The Hogarth Conspiracy (41 page)

Victor had tried to prepare for the difficulty of returning to everyday life, but he hadn't allowed for the fact that his life had never been everyday. He had been a master in his world. Top-billed, not a member of the chorus. His life had consisted of solos, virtuoso performances; his opinion was sought, his criticism feared. After his public disgrace, Victor Ballam could never slide back into the opera box of his life. Even the stalls were now too good for him; he would be lucky to get a peek in at the stage door.

His innocence no longer mattered, because no one believed it. The art world—except for Sir Oliver Peters—had deemed him a fraud, and the people he now mixed with, the likes of Charlene Fleet and Dr. Eli Fountain—wouldn't care whether he was a criminal. Perhaps, Victor thought bitterly, he might have greater currency in their eyes if he was a crook. Caught between the cherished world that had crucified him and the
demimonde
he hardly understood, Victor found himself disembodied, flying at half mast.

Finally pressing the answering machine, he found two earlier messages from Liza Frith, who sounded unnerved and jumpy, and one from Malcolm Jenner asking Victor to call. Apparently he had remembered something that might have been important and wanted to talk about it.

Jenner's admission that Annette Dvorski was his niece had thrown Victor. Was it true? If so, perhaps that fact cleared him as a suspect. But now Victor wasn't so sure. Perhaps, for all his apparent grief, Jenner had been merely acting. Maybe he had double-crossed his own niece, killed Annette to get the painting. After all, he knew Mrs. Fleet and had colluded with her in duping the police. Perhaps they had been working together for a while. But the more he thought about it, the more Victor doubted that Malcolm Jenner was lying. He was a hard case, certainly on the make, but no killer. That made Victor very curious to hear what he had to say now.

He dialed the number Jenner had left on the answering machine.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Jenner, it's Victor Ballam. You left a message for me.”

“Yeah, I did. I remembered something. It might be important.”

“Go on.”

“No, not over the phone. Can you meet me later?”

“Where?”

Victor scribbled the address on the back of an envelope, frowning. “Why there?”

“I want to show you something. Something you need to see. Come at ten-thirty.” Jenner rang off.

Putting down the phone, Victor stared at the address. He remembered what he had been told by Tully and remembered what had happened to Lim Chang. He wondered not for the first time if he was walking into a trap. And then realized that he had no choice.

Fifty-Two

H
AVING JUST LANDED AT
H
EATHROW AFTER A FLIGHT FROM
L
OS
Angeles, John Yates was surprised to find a very flustered Duncan Fairfax waiting for him at the airport. He looked flushed and out of place without his glossy pilot's uniform. His girth was obvious, with the tweed jacket and corduroy trousers he was wearing emphasizing his weight gain. Too much rich food, Yates thought to himself, making a mental note not to let himself go to seed.

“I want a word with you,” Fairfax began, his tone abrupt.

Yates wasn't about to let his irritation show. He had learned early on that the blessing of a bland appearance meant that people seldom treated you with awe. And hardly ever remembered you. In his teens he had resented his nonidentity, but as he entered his late twenties, John Yates saw the positive side. People were not intimidated by him, which meant that he didn't inspire the jealousy that was the undoing of many charismatic men. His ordinariness worked with women too. They felt safe. Not excited or driven to sexual excess but safe. And John Yates slowly learned that he could get enough sex if he kept playing safe. The women mothered him. Their parents accepted him. Dogs and cats liked him. And the passengers never remembered his face but trusted the uniform he wore.

And so, hidden under this undistinguished exterior, John Yates steadily climbed the ladder to success. As a pilot he was unremarkable but had a steady pair of hands. No tantrums, no dangerous antics. As surely as the tide leaves the sand, he rose in the ranks. Until finally he became the copilot on Bernie Freeland's private jet. For a man no one envied, he was remarkably well rewarded.

But now Duncan Fairfax was hollering at him, and instead of telling him to get lost, John Yates did what he did best: he calmed him down.

“What's the matter?”

“What's the bloody
matter?
” Fairfax hissed. “You've got a big mouth; that's what.”

No, thought Yates; that's one thing I haven't got.

“I don't understand. What am I supposed to have said?”

Grabbing his copilot's arm, Fairfax swerved him across the concourse and into a private room away from the departure lounge where they couldn't be overheard. Anger did little for his coloring; his skin became mottled with rage.

“You've been talking.”

“To who?”

“Don't think I don't know.”

“About
what
?”

“You bloody fool!” Fairfax went on, loosening his tie and leaning against the wall. “I had some man called Tully Harcourt asking me questions about Bernie Freeland's last flight. He also said that he'd already talked to the stewards.”

“About what?”

“The girl who died. And the other people who were on the plane.
And me!
” Fairfax snorted. “He seemed to know a lot about me. Things no one else should know. Things I thought no one else
did
know. But I was wrong.” He pulled his collar even slacker. “He talked to you; I see that now. Bloody Freeland lied. He promised that he wouldn't say anything.”

“I really don't understand,” said Yates, bewildered.

“You do! You understand it all well enough.” Fairfax's eyes were bulging slightly. “You fucking creep, sniffing around. I know your type. Mr. Nice Guy. Never offend but stab anyone in the back to get what you want.”

Exasperated and angry, John Yates turned to go, but Fairfax grabbed his arm to stop him.

“You can't just walk off! What did you tell Harcourt, hey? That Freeland was firing me? Was that it? That Freeland was about to put me out to graze and take you on as his first in command?”

Baffled, John Yates put up his hands. “Hold on!”

“
Hold on!
” Fairfax hissed. “I've been holding on for years. You think I'm going to let some little shit like you blacken my name and wreck my chances with Ahmed Fatida?”

“Look here, Fairfax; I don't know what you're talking about,” Yates said firmly. “I haven't spoken to someone called Harcourt, and I haven't discussed you with anyone.”

Fairfax blinked. “You haven't?

“No. After the Freeland flight I went home. The day afterward I had a vacation booked, and that's where I've been until now. Today's my first day back at work.” He paused, sensible to a fault. “I've never even heard of anyone called Harcourt. And Mr. Freeland never said anything about firing you.”

Feeling suddenly foolish, Duncan Fairfax paused, smoothing his hair and refastening his tie. No one was threatening his glossy life. No one was going to upset his jet-set image. No one. He had just overreacted, panicked at the thought of being demoted to a commercial airline or, worse, retired, his status over, his power ended.

Relaxing slowly, he glanced back to John Yates.

“I'm … I'm very sorry. I've been very worried about my wife lately. Well, anyway, I've been getting things a little out of proportion.” He tapped Yates's arm in a mock paternal gesture. He tried a smile, Yates returning it. “I apologize; please forget what I said.”

“Already forgotten, sir.”

“I'll put in a good word for you where I can.”

“Thank you, sir, but I'm already organized.”

Duncan could feel his throat tighten. “Really? You're joining a commercial airline?”

“No, I'm working for an entrepreneur.”

“You didn't waste any time, did you?”

“I was very lucky; just fell into the position.”

Fairfax's tone was poisonous. “Just
fell in
?”

“As you always told me, sir, contacts are everything.”

Fifty-Three

H
EARING THE DOOR BELL RING THREE TIMES,
L
IZA WENT TO THE
window and peeked through the gap in the curtain. With relief she saw Victor Ballam standing there, his expression tense as he spoke on his cell phone. He rang off just as Liza opened the door.

“Hi,” she said, standing back and letting him in. “You got my messages?”

“You sounded worried.” He followed her to the kitchen.

Still unsure of where everything was kept, Liza opened two cupboard doors before she found the coffee, then put some water on to boil. She was aware that she found Victor attractive and was surprised to find herself nervous. The clients never made her feel nervous. Special, sometimes. Cheap, sometimes. Needed, always. But nervous? Never.

“Sugar?”

“Yeah, two. Thanks.”

Smiling, she added the sugar and handed him the mug, walking with him into the living room and sitting down on the sofa beside him. The collar of his jacket was slightly bunched up, and for a moment she wanted to reach out and smooth it down but resisted the urge. He wasn't a john.

“What happened?”

“I did something stupid,” she admitted. “I got lonely and went next door.”

His face set. “I thought we agreed that you'd stay in.”

“I'm sorry! But I just got so bored, and the food smelled so good.” Liza smiled her child's smile. “This woman came over with her little girl, looking for their cat, and she invited me to eat with them. She seemed so innocent and cheerful, so I went next door with them.”

She could see that Victor was incensed and confided nothing else. Instead she remembered the Chinese man in the apartment next door and what he had told her.
Say nothing about me; keep quiet—or Victor Ballam will pay for it.
So she kept silent about the stranger who had sat down to the meal with them, said nothing about how much he had frightened her.

Instead she changed the subject. “You want some food?”

“Liza, you
have
to stay in the flat.”

“I just—”

“You're in danger,” he said insistently. “Don't you get it, Liza? There are four dead people from your flight. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

She pushed back her hair with her hands.

“Yes! It was just that the woman seemed so—”

“I'll bring some more food tomorrow,” Victor said shortly, cutting her off. “In the meantime don't open the door to anyone. Don't go out. Don't answer the phone. I'll use your cell phone if I want to call you. You have to take this seriously.”

“Jesus! I ran away from Ma Fleet's because I was scared. I've been scared ever since that flight, so don't tell me to take this seriously!” She shouted; then, her voice plummeting, her head dropping onto her drawn-up knees, she said, “I knew those girls, Victor. I cared about Annette. I knew them both, worked with them both. You think I want to be next?” She lifted her head, her eyes teary. “I admit I went out. I'm sorry, I went out, I'm sorry. Sorry!” she repeated. “I'm stuck here with no one to talk to and wondering every minute if someone will get to me. I went next door because I couldn't stand it here. I went out because I couldn't listen to my own thoughts a minute longer.”

He reached out and touched her arm, and she turned, leaning against him, her head on his shoulder, crying. Surprised, Victor hesitated, then cradled her. Her arms were slim, the skin warm, her hair hiding her face. If he closed his eyes, he knew he would be able to imagine another woman in another time. If he allowed himself, he could pretend he was holding Ingola again. If he wanted, he could be the man he once had been. Loved, desired, admired. If he was prepared to, he could have sex with this woman while he was in reality making love to a ghost. He could even forget for a short time that she was a whore and he was a crook.