The Hogarth Conspiracy (32 page)

Tully sighed. “But not you?”

“No, not me! Did you give him my messages?”

“I did.”

“I see.” She let the inference hang. “We slept together, you know.”

Tully picked up his coffee and drained the cup, staring out of the window as a bus passed. On the top level he could see several huddled figures, their faces pink, indecipherable blobs looking out onto the passing street.

“D'you
really
want to tell me this, sweetheart?”

“Yes, I do,
sweetheart
,” she replied acidly, then muted her tone. “Don't tell Victor I told you, will you? He'd be furious, and if Christian found out …”

“I won't tell Victor. And your husband won't hear about it from me,” Tully replied, glancing at his watch and then holding it to his ear to check that it was still ticking. “What a very silly girl, you are, Ingola. Whatever possessed you? It's not fair to screw up Victor like this, if you'll pardon the expression. He let you go; you should stay gone.”

He could sense her contrition even before she answered.

“No one else is like him, Tully. I try to get on with my life, to carry on and make a life with Christian, but now Victor's out of prison, he's—”

“Available?”

“Well …”

“No, Ingola, he's not available,” Tully admonished her. “Not to you. You know it, and you should back off. Besides, he's got other things on his mind right now.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, but he's under pressure. He's working on a difficult case.”

“Working on a case? What kind of case? He's not a lawyer or a cop.

Nothing illegal, is it?”

“Nothing that can affect your burgeoning legal career.”

“What's Victor involved in?”

“Detective work,” Tully replied, relishing the words. “I'm assisting him. It's all very 221b Baker Street.”

“Detective work? What the hell does Victor know about that?”

“He knows about the art world, and it's a case which involves the business.”

“Victor's an art
dealer
.”

“Victor is whatever people will let him be,” Tully retorted deftly. “Which isn't a dealer, my love. His days of being the hotshot are over.”

“You're such a bastard.”

Tully shrugged. “I see life as all men should, without muddying sentimentality. Victor needed to work; this work came along. He's been floundering a bit, but I imagine he'll prove to be rather good at it. Victor is clever and resourceful; he always was. He'll stick with it however hard it gets.”

“There's no risk, is there?”

He thought of what he knew and lied. “Only a little.”

“Look after him, will you? I want to know you have his back.”

“I always have his back.”

“Oh, Tully,” she said quietly. “You and I both know that's not true.”

A moment of thudding silence fell between them. Tully was the first to break it.

“I was wrong in the past; I admit it. But everyone's entitled to make a mistake.”

“Entitled to make one, yes. But not entitled to repeat it.”

For once Charlene Fleet's immense control was threatening to desert her. Enraged at having her messages ignored, she had driven over to Victor's apartment and was sitting outside in a resident's parking space, almost willing a traffic warden to come along and try to move her. In the backseat sat the mastiff, alert but as ever cowed by his mistress. Nursing a cup of Starbucks coffee she had bought around the corner, Mrs. Fleet turned on the car heater and felt the warm air nuzzle against her calves. It was one of the things that always impressed her about her car. How the best German engineering could ensure almost immediate heat, not like the clapped-out freezing Mini she had driven for years up north.

Mind you, back then she had been proud of the Mini. Back then, it was something to have a car in Scotland Road, something few people had. Or if they did, it had been bought on credit and was repossessed as soon as they defaulted on the payments. Or vandalized by kids or one of the innumerable drunks who spilled out of the pubs nightly. She had seen cars with tires sticky with vomit, graffiti smeared on the windows and the hood. The drunks wrote on anything, even the police cars when the cops went in to sort out the pub fights.

She took off the lid of her cup and watched the windshield mist up with steam from the coffee. A memory came back of a woman throwing hot coffee at a man. The liquid had caught him on the side of his face and blinded him in his left eye. Her father had always been a mean bastard, but becoming partially sighted had made him worse and given him an opportunity to avoid dock work. He had died two years later of a burst appendix; her mother had refused to go with him in the ambulance to Bootle Hospital. A month later her uncle came to the door and told her mother what he thought of her, and she told him that if he said another word, she'd get the coffee and do him the same.

Wiping the mist off the windshield with her hand, Mrs. Fleet stared into the street, waiting for Victor, but her thoughts slid back to Liverpool, and, irritated, she got out of the car. Almost as soon as she did, Victor walked up to his front door.

“Ballam! What the hell are you playing at?” she called out.

“Can we talk inside?” he replied. “I'm afraid dogs aren't allowed.”

Throwing her coffee into the gutter, Mrs. Fleet moved past Victor into the hallway and started up the stairs.

“First on the left,” he said, watching her pause uncertainly. Unlocking the door, he let her in ahead of him. Standing in the center of Victor's living room, she seemed immediately to lay claim to the space.

“I've been trying to get hold of you since—”

He cut her short. “Enough! I need the truth from you, although that's probably the last thing I'll get. What happened in New York?”

Her eyes widened.

“How the fuck do
I
know? You were there, not me.”

“Have you heard from Annette Dvorski?” he asked, waiting for some reaction in her eyes.

Which didn't come.

“No! You were going over there to see her, remember? Well,
did
you see her?”

“Oh, yes; I saw her.” Victor took off his coat and sat down. “She'd been murdered. I've never seen anything like it, and I don't want to see anything like it again.”

In silence, Mrs. Fleet sat down opposite Victor and stared at him for a long moment. It was difficult to tell whether she had known already.

“Murdered?”

“Yes. In Bernie Freeland's apartment,” Victor replied. “I was about to meet up with her when I was knocked out. When I came to, she was lying dead next to me. It was obviously meant to look as though I'd done it.” He was trying to read her face, but there was nothing beyond a fleeting expression of distaste.

“Tortured?”

“The killer poured bleach over her breasts and genitals, then made her drink it.”

Again no response.

“I only just got away before the police came. I ran.”

“Yes. Of course you would,” she said finally, taking out a tissue and blowing her nose. Victor couldn't tell if she had a cold or had actually been about to cry. “I noticed that they're doing some building work next door. I'm allergic to dust.”

“I'm allergic to being framed,” Victor replied. “What's going on?”

“That's what I'm paying you to find out.”

“Stop lying to me!” Victor snapped. “No one else knew I was going to Bernie Freeland's apartment in New York. No one but you knew that Annette Dvorski was going to be there.”

“Your assistant knew.”

“Tully? No; he wouldn't set me up.”

“So did Liza Frith, if it comes to that.” She sneezed violently, blew her nose, and tucked the tissue into her pocket. The gesture made her seem oddly vulnerable. “Before she ran off, that is. In fact, it was Liza who told me about Annette and Freeland meeting up. You know that, Mr. Ballam; she told you on the phone. Don't deny it; I stood next to you and heard the conversation. So before you start throwing accusations my way, I suggest you look at Liza Frith. She's left Park Street.”

Victor raised his eyebrows. “Where is she?”

“I don't know. She came from up north somewhere. Maybe she went back. Or maybe she was after the Hogarth for herself.”

Victor shook his head.

“When I spoke to Liza, she was afraid for herself and for Annette. Obviously she was so scared, she went on the run.” He paused, staring at Mrs. Fleet. “And why would Liza do that if she was involved?”

“A bluff?”

“Come on; you can't believe that!” He stared into the composed face. “Liza's just another working girl. You're the one with the contacts and the power. You're the one with the money, Mrs. Fleet.”

“Meaning?”

“You could be behind all of this.”

“Well, I could, but I'm not. Besides, I want all this to be over as quickly as possible. The police”—she said the word with contempt—“have been asking me some questions. Nothing I can't handle, but an irritation nevertheless. I'm afraid I lied, denied that any of my girls had been on that plane with Bernie Freeland. To all intents and purposes, the late Mr. Freeland had been traveling alone.”

“And they believed you?”

“I told you before, Mr. Ballam; I have a certain
arrangement
with the police.” She smiled. “I've also had a word with Malcolm Jenner, the steward. He seems more than willing to agree with my story, even embellish it. We thought it might be better for everyone if there was no mention of call girls. Or art dealers.”

“How much did you have to pay Jenner?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You should be grateful to me. I've gotten you off the hook. Now no one will make the connection between me, my girls, the dealers, and you. You're out of the woods.”

“Funny, it doesn't feel like that.”

“You worry too much.”

Victor laughed sardonically. “Like you say, Mrs. Fleet, you have a lot of contacts. If you can control what the police know and get Malcolm Jenner to say what you want, why stop there? You could be running the whole show.”

“Really? And what would I get out of it?” she said dismissively. “I told you I don't want the painting.”

“You could just be saying that.”

“Oh, so now
I'm
bluffing, am I?”

“Why not? You hired me knowing I'd take the bait and also knowing I'd fail. You relied on that. You realized I'd follow whatever information I had, knew that I'd blunder into that apartment in New York—and you knew how easy it would be to set me up for Annette Dvorski's murder.”

She sighed, sounding almost bored. “How exactly would I profit from another of my girls being killed?”

“To get the painting.”

“I don't want the fucking painting!” she said emphatically. Then, her eyes fixed on him, her tone sly, she said, “Why? Did
you
get it?”

“Where from?”

“Don't be irritating. Did Annette Dvorski have it?”

He lied without conscience. “I don't know.”

“Don't underestimate my intelligence. You want that painting, Mr. Ballam; you ache to get your hands on it. Don't tell me you didn't search that apartment for it.”

“I didn't see any painting.”

“Maybe Annette had hidden it.”

“Maybe Bernie Freeland had and Annette didn't find it,” he offered. “Or maybe her killer tortured her to tell him where it was.”

Thoughtful, Mrs. Fleet rubbed her left knee, her expression unreadable. “I think you have it.”

“I don't. But if I did, why would it matter to you? You said you didn't want it.”

“But if the painting is the reason for all these killings, we should find it.”

Smiling, Victor put his head on one side, watching her. “What if I was to tell you that I did know where the painting was?”

“Do you?”

“That knowledge would be my protection, wouldn't it? I mean, if you—or anyone—wanted the Hogarth, they'd have to come to me.”

“Or simply kill you for it,” she said, her tone eerily blank. “After all, they've killed all the others, haven't they?”

“But they haven't got the Hogarth,” Victor said, baiting her and waiting to see if she would take the bait. “After killing three people and damn near killing Kit Wilkes, they still haven't got the painting. Not very successful, are they?”

“Not as art thieves. But as murderers, extremely.”

He couldn't fathom her.
Was
she was masterminding the whole episode or merely watching from the sidelines?

“You could sell the Hogarth privately, you know.”

He waited for the reaction, but there was none.

“And share the proceeds with you, Mr. Ballam?” She walked over to him, standing very close, the scent of Chanel faintly perceptible on her skin. “No, I don't think so. I don't share; I never have. And attractive as you are, no man has ever made me lose my head.” Slowly she fastened her coat, her hands steady. “I want only one thing from you—find Liza Frith and bring her back to London.”

“Because you think she has the Hogarth?”

She smiled distantly.

“No, because she walked out on me. And no one does that, Mr. Ballam. She owes me a good lifestyle and a great career. She owes me loyalty. When it's time for someone to go, I tell
them
, they don't tell me. No one ever leaves me. You would do well to remember that.”

Out in the chill of the night, Victor paused on Park Street, glancing up at the window of Mrs. Fleet's apartment. He wondered if she was making herself a drink or something to eat or if perhaps she would suddenly come out to take the dog for a walk. Then he realized that he was giving her normal habits, a routine existence. Whereas in fact she was hermetically sealed in her own world, fighting to control everyone who came within her sphere.