The Hogarth Conspiracy (35 page)

“Have you got it?”

The question caught him off guard. “Why d'you want to know?”

“I was on that flight, Mr. Ballam. I have a right to know.”

“No; I don't have the Hogarth.”

“D'you know where it is?”

“If I did, do you think I'd tell you and put you in even more danger?”

She shook her head. “All right, let me put it this way. If you know where that painting is, can't you give it to the person who wants it so badly?” She gripped his hand suddenly, her fingers bloodless. “I don't care why they want it! I don't care if they want to splash the news about some painting with a whore and her bloody prince in it! I don't care if people close to the royal family get it and burn it. I don't
care
! But I'm not dying for it, Mr. Ballam. I tell you here and now. I'll do whatever I have to do to protect myself.
Whatever
I have to do.”

He could see that she meant it.

Forty-Four

A
S HE LET
V
ICTOR IN,
T
ULLY POINTED TO THE SINGED BASE OF
front door. “I didn't know I was signing up for this, old boy.”

“What happened?” Victor asked. “Are you all right?”

“Someone wanted to know where you were.”

“And you told them?”

“No, which was why I had my front door char-grilled. It gives a new meaning to
flame mahogany.”
Tully poured them both a coffee perched on the edge of the table by the window.

“I never thought it would get this dangerous.”

“Liar! Of course you fucking did. But I've got no one to blame but myself. I wanted to help you, and I still do. So is Liza Frith in the flat?”

“Yeah; I've just left her there. Thanks.”

Tully nodded.

“The place is registered in my mother's name, so no one should be trace it back to me. And I rent it out through an agent in the summertime. It's definitely secure. Got an alarm and what they call
decorative
bars on windows and doors, although frankly, if you didn't have bars on a basement flat, you'd be asking for trouble. If she doesn't go out or let anyone in, be safe.” He paused, then asked, “Why's she there?”

“I need to keep an eye on her.”

“So, now
she's
in danger?”

Victor caught the tone in his voice. “I had to get Liza Frith somewhere I'll move her as soon as I can. I'm sorry, Tully, really I am, but I had no choice.”

Tully kept his gaze averted. “This is all getting a bit much, isn't it? I now Lim Chang's been killed and I have a hooker in my late mother's You should go to the police.”

“I can't.”

“You're still reporting back to Mrs. Fleet?”

“Up to a point. But now I've put some distance between her and me.”

“So who's paying you?” Tully replied, raising his eyebrows. “You funds, Victor.”

“I'll see you get paid.”

“Oh, you're such a fucking prick at times!” Tully emptied his cup and then refilled it. Irritated, he sat down at the table. “Listen, Victor, I'll be frank with you. I'm worried. You were hired to investigate a call girl's death and protect Charlene Fleet's business; that was all. But now the whole thing's mushroomed. How d'you know Fleet isn't behind it?”

“She might be,” Victor admitted “Did you see who did that to your door?”

Tully glanced over his shoulder. “Some nut.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Not clearly,” Tully replied, “but after he'd scorched my door, he was on the street looking up at me. Wearing a hoodie, with a scarf over the bottom half of his face. But I
did
see his eyes, and I think he was Chinese.”

Chinese
. Like the man at the airport. Nothing in his features betrayed what Victor was feeling. The overwhelming sense that he was drowning, capsized, his lungs riddled with holes. He had no idea what was happening or where the next threat might come from. Tully and Liza Frith were relying on him to keep them safe, and he couldn't even protect himself.

“It said in the paper that the police think Lim Chang's death is related to the triads,” Tully offered. “Some revenge killing. Personally, I wouldn't be surprised; it's always revenge with them. The triads are such excitable little people. I remember them when I used to gamble. Fascinating, very quick, prodigious memories, nasty tempers if they were crossed. There was a basement club in Chinatown where I used to go.” Tully paused, memory taking a snapshot of an earlier time. Of the time he had been broke, panicked. Of the time he had gone to Victor for help. “Anyway,” he hurried on, “the regular Chinese are all in awe of the triads—like the Italians with the Mafia—because the triads pretty much run Chinatown.”

“So?”

“I'm saying that it could well be a revenge killing.”

“For gambling debts? No, not Lim Chang; he was an upright company man.”

“Who was after the Hogarth. Maybe he double-crossed someone. Promised them the painting, then reneged on his word.”

“Or perhaps it's just convenient for the police to blame it on the triads,” Victor replied. He wanted to confide in Tully but was on his guard. There was only the faintest odor of burned wood still present in the apartment, but it was in the air and in the furnishings, the threat hanging over both of them. “You don't have to go on with this, Tully.”

“I owe you, remember? What I did was wrong. My bad conscience will make sure I keep helping you.” A shudder of an old unpleasant memory drifted between them. “But I still say you should go to the police.”

“And what if they think I'm behind all of this? There's a Hogarth in the mix. Even if they didn't take me in, they'd keep an eye on me. I don't want that.”

“You'd rather get killed?”

“Why would I get killed?”

“For the same bloody reason the dealers and the call girls have been—because they know about the painting.”

“You know about it too.”

“But I don't know where it is.”

Victor held his gaze. “Neither do I. Now.”

“You've forgotten one other person who knows—Arnold Fletcher. I've been thinking about him. Perhaps you were right; perhaps he is involved. He got you and Mrs. Fleet together. Perhaps he knows there's a Hogarth up for grabs.”

Victor leaned back, thinking. Arnold Fletcher … He could picture his old colleague easily. Overweight, erudite, private. But criminal? A killer? No, not Arnold.

His attention shifted back to Tully.

“You interviewed Malcolm Jenner. What kind of man is he?”

“On the make. Enjoyed his job. Hag of a wife who thinks the world of their ghastly rough-ass son.” Tully shrugged. “Jenner's no mastermind, but I'd put money on it that he's no killer either.”

“So why would he have Annette Dvorski's phone?”

“Jenner was the chief steward; he was responsible for the plane. He'd pick up anything left behind.”

“Why not give it back to the girl?”

“Was it an expensive phone?” Tully asked archly. “Because if it was, I imagine Jenner might think lost property counted as one of the perks of the job. After all, a call girl would hardly be strapped for cash, would she? More than capable of buying herself another cell phone, especially if she was one of Bernie Freeland's favorites.”

The explanation was plausible. “So what's Malcolm Jenner planning to do now?”

“He didn't say. Like Terry Shaw—the other steward—he was shell-shocked.”

“And the pilots?”

“Duncan Fairfax is a pompous prick,” said Tully. “Puffed up with himself, full of it. Didn't mix with the passengers. His copilot was new, a man called John Yates.” Tully thought back over what he knew. “I haven't managed to get in touch with Yates yet, but I asked around. He seems well thought of, nothing suspicious.”

“What about Fairfax?”

“No gossip. Apart from him being unpopular, he's respected. Jenner said that he's the pilot for another hotshot with his own plane, so I imagine he'll carry on working for him.”

Victor pricked up his ears. “An art dealer?”

“Apparently. One thing I
did
find out that was interesting …” Victor looked up, watching Tully as he continued. “In the twenty-two years he's been a pilot, Duncan Fairfax's only ever worked on private jets. Mostly for art dealers.”

“So he has to know about the business,” Victor said. “Some knowledge must have rubbed off along the way.”

“I doubt it. You see what you think of him, but to me Duncan Fairfax is ignorant, money-grubbing hired help. All the pomposity in the world can't cover his true nature. He wasn't even slightly bothered about Bernie Freeland's death or the girl's. He only cared about losing the job. In fact, the only time Fairfax showed any real anger was when I suggested that Freeland might want to fire him.”

Victor raised his eyebrows. “Why did you say that?”

“I don't know; just a hunch. Fairfax made no secret of despising his employer, and I suppose I just wanted to rattle him. But he
wasn't
being dismissed, and he certainly wouldn't have killed the golden goose.”

“The numbers are dropping,” Victor said quietly. “Marian Miller, Annette Dvorski, Bernie Freeland, now Lim Chang—all dead. And Kit Wilkes critical in the hospital. The list is getting shorter by the day.”

“Of people who were on the plane,” Tully reminded him. “Not of suspects.
That
list keeps growing.”

“You asked around about Sergei Ivanovitch?”

“No one's ever heard of him.”

“Someone said that Kit Wilkes might have been doing business with Guy Manners.”

Tully smiled. “Rumor.”

“And like you said, there's always Arnold Fletcher to consider. He
did
have dealings with a gallery in Moscow about four years ago; he was doing very well, and then suddenly it all fell apart. I don't remember the details—it was during my trial, and I had other things on my mind—but someone said Arnold had tried to cheat them.” He frowned, remembering. “The Russians stopped trading with him and moved on to Kit Wilkes.”

“Interesting.”

“Very,” Victor agreed. “It would take a tough man to stand up to the Russians. Wilkes is cunning, but tough? Who knows?”

“So Oliver Peters is the only dealer left,” Tully said, musing. “I remember him from when I was a boy. My father knew his father quite well, but I've only met him a couple of times since. He came to see a play I was in. Said his wife was a fan of mine, and we had dinner at the Ritz afterward. He paid, naturally; I was only twenty-four.” He smiled at Victor. “My father used to say that Oliver Peters was a very clever man, very well thought of in the highest circles. The kind of man who'd want to protect those who'd honored him.”

“Meaning?”

“He's dying,” Tully said quietly. “He could afford to sacrifice himself. After all, he's got nothing to lose.”

“You're wrong. Dying, Oliver Peters has options. If he has the Hogarth, he can destroy it in an act of royalist loyalty. Or sell it to protect his own family after he's dead.”

“Which would go against everything he stands for.”

Victor shrugged. “Maybe what Oliver Peters stands for doesn't matter so much now. Of course, there is another choice he could make. He could up the stakes and bargain.”

“With the
royals
?”

“With those close to the royals,” Victor said. “Oliver's time is short. He might throw caution to the winds. If he went to the royal advisers and told them he had the Hogarth, he might ask them to buy it. He might also mention that he had already spoken to other interested parties, like the Chinese or the Russians.”

“No! He wouldn't dare.”

“He's close to death, Tully. He might dare anything. If the murders were done by a dealer, Oliver Peters is the prime suspect. After all, he was on the plane. He knew who heard about the Hogarth. He knew what had to be done to secure that painting. Perhaps he would go to any lengths to do just that.”

“But blackmailing the royal family …”

“Their advisers might think it was worth a fee to stop the Hogarth from ever seeing the light of day, which would prevent any question mark over the validity of the House of Windsor. After all, what would be the alternative? For Oliver Peters to sell it elsewhere? Those close to the royals wouldn't want a foreign power using Hogarth's painting as leverage.”

Shaken, Tully held his gaze. “You
really
think the picture is that powerful?”

“Yes. It was powerful when it was first painted, and it's just as potent now. Perhaps more so if it brings into question the line of succession.” Victor turned to Tully, his voice low. “There's blood on this painting. To the ruthless, a little more will count for nothing.”