The Hogarth Conspiracy Page 29

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

  HAVING JUST LANDED AT HEATHROW AFTER A FLIGHT FROM LOS 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

  HEARING THE DOOR BELL RING THREE TIMES, LIZA 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.

  But he couldn’t do it.

  Instead he held Liza Frith until she stopped crying and the evening faded into darkness. Through the basement window came the light from the street lamp on the road overhead. It was dim, but it was enough. Still holding Liza, Victor fixed his eyes on the clock on the opposite wall. It was eight-thirty. At ten-thirty he would be meeting with Malcolm Jenner. He would hear what the steward had to say.

  He didn’t know what it would be. But at ten-thirty he would find out the truth. Or die for it.

  Part Five

  Fifty-Four

  SITTING BY HER SON’S HOSPITAL BED, ELIZABETH WILKES LOOKED UP as Dr. Fountain entered. She had always disliked Fountain, remembered him from the days she had worked as a call girl and also remembered with embarrassment the monthly examinations. However she presented herself to the world, in Fountain’s eyes she would always be a prostitute, a hooker, a working girl. Years might have passed, but something in his expression always reminded her of what he knew, and he made her flesh creep.

  For a while Elizabeth had expected him to use her past against her, perhaps expose her. After all, it would have made a meaty piece for the tabloids if Kit Wilkes, always tormenting his illustrious father, turned out to have a whore for a mother. But time passed, and Fountain never played his trump card, settling for Kit as a patient instead. Perhaps, Elizabeth thought, it wouldn’t be worth jeopardizing his working relationship with her sister. God knows, Charlene Fleet had been lining the doctor’s wide white pockets for many years.

  Bitterly, Elizabeth thought of her sister, of the time when they had been growing up. Charlene was not Mrs. Fleet then, just some backstreet scrubber who would give it to the lads free until she realized charging was the way to go. It had taken guts for her sister to come down to London alone, but then, she had always longed to leave Scotland Road behind.

  So, with very little money and an old Mini, she had come to the capital. With a lack of morals and a bulletproof conscience, Charlene had started working for another madam, who never realized that within ten years she would be usurped, that Charlene—aka Mrs. Fleet—would take over Park Street. The woman died in a fall from the roof of the top-floor apartment. The coroner said it was an accidental death.

  Elizabeth had never been sure of that verdict. The incident had made her wary around her sister, and like all the others who worked for Mrs. Fleet, she had been afraid of her. But Elizabeth hadn’t been ready to move on. She was greedy and was making good money, and besides, she had told herself, her sister would never hurt her. Elizabeth sighed as she looked at her son. His eyelids were so fine that she could see the blood vessels under the skin. God, he couldn’t die, she thought desperately. Kit was everything to her. She had lived for him, even challenged her sister on his behalf a long time ago. She had gone to Charlene and told her she was pregnant. Mrs. Fleet, unmoved, had insisted on an abortion, but Elizabeth had been adamant. She wanted the child.

  “Jesus, what the hell for?”

  “I want out of the business,” Elizabeth had replied. “I’ve had enough.”

  “And how are you going to live?”

  “I’ve saved some money.”

  “That won’t last long the way you spend it,” Mrs. Fleet had responded. “Get rid of the kid and get back to work.”

  “I could talk to the father.”

  Oh, how Mrs. Fleet had responded to that suggestion! Her eyes flint-cold, she had turned on her sister. “You know that none of my girls is supposed to get pregnant. If they do, they deal with it. They don’t go and put pressure on the client.” She had walked up to Elizabeth and pointed at her belly. “Blackmail would ruin my business. The client would tell others, and it would all be over.”

  “Not if he wanted to keep it quiet himself.”

  Mrs. Fleet had put her hands on her hips, her head on one side. “So who is this client? This soft target?”

  “Bernie Freeland.”

  Laughing out loud, Mrs. Fleet had sat down at her desk, toying with the gold chain around her neck as she looked at her sister.

  “Oh, you bloody fool. Only you would get knocked up by Bernie Freeland. Go on, expose him; it would only add to his reputation.” She stopped laughing abruptly. “I always was the brains in our family, wasn’t I?” she said.

  Stung, Elizabeth had retaliated without thinking.

  “Our family? Perhaps people would like to know about our family. It would be interesting but very bad for your business, Charlene. Think of it; all your secrets that only I know laid out for the world to see. Even for a madam, you’d be ruined.” She had openly mocked her. “Mrs. Fleet, who was once Charlene O’Dywer, fucking the boys for a few bob, blow jobs a specialty on the top deck of the bus.”

  Elizabeth had gone too far. She knew it, but she couldn’t stop. Seeing that Charlene was shaken, knowing that she had dented her absolute confidence, had driven her on.

  “And then there was the time you hurt that child.”

  The words had slapped down between them, but Mrs. Fleet shrugged, feigning indifference.

  “She was fourteen. Hardly a child.”

  “She was a child! Oh, you got that hushed up, didn’t you, Charlene? Who did you talk to? Oh, I remember; you were friendly with someone in the police, weren’t you? Poor girl; she was sent away, wasn’t she? And then it all blew over. Of course I could get someone to look into it again, what with my having insider information.”

  And then it had happened, a silent shift in the atmosphere. Suddenly Elizabeth had the upper hand, and Charlene knew it. Her one mistake had been to keep her sister close to her. At first she had done it to protect herself, but now she realized that Elizabeth was the only person who could hold her to ransom. The only person who knew everything about her past.

  “You said that Bernie Freeland’s the father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’ve been fucking others,” Mrs. Fleet had gone on, thinking quickly. “We need someone who’s terrified of scandal. Someone who would do anything to keep his name out of the mire.” She stopped to think, then turned back to her sister. “James Holden’s one of your regulars, isn’t he?”

  Nodding, Elizabeth had tried to follow her sister’s rea
soning. “What about him?”

  “Tell him you’re pregnant with his kid.”

  “But you don’t approve of blackmail.”

  “It’s the lesser of two evils, Elizabeth. It’s him being blackmailed or it’s me. There’s no choice.” She had gone on, merciless. “James Holden wants to be prime minister one day. He’s married to a country squire’s daughter, and he’s really desperate for advancement. He’d pay to keep you quiet, and if you’re clever, you could make it last for years.”

  “But what if he tells other people?”

  “He won’t. He wouldn’t dare! He’s one of the few clients who don’t mix in the art world. Holden is all politics, so even if he did talk—which he won’t—it wouldn’t harm my business.”

  Elizabeth absorbed this in silence for a minute or two, then slowly said, “All right, I’ll have a word with him.”

  Mrs. Fleet had sighed, then smiled her brittle smile. “Actually, I’ll talk to James Holden and arrange everything, Elizabeth. You could bugger it up.”

  Surprised, Elizabeth had nodded, trying to undo some of the damage. “Look, I didn’t mean—”

  “What?”

  “About your past.”

  “You lying bitch; you meant every word. Remember, we’re family, and I know what you’re capable of. But I want you to remember one thing: I’m only halfway up the ladder, but soon I’ll be untouchable, and no one—not even you—will be able to harm me.” Her eyes had bored into her sister. “This is the last time you get one over on me, Elizabeth. Enjoy your moment of triumph, because it will be the last you’ll ever have.”

  Fifty-Five

  WATCHING HER SON AS SHE REMEMBERED THE ALTERCATION surrounding his birth, Elizabeth shuddered. If Kit died, it would be the end of the gravy train with James Holden. So if Kit died, not only would she be alone, she would be poor.

  You’re working late,” she said to Dr. Fountain, attempting to keep the hostility out of her voice.