The Hogarth Conspiracy (39 page)

“I want to talk about a cell phone. Annette Dvorski's cell phone.”

He could see Jenner's eyes flicker and followed as he led him farther outside. Jenner lit a cigarette and stared at Victor.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you do. Annette Dvorski was on Bernie Freeland's plane. You talked to my colleague about it, Tully Harcourt.”

“Okay, so I talked to him about Mr. Freeland. I don't remember talking about any girl, though.”

“Did you know her?”

“Who?”

“Annette Dvorski.”

“She was a hooker on the flight.”

“Nothing else?”

“What else is there?”

“So why have you got her cell phone?”

“I found it,” Jenner replied, but he was clearly uneasy, unable to look Victor in the eye. “I can't tell you any more than I told your colleague.”

“You know that Annette Dvorski's dead?”

He paused, took a long drag of his cigarette, and stared hard at the ground. In the building behind, several of the men were moving, bringing out dogs. The animals were pulling at their leashes and snarling, their hackles raised. Fighting dogs. Killing machines. Animals that could easily tear a man to pieces.

Victor's breathing quickened as he gestured to them. “You run dogs here?”

Jenner looked up, half regretfully, half resigned. “My wife does. Your friend said he'd keep it quiet.”

“He certainly did. He didn't even tell me.”

Victor watched as the men came closer; the dogs were focused, alert.

“Like I said, Mr. Ballam,” Jenner went on, aware of his backup. “I've got nothing more to say about that flight.”

“Why are you so scared?”

“Don't pretend
you're
not.”

Victor smiled ruefully. “Oh, I admit it; I'm bloody terrified. But you—why are you so afraid?” He reached out and gripped Jenner's arm. “Look, I'm past caring, and frankly, if you want me to beg, fine, I'll beg. I'm involved in something I don't understand. Everywhere I go people are telling me to back off or they're threatening me.” Fear was making him angry. “Well, I won't back off. Not now, not ever. But I'm floundering, and I need some help.”

“I can't give it to you.”

“You know something,” Victor persisted, glancing at the dogs and then back to Jenner. “You
have
to help me. Four people on that flight have already been killed.”

“Yeah, and I don't want to be the fifth.”

Victor increased his grip on Jenner's arm. “Neither do I. I want to put a stop to it, but I can't unless someone helps me out. Give me something.
Anything
.”

The dogs were only five feet away from Victor now, surrounding him. Jenner stubbed out the cigarette butt with the heel of his boot.

“Leave now, before you get into any real trouble. I only have to say the word and they'll set the dogs on you.”

“I don't doubt it,” Victor said quietly, letting go of Malcolm Jenner's arm. The dogs were so close, he could smell them. “But I want you to remember those girls and what happened to them. I want you to close your eyes at night and think of what they suffered. Marian Miller's head smashed in, Annette Dvorski tortured and forced to swallow bleach.”

To Victor's surprise, Jenner suddenly gestured for the men to back off. For a moment they hesitated, then moved away, walking the dogs back into the building beyond. In the grim, chill daylight, Malcolm Jenner reached for another cigarette, his hands shaking so much that he could hardly light it. His color had faded, his eyes were watery behind his glasses, and a cough rasped from the back of his throat.

“She was tortured?”

“Yes.”

“How d'you know?”

“Because I found her.”

Jenner nodded, struggling for breath. “She suffered?”

“More than anyone should.”

There was a pause as Jenner stared upward into the dead sky. Finally, he looked back to Victor.

“It was supposed to be so easy. She had a plan, you see. She said we could pull it off, that it would be a breeze. Annette told me she had Bernie Freeland eating out of the palm of her hand.”

Stunned, Victor stared at the man in front of him. “A plan?”

“She was all lit up, excited. She said she was going to get her hands on some painting that was worth a fortune. She'd been larking around, spiking Mr. Freeland's drink for a laugh, but then she overheard something he said. When we landed, she phoned me and told me all about it.” He smiled at the memory. “Annette said we'd be living like royalty. Said we were really onto something, that we could sell the picture for millions.”

“But you didn't even know her.”

“We
pretended
we didn't know each other. It stopped people from asking questions. But we'd known each other for a long time.” Jenner paused, his voice hardly audible. “Annette Dvorski was my niece.”

Forty-Nine

R
ACHEL
F
AIRFAX, BELOVED WIFE OF
D
UNCAN, WAS TRYING TO WORK
out a recipe for that evening's meal. Having spent half an hour in the butcher's choosing the right cut of beef, she was now frowning as she read the instructions for St. James's stew. She was the only person who didn't think her husband was a son of a bitch. In all the years they had been married, Duncan had worshipped his wife, and the fact that they had no children had not weakened but strengthened their bond. In Duncan, Rachel had found a protective admirer. In Rachel, Duncan had discovered an uncomplicated, endlessly affectionate—and undemanding—consort.

He was not a man to offer information, and she was not a woman to ask questions. Her mind held no room for suspicion or doubt, whereas his was a pot roast of secrets seasoned with a garnish of
folie de grandeur
. Coming from a comfortable and respected army family, Rachel was at ease with the world. Born into poor stock and having lied about his lowly beginnings, Duncan felt unsteady in life. At any time he was liable to fall, to have his humble origins revealed and laughed at.

Rachel was terrified of only one thing: losing her husband in an air crash. He was terrified of being exposed, being brought down to earth and viewed as a social calamity, the bogus puffed-up liar that he was. But for all Duncan Fairfax's failings, his love for his wife was genuine. It was the only genuine thing about him. There was no straying from the marital bed, no accepting any of the sexual treats on offer. He could have added adultery to his many failings, but Duncan was a moral hypocrite. Lying to prop himself up was justifiable; lying to deceive his wife was unforgivable.

And over their eighteen years of marriage Rachel had nurtured an image of her husband that he saw reflected in her eyes and in everything she did for him. It was a false image but a precious one. An image not of the man he was but the man he
pretended
to be. Rachel was his mirror. The uncritical, loving reflection of his importance.

Hearing the kitchen door open, Rachel looked up and smiled as her husband entered. “I'm making your favorite.”

“Everything you make for me is my favorite, darling.” He kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“You worry too much about me.”

“You need looking after, and there's no one better to look after you than me. Did you check your blood sugar?”

“I can cope with my diabetes, darling; you know I can,” Rachel replied, turning back to the recipe. “I thought we could eat around seven?”

“Good.”

“You could watch the golf on BBC2,” she offered, “or go out and play a few holes.”

He shook his head, weary as he sank into a chair in the open-plan kitchen. For once he had a week off. Bernie Freeland's death had given him an unexpected break. Naturally, Duncan had told his wife about his employer's death, but not about the gruesome murder of Marian Miller. He glanced at Rachel, knowing how much the news would upset her, send her blood sugar through the roof. Why tell her when there was nothing to be gained from it? Wasn't it enough that she got anxious every time he flew?

Rachel had never demanded that Duncan stop flying, but she
had
hinted at an early retirement. He had ducked the suggestion because he liked his work and
loved
the money he made. Flying for a regular commercial airline would never have been as lucrative as piloting a private jet, and for a snob like Duncan Fairfax, the status of being among the elite was to be guarded at all costs. Not for him the horror of domestic flights, the daily shuttle run to Glasgow or Newcastle. Not for him the faded interiors of old 747s. Oh, no; his world above the clouds was gilded, exclusive. His uniform bore a designer label; his passport proclaimed Monte Carlo, New York, Hong Kong….

“Is there going to be a funeral?”

Duncan blinked. “What?”

“For poor Mr. Freeland. Is there going to be a funeral?”

“It was yesterday, in New York,” Duncan explained. “A quiet affair, apparently. Just a few friends and his son.”

“I didn't know he had a son.”

Duncan nodded. “I only met him once, a few years ago.”

“You never said.”

“To be honest, I forgot about it. Mr. Freeland wasn't with Louis—that's the name of his son—he was traveling alone. Well, not entirely; Louis was with one of the family's lawyers. If I remember rightly, he was being taken from the USA to Europe for a trip. A treat, because his father hadn't been able to spend Christmas with him.”

“How old is he?”

“Must be early twenties now.”

Rachel's eyebrows rose. “So he'll inherit his father's fortune?”

“I doubt that. Louis will have an allowance and be more than comfortable, but he's not exactly a businessman,” Duncan went on, thinking back. “He's very handsome, very striking to look at, but Mr. Freeland always kept his son's existence very quiet.”

“Why?”

“Louis has problems,” Duncan replied, suddenly wondering who would inherit the Freeland fortune.

“What a shame,” Rachel said, reopening the oven door and sliding the casserole onto the top shelf. “All the money and success in the world can't prevent things like that from happening. First his son and then that terrible accident … I suppose you'll miss Mr. Freeland; you liked him so much.”

I loathed him, the boorish, oversexed bastard,
Duncan thought but, keeping his voice light, replied, “Yes, I'll miss him. But I'm going to be working full time for Ahmed Fatida from now on. He has dealings all over the Middle East. He's twice as rich as Mr. Freeland. Bigger jet too. Triple seven,” he bragged.

“That's nice,” Rachel replied absently, taking off her oven gloves and moving over to the sofa. Sitting beside him, she laid her head against her husband's shoulder. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you, darling.”

“You think you want all those wonderful things in life—luxury, money, and power—but in the end they don't count for anything, do they?” She snuggled closer to him. “Mr. Freeland and his poor son would envy us now. We're the lucky ones, you know. We have each other and a calm, untroubled life.”

“Yes, we're the lucky ones,” Duncan agreed. “We just have to make sure we stay lucky.”

Fifty

“W
ELL, AT LEAST
V
ICTOR SENT ME A TEXT
,” I
NGOLA SAID, SITTING ON
the window seat in Tully's apartment, her thick blond hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I said I'd be in London today and wondered if we could meet up, but he said no. Said he'd call me later. He won't see me, Tully.”

“What d'you expect? Sleeping with his brother's wife is hardly going to make him feel good, is it?”

“That's harsh.”

He shrugged.

“I said before that you should leave him alone, and I meant it. Victor's been through a lot. Jail, then coming out into a world that thinks the worst of him and trying to fit back in. That isn't easy for anyone. And now he's involved in this case, and it's gotten out of control.” He sighed. “It's too much for him, Ingola. If you really cared about him, you'd back off.”