The Hogarth Conspiracy (34 page)

“What is it?”

Christian blinked, realizing that she was talking to him. “I was thinking … about Victor.”

He waited for a reaction, but she answered very calmly, “What about him?”

“D'you think he's all right?”

Turning away, Ingola reached for the evening paper, her heart speeding up.
Guilt
was hardly a big enough word for what she felt. How could she have cheated on Christian? This man who loved her and looked after her. Who did everything in his power to make her happy. It wasn't his fault that he wasn't Victor. It wasn't his fault that life had shunted her off the path she had wanted. And it wasn't his fault that she didn't—couldn't—love him enough.

It was
her
fault that she had lacked the courage to stand by Victor, putting her own career before him. That she had ducked out of the shadow of his disgrace and sacrificed their future for her security. Feel all the guilt you want, Ingola told herself; it was your choice, and you have to make the best of it.

“Are you worried about him?”

Christian nodded. “I just wonder what he's doing. For a job, I mean.”

She feigned ignorance. “I don't know. Ring him if you're anxious.”

“We didn't part on good terms last time we spoke,” Christian admitted. “I said something which annoyed him. Without meaning to, I implied that I thought he was guilty.”

She put down the paper. “
What
?”

“I didn't mean it. It came out wrong, and he jumped down my throat.” Christian flushed under his wife's scrutiny and wondered what to say next.

She saved him the trouble. “It's funny, but in all this time we've never actually talked about Victor being guilty or innocent. You never wondered about it?”

“What?”

“The case. The fakes, all of it.” She paused, eager to hear what her husband really thought. “We presumed Victor was innocent, of course, but did you never wonder?”

Angrily, Christian rounded on her. “My brother did nothing wrong!”

“I know that. You know that. We care about him, of course, and we believed in him, but he was found guilty. There was so much evidence, so many witnesses.”

Astonished, Christian could hardly believe what he was hearing, yet he felt a kind of giddy relief. In the past Ingola would never have doubted Victor, never have said a negative word about him. But time had gone on, and obviously her affection had waned. The fierce love had dwindled. Now she had reservations, and to his shame, the thought pleased him.

“Are you saying that you think Victor did it?”

She shook her head impatiently. “No, I'm just wondering. Oh, it doesn't matter.”

“It does matter,” Christian persisted. “You were in love with Victor; you knew him better than anyone. Do you think … do you
really
think he did something wrong?”

Pausing, Ingola wondered how she would sleep that night. How she could rest with a quiet conscience, having manipulated her husband so deftly. By intimating that she had doubts about Victor, she was suggesting that her feelings for him had cooled, a suggestion that would certainly throw off any suspicion that there was still a bond between them.

“I could never suspect you of doing anything wrong, Christian,” she said gently. “But Victor? To be honest, I'm not sure.”

Picking up the paper again, she began to read, but the words buzzed in front of her eyes and she knew with terrible certainty that Christian was watching her and counting his blessings. It would never occur to him that she had recently slept with his brother—or that she now longed for Victor Ballam more than she ever had.

Cursing, Tully got out of bed and walked over to the table, flicking on the lamp. Sleep was being capricious. He would doze, then wake suddenly, his heart hammering, his skin sweaty. Wondering if he was coming down with flu, he took two aspirins and sat at the table, pulling his notes toward him. He had to admit that he had been enjoying his detective work; it appealed to him, and he found it easy to draw confidences out of people. But since Victor had returned from New York, the atmosphere had altered, and Tully realized that the part he had so readily assumed was not for evenings and matinees only. As the death count rose, grim reality had set in, and the headline on the
Evening Standard
that afternoon had unnerved him to the point of panic:

MURDER VICTIM FOUND IN HYDE PARK

The name of Lim Chang had reverberated from the page as Tully read the details of the killing, his unease growing when he couldn't contact Victor on his cell phone. Finally, around seven, he had received a text from him. It was simple and to the point:

Coming back to London.
Will call and see you tomorrow. Don't
talk to Charlene Fleet.

Rubbing his forehead, an already nervous Tully jumped when the phone rang next to him.

“Yes?”

“Is that Tully Harcourt?”

“Who's this?”

“A friend.”

“It's two in the morning. Who rings at two in the morning?” he said warily. “No friend of mine—”

“You have dangerous friends, Mr. Harcourt. Like Victor Ballam.” The voice paused and then went on. “Friends like that could get you into a lot of trouble, but a friend like me could help you.

Although uneasy, Tully affected a nonchalant tone. “I don't think so, old boy. Thanks for calling—”

“Stop fucking around!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You help me, and I'll help you when things get rough. And they will get very rough. Where's Victor Ballam?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Where's Victor Ballam?”

From below, Tully could hear the main door close softly at the street entrance. Still holding the phone, he moved to the front door of his apartment and checked that the locks were bolted, peering through the peephole into the corridor outside. He could hear footsteps but see no one. The space was empty. Silent.

Suddenly the voice came over the phone again. “I can see you, Mr. Harcourt.”

Unnerved, Tully spun around, looking at the windows. But the curtains were closed.

Calmly the voice continued. “Just tell me where Victor Ballam is.”

There was a long pause, then Tully—to his horror—smelled gasoline. Glancing across the room, he could see a thin trickle coming under his door, the odor intensifying by the second.

“Jesus!”

“I can just walk away,” the voice went on, “or I can put a match to this, Mr. Harcourt. The choice is yours. Where's Victor Ballam?”

Sweating, Tully shouted into the phone. “In New York.”

There was a long silence, then Tully caught the unmistakable sound of someone striking a match. A moment later, he could smell fire as smoke began to leak under the door. Crossing the room and throwing open the patio windows, Tully gulped in the fresh air and stared down into the street below. A figure was just leaving the building. A huddled figure who paused on the opposite side of the road and pointed to the cell phone in his hand.

Snatching up his own phone again, Tully listened.

“That was the wrong answer, Mr. Harcourt. You and I both know that Mr. Ballam's no longer in New York. I was just trying to find out which side you were really on.” The voice sighed. “People burn in their beds all the time, Mr. Harcourt. They say fire is the most painful way to go. Back off now. While you still can.”

Forty-Three

E
VEN ON SUCH A COOL DAY, THERE WAS SWEAT ON HER TOP LIP AS SHE
caught Victor's eye, and for a moment she looked as though she might bolt. Victor moved quickly across the concourse of Euston Station toward her.

“Liza Frith?”

She nodded, recognizing his voice and looking around nervously. “The train was late. I kept thinking all sorts of crazy things, like someone was holding it up deliberately. I was hoping you'd wait for me.”

Taking her bag, Victor guided her toward the taxi rank.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” he assured her, helping her into the cab and sitting beside her. She smelled faintly of apples, the scent curious and out of place. “I've got a friend who's got a flat in Little Venice. He doesn't use it much, just rents it out in the summer for tourists. But it's quiet and surrounded by neighbors.”

She smiled, shrugging. “Thanks.”

“You'll be safe, I promise,” Victor reassured her, checking that the partition between them and the driver was closed. “Now tell me about Malcolm Jenner. You said it was he that picked up Annette's phone?”

“Yeah, but why did he have it?” she asked urgently. “Why him of all people?”

“I don't know.”

Suddenly suspicious, Liza studied Victor. “Why are you helping me? You work for Mrs. Fleet. Did she send you to find me?”

“No; I sent myself.”

Her expression was lost, then troubled. “Annette's dead, isn't she? I knew it the moment that man picked up her phone. She's dead, isn't she?”

He didn't deny it. “Yes.”

“Did Malcolm Jenner kill her?”

“I don't know yet.”

Liza's tone hovered between panic and resignation. “Ma Fleet thinks I don't know about Bernie Freeland's death. She thinks I'm stupid. Well, maybe I'm not that interested in most things, but the murder of my fellow passengers certainly caught my attention.” Her tone edged on bitterness. “I bought a paper on the train, and I saw Lim Chang's photograph. One more of the dealers dead. How many does that leave, Mr. Ballam?”

“Oliver Peters.”

“And Kit Wilkes?”

“In the hospital.”

She sighed. “Dying?”

“Probably.”

“And out of the working girls, there's just me.” She sighed raggedly. “Well, I don't want to die, Mr. Ballam; I don't want to be next.” She pressed her hands together, her suitcase at her feet. “I don't want to die because of some painting. I don't see why I should; it's got nothing to do with me. I was just working on that flight. I'm not involved. I don't care about any picture!”

“Liza—”

She brushed him off. “I'm not going to let anyone kill me. You hear me? No one's going to kill me.”

He touched the back of her hand. Its coldness startled him.

“The paper said that a dog attack was involved,” she went on, “that Lim Chang had been mauled by an animal,” Liza paused. “Mrs. Fleet has a dog.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn't put it past that bitch. She was sending me out on a job when I bolted. I didn't trust her, didn't want to end up with some stranger at the Hilton. Didn't want to end up like Marian Miller in a hotel or on the front page of the
Evening Standard
like Lim Chang. I think Ma Fleet's capable of murder.” Liza stared out of the window a while, then turned back to Victor. Her pupils were dilated.

Shock or drugs?
he wondered.

“What d'you know about Charlene Fleet?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “No one does.”

“She has no family? No man in her life?”

“Not that any of us know about. She isn't the confiding type. If Ma Fleet's got a private life, she keeps it under wraps.”

Victor nodded. “Okay. So what d'you know about Malcolm Jenner?”

“He was a steward on the flight.”

“He had no connection to Annette?”

“No.”

“They didn't seem particularly friendly or act as though they knew each other?”

“No,” Liza repeated, shaking her head. “I don't remember them even talking. She never said she knew him or recognized him, so why did he end up with Annette's phone?”

“Perhaps she left it on the plane and he found it.”

“Why wouldn't he have given it back to her?”

“Maybe he tried to.”

“But she was already dead?” Liza asked softly.

Victor skirted the question. “Did Malcolm Jenner overhear the talk about the Hogarth painting?”

“I don't think so. The stewards were moving about a lot, and when they weren't busy, they were in the galley. The copilot only came into the cabin briefly, the chief pilot even less. He spoke to Bernie a couple of times, but he kept away from us. Bernie doesn't—didn't—like any of the staff near the bedroom.” She tapped the side of her suitcase with the toe of her left shoe. “I left Park Street with only the clothes I was wearing. I bought this case in Manchester and some cheap stuff from Peacocks. The kind I used to despise. Funnily enough, I don't care anymore. Fashion doesn't matter so much if you're going to get murdered.”

Victor could sense she was close to panic. “I'm surprised you didn't leave the country, Liza.”

“I would have, only Ma Fleet's got my passport. I told you: I left everything at Park Street.” She turned to him, her voice soft, childlike. “Is she after the painting?”

“She says not.”