The Hogarth Conspiracy (17 page)

“Oh, Victor,” she had replied, almost laughing. “It's only Tully.”

Only Tully.

“We're here, mate.”

Jerked back into the present, Victor paid the cabbie and moved into the airport. His confidence had blistered, and memory was playing ghost chords in the back of his mind.

Twenty-One

D
UCKING UNDER THE AWNING,
T
ULLY PAUSED, STARING AT THE GROUP
of men who were surrounding a shallow circular metal ring, like a child's wading pool. The tent was smoggy with cigarette fug and the overwhelming smell of beer; two dark-skinned men stood by the entrance taking money, one wearing a T-shirt with a DKNY logo. Staring at Tully, the younger man nodded in recognition and let him move farther inside. His eyes stinging from the thick cigarette smoke, Tully glanced into the circular pit and watched as a weedy man of about sixty, coughing, smoothed over the bloodied surface with a rake. From the back of the tent came the sound of dogs barking frantically.

“I thought it were you,” the man said, looking up at Tully as he approached. “Seen you at the horses often enough but never seen you 'ere before.”

“No, I don't care for it,” Tully replied, offering the man a cigarette and lighting it for him.

He had no taste for cruelty but knew that Bernie Freeland's steward, Malcolm Jenner, was involved in illegal dogfighting in Hackney. Tully saw one dog—a white bull terrier—being led into the ring, the owner of its opponent still standing next to his animal's locked cage.

Raising his voice to be heard over someone shouting the odds for the next match, he asked, “Where's Malcolm Jenner?”

The man jerked his head toward the makeshift bar set up on a couple of trestle tables. A hard-faced woman was serving behind it, helped by a weaselly looking youth in a baseball cap pulled low over his face.

“That's his wife.”

“His wife?” Tully noted her fleshy arms, her flushed face.

“Yeah, she runs these fights.” The old man turned away to continue raking the bloodied sand, saying, “She'll tell you where Malcolm is. She keeps him on a tighter leash than the dogs.”

“What's he like?”

“Under her thumb. She tells the poor bastard when he can piss, but she's no time for him really. Besotted with that dim-witted kid of theirs.” He nodded toward the bar. “Been in Borstal for setting fires, little bastard. No wonder Malcolm gets away working for Bernie Freeland whenever he can.”

Nodding, Tully walked over to the woman. Her eyes were small in her puffy face; her acrylic nails clicked against the beer cans as she opened them to pass them over the bar.

“What can I get you, love?”

“McEwan's,” Tully replied, passing her the money. “I want to talk to your husband.”

Her voice hardened. “I run the business.”

“It's not about the dogs; it's about Malcolm's day job.”

Immediately losing interest, she shrugged her fleshy shoulders and pointed toward a man who was just approaching the ring. “If you want a word, I'd be quick; the next fight's on soon.”

Moving back to the ring, Tully could feel the tension rising in the arena as a trio of burly men laid bets, with a man in a shiny trilby hat shouting the odds. “
Old Boy”
was called out, then “
Spital fields,”
with Tully taking a moment to realize that they were talking about the dogs. All around him were the unhealthy faces of men habituated to fatty food and cheap beer. Some were sweating, and some were hyper, their attention fixed on the coming fight; one elderly man in a wheelchair pushed his way to the front of the ring.

Turning to a narrow-shouldered dapper man of about forty-five, Tully tapped him on the shoulder.

“Are you Malcolm Jenner?”

He didn't look up from the ring. “Who's asking?” His voice had a rough tone, like someone with a sore throat.

“I just want to have a word with you.”

“And I want to marry Penelope Cruz; looks like we're both going to be disappointed,” Jenner replied sarcastically, and beckoned to a man across the ring.

“It won't take a minute.” Tully persisted. “It's about Bernie Freeland.”

Malcolm's interest was suddenly piqued. “Does Mr. Freeland want me?”

“Not exactly,” Tully replied. “Can we go outside and talk?”

“I've got a fight on, mister. If you want to talk to me, you can wait.”

Nodding, Tully watched as the two dogs were lifted into the ring, each catching sight of the other and both straining at their leashes, their eyes rolling, spittle dribbling from their mouths. Both animals had obviously fought before; one had half an ear missing, and the other was badly scarred around the muzzle. But Tully knew that once they were released, both of them would fight to the death. He also knew that pit bulls and bull terriers had a death lock, that once they locked their bite on muscle or bone, nothing could prize them off.

Having once seen a dogfight before and having sworn never to see another, Tully walked away from the ring before the bout started. He stood outside smoking and waited for Malcolm Jenner to come to him after the fight was over. He felt rather than saw the first slamming of the dogs' bodies into each other, heard their hysterical barking and yelps punctuating the silent ripping of flesh. He could smell the sawdust and the blood coming from the ring and kept staring ahead, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands. He knew that often one of the dogs was killed; sometimes the owner would bury the corpse, but more often it was thrown into a nearby dump. He also knew that even if someone had heard about the illegal dogfight, by the time he had contacted the RSPCA and an officer had been called out, the bout would be over. The tent down, the bar closed. A dog's carcass in a recycling bin the only evidence left.

“So,” Malcolm Jenner said, emerging from the tent some minutes later, “what d'you want?”

“Bernie Freeland's dead.”

Clearly shocked, Jenner took a step back, glancing over his shoulder toward his wife and son. Without being told, Tully could guess what he was thinking. No more escapes, no more exotic—blessedly distant—locations. Just the grinding drudge of life in Hackney with a few pints at the weekend and an apartment in the projects smelling of dog hair.

“Dead? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“How?”

“Traffic accident. Mr. Freeland was run over.”

“I don't believe it! He never walked anywhere. He had a driver, or he got a cab.” Jenner's expression was wary, his mistrust obvious. “Where did this so-called accident happen?”

“New York.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jenner fetched himself a can of beer at the bar and then came back to Tully, pulling the ring tag and tossing it onto the ground before taking a long drink. Finally he spoke again.

“Who are you?”

Tully smiled; always easy around people, never threatening, always inviting conversation and confidences.

“Me? I'm just looking into Mr. Freeland's death.”

“I bet you bloody are,” Jenner replied coldly, “It needs looking into. You're not police?”

“No. Don't worry about that.”

“I mean, what with the dogfights …”

“I'm not police.”

Jenner seemed to be diminishing in front of Tully's eyes, his confidence evaporating as the news of his employer's death hit home. “So someone's hired you to take a closer look at this accident?”

Tully nodded. “Mr. Freeland was a well-known man, a very rich man, and he must have had some enemies.”

“Not really. He was an Australian, spoke his mind. People liked him.” He looked Tully up and down. “But you don't think his death was an accident?”

“Marian Miller's death was no accident either.”

Jenner flinched. “I heard about that. Nasty business.”

“Of course, everything I'm saying to you goes no further. Otherwise, I'd have to report the dogfights, wouldn't I?”

Jenner's eyes flickered. “I've got your drift.”

“What did
you
think about Marian Miller's death?”

“She was probably killed by her john. It looks that way from what I heard. I mean, why else would anyone kill her?”

“Well, we've been thinking about that,” Tully continued. “Marian Miller was on that flight with Bernie Freeland, and I was wondering if you saw or heard anything which might explain her murder.”

“Like what?”

“Apparently Mr. Freeland's drink was spiked—”

“Yeah.”

“—and he was babbling.”

“It was nothing in particular.”

“So you heard what he said?”

“No; he was quiet again when I got him to his seat.” Looking around, Jenner dropped his voice. “Have you spoken to the other people on the flight? There were three other art dealers apart from Mr. Freeland and three working girls. And there were the pilots and Terry Shaw as well as me. Have you spoken to them yet?”

“No. I'm talking to Duncan Fairfax later.”

“Good luck. He's a prick.”

Amused, Tully looked at his notes. “And then I'll have a chat with the second pilot, John Yates.”

“He was a newcomer. Mr. Freeland said that he was replacing the usual copilot. Said he came with very good references.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Yeah,” Jenner replied, nodding. “He had his work cut out with Duncan Fairfax. I even worried about him, you know, being young and Fairfax being a bit of a bully. But he seemed calm, let it all wash over him.” His voice dropped. “Mr. Freeland always used Duncan Fairfax because he's the best there is. He made allowances for his superior ways because of that. Mind you, Fairfax might have treated us like dirt, but he always brownnosed the boss.”

Tully pressed on. “What about the steward who was working with you, Terry Shaw? What's he like?”

“Ah, enthusiastic but thick. And young, not much more than a kid really,” Jenner replied, finishing his beer. “Well, same age as my boy, but a bit more about him. Not into arson, anyway.” His voice drifted. “You see these?” he said suddenly, pointing at his impressively even teeth. “Mr. Freeland paid for these. I had problems for a long time, but when I'd been working for him for three years, he sent me to his dentist and paid for the lot. He was a good boss. You looked after him, and he looked after you.”

“Did he pay well?”

“What d'you think?”

“So how will you manage now?”

Jenner shrugged. “Christ knows. It's not the money; you can always get hold of money. It's the job I'll miss. The uniform—I looked good in that uniform. White jacket and black trousers with gold stripe down the sides. Had them handmade, Mr. Freeland did.” He paused, suddenly angry. “If he was killed,
why
was he killed?”

“You tell me,” Tully replied, feeling his way. “I wasn't on that flight; you were. You must have seen and heard what was going on.”

“Marian was killed in a hotel.”

“Yes, but she'd just been on the jet with Mr. Freeland. Who's also been killed. The flight's the only thing they have in common. Please, humor me, Mr. Jenner,” Tully went on. “Just tell me what went on and what you remember of the journey.”

Jenner shrugged. “The Chinese dealer was working most of the time, that poof Wilkes was sleeping or pretending to, and Sir Snotty Oliver was looking airsick. He spent a while in the washroom.” He thought back, remembering. “The girls were with Mr. Freeland, but then his drink got spiked—”

“It was definitely spiked?”

“Yeah. I thought at first someone had just put vodka in his tonic, but when I took the glass away, I could smell something odd. Mr. Freeland was okay, though; he slept it off. About two hours into the journey to New York I heard he was normal again.”

“You
heard
? You weren't there?”

“No,” Jenner replied. “Mr. Freeland has—had—two separate crews. Both regular. But if we had to fly for a long time, we changed crews. The pilots and the cabin crew can only work so many hours, so that day, when the boss decided he wanted to go straight on to New York, the other crew came on and relieved us.”

“Before you left, did Mr. Freeland ask you what had happened when he was doped?”

“No. He didn't remember a thing. It didn't seem to occur to him that he might have done anything out of ordinary.”

Tully nodded. “Anything unusual happen
before
Bernie Freeland's drink was spiked?”

“No. Me and Terry Shaw took care of the girls and the other dealers.”

“You can't have stayed awake the whole time.”

“Sure I did,” he said scornfully. “I'm used to long flights.”

“What about Terry Shaw?”

“He was buzzing; no chance of sleeping. It was his first flight on a private jet, and he couldn't get over it. Kept telling me that his girlfriend wouldn't believe it. He was so full of it, he took some photographs on his cell phone. I told him Mr. Freeland would give him hell if he found out.”