good to see you again.’
Hurriedly, he turned and walked off, his gait stiff because this time he
knew
he was being watched.
10
Shaking two headache pills into the palm of his left hand, Leon took a gulp of water and swallowed them. How the hell had Gabino Ortega heard about the skull? Ortega of all people. If he’d heard about it, Bartolomé would want the skull, and Gabino would want to please his brother. He was always trying to ingratiate himself, or get more money off him. And Gabino would do anything to placate his brother after that public brawl with the banker … Jesus! Leon thought, panicked. He would go to any lengths to get hold of the skull. He was disreputable – everyone knew that. Besides, how easy would it be for Gabino Ortega to
steal
it?
But the skull was in London
, Leon told himself. It was safe. Ben had it. Besides, Gabino looked like he had swallowed the story about it being a fake. He’d seemed shaken … Leon sighed raggedly. Who was he kidding? By now Gabino would have recovered his cunning. He’d be trying to find out more, like who had examined the skull or which church had been supposedly approached for burial … Leon found himself trembling, hardly able to hold the glass of water in his hand.
It was
his
find!
He
had been given the skull. It was his discovery, his stab at greatness. The Ortegas had no right to it. They had so much, why should they steal
his
triumph? Bartolomé Ortega had spent fortunes on trying to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings and failed – he wasn’t the man who was supposed to succeed. It was Leon’s triumph and his alone.
His anger was childish and desperate, the glass dropping from his hand and shattering on the floor just as Gina walked in.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine, fine …’
Puzzled, she glanced at the broken glass. Over his shoulder she could see the reproductions of Goya’s Black Paintings. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m working on the book. You’ve been encouraging me for weeks.’
She slid into his lap, red hair falling over her cheek. ‘I hardly see you any more, darling. And I could help, Leon – honestly I could.’
‘I can manage,’ he said, dismissing the idea out of hand. He didn’t want anyone interfering in his work, not even Gina.
Although she had encouraged him, researched books for him, even obtained reproductions of some
‘How d’you know?’
‘What?’
Shaw could sense Gabino’s rage and disappointment. It came off him like a hiss, a noise so faint it was barely discernible. His hands left his pockets, clasped in front of his body instead. But what should have been a praying motion came off as curiously threatening.
‘I asked how you knew the skull was a fake.’
‘I … I … had it examined.’
‘By who?’
‘Mr Ortega,’ Leon started, his nerves beginning to show, ‘what’s all this about?’
‘The skull, Mr Golding,’ Gabino said coldly. ‘It’s about the skull. Who examined it?’
‘A colleague,’ Leon replied, ‘A man I trust implicitly—’
‘He could be wrong. Where’s the skull now?’
‘Buried,’ Leon said shortly.
‘Where?’
Disconcerted, Leon blundered on. ‘I gave it to the church to deal with—’
‘
The church.
’
‘Of course. So they could lay it to rest in consecrated ground …’ Leon glanced around, as though anxious no one should hear what he was about to say. ‘To be honest, I feel rather awkward about the whole matter. I was verynearly taken in, fooled. I should have known better after being in the business for so long. Should be used to disappointments. The art world’s full of forgeries. But you keep hoping … I’m afraid I have to be getting on now. I have an appointment.’ Leon ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his smile wavering. ‘It was good to see you again.’
Hurriedly, he turned and walked off, his gait stiff because this time he
knew
he was being watched.
10
Shaking two headache pills into the palm of his left hand, Leon took a gulp of water and swallowed them. How the hell had Gabino Ortega heard about the skull? Ortega of all people. If he’d heard about it, Bartolomé would want the skull, and Gabino would want to please his brother. He was always trying to ingratiate himself, or get more money off him. And Gabino would do anything to placate his brother after that public brawl with the banker … Jesus! Leon thought, panicked. He would go to any lengths to get hold of the skull. He was disreputable – everyone knew that. Besides, how easy would it be for Gabino Ortega to
steal
it?
But the skull was in London
, Leon told himself. It was safe. Ben had it. Besides, Gabino looked like he had swallowed the story about it being a fake. He’d seemed shaken … Leon sighed raggedly. Who was he kidding? By now Gabino would have recovered his cunning. He’d be trying to find out more, like who had examined the skull or which church had been supposedly approached for burial … Leon found himself trembling, hardly able to hold the glass of water in his hand.
It was
his
find!
He
had been given the skull. It was his discovery, his stab at greatness. The Ortegas had no right to it. They had so much, why should they steal
his
triumph? Bartolomé Ortega had spent fortunes on trying to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings and failed – he wasn’t the man who was supposed to succeed. It was Leon’s triumph and his alone.
His anger was childish and desperate, the glass dropping from his hand and shattering on the floor just as Gina walked in.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine, fine …’
Puzzled, she glanced at the broken glass. Over his shoulder she could see the reproductions of Goya’s Black Paintings. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m working on the book. You’ve been encouraging me for weeks.’
She slid into his lap, red hair falling over her cheek. ‘I hardly see you any more, darling. And I could help, Leon – honestly I could.’
‘I can manage,’ he said, dismissing the idea out of hand. He didn’t want anyone interfering in his work, not even Gina.
Although she had encouraged him, researched books for him, even obtained reproductions of some
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