Rather than just looking at a cure for this problem that Marina Quincy presents, we should be looking for the source of it – investigating the root cause of your father’s urgent need to divest himself of his fortune.’

‘But how? He is unconscious in hospital. None of us can ask him anything right now.’

‘I know, but we could engage the services of a research specialist.’

‘That’s already been done. We employed our own researchers.’

‘Yes, your investigators built up a profile on Marina Quincy, but let’s forget her for a moment. I’m talking about calling in a historian – someone at PhD level who can sift through the layers of your family’s history and go right back to how the fortune was amassed in the beginning.’

‘We know how. Bulls. Our family grew rich from breeding bulls.’

‘Things are never that linear though, are they, Mr Mendoza? There are always digressions, transgressions . . . Something might have happened in the past that could account for your father’s sense of guilt – if that’s what it is.’

He looked offended by the insinuation. ‘So you want to look for dirt on my family? Bring out the skeletons in their closet? Absolutely not.’

‘I’m not saying there are necessarily any skeletons, and anyway, it may not even be required. Who knows? Marina might turn out to be conducive to an offer and this can all go away.’ Mateo looked sceptical. ‘But if it does drag on and she holds out for the full gift, we’ll need to consider alternative strategies that probe your father’s motivations. I’ve worked with a history professor at Carlos III University a couple of times. He’s very professional, very discreet. I could set up an initial meeting so you can meet and get a sense of him first if you like. When I’ve commissioned these searches in the past, it’s been to help families appreciate and understand what it took to create their fortunes – the personal journeys their forebears took, their struggle, setbacks, risks and break-throughs, the human story behind the bank balance if you like. But in this instance, where the head of the family is seeking to rid himself of that very privilege . . . I do think we need to examine the reasons why that may be.’ She shook her head. ‘Because something’s not adding up. No matter which way we turn it, this just doesn’t feel like a straightforward sugar-daddy story to me.’

‘No?’ He frowned. ‘What does it feel like?’

It took her a moment to find the right word. ‘A purge.’

‘A purge? But why?’

‘At this point, there’s really only one reason I can think of.’ She sat back in the chair and inhaled slowly. ‘Shame.’

Chapter Three

Ronda, Andalusia, August 1932

She sat in the cradle of her favourite tree, back braced against the mighty trunk and one leg stretched out on the branch, the other dangling, kicking back and forth, back and forth. She was watching the farmers peel the oaks, their axes swinging into the bark with just the right amount of force so as not to damage the inner living tissue, the outer layers coming away in great curved sheets to reveal tender, terracotta-tinted cores.