Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

The head of Francisco Goya was stolen from his tomb in the wake of his death. No one has ever known what happened to it.The most valuable--and dangerous--relic the world has even known. When the art historian, Leon Golding, finds Goyaâ??s skull his rivals gather: a ruthless female collector in New York; an immoral scion of the notorious Ortega family; and a killer hired by the most dangerous man in London. All of them are after the skull--and the man who has it.

Release date: May 6, 2014

Publisher: Quercus

Print pages: 371

Sample

Bordeaux, France, May 1828

Under a horned moon, two figures paused. It was past one in the morning in the cemetery, on a humid, early summer night, when even the insomniacs of the town were restlessly asleep. Both men knew that if they were caught they would be jailed. Grave-robbing, especially the plundering of the crypt of an important man, could result in a long imprisonment. Or worse.

Impatiently, the older man began to shuffle his feet, his companion breaking open the seal into the crypt. Together they entered, ivy leaves brushing against their faces as they hurried in. Shutting the door behind them, the younger man immediately lit an oil lamp.

‘It’s here,’ he said, holding up the light to illuminate the crypt.

The interior was dark and clammy with damp, the smell of mould oppressive as the man shone the light around the chamber. In the centre stood a large stone casket with a sealed lid, a mottled spider casting an intricate web over the lock, the lamplight flashing on the sticky threads. Without speaking, the man reached for his hammer and then brought it down violently, smashing the seal of the tomb.

‘Come on,’ he hissed at his companion. ‘We have to be quick.’

Pushing at the stone, they strained to move the weighty top off the sarcophagus. Grunting with the effort, they finally edged the lid open, the smell of decomposition hitting both of them and making the older man gag. Together they pushed the lid further. It shifted a little. Again, they pushed. It slid again. On the third try it crashed on to the floor on the other side of the sarcophagus. The noise was deafening in the confined space.

Losing his nerve, the older man hurried to the door and looked out. For a long, breathless moment they waited for the sound of someone raising the alarm. But the noise hadn’t woken anyone. Not even the stonemason who lived by the cemetery gates.

‘Help me,’ the younger man ordered.

‘I can’t—’

‘Shut up!’ the first snapped, turning back to the tomb and shining the light into it.

Expressionless, he stared at the remains of the man who had been buried a month before. As the odour increased – suffocating in the cramped vault – the robber could see that the corpse’s white collar and cuffs were stained with decomposition fluids, the face puffy and oozing, the crossed hands black on the underside of the fingers and palms where the blood had settled in death. Supposedly airtight, the sarcophagus had, however, leaked in enough oxygen and damp to begin decay. Sinkage in the ribcage and eye sockets was pronounced and the lips of the cadaver had shrunk, drawn back from the bared teeth like an animal about to attack.

Stooping down, he took out a knife and hacksaw from his bag and turned back to the sarcophagus. Leaning over, he pulled back the white grandee collar from the corpse’s throat, the smell intensifying as he touched the slime of the skin. Then, savagely, he drew his knife across the throat, the skin and muscle giving way and exposing the bone beneath.

‘Give me the hacksaw.’

Handing him the tool, the older man turned away, not seeing but hearing the repetitive sound of sawing. When he finally looked back, his companion had climbed into the coffin and was straddling the corpse. The cadaver’s flesh pooled under his fingers, his hands slipping as he sawed frantically at the neck bones. Finally, sweating with effort, the man tried to lift the head off, hoping to wrench it free from the body. The sound of cracking echoed in the dark crypt, the shadows of the grave robbers looming vast on the damp walls, the oil lamp flickering hellishly as he yanked at the head.

With a sickening crunch it came away from the body, the grave robber losing his balance and falling back against the corpse’s legs.

Slowly the horned moon sidled up the night sky, making chalk patches on the indigo earth. Moving furtively down a quiet road, the men kept to the shadow of the trees, then entered the Rue d’Arles, the younger man walking round the back of a large house and rapping on the door. Instantly a tall man appeared, putting his forefinger to his lips and ushering them into a shuttered basement room. That he had money was obvious from his clothes, his voice Parisian, at odds with the rural French spoken by the resurrection men.

‘You have it?’

‘In here,’ the younger man replied, holding up the sack.

Gesturing for him to put it in a nearby sink, the man handed him a wedge of money. ‘You must tell no one—’

‘We never did before. Why would we now?’

Nodding, the Parisian showed them to the door, glancing out and then beckoning to the men. ‘Say nothing to no one. Betray me and you’ll hang.’

‘And you?’ the grave robber replied. ‘They’ll do worse if they find out what you’ve done.’

London, the present day

The sweating, grotesquely fat man checked the address twice, looked round, then moved into the building. From the street it had looked like every other shop, the words MAMA GALA’S painted in large red letters at the top of the window, a selection of herbs, breads, nuts and pulses set out in an alluring display. Inside, a heavy African woman was serving a customer, laughing as she wrapped some arrowroot, wind chimes tingling eerily by the open door.

Nervous, the fat man walked over to her: ‘I came to see Emile Dwappa.’

Her smile faded. ‘No one called that here.’

‘I was told to come here.’ The man leaned towards the woman, who took a step back. ‘Mr Dwappa sent for me himself.’

Suddenly she relaxed, one fleshy black hand pointing to a door. ‘Go through there, right to the back. Then turn left and go up the stairs.’ She looked him up and down, laughing. ‘You’re one fat white man. One sweaty, fat white man.’

Embarrassed, he moved on, opening the door and walking into the large back room beyond. Immediately an unfamiliar smell hit him, and he flinched as he saw carcass after carcass of dried meat hanging on butchers’ hooks along one side of the wall. Flanks of dark red flesh, ribboned with yellow fat, swung in a breeze from the open back door; other smaller packages piled up on high shelves. As the man stared up at the butchery, a piercing screech sounded behind him.

Spinning round, he almost lost his footing as he stumbled against a large cage, a macaw flapping its wings at him, its yellow eyes fixed, hostile.

‘Christ!’

Hurriedly he moved on, passing more cages. Some held snakes, others small, feral monkeys looking out disconsolately, one peeing between the bars. The urine hit the floor by the man’s feet, its stench mixing queasily with the smell of dead meat and the ammonia of bird droppings.

Stumbling up the steep, narrow flight of steps, the obese man clambered into the darkness above. Grunting with the effort, he waited at the top of the stairs for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Every window was covered by blinds, daylight almost obliterated, and against a far wall was a sofa with two figures sitting on it, barely discernible in the dimness.

As the man walked in further, he could see a table on the left, the overwhelming scent of oleander and musk making him retch. Sitting at the table, a wizened black woman was cutting some herbs, a pestle and mortar beside her. At her feet sat a small, silent child, its arms curled around its knees. From below, the man could hear the sound of jazz music, punctuated by the screech of the caged birds and a monkey banging its feeding bowl against the bars.

The atmosphere was rancid, his curiosity forcing him on towards the sofa and the seated figures. Palms wet with sweat, he peered into the gloom. Then suddenly a match was struck, an African face coming into full view as Emile Dwappa leaned forward to light the candles in front of him. He was no more than thirty-five, his narrow head unexpectedly boyish, his eyes light against the black skin. Beside him lounged a woman, naked from the waist upwards, her left hand resting on one uncovered breast.

Dwappa smiled. ‘Mr Shaw …?’

The fat man nodded.

‘Take a seat.’

Jimmy Shaw eased himself on to an uncomfortable chair opposite the couple. Uneasy, he wiped his forehead and his palms, laughing nervously.

‘It’s hot in here.’

‘Central heating,’ Dwappa replied. ‘I like it hot.’

Listlessly the woman moved, her skirt falling open and revealing the inside of her right thigh. Running his tongue over his dry lips, the fat man stared, transfixed, his heavy suit damp under the armpits, his shirt collar rubbing his neck raw.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Facing Dwappa, Jimmy Shaw tried to remember what he had been told. Emile Dwappa was a businessman, with a reputation so sinister even the hard cases in Brixton were afraid of him. Rumours abounded and followed him like a gaggle of black geese. In the three years he had been in London, Dwappa had built up a terrifying reputation. You didn’t cross him – you didn’t even go anywhere near him – unless you wanted something very specific. Or worse, he wanted something very specific from you.

‘So where is it?’

The fat man wriggled in his seat. ‘Spain.’

‘I want it. Here,’ Dwappa said. ‘I have a buyer for the skull. How soon can you get it?’

Shaw shook his head, trying to think up a lie and wondering at the same time how Dwappa had heard about the Goya skull so quickly. The same skull which someone had already approached him about. In the criminal undercurrent of the art world, news always travelled quickly, but this speed had been even more remarkable than usual. In the last twenty-four hours two dealers, an Iranian collector and a museum curator had contacted Shaw. And one was offering a king’s ransom for Francisco Goya’s skull.

For over two hundred years the skull had been missing. All that was known for certain was that it had been taken around the time of Goya’s death in Bordeaux. No other facts were confirmed and the famous skull – emblematic of artistic genius – had vanished. Until now.

A failed art dealer, Shaw knew that there was a thriving trade in art relics. In the past, various and suspect parts of the saints had changed hands for money. Sometimes the Church paid up, wanting to retain a relic or to purchase one for a cathedral in an area which had need of a spiritual revival. But as religion lost its grip, secular art dealing became big business. In the decades which followed, sales and auction prices exploded in an orgasm of greed, and third-rate dealers like Jimmy Shaw found themselves edged out onto the shady periphery of the art world. Forced away from the high-octane embrace of London and New York, for men with more greed than morals a greasy slide into crime was inevitable.

And so Jimmy Shaw had become a handler. At first he had fenced stolen paintings, but gradually his slyness – and his contacts – promoted him into the select rank of men who stole to order. Collectors as far apart as Paris and Bahrain called on him to either find or thieve works of art. Naturally Shaw did none of the actual physical work; he had minions to do that for him. Men who needed money or a favour. Or, more likely, men who had something to hide. Something Shaw had winkled out of one of his other contacts. With impressive connections to old lags, runners, and gallery assistants looking to supplement their poor wages, Shaw had built up a network around London, expanding into Europe and even the USA. Physically repulsive, his sole companion was money and the whores it could buy. As his criminality had extended he had become bloated in body and amorality, normal life forever curtailed by his reputation and appearance.

But who needed respectability when they had a fortune? And Jimmy Shaw could see a huge fortune waiting for him. Goya’s skull had been found – let the bear-baiting begin. Of course he realised that competition for the relic would be intense. Everyone would want to own the skull. Collectors, dealers, museums – all of them grubbing around in the artistic mire to pluck an opal out of the shit.

The power and fame of Francisco Goya had never waned. His paintings were reproduced endlessly, his pictures and etchings revered, the notorious Black Paintings as frightening and compelling as they had always been. Oh yes, Shaw thought, he would make a fortune out of Goya’s skull. A fortune Emile Dwappa wasn’t going to snatch out of his hands.

‘It might be a rumour.’

‘What?’

Shaw coughed. ‘The finding of the Goya skull – it might just be a rumour. People have claimed that it was found before. But they were always fakes—’

‘I want it.’

I bet you do. You want it to sell it on – and then what do I get? A handler’s fee? Fuck off, Shaw thought to himself. The skull was his prize.

He could remember several years earlier when a supposed strand of Leonardo da Vinci’s hair had come on to the black market. Within hours Shaw had contacted collectors overseas, whipping up a frantic auction. In the end the relic was purchased by an Italian connoisseur in Milan. Hair, fingers or other bones from such legendary figures rarely came on the market, which was why they were so sought after. But a whole skull – Francisco Goya’s skull – would set a record.

Curious, Dwappa leaned forward in his seat. ‘I’ll pay you for bringing it to me.’

‘I don’t know if I can—’

‘You said it was in Spain.’

Fuck! Shaw thought. Why had he said that? He was nervous, that was why, but he couldn’t afford to be. Dwappa had a reputation, but so did he. A reputation for cunning. Perhaps he could outsmart the African.

‘I’ll ask around for you.’

‘What do you weigh?’

Shaw blinked, wrong-footed. ‘Huh?’

‘What do you weigh?’

‘Three hundred and forty pounds.’

‘Heavy …’

Shaw shifted around awkwardly on the hard chair. OK, so I’m a fat, ugly bastard, he thought – but I’m the one who’ll end up with the skull.

‘You have to get the skull for me. I have a buyer.’

Only one? Shaw thought, unimpressed. His confidence was beginning, slowly, to return. He knew that Emile Dwappa had never dealt in art before; he was naive. Perhaps a lot easier to cheat than he had first suspected.

‘As I say, I’ll ask around. But it might be difficult.’

‘I’ll pay you well,’ Dwappa replied.

Shaw allowed a glint of smugness to enter his tone. ‘I’ve already got plenty of money.’

‘I heard that.’

‘And I don’t need any more work.’

‘I heard that too.’

Smiling, Shaw turned his puffy face to the woman, then glanced back at Dwappa, who was watching him avidly. He could recognise something in the amber eyes: a cold heat and a total lack of empathy. Be careful, Shaw told himself. Be careful and you can still come out of this the winner.

‘Mr Dwappa,’ he went on pleasantly, ‘all I know is that the skull’s been found in Spain. That’s all the information I have.’

‘Who has it?’

Shaw shrugged. ‘I don’t know …’

He was lying. The man now in possession of Goya’s skull was an art historian called Leon Golding. An aesthetic intellectual who had lived and worked in Madrid all his life.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.’

Dwappa’s expression was unreadable. ‘You have to get that skull.’

‘Look, even if I could, it would take time. It’s not as easy as it sounds—’

‘You’ve stolen before—’

‘But not the skull of Goya!’ Shaw whined, wriggling on his seat. ‘Even if I could find it – which I doubt – I couldn’t do it in a couple of days.’

‘I’ll give you time.’

Wrong-footed, Shaw took a moment to reply. ‘Like I said, I don’t know anything—’

In one fluid movement the African lurched forward and struck. Shaw felt the blow and reeled back, then screamed with pain – Dwappa had driven a knife through the back of his hand, pinning it to the table underneath.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Shaw gabbled, blood spurting out from the pale, fatty flesh. ‘Jesus Christ …’

‘Get the Goya skull,’ Dwappa said, leaning forward and twisting the knife around in the wound, ripping up the flesh.

Screaming again, Shaw felt tears come into his eyes, his fingernails scratching at the table top in desperation as Dwappa’s hand moved towards the knife again. ‘No!’ he shrieked. ‘I’ll get the skull. I’ll get it!’

Leaning back in his seat, Dwappa watched the fat man’s face, greasy with fear. Sweat was soaking into his expensive suit, his flabby legs shaking.

‘You said the skull was in Spain?’

The fat man nodded. ‘Yes! Yes! In Spain.’

‘You know who has it?’

Despite his terror, Shaw’s guile was automatic. ‘I’m not sure. I think so … Anyway, I can find out.’

‘Good. Get the skull. For your own sake.’

Shaking uncontrollably, Shaw flinched when he saw the African raise his hand again. But he was only beckoning to someone across the room and a moment later the old woman walked over to him. Without saying a word, she handed Dwappa a paper with a ground-up substance on it. Behind him Shaw could hear the little girl laughing softly … Quickly, Dwappa pulled out the knife, then poured the soothing white powder over the wound in Shaw’s hand. His head slumped forward, the powder clotting and turning red as it mingled with his blood.

‘You can go now.’

The words took a while to register in Shaw’s brain, and then he stood up, swaying on his feet for an instant before he headed for the stairs. Holding his bloodied hand to his chest, he paused, but didn’t dare look back. The room undulated with heat and the oppressive odour of herbs and sweat. From the couch came the sound of the woman moaning and from below echoed the scrabbling of the monkeys’ claws.

As Shaw staggered downstairs, a sudden, hot burst of wind blew in from the back yard, making the macaw screech and claw at the cage bars and the snakes rise up and hiss. It shook the meat carcasses so violently that they lurched and jerked, swinging on their butchers’ hooks like a row of skinned men.

Madrid, Spain

The two Golding brothers stood beside the grave in a dry cemetery outside Madrid. The heat was building, the sun unhindered by clouds, the brass plaque on the coffin glistening like a lizard’s eye.

‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ Leon said, his voice so low Ben had to strain to catch it.

They were attending the funeral of the woman who had raised them. Head bowed, Ben could feel the sun burning the skin on the back of his neck and longed for the cool drizzle of London. He could sense Leon’s excitement as his brother stood beside him, the nervous scuffling of his feet, the intermittent hoarse coughs. Was he taking his medication? Ben wondered, stealing a glance at Leon, who was gazing, unblinking, into the grave. He wondered momentarily how his brother would cope with the loss of Detita – if the old woman’s death would herald another breakdown. But apparently Leon had something else on his mind, something so important that it overshadowed the funeral of a woman he had loved since childhood.

‘We have to talk—’ Leon said urgently.

‘We will. Later,’ Ben replied, looking down at the grave.

Irritated, Leon studied his brother. Tall and olive-skinned, any other man would have taken advantage of his appeal, but Ben had no vanity. He wasn’t a player either. In fact, for the last six years Ben had lived with Abigail Harrop, disappointing many nurses – and a couple of female doctors – at the Whitechapel Hospital in London, where he worked as a reconstructive plastic surgeon.

They had met when Abigail had been admitted as a patient after a car accident badly disfigured the left side of her face. Having been a good-looking woman she was affected both physically and psychologically by the accident and therapy had been of little use. Withdrawing into herself, she resigned from her job as an advertising executive and began to work from home, her only forays into the outside world being to the Whitechapel Hospital, or to visit her family. Depression didn’t overtake Abigail but shyness did. The self-confidence she had once taken for granted disappeared with the accident, and she would keep her head averted if anyone spoke to her. It was not the first time Ben had seen a pretty woman lose her looks overnight, but Abigail was different. Her lack of anger surprised him; her composure unfathomable.

It took Ben many months to realise that what really affected Abigail was her loss of appeal, something she had taken for granted before. Believing herself repellent after the accident, she rejected the opposite sex. Ben was the only man she turned to, first as a doctor, then later as a friend. Much later still, when she had left the Whitechapel Hospital, as a lover.

Restless, Leon continued the scrutiny of his brother. ‘We have to talk—’

‘Later.’

Glancing down at the coffin again, Leon could hear the priest’s monotonous litany of prayers and began to jiggle his left foot as Ben gazed at him questioningly.

There were only a few people at the funeral; the widowed Detita had had no family apart from a daughter who had left Spain long ago. Detita had been wealthy once – although she had never fully explained her background – but bad luck and widowhood had overtaken her. Coming to work for the Goldings, she had appealed to their cultured sensibilities, her breeding obvious and unusual for a housekeeper. Her Spanish hauteur, coupled with her domestic competence, ensured that within weeks she was indispensable.

Soon Detita found herself courted by her employers, who were only too pleased to have her take care of their sons during their frequent absences. Reliable and regal as a duchess, by the end of the first year Detita lived only for the boys. Taken into Miriam Golding’s confidence, she slid, boneless, into the family. So when an air crash over the Atlantic killed the parents, it was no surprise that Detita had been nominated the brothers’ guardian.

She took on the role like a Spanish grandee, and over the years which followed leaked tantalising – but measured – information about her past, enough to incite curiosity but never enough to satisfy. Indomitable, she ran the old ramshackle farmhouse, intimidating the gardener and shadowing the cleaner. She was a bully with her own people but the equal of her charges. For two Jewish boys growing up in the predominantly Catholic Madrid, Detita managed to straddle the gap between the heat and suspicion of Spain and the cool learning of the boys’ Anglo-American parents.

Although the brothers had been sent to an English boarding school in term time, when they returned to Spain Detita continued their education. She taught them fluent Spanish and took them to lectures and museums, pounding culture into them like a cook over-stuffing a pair of quail.

Leon had loved Detita very much – perhaps a little too much – but even her death couldn’t stop the overheated excitement in his brain. As the service ended, he grabbed his brother’s arm, leading Ben over to his parked car. His face was a mirror image of his brother’s in all but tone. Leon was a watercolour study, Ben a masterwork in oil. One paper, the other tempered canvas.

‘They’ve found the skull.’

Slipping into the driver’s seat, Ben looked at his brother and wound down the window. ‘Whose skull?’

‘I was thinking that you could get someone – a specialist – to look at it,’ Leon hurried on, ignoring the question. ‘You’re a doctor. You know people who could reconstruct it, check out the measurements, teeth. Do whatever you have to do. Just find out how old it is—’

‘Whose head?’

‘Goya’s.’

Ben smiled and leaned back in his seat. A sudden gush of hot wind made the leaves flap and sent dust eddies shimmying around the bonnet of their car.

‘His skull’s been missing for over two centuries—’

‘Until now. Builders were digging up the foundations of a house in Madrid, somewhere Goya stayed for a while. They found the skull under the cement in the cellar. The foreman, Diego Martinez, brought it to me, knowing I’d be interested in the possibility that it might be the artist’s. You remember Diego – we knew him as a kid, when he used to come to the house with his father. You must remember him.’

Ben frowned. ‘I don’t.’

‘Carlos fixed the guttering and the pipework.’ Leon sighed, irritated. ‘Diego was always getting sunburnt.’

‘How much did he ask for the skull?’

‘He didn’t charge me for it!’ Leon snapped. His voice was picking up speed, but he wasn’t manic. Not yet. ‘Jesus, what’s the matter with you? I thought you’d be interested. We grew up near to where the Quinta del Sordo used to be, for Christ’s sake!’ He paused, his tone coaxing. ‘Think about what this could mean for me. If it is Goya’s skull it would be world news – and it would make my reputation.’

‘They thought they’d found the skull before. But it was a fake—’

Leon wasn’t listening. ‘There’s an exhibition of the Black Paintings this autumn. What a coup that would be – the genius’s skull found just in time to coincide with the show. I’d be the most famous art historian on the bloody planet.’

‘If it’s genuine,’ Ben said calmly. ‘If it isn’t you’ll look a moron.’

‘But it is Goya’s skull! Goya died in Bordeaux in 1828 and was buried there until the Spanish authorities brought him back home to Madrid and re-interred him in 1899. Seventy-one years later.’

Ben sighed. ‘I know the story, Leon. God knows how many times Detita told us that Goya’s head was missing. But all this is supposition, not fact …’

Pausing, Ben glanced out of the car window, his own composure rattled by memory. Detita had made certain that her charges understood Spain and Spanish art. In her eyes, Goya came next after God. Ben could almost see her alive again, sitting at the kitchen table. Automatically he loosened his collar, the heat swelling, her image filling the car.

‘… Goya’s home, the Quinta del Sordo, was only a little way from here …’ she would begin, sitting down in the kitchen, her back straight, her eyes unreadable. Overhead, the old house would creak, water pipes banging, the sound of wild geese coming, mournful, over the river. It had been nothing like their school in England, where the trees grew rich and straight. It had been another country. Another country of location. And of mind. ‘… Goya was one of the greatest artists who ever lived.’

‘What about Michelangelo?’

She had made a dismissive sound as she turned to Ben.

‘No fire. Goya knew the dark side. He lived in that big old house, near the river, near enough to see Madrid, far away enough not to be a part of the city. In that house Goya painted his private pictures, the Black Paintings. In them he left a message …’

Pausing there, she had reached for her books, turning over the pages slowly, grotesque images oozing off the paper.

It required no effort for Ben to remember the queasy unease which had wept from the reproductions.

‘Look,’ Detita had said, her white forefinger turning over the page to expose the Witches’ Sabbath. Not the earlier version, with its light blues and comic devilry – this was the image of Goya’s later years. After the Inquisition and the Spanish War of Independence, after the murder and torture. When the indigo power of Black Magic had been not merely a superstition, but a possibility. The Devil was no longer comic, but a shadow which had followed many Spaniards. The End of Reason in the Age of Enlightenment.

Ben had been repelled, but compelled to look at the painting: at the stupid, animalistic faces of the cohorts crouched on the ground. Women, once beautiful, had been turned by Goya into salacious hags, monochromic heads cowled, eyes wide open and blank with cruelty. And while Detita talked of Goya, she also talked of Spanish history – and the unknown. Of the two boys, she had caught Leon’s imagination first because he was mercurial in temperament, needing constant excitement and stimulus.

Ben was never sure if their parents had understood Leon’s mental frailty, but he had been aware of it all his life – that nauseous dance between stability and hysteria, between appreciation and obsession.

Still staring out of the car window, Ben remembered Detita. The Detita of the daytime, practical, intelligent, stern. And then the other Detita, the night woman, languid as candlelight. Duty had had no place after the light faded – then she had told stories, stories she said had been passed down by generations of Spanish grandmothers, by her Spanish grandmother. But the tales had never been benign. Always, like her, they veered between two worlds.

‘… When you need me, come at midnight to the Bridge of the Manzanares, clap your hands three times and you will see black horses appear …’

Detita had smiled as she recited the quote, Leon leaning forward expectantly under the overhead lamp, Ben’s dark eyes fixed on her. At once she had noticed his expression, the almost warning glance, and felt her power weaken. Many times in the years that followed she had clashed with Ben as her control over him lessened. And then, finally, Detita had shifted her attention from the two brothers to the one. From Ben’s granite control to the soft slush of Leon’s instability.

For an instant, Ben closed his eyes. But still the memories kept coming.

‘… The Spanish people have a dark heart …’ Detita had said, luring Leon in with her stories. ‘When Ferdinand VII