The Hogarth Conspiracy (29 page)

Oliver's mouth was as dry as ash. “Who threatened you?”

“I don't know.”

“
Why
would someone threaten you?”

“Come on, Sir Oliver; we both know it's because of the Hogarth.”

“All this for a painting? Never.” He paused, uncertain if he was sounding convincing and piteously ashamed at having to lie. But what was his choice? To tell the truth? And to Victor Ballam? Hardly. But once the lying had begun, Oliver was finding its acceleration breathtaking. “Bernie Freeland didn't really know much about art. He was a lucky dealer, not an accomplished one. Not in English art, anyway. I doubt he would have known if the Hogarth painting was genuine. He might have been taken in by a fake.”

“What if he wasn't taken in?” Victor replied. “True, Freeland was a businessman who
became
a collector; he didn't have a connoisseur's instinct. But he had a lot of money, and he could easily have paid to have the painting authenticated. I doubt he'd have bought a Hogarth unless he
knew
it was genuine.”

Victor broke the silence that followed. “When he mentioned the painting to you, what did you think?”

“That he was babbling. I thought he was ill.”

Victor changed tack. “My client—”

“Who is?”

“That's confidential,” Victor countered, elastic with the truth himself. “But it's someone who wants to find out why so many of the passengers on that flight have been killed and hopefully prevent the remainder from ending up the same way.” This time he saw Oliver flinch and pressed on. “You were such a disparate bunch, people with so little in common. True, four of you were art dealers, but not friends. You lived in different countries, had different nationalities, and moved in different circles. As for the working girls, they were simply hired by Bernie Freeland for the trip. Or did any of the last-minute passengers have sex with them?”

Outraged and showing it, Oliver snapped his answer. “No!”

“I had to ask.”

“No one had sex with the girls except Bernie Freeland.”

“So the
only
thing all of you had in common was knowing about the Hogarth.”

“That's ridiculous!” Oliver said sharply, trying to put Victor off the scent. “Bernie Freeland was just rambling.”

“Freeland
had
got hold of the Hogarth, hadn't he?”

“I don't know,” Oliver replied coolly. “You seem to know a lot about what went on in that plane. Why don't you tell me?”

Surprised, Victor wondered why Oliver was being so confrontational and then remembered Tully telling him that Peters was terminally ill. Perhaps no longer able to remain honorable, perhaps driven to getting the Hogarth himself and making a fortune to secure his family's future. Remembering how he had had lost the Hogarth, Victor suddenly wondered if, indeed,
Oliver Peters
knew where the painting was. Perhaps it was in his gallery, behind the next wall. Perhaps in his bank.

Poised, Victor studied the elegant man in front of him. How many people
really
knew about the Hogarth? Had anyone had time to pass the information on? Had Lim Chang spoken to the Chinese? Kit Wilkes to the Russians? Oliver Peters to the British contingent? Kit Wilkes couldn't have kept the secret for an hour. Could Lim Chang have resisted broadcasting such a coup? In the minutes after they left Bernie Freeland's plane, how many busy little fingers texted messages and made phone calls?

Victor wondered whether the information became public property or remained contained. Whether knotted tendrils of communication reached out across the Internet from that tight little coterie, humming over phone lines and cable connections. From one manageable little bunch, did the news then snake its prolonged reach around the globe?

And if it did, could any one dealer, especially a man as sick as Oliver Peters, grab the prize for himself?

“Have you been in touch with Lim Chang?”

Oliver blinked. “Why should I be?”

“He was on the flight, and he must have heard about Bernie Freeland's death,” Victor replied. “It would be natural for you two to talk.”

“Who authorized you to ask all these questions?” Oliver asked, suddenly taking out a small vial of pills. Without attempting to disguise what he was doing, he shook out two tablets and swallowed them with what was left of his coffee. “You sound like a policeman, Victor. Although the force doesn't hire anyone with a criminal record, do they?” Ashamed of the jibe, he said, “Forgive my manners; I'm in a little pain.”

More than a little,
Victor thought. “No one wants to bring the police into this, Sir Oliver. It would come out about the prostitutes and who was on the plane. I don't think anyone wants that kind of publicity.”

“Guilt by association.”

Victor nodded. “I understand why everyone wants to keep it private, and with the Hogarth back on the market—and we both know it
is
—secrecy's paramount.”

Oliver was listening, surprised and wary. Was this man on his side? Was this convicted criminal, this ex-dealer, just grubbing about for information, or was he genuinely aware of the painting's significance?

“Sir Oliver, there are many dealers who could make a fortune out of the painting. Others would want to destroy it to defend reputations—royal reputations, the line of succession itself.”

“I don't have it,” Oliver said.

He had decided to fabricate his own version of events, at the same time appearing to help Victor. In this way he hoped he would find out more about what was going on and keep tabs on Lim Chang, whose request for money had played on Oliver's mind. What if it was a trick? What if Chang took the half a million and returned to China with the Hogarth
and
the money? Perhaps his only protection was to throw in his lot with Victor Ballam.

Weary with anxiety and pain, Oliver said, “I don't have the Hogarth. I was just an innocent party in this whole sordid mess. I was unlucky when I accepted Freeland's offer of a lift. I had nothing to do with the death of the call girl.”

“I'm not suggesting you did.”

“They said she was killed by a client.”

“The police think so.”

“But you don't?”

“No. I might have, but after Marian Miller's death, when Bernie Freeland was killed and then Annette Dvorski was murdered, it was just too much of a coincidence. You all knew about the Hogarth.”

Still cautious, Oliver refused to be drawn.

“And even if you didn't, people
believed
that every passenger did. Sir Oliver, I need to know exactly what went on, who said what. And who you've spoken to since.”

“Only Lim Chang.”

“He's in London?”

Oliver was straining to concentrate. “Yes, he told me about Bernie Freeland's death.”

“Does he know about the Hogarth?”

Oliver blinked slowly, thinking, then sighed, shaking his head. “There's really no point in my lying anymore, is there?”

“No.”

“Anyone on that jet could have heard about the Hogarth.”

Relieved, Victor nodded. “Bernie Freeland
did
talk to you, didn't he?”

“Yes. What he said was garbled, but he told me he had the painting. Someone had stolen it.”

“From where?”

I don't know,” Oliver replied, wanting to shout out,
From my bank. Stolen from me. My family. The Hogarth is my property, my responsibility, and I want it back.
But he didn't say any of it, because he knew he had to concentrate on recovering the painting. The thief was almost a secondary matter. “I just know that it was stolen and the thief wanted to get rid of it in a hurry. He sold it to Bernie Freeland.”

“What else did he say?”

“He was scared, worried that something might happen to him. He was right; something did.” Oliver paused, holding Victor's gaze. “But you have to remember how it was. We were just coming into land. The journey had been stressful; we all wanted to leave the plane and go home. And then suddenly Bernie Freeland started lurching around and saying these peculiar things to me. He was whispering, but loudly, if you know what I mean. And at first I didn't know what he was talking about.” Oliver paused, remembering. “By the time the steward had settled him in his seat, we were landing. He said that Mr. Freeland's drink had been spiked but that he would be fine later. It was all so hurried, so odd.”

“But anyone on the flight could have heard about the Hogarth?”

“Well, some passengers were closer to us than others,” Oliver conceded, “but yes, I suppose everyone
could
have heard.”

“What about the staff on the jet?” Victor asked, remembering what Tully had told him. “Did you notice anything unusual?”

“I don't remember the pilots. I didn't exchange a word with them. Oh, wait a minute. One pilot came into the cabin briefly, but that was all. He was busy, preoccupied. Young.”

“That would have been John Yates,” Victor said, thinking aloud. “What about the stewards?”

“The younger steward was a bit embarrassed because of the way the girls were behaving. They were flirting with them, walking around in their underwear.” He paused, regarding Victor intently. “I'm very happily married, which is one of the reasons I'm trying to help you as much as I can. I don't want my wife to find out who my fellow passengers were.”

“I understand.”

“It would be embarrassing for her and for my children. You of all people know how mud sticks,” Oliver said softly. “You asked me about the crew. I hardly remember the pilots, but I recall the stewards quite well. The older man was very efficient, seemed at home on the plane. I imagine he was someone who had worked for Freeland for a while. The younger man seemed excited, interested in the plane.” Oliver sighed. “But was there anything unusual about them? No, nothing.”

“What about the passengers?”

“Lim Chang was working most of the time. He was sitting across the aisle from me.”

“What was Kit Wilkes doing?”

“Reading, sleeping …” Oliver turned his thoughts back to Wilkes. “At least he pretended to be asleep, but I remember thinking that no one could sleep for so long.”

“Did he seem drugged?”

“Not to me. As I said, he was quiet. I always imagined people on drugs became very vocal.”

“But he looked well?”

“Yes, he looked perfectly well. Mind you, I was talking to the girls for a while.” Oliver took in a breath, unnerved. “You said that one of them has gone missing. Which one?”

“Liza Frith. She's very slim, blond.”

“I remember her; she was kind,” Oliver replied without elaborating. “Is she in danger?”

“She knows about the Hogarth, so yes.”

“And Kit Wilkes is in the Friars Hospital with a drug overdose. You think he was stopped before he could talk about the Hogarth?”

“I'm sure of it,” Victor replied. “Whoever did it worked fast. But were they fast enough?”

“I don't understand.”

“Before Kit Wilkes was hospitalized he might not have had enough time to meet up with someone, but he
did
have enough time to pass on the news about the Hogarth.”

Breathing deeply to steady himself, Oliver looked at Victor. “Are you sure all this is about the painting?”

“Oh, yes; I'm certain.”

Troubled, Oliver fell silent. Should he confide? No, not yet. Perhaps later, when he might need Victor Ballam's help. For the time being he would work alone, try to raise the half a million to buy back the Hogarth.
One step at a time,
Oliver told himself;
take it one step at a time
. Momentarily forgetting that Victor was there, he remembered the call girls, alive and talking. He could see Lim Chang working on his BlackBerry as clearly as though he were still sitting next to him. And he felt the same dizzying fear at hearing the name
Hogarth
.

He could imagine the towering disappointment of his grandfather and father and the contempt of the redoubtable Sir Nathaniel Overton. Was he, Oliver Peters, to be the man who failed? The keeper who dropped the flame? The trusted confidant who was found wanting? Had generations of his family protected the royal secret only for him to fail now?

Watching the man he had admired for years, Victor knew Oliver Peters was holding back. There was a sense of despair, of palpable regret, that hung over the dealer like a shroud.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Sir Oliver?”

Slowly he shook his head.

“Too many deaths, too many accidents for it to be a coincidence,” Victor repeated.

Unwilling to risk his voice, Oliver nodded. There had been too many deaths, and he was in the middle of the stew, trying to do a deal for a painting that had blood all over it.

Finally, he looked up. “I'm in danger, aren't I?”

“Yes,” Victor replied sadly. “I rather think you are.”

Thirty-Seven