Free Memory of Bones by Alex Connor

years ago. And Crowley was known as the wickedest man in England. You don’t want someone like Crowley to get hold of the skull, do you?’
    She was swaying his judgement, and before he knew it Leon was hypnotised by her, her body pressed against his, her voice low, enticing. Suddenly he
wanted
Gina to be involved. Wanted to be close to her, safe with her.
    ‘Get the skull back, Leon.’
    ‘But—’
    Leon was just about to admit that the skull was in London when the phone rang beside them. In that instant the spell was shattered and Gina climbed off his knee and walked away into the shadowy back of the house.
    When he picked up the phone, the line was dead.

11
    Gstaad, Switzerland
    Bartolomé Ortega studied his secretary calmly, then glanced away. He resisted an impulse to bite down on his lip, to draw blood, to release a tumour of rage which was threatening to seep out of his skin as sweat, or out of his lungs as one long protracted scream. His extraordinary face, fine-boned and impassive, betrayed nothing of his anger, his hands clasped on the top of his desk, the glass reflecting the top half of his body. Like an elegant island he sat in the vast, minimal surroundings of his office, two windows on his left opened to let in some breeze, the smell of hibiscus innocently irritating.
    Having been ill for the previous week Bartolomé had had little time for business. In fact he had enjoyed his sabbatical and the indulgent attention of his wife, Celina. It had even made him contemplate taking more time off in the future, just to be with her and their son, Juan.
    Bartolomé knew that his grandfather would never havebeen as patient as he had been. Adolfo would have disposed of any barren consort within a few years. But Bartolomé loved his wife, and even though she failed to bear a child for many years, he never considered divorcing her. Instead he had made discreet enquiries through his lawyer about adoption. Previously Celina had always rejected the idea out of hand, but as she approached forty and the likelihood of becoming a mother had grown slight, she had finally become receptive to it.
    Three months later she became pregnant. Just as their doctor had predicted –
take off the pressure and often the couple will conceive
. So it had been with them. Once they had turned their attention to adopting a child, Celina had fallen pregnant. And six months later, Juan, the most recent scion of the family, had been born. Darkly handsome, an Ortega in his pram.
    Hands still clasped together, Bartolomé swallowed with effort. Perhaps a reminder of his flu? Or simple rage at what he had just been told? He swallowed again, feeling the same tightening of his throat muscles as he stared at the vast expanse of floor in front of him. He liked the emptiness of his office, the cool, chilling grandeur of possessing a room so large that its brilliant architecture and size required little adornment. With the formidable Ortega collection at his disposal, Bartolomé could have covered the walls with images, but he left them blank. When he worked he liked no distractions, nothing to clutter his mind.
    His mind wasn’t cluttered at that moment; it was processing the information he had received. Goya’s skull hadbeen found. It was in the possession of Leon Golding, the one art historian Bartolomé feared. The one man he believed might solve the riddle of the Black Paintings before he could. But that wasn’t all – Bartolomé unclenched his hands, flexed his fingers, stared at the mute walls –
his brother had known
. The sly Gabino had known about the skull. Apparently he had even approached Golding about it,
and never said a word to his brother
. Never told Bartolomé the news about the greatest passion of his life. Never passed on information which would have been priceless.
    Reserved and unemotional, Bartolomé struggled to maintain his calm. As a man of stunning beauty and exquisite taste, in his hands the Ortega collection had secured