The Hogarth Conspiracy (15 page)

But hadn't they just done exactly that? Hadn't his life just been threatened? The shrill ring of his cell phone broke into his thoughts, and he moved into a doorway to take the call. It was Mrs. Fleet.

Simply, without preamble, she said, “Bernie Freeland's dead. And in light of what else has been going on, I don't believe it was an accident.”

“Neither do I.” Victor looked around to see if anyone was watching him, if the man who had threatened him was waiting for him.

His unease was obvious even over the phone.

“Are you up to this?” Mrs. Fleet demanded, her tone imperious.

“I really don't know.”

She laughed hoarsely. “An honest answer from an honest man. No wonder you were in jail. There's something else I should tell you. Liza Frith is safe here, but Annette Dvorski's missing. I think she went to New York to meet up with Bernie Freeland. Obviously she didn't know she's going to end up visiting him in the morgue.”

“Couldn't you stop her?”

“Obviously not.”

Victor was curt. “Is Liza Frith there with you?”

“Why?”

“Put her on the line, will you?”

“All right, but just one thing before you talk to Liza: I don't want her to know about Bernie Freeland. The less she knows, the better. I don't need her to panic.”

Before Victor could reply, she'd left the phone. A lull was followed by muffled footsteps, and then a young woman's childlike nervous voice said, “Hello?”

“My name's Victor Ballam, Liza. Mrs. Fleet's hired me to look into what's been happening, and I want to ask you something. Was Marian jumpy on the plane?”

“No. She wasn't the type. Didn't get frightened of anything.”

“So she was acting perfectly normally?”

“Yeah.”

“How long had she known Bernie Freeland?”

“Four or five years, I think,” Liza replied, her tone soft. “Marian had done loads of those private jet flights with Bernie.”

Pausing, Victor picked his words carefully. “Did you?”

“Some; not as many as Marian or Annette.”

“Did you know the pilots on the flight?”

“I knew one of them: Duncan Fairfax. He always flies Bernie's jet, but the other one was new; never seen him before. Tallish but a bit wimpy actually. Even a pilot's uniform didn't work for him.” She laughed, momentarily lighthearted. “But Duncan Fairfax was showing off as usual, lording it over him. Pompous ass.”

“What was the copilot's name?”

“I dunno,” Liza admitted. “Sorry.”

“What about the cabin crew? What can you remember about them?”

“One young guy, one older one with glasses. I'd see him before; he was always on Bernie's plane. His name's Malcolm Jenner, but I hadn't seen the younger one before. Bernie said he worked at his home in Sydney, but he wanted to travel.”

“Did he make you feel uneasy?”

Unexpectedly, she laughed again.

“No; we made
him
feel uncomfortable when he walked into the cabin without knocking. Bernie teased him about it afterward. But he was nice enough, not more than twenty-five, twenty-six.”

“You're very observant.”

“After Bernie passed out, there were hours when there was nothing to do. A plane's got few amusements,” she added.

“What about Lim Chang, the Chinese dealer? Did you talk to him?”

“Annette talked to him, but not me. I liked Sir Oliver Peters. He was nice—but sad … like some men are, you know? Seemed a bit lost, which was strange, but Bernie admires him. He thinks Sir Oliver's classy, told me he feels like an oaf when the Englishman's around.”

“What did you and Sir Oliver talk about?”

“Something and nothing.”

“Did you talk to Kit Wilkes?”

“Oh, no! He was pretending to be asleep most of the flight, and we hadn't been checked out by Doctor Fountain.” She explained. “Wilkes won't sleep with anyone without a medical check from that weird little Yank before he performs—or we do. Mind you, I reckon that it's
his
partners who have to worry.”

“So nothing out of the ordinary happened until Bernie Freeland's drink was spiked?”

“No, nothing.”

“Did you put something in his drink?”

“No!” She laughed. “It was Annette. She loves her practical jokes. We were in Madrid once, and she sent a note over to the woman at the next table, pretending it was the waiter asking her out.”

“After Bernie's drink got spiked, what did he do?”

“Got all sweaty and panicky and said something to Sir Oliver Peters. I was too far away to hear what it was. I just caught the word
Hogarth
and told Annette, but she wasn't interested. She was reading.”

“Could Kit Wilkes have overheard what was said?”

Liza thought for a moment. “I reckon everyone on that plane could have heard if they were close enough and listening.”

“Including the crew?”

“Maybe.”

Victor paused for a moment before continuing. “One other thing. Did Bernie Freeland give you anything on the flight? Did he give you—or any of the other girls—a package, some kind of parcel?”

She frowned, baffled.

“No, just a bracelet. Bernie's always generous. Pays well and throws in gifts if you've pleased him. And he'd enjoyed himself; he told us that.”

“Hang on,” Victor said, tucking himself farther into the stone doorway as the rain increased. “So Bernie gave you a bracelet each?”

“No; he gave
me
a bracelet, from Cartier. And he gave Marian a ring, because that was what she'd asked for on the last trip.” Liza paused, thinking. “But Annette's really into sports, so she asked for a set of golf clubs.”

“You're kidding!”

Liza laughed. “No, seriously. But Bernie didn't like the idea and asked her if she'd like a baseball bat instead.”

“A
baseball
bat?”

“I know, odd or what? Anyway, Annette said no. And he pushed her and said it would be a special bat. She still wasn't having it, but then she said a baseball bat was okay—if there was something
really
special about it. Maybe she wanted it gold plated or something,” Liza said, laughing again. “I suppose she thought Bernie would wrap it in a fur coat. Who knows?”

Victor pressed her. “It was definitely Bernie who suggested the bat?”

“Oh, yeah; it was his idea. But I never saw it…. Oh, hang on; I remember now. Annette told me that Bernie was going to give it to her when she met up with him in New York.”

“So Bernie kept it on the plane with him?” Victor was thrown when Mrs. Fleet's voice suddenly came on the phone.

“What's all this about baseball bats? Does it matter?”

“No, probably not,” Victor lied.

He wasn't about to tell Charlene Fleet what he suspected. Years earlier someone had smuggled a painting in a walking stick, and it wasn't too big a jump to suppose that Bernie Freeland had suggested the baseball bat for the same reason: to smuggle a small rolled-up canvas. It would be easy to hollow out to make room, and with clever weighting, no one need ever know. What better way to transport the Hogarth secretly? But when Bernie had been drugged, he had panicked, certain that someone was trying to kill him. So instead of giving Annette the baseball bat on the jet, he had held on to it, promising to give it to her when she came to New York.

At first it must have seemed such a simple plan. Annette wouldn't know about it; she would simply keep her gift until Bernie visited her again and surreptitiously removed the picture. He would be the only one who knew where the painting was, so no one would be able to steal it while he found a buyer. That had been the plan
before
Bernie was spooked. But later, trying to shake off the effects of his spiked drink, he had watched the girls and the dealers leave the plane and then had the jet flown directly on to New York
with the baseball bat still in his possession
. He had already arranged for Annette to visit him a few days later. He would just give her the bat then. She would take it—and the hidden canvas—back to London on an anonymous British Airways flight.

Victor could imagine Bernie Freeland's panic when he was taken ill. He would have assumed that he was in danger, his usual cunning ousted by the sogginess of the ingested drugs. In a haze, he would have confided in the most trustworthy person—Sir Oliver Peters—hoping that if he was killed, he would have someone to stand witness for him.

“Victor,” Mrs. Fleet asked impatiently. “Why does the bat matter?”

He lied without conscience.

“I don't know that it does, but one thing's for sure: Annette Dvorski's on her way to New York because she thinks she's meeting up with her client, but Bernie Freeland's been killed, which makes me wonder if someone's going to be waiting for your girl.”

“Shit.”

Ordering Liza to leave the room, Mrs. Fleet picked up the phone again.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I've been thinking about Marian Miller, about who might have killed her.”

“I've been thinking the same.”

“It had to be someone who knew about the Hogarth.”

“Which could be a few people. Or dozens. After all, what was to stop any of them from spreading the news as soon as they got off the jet? They all had time. Kit Wilkes could have got on to the Russians, Lim Chang the Chinese, and Sir Oliver Peters was back on his own turf, with all his contacts in easy reach. Marian Miller told you about the Hogarth as soon as she landed, so why should she be the only one?”

“We don't know that everyone overhead.”

“No, we don't. Yet,” Victor agreed. “Of course, there's another possibility: one of your girls killed Marian.”

“Don't be stupid! Liza isn't the type; neither is Annette. What about Lim Chang?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Then find out!”

He bristled, stung by her tone. “I've only just started working on this.”

“Work faster. I don't want anything else to happen. Annette might be in danger.”

“Please don't tell me you care about them.”

“I care about my little empire and my money,” she replied, her tone expressionless. “What I've created, built up over the years. I don't write music or paint pictures; I use flesh, Mr. Ballam. Flesh is what I deal in. I buy it and sell it and do very well out of it. Trouble makes people pry. I don't like that. I don't want my business dealings exposed. So, in answer to your question, I don't care about what happens to my girls except inasmuch as it endangers me. I've never been the whore with the heart of gold. I can sense you don't like me.”

“Do I have to?”

“Or perhaps you find the whole matter intimidating? A little too much for you to handle?”

He refused to show his irritation even though she had struck a nerve. Victor had never expected to leave jail and be immediately thrown into a murder inquiry; he had hoped to ease himself back into the art world, never anticipating this headlong plunge into the maelstrom. He knew how important the Hogarth was—and how dangerous. But he was only just realizing that the danger was coming straight to his door.

“So,
is
it too much for you?” Mrs. Fleet repeated.

Victor ignored the question. “I'm going to New York, so I'm going to need some help here.”

“Which means?”

“That I need to hire someone in London. Which will mean more expense for you.”

“And you have a suitable person in mind?”

Victor thought of Tully Harcourt. He knew that Tully had been reckless in his youth and still hankered after excitement—but
danger
? Wasn't that too much to ask? Did he really want to risk Tully Harcourt's safety to repay an old debt?

But then again, Tully Harcourt was the only person Victor
could
trust.

“Well?” Mrs. Fleet snapped. “
Have
you got someone who can help you?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.” Taking her silence as confirmation that she had accepted the proposal, Victor continued.

”Where would Annette Dvorski stay in New York?”

“At Bernie Freeland's apartment. I haven't got the details next to me; I'll text them to you.”

“Fine.” His tone was deceptively polite. “Oh, and Mrs. Fleet …”

“Yes?”

“I'm
not
one of your whores. You can't buy me or sell me, and if something happens that I don't like—because, frankly, I doubt you've been straight with me about anything—I'll walk away from this situation, and you, without looking back.”

“I don't think so, Mr. Ballam,” she replied, her voice butter soft. “After all, you are
part
of the situation now.”

Part Two

“Shiploads of Dead Christs, Holy Families and Madonnas …

The connoisseurs and I are at war, you know, because I hate them….”

—W
ILLIAM
H
OGARTH

Nineteen