The Hogarth Conspiracy Page 30

“I have to see all my patients whatever the time.”

  “No point missing out on a fee.”

  “Well, honey, you never did,” he said, neatly reversing the insult.

  “I want to ask you something,” Elizabeth said, swallowing the loathing she felt for him as much as she ever had. “Were you here when my son was brought in?”

  His taut skin hardly moved with his almost imperceptible smile. “I was, Elizabeth.”

  “And James Holden was here too?”

  “He was. For a short time. When Kit was admitted, he left.”

  “Was Kit already unconscious?”

  Fountain held Kit’s limp wrist and timed his pulse. “He’d taken an overdose.”

  “Was he unconscious?”

  “He was,” the doctor replied. “Poor boy. I was hoping he’d have pulled around by now. Sorry, my dear.”

  “I’m not your dear.” She kept her voice low so no one would overhear them. “Sitting here, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and something’s bothering me.”

  “Yes? And what might that be?”

  “I heard about a painting.” She noticed a flicker, a slight change in the doctor’s expression. “Well, I didn’t pay much attention at first,” she went on. “After all, Kit deals in pictures, but apparently someone found a rare Hogarth, and oddly enough—you’ll like this, Doctor Fountain; I know you have a taste for the macabre—everyone who knew about it has been killed.” She paused. “I don’t believe in coincidence, Doctor, and seeing as how Bernie Freeland is dead—along with three people who were on that flight where the painting was mentioned—and seeing as how my son was there too and lapsed into a coma soon afterward … Now, what would you say to that?”

  “It sounds amazing, but I haven’t read anything about it in the papers. It hasn’t been in the news.”

  “The police don’t know about the painting.”

  “Why not? If it was so suspicious, I feel sure it would have been investigated.”

  Outmaneuvered, Elizabeth took a moment to gather her thoughts, but the run-in with her sister coupled with her imminent penury had sharpened her wits overnight.

  “Perhaps people wanted to keep the deaths quiet.”

  “Four violent deaths? Honey, it would have to be a war to keep that quiet,” he replied smoothly. “I think your imagination’s running away with you.”

  “D’you know anything about this painting?”

  He shrugged and laid Kit’s arm back on the bed. “I’m a doctor, not an art dealer.”

  “But there has to be a connection if all the people on that flight are dying.”

  “Kit took an accidental overdose.”

  She shook her head. “He never injected himself. He’s squeamish about needles.”

  “Kit is squeamish about many things,” Fountain replied. He picked up his patient’s chart and pretended to read it while trying to decide how much Elizabeth knew. Not much, he realized after another moment, or she wouldn’t be pumping him for information.

  “Who brought my son to the hospital?”

  “I don’t know who accompanied him, but when Kit was brought in, I was called. When I got here, his boyfriend and his father were here with him.”

  Irritated that she had learned nothing of importance, Elizabeth slowly rose to her feet and wrapped her fur coat around her. “Why wasn’t his stomach pumped?”

  “It wouldn’t have helped. Kit didn’t swallow anything.”

  “So that’s it?” she said, her tone wavering. “He’s just going to lie there and slip away? He’s in a coma! Can’t you do anything?”

  “I’m doing what I can, but no one can work miracles, Elizabeth. Kit experimented. You should know that when the mood moves them, people will try anything once.”

  His inference embarrassed her. “But why then? Why just after a long flight?”

  “Maybe he was glad to be home.”

  “No! Something’s going on,” Elizabeth, protested, her voice rising as she stared helplessly at her son.

  “You really think so?” Dr. Fountain shrugged. “I don’t. After all, if there was some kind of conspiracy, your boy would be dead already.”

  Fifty-Six

  VICTOR WOULD RATHER HAVE BEEN ANYWHERE ELSE.

  As Malcolm Jenner drove him into the countryside and parked outside a large makeshift tarpaulin tent, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the sound of dogs barking. He even thought for an instant that he was going to suffer the fate of Lim Chang. Jenner turned off the engine and drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. In the distance, pungent smoke rose from a hidden fire and headlights beamed from other cars swinging onto the dirt track and parking close by.

  In prison Victor had never come across the brutality he had witnessed lately. Although living among violent men, he had escaped the sheer terror he was experiencing now. After all, Victor thought, who knew where he was? In a valiant attempt to protect Tully by giving him at least the advantage of ignorance, he hadn’t told his ally where he was going or who he was meeting. But now Victor realized he was completely alone and at the mercy of some man he didn’t really know in a place he didn’t want to be.

  “Why here?” he said at last.

  Jenner, his eyes shadowed behind his glasses, turned to him. “I want you to meet someone; well, actually, he asked to meet you. He’ll be here at eleven,” he said, and changed the subject. “You know that my wife runs dogs. I never had much of a liking for it, but you can get used to pretty much anything if it’s lucrative. Even the brutality—you get used to that too. I make a good living on the bets.” He paused as though he was about to apologize but went on. “The bettors are all types. Londoners, tourists—”

  “Tourists?”

  “Yeah, tourists. You think it’s all the Tower of London and Madam Tussauds? People like what they get at home or can’t get at home. They live in places where badger baiting and dogfighting are banned, so they come here for their fix. The police might bang on about the Dangerous Dogs Act, but believe me, the breeders keep it quiet and the numbers of dogs are rising. For years my wife and I have been breeding game dogs.”

  “What d’you mean, game dogs?”

  “You look in something like Exchange and Mart, Mr. Ballam, under the For Sale listings. When it describes a dog as ‘game,’ it means it’s been fighting. Might be a starter, a junior, or a veteran, but it’s trained. They start some of them with badger baiting.” He leaned down and pulled out a small metal glovelike object from under the seat and tapped it on the dashboard. “You use this to dig into a badger hole to give the dog enough room to get down there and attack. Or you trap the badger and then set the dog on it in the ring.” He paused, turning away. “Some people break the badger’s legs first so it’s not a fair fight and it can’t hurt the dog.”

  Victor couldn’t keep the disgust out of his voice. “And you do this for a living?”

  “I don’t mutilate the badgers first. I’ve got some morals.” He seemed unaware of the fatuousness of his remark.

  Victor stared out of the window as more cars started to arrive. He had no idea what was in store for him and was already trying to plan an escape. He spotted a copse of trees in the distance, but with dogs after him, what chance would he have?

  “You know Mrs. Fleet, don’t you?” he said.

  “Maybe,” Jenner replied. “Why?”

  “I was just wondering how well you knew her. I mean, she was your niece’s madam, and you were prepared to lie to the police for her.” He paused, trying to read the other man’s expression. “Do you know her well?”

  He laughed. “Charlene Fleet? All I know about her is that she gave me a lot of money to lie. I don’t like the police, and it was no skin off my nose to forget there were dealers or johns on the flight.”

  “But you knew she was Annette’s employer?”

  “Yeah. So what? Everyone knows everyone. The dealers, the whores, the pilots. It’s a small world.”

  Victor changed tac
k. “Tell me about your niece.”

  “Annette was my sister’s kid,” Jenner said, lighting a cigarette. “Her father was Polish, but he didn’t stick around long, didn’t like England. Or maybe he didn’t like my sister; she was a miserable bitch.”

  “How old was Annette when her father left?”

  “Thirteen. Already a right handful and always after the lads.” He shrugged. “After the split, Annette went to live with her mother, and we didn’t see each other for a long time, but I’d been working for Mr. Freeland for a while. Got to know him at one of our meets.”

  “I’m surprised that Bernie Freeland was into dogfighting.”

  “He was into everything and anything. Turns some people’s stomachs. Annette could never stand it, and that wanker Duncan Fairfax.”

  “Fairfax?”

  Jenner nodded. “He couldn’t take the blood or the fighting. Puked outside the tent the first time he came here, but he liked the betting. Tried to keep it quiet, but I saw him talking to the Chinese and the Irish. Now, they’re a rough lot, the Irish; take their dogs very seriously.”

  Victor pulled him back to the subject of his niece. “What about Annette? How did you meet up with her again?”

  “Like I said, I’d met Freeland. He took to me and hired me. Knew I was a hard man, and I reckon he liked the idea of having someone like that around. I loved the idea. It was a great job, and it got me away from home. Then one day this familiar face appears on Freeland’s jet.” He laughed hoarsely. “Jesus, you could have knocked me over with a breath! When Annette saw me, she winked, bold as brass, but it took me aback, I can tell you, knowing what she was up to in the private cabin. I mean, I’ve got nothing against johns, but my own niece…. Later we talked, and she said she’d been working as a call girl for about a year.”

  “She wasn’t bothered that you knew?”

  “For someone who’s been in jail, Mr. Ballam, you’re bloody naive,” Jenner said, amused. “I used to see Annette quite a lot. She was always generous, used to pass on all kinds of things. Money, horse-racing tips, presents from Mr. Freeland.”

  “And after the last trip your niece told you she had a plan?”

  He nodded. “To steal a painting. Annette was greedy. She saw Bernie Freeland as her meal ticket, but she also wanted a nest egg of her own.”

  “Did you know who the artist was?”

  “She told me, but I didn’t remember.” He flicked his ash out the window and stared into the side mirror.

  The cigarette smoke was thick inside the car, a gray vapor, noxious and cloying in Victor’s throat. He looked at the digital clock on the dashboard; only seven minutes to wait for whoever he was supposed to meet at eleven. Whatever was supposed to happen would happen in a matter of minutes.

  Chilled, Victor turned up the collar of his coat and hunkered down in the seat. He could smell the scent of dogs wafting over from the back of the car and watched a couple of men pass by, nodding a greeting to Jenner. All at once, Victor knew that he was out of his depth without a lifebelt—without even a reed—to cling to; he had taken on an investigation whose roots extended farther and clung more urgently every time he disturbed the water. At any moment he could be dragged under, and no one would ever know what had happened to him. He was a long way out of London, in the countryside. After the fights were over, how many dead dogs would be dumped in shallow graves and forgotten?

  And what was to stop a man from being buried with them?

  Apprehensive, Victor turned back to Jenner. “What was Annette’s plan?”

  “Like I told you before, she was going to get this painting off Mr. Freeland and sell it for a fortune.”

  “It didn’t worry you that she was stealing off Bernie Freeland?”

  “Freeland was my employer; Annette was my niece. Whose side would you be on? She had loads of contacts, said it would be easy because the picture was painted by a famous artist. She said she’d get off the game and I could retire.”

  “Did she say how she was going to get hold of the painting?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Use your imagination, Mr. Ballam.”

  “But she didn’t get hold of it, did she?”

  “Nah,” Jenner replied dully. “But Annette was determined. She was going to meet up with Mr. Freeland in New York. She was sure she could get it, but then she heard about Marian Miller being murdered and got spooked.”

  “She thought she was in danger?”

  “Well,” Jenner said evenly, “she was, wasn’t she?”

  Thoughtful, Victor turned his eyes back to the clock. Five minutes.

  “And you never heard from your niece again?”

  “Nah. She gave me her cell phone and told me to keep it and said that she’d call me on it, but she didn’t. That Liza Frith girl did, but not Annette.” He paused, glancing into the rearview mirror. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  Tensing, Victor watched as two Chinese men walked up to the car. Jenner rolled down his window to talk to them. Both men were unknown to Victor, but as one of them rested his hand on the edge of the window, he noticed the man had long spatulate fingernails.

  “He wants a word with you,” Jenner said, turning to Victor. “Go on, get out.”

  “Who is he?”

  Smiling ruefully, Jenner shook his head. “Look, I was just asked to bring you here. That’s all they told me.”

  Reluctantly, Victor got out of the car. At once the first man made a gesture to his companion and then stepped back. Jenner folded his arms and watched from the sidelines.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  The man nodded. “You’re after the Hogarth, aren’t you?”

  “Have you got it?”

  “We had it.”

  “Did you take it from Lim Chang?”

  The men exchanged a glance, and the younger of the two came forward. His eyes were pink and swollen, the skin around them inflamed. Slowly he tipped back his head and put a couple of drops into each eye, blinking slowly before he turned back to Victor.

  “I want the Hogarth.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “I believe you,” the man said, rubbing his left eye fitfully. “But I want you to find it and give it back to me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You know what’s going on. You were hired to find out what happened on that flight.” The man looked to Jenner. “That’s what you told me, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I told you,” Jenner replied, and moved off, unable to meet Victor’s eye.

  “So you,” the Chinese man went on, “must have found out about the Hogarth.” He paused for a moment, putting another drop in his left eye. “And being an art dealer—”

  “Ex-art dealer.”

  “—all the more reason why, as an ex-art dealer, you’d want to get one over on your competitors. Don’t deny it; I’m not a fucking idiot. You wouldn’t have been hired unless you knew how the art business worked. Which means that you must have contacts.”

  “I’ve got a criminal record; the art world won’t talk to me now.”

  The man sniffed, blinking slowly, then pulled his left eyelid down over his eye. “I want that Hogarth.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Many people would.”

  “And quite a few of them are already dead. Cuts down on the numbers, doesn’t it?”

  Victor decided to go on the attack. “Who killed Marian Miller?”

  “Not me.”

  “What about Annette Dvorski? Did you kill her?”

  “No.”

  “Bernie Freeland?”

  “No!” the Chinese man said emphatically, losing his patience. “Listen, I know I’m not the only person after this picture—”

  Victor interrupted. “You killed Lim Chang, though, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.” He paused for effect. “With dogs.”

  Not far away they could hear the commotion of a fight about to start: men calling out, bets being laid, and dogs snarling, eager for the
kill. Brutality was all around them in the dark night air.

  “I’ll ask you again,” Victor said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Why should I help you?”

  “Because we have Liza Frith.”

  The name came out at the same moment as loud, frantic yelping began, with the thumping roar of the men inside the tent almost but not quite drowning out the bloodbath. Smoke was still rising from the fire outside, and a fox barked eerily from over the hill—but no houses, no welcoming lights from streetlamps or stores. If Victor believed that he had somewhere to run from, he knew he had nowhere to run to.

  “You’ve got Liza Frith?” he repeated, stunned.

  “We found out where you’d hidden her,” he said. “Been watching her, wondering if she’d come in useful. You can have her back, unharmed, in return for the Hogarth.”

  “But I don’t have it!” Victor protested.

  “So find it,” the man retorted. “Find it or she’s dead.”

  A moment strung its weight out between them. Victor, now panicked, tried to play for time. “How do I know she’s not dead already?”

  “Oh, for fuck sake, don’t screw me around! Why would I kill her when I need her for bargaining?”

  “But I tell you I don’t know where the painting is.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Because it’s the truth. It could be anywhere in London—or in New York or Hong Kong. Or Moscow.”

  “Yeah, I heard the Russians were after it.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “That some man called Arnold Fletcher was trying to get back into their good books by finding it for them. But he’s got no chance. We’ll get it.”

  Puzzled, Victor stared at the man. “How d’you know about Arnold Fletcher?”

  “There’s a lot of gossip going around. Someone said there’s another bloke involved too: Guy Manners.” He shrugged. “Who fucking knows? Everyone’s been gabby about this flaming picture. It’s worth a lot of money, and a lot of people want it.”

  “Which is why you have to give me time to find it.”

  “You have to find that painting. Mr. Ballam. Fail and you might as well have killed Liza Frith yourself.” He paused, listening to the commotion coming from the nearby tent. “D’you like the dogs?”