The Hogarth Conspiracy Page 7

  “Good to see you again,” Oliver began with practiced courtesy. “I thought you were going straight onto Paris for the Courbet auction.”

  “Bernie Freeland is dead.”

  Oliver was momentarily frozen in shock and then sat down behind his desk, trying to steady his thoughts. He wanted to ask questions but hesitated, knowing that he wouldn’t like the answers. Wouldn’t want to hear them, to consider what they meant. Oh, Christ, he thought, why did I take that flight? Why in God’s name did I take that flight?

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Bernie Freeland is dead.” His good manners covered his shock. “I’m so sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  “He was run over. In New York. By a truck. Apparently his injuries were terrible.”

  Taking a deep breath, Oliver calmed himself. Bernie Freeland was dead, killed in an accident. The same Bernie Freeland who had been so excited about the Hogarth painting. Bernie Freeland who had confided in him. Oliver stared at his visitor with suspicion. How much did he know? Another thought followed immediately. Where was the Hogarth painting? Now that Freeland was dead, it would be up for grabs. Oliver felt his heart palpitate; He was too tired—too sick—for this.

  Baring his small teeth in a half smile, Lim Chang leaned on the edge of the desk, his expression unreadable.

  “A girl has been murdered—”

  “What girl?”

  “Marian Miller, one of the call girls on the flight. She was killed at the airport hotel.”

  “How d’you know that?”

  “Because unfortunately I was staying in the same hotel,” Chang replied. “Naturally I checked out, but not before I had to endure an interview with the police. They implied that perhaps I had met up with Ms. Miller there. Apparently it had been one of her favored places of work. Of course I said no. In fact, I insisted that I didn’t know the woman.”

  “They believed you?”

  “Indeed they did. They apologized and said that they were asking the same questions of everyone who had been staying at the hotel.”

  Oliver’s mouth was dry, his voice stilted. “Did they know about the plane journey?”

  “No. And I certainly didn’t offer the information. It would have been very uncomfortable for both of us. I know neither of us wishes to brag about the company we kept on that flight,” he said, coldly efficient. “But now Bernie Freeland has been killed. A coincidence? Maybe, maybe not.” He took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his long, narrow hands. “For two hours I’ve been walking the streets, trying to work out my thoughts, Sir Oliver. You and I were on that flight too.”

  Oliver was determined not to give anything away. He was trying to think clearly, to control the avalanche that he felt was about to engulf him.

  “What’s your point, Mr. Chang?”

  “Bernie Freeland acted very oddly just as we were coming in to land.” He glanced at Oliver, looked away, looked back nervously. “I heard the steward say that his drink had been spiked. That would explain his panic and confusion but not what he said to you.”

  The avalanche was coming closer; Oliver could hear the roaring in his ears.

  “I’m sorry; I don’t understand.”

  “You know to what I’m referring.” Chang paused, staring at the top of the desk. “I am talking to you in the strictest confidence. I have to trust you, Sir Oliver.”

  Oliver said nothing.

  “I think we both know something that is potentially lethal, and I think these deaths prove it. They were not accidental.”

  The words hung in the still air. Oliver heard the phone ringing in the gallery outside, heard the shrill of a police siren coming up Piccadilly.

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Chang?”

  “About the lost painting by William Hogarth.”

  Chang paused, his initial nervousness replaced with equanimity. Oliver recognized the expression only too well, the ruthlessness that had helped the Chinese man make many important acquisitions for his government, the intense determination that had earned him a formidable reputation. Oliver watched him carefully, remembering the rumors about Lim Chang’s ambition, his craving for power in his own country, his desperate, intense desire to succeed.

  “Bernie Freeland told you about the painting,” Lim Chang continued, “but the question is, Who else overheard? Obviously Marian Miller. I suspect it was the reason she was killed. But what about the other two call girls? And what about Kit Wilkes?”

  Oliver was finding it difficult to swallow. He had hoped—prayed—that no one else knew about the Hogarth. That the people who relied on his protecting the secret were still in blissful ignorance. That he would be able to recover the painting before its loss was discovered. And yet Lim Chang was already onto it, and possibly even the loathsome and vicious Kit Wilkes.

  Glancing down at his hands, Oliver thought about Wilkes, about his notorious reputation. Wilkes was known to be capricious and immoral; his impecunious beginnings had shaped his character, leaving him distrustful and devoid of conscience. Never recognized publicly by his politician father, James Holden, he had a spiteful nature that had been temporarily sweetened by a trust fund, but that had proved to be only a damage control exercise. At every opportunity, Kit had given interviews to the press about how James Holden had rejected his mother and humiliated her, causing her to have a nervous breakdown, conveniently forgetting that Elizabeth Wilkes had been well provided for and had her own gallery in Chelsea.

  If Kit Wilkes knew about the Hogarth, he wouldn’t think twice about exposing it. Knowing how much it would embarrass his royalty-doting father, he would relish selling the story to the tabloids. Oliver could imagine Kit’s face on the television and all over the Internet, spreading the old scandal of Polly Gunnell to a slavering new market. And while he was drip feeding his audience, the price for the painting would be driven relentlessly up. Oliver flinched. Perhaps Wilkes might decide to sell the picture to the Russians, thereby adding his own personal, vindictive footnote to English history. A decadent royalist afterword that a communist country would savor.

  It was imperative that he get the Hogarth back, Oliver realized. Whatever it cost him personally or privately, it was his duty.

  “No,” he said at last. “I haven’t spoken to Wilkes. Obviously you haven’t either.”

  “I tried this morning. But I was told that Mr. Wilkes has been admitted to the Friars Hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s been in rehab before,” Lim Chang went on, his eyes never leaving Oliver’s face. “But this time he was admitted only hours after he landed in London, after our eventful flight. James Holden arranged it.”

  “His father?” Oliver was stunned. “How d’you know that? Holden’s never admitted publicly that Kit is his son. Why would he suddenly show his hand now?”

  “I said that Holden arranged it. I don’t know that he was present when Kit Wilkes was admitted.” Lim Chang’s attitude had changed; he was relaxed, in charge. “I have contacts, and they told me all they knew.”

  Yes, I imagine you do have contacts, Oliver thought, irritated by the man’s confidence. Only the previous year a triad gang had succeeded in smuggling several stolen paintings out of the country to China. When the police went in to investigate, they found themselves faced with the triads in Chinatown and backed off. One of the most notorious of Hong Kong’s criminals had even opened a gallery in Mayfair. Using the cover of being a collector of Asian art, he had gradually infiltrated the upper echelons of the art business, and whereas once he would have been blacklisted, he was now welcomed by some of the less discerning among the dealers in an expanding art market.

  Cautious, Oliver studied his visitor. “Is Kit Wilkes in serious condition?”

  “He’s in a coma. He took a drug overdose.” Lim Chang’s expression was bordering on self-satisfaction. “His lover called for the ambulance. James Holden is intimating that it was a suicide attempt.”

  “I don’t believe it. Kit Wilke
s isn’t the type to commit suicide.”

  Lim Chang shrugged his lean shoulders. “That’s not really the point, though, is it? The question is, Did he do it to himself? Or did someone do it to him?”

  “Why would they?”

  “To stop him from talking about the Hogarth,” Chang replied evenly.

  “We don’t know that he overheard Freeland.”

  “No, we don’t. But Wilkes is the most indiscreet man in London and obsessed with publicity. And he’s an ambitious dealer too, eager for an easy triumph. He would love to get his hands on that painting.”

  Unsettled, Oliver wondered how Lim Chang would behave if he knew that the Hogarth had been in the possession of his family for many generations. Chang wanted the painting as a personal coup and a way to expose the decadent West; he didn’t know that the man sitting opposite him had dedicated his life to protecting its secret. Didn’t know that Sir Oliver Peters was one of very few people who knew the identity of the living descendant of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and Polly Gunnell. If the painting were to be made public, it would spark questions, media investigations, and the inevitable allegations and revelations.

  Oliver thought of the man who could be king but never would be. A man living in complete ignorance of his lineage who had to be kept in ignorance. Because if he was exposed, what might happen then? He might become a subject for blackmail, or kidnapping, or even murder. English history was littered with dead monarchs and pretenders. Oliver had no wish to have a man’s murder on his conscience.

  And what if the man, once in possession of his true identity, proved untrustworthy? Or greedy? Perhaps avaricious and malicious enough to go abroad and try to disable the English monarchy from a distance? Somehow maintaining his composure, Oliver realized that he had to keep very close to Lim Chang. It could be that this dealer was his best—possibly only—chance of finding the Hogarth.

  “You said Kit Wilkes was in a coma—”

  Lim Chang cut him off. “What if someone’s killing everyone who knows about the painting?”

  The mood in the room altered, shifting to something sinister.

  “Think about it, Sir Oliver. Of the passengers on that flight, one of the call girls is dead, one of the dealers is in the hospital, and Bernie Freeland has been killed. Out of seven people, three are dead or near death. That should worry you, Sir Oliver, because it worries me. The only thing we all had in common was knowing about the Hogarth. I’d have fought to obtain it for China, Wilkes would have gone after it, and you—don’t say you wouldn’t want to get your hands on it, perhaps to prevent it from being exhibited—I know you have connections in royal circles. Perhaps your illustrious friends might ask you for a favor.” He paused expectantly, but Oliver’s expression gave nothing away. “Aside from the value of that painting, you and I both know the effect it would have. After all, someone’s already killed for it.”

  Oliver stared at the desktop, knowing Chang’s theory was right. Oliver would want to suppress the painting. For the first time in his cultured, well-ordered life, Oliver Peters had nothing to lose. A dying man could afford to be reckless. He sighed, thinking of his options. Pray God no one discovered that the Hogarth had been stolen. But if they did, surely he would be rewarded when it was back in his possession again. Surely grateful and powerful people would pay their debt of honor by seeing to it that his family’s future was secure.

  He was dying, so what would it matter if someone came after him? Killed or dying from cancer, he would be dead within months. All he had to do was find the Hogarth and he could die in peace. Desperation was suddenly making Oliver a cunning and wily competitor.

  “What d’you suggest?” he said at last.

  Lim Chang relaxed, sure he had the whip hand. “We should join forces.”

  “Why?”

  “To find the Hogarth.”

  A metallic thrill shot through Oliver’s spine. Lim Chang had the contacts, was privy to a criminal underworld off limits to a man of his standing. For years Chang had flexed his muscles around the globe to secure acquisitions, had intimidated and flattered to purchase myriad works of art for a country eager to impress the world. He was and had always been a discreet thug. No one would mourn the downfall of this little Machiavelli. Sighing, Oliver kept staring at his desk. He was more than willing to go along with Lim Chang, use him, and then outsmart him. He appeared deep in thought, pretending indecision, but he had never been more certain of anything in his life.

  No one was going to get the Hogarth. No one but Oliver Peters.

  Fourteen

  HAVING STOPPED AT THE CORNER SHOP FOR SOME GROCERIES, VICTOR juggled his shopping bags as he struggled to get his keys from his pocket. Pausing midway up the flight of stairs to his apartment, he put down the bags, took out the keys in readiness, and then caught sight of someone’s legs on the landing above. Although the person was wearing trousers, it was obviously a female, and Victor frowned, wary.

  Curious, he continued up the stairs, taking the turn at the bend and stopping as he recognized the figure.

  “Ingola!”

  She looked exactly as she had that day they had spent in the country, their last day together. Ingola wore her success lightly: with her hair freshly brushed but without any makeup on her face and her intelligent gray eyes, her prettiness was unexpected—as was the sudden and painful punch in Victor’s heart.

  “Where’s my brother?”

  “Christian’s coming in a little while. He has to park the car and run an errand,” she said, flushing and obviously ill at ease. The sexual tension between them was palpable.

  “Come in, then,” Victor said, opening the door and stepping back to ensure that they wouldn’t touch.

  He felt a longing for her that shook him. During his time in jail he had concentrated on forgetting Ingola, recasting her as Christian’s wife and his ex-lover. And by the time three-plus years had passed—years in which he hadn’t seen or spoken to her—Victor had convinced himself that he had adjusted to the situation. It was one more amendment to his altered life, a fine-tuning of his meticulous plan. Ingola, the woman he had loved more than anything or anyone else, was out of his life. He had given her up.

  But his heart hadn’t.

  Awkwardly, he went into the galley kitchen and made two mugs of coffee, surprised that he could remember without asking exactly how she liked it. When he went back into the sitting room, Ingola was standing by the window, her back erect, her expression impassive.

  He passed the mug of coffee to her, taking care not to touch her hand. She was now his brother’s wife; nothing could erase that fact.

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting down, aware of the tension in the room, and found herself taking quick looks at Victor. Snatched glimpses, short enough not to stare but long enough to remind herself why she had never been able to forget him. He was slimmer than before, his dark hair punctuated by gray, his eyes slower to show emotion. But the hands and the voice were exactly as she remembered them, and the pull was stronger than ever.

  When Christian had gone to collect Victor from Long Lartin but had returned home without him, Ingola had felt her life splinter all over again. For over three years she had tried to love Christian and had provided him with grateful affection. She had even hoped that when Victor left jail, enough time would have passed for Christian to usurp his brother’s place in her heart. Nature thought otherwise. Persuaded to marry Christian—having been convinced by Victor that he could never marry her once he had been convicted—Ingola had concentrated on her career. But success made an impoverished bedfellow, and Christian was a penniless substitute for his brother.

  When Christian returned home without Victor after his release from prison, Ingola felt anguished, cheated out of a meeting she had lived for. Her Nordic composure clicked into place, but it was halfhearted, and after only a couple of days she knew she had to see Victor.

  “How are you?”

  He shrugged. “Better than I thought I’d be. And you?” />
  “Fine.”

  “Is Christian a good husband?

  “Very.”

  “And a good father?”

  It was the first reference Victor had made to his nephew. A subject he had thought would be too painful to mention. Jack was the child he and Ingola should have had, but he was Christian’s son, not his—the child he had wanted with the woman he loved … if he had never been imprisoned. If he had never been disgraced. If he had never given her up.

  “Christian’s a great father, yes,” Ingola replied, smiling. “Jack thinks the world of him.”

  Victor changed the subject. “You’re qualified, doing well. Congratulations. I know your career meant a lot to you.”

  “You meant more.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she could check them. She stared at the patterned carpet, her mouth dry.

  “So,” Victor said, ignoring her previous remark. “Christian’s parking the car?

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “Your brother isn’t with me.”

  Unsure how to react, Victor put down his mug of coffee and frowned. “Why did you say he was?”

  “Would you have let me in if you’d known I was alone?”

  “No.”

  “That’s why.”

  She returned her gaze to the carpet.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know that.”

  “Ingola,” Victor said evenly, “we made an agreement. I was finished, I was going to jail, and you wanted and deserved a good life. Fair enough; you wanted to qualify, to get on. I understood that. Marrying Christian was the best outcome for you.” He sighed; speaking about it hurt. “We talked it out, remember? Your career would have been finished if you’d stuck with me.”

  “You didn’t love me enough.”

  “Jesus,” he said bitterly. “Couldn’t I say the same about you?”

  Standing up, she walked into the kitchen. He could hear her running the cold water tap and knew she was cooling her coffee. He didn’t know if he should feel relief that she wanted to finish her drink and be gone or fear that she would leave. He wished fervently that she hadn’t come, that he could have kept her forever locked in Worcestershire. In the past. Segregated from his future in an apartheid of memory. But she was here, and her hair was still as thick as a horse’s mane, and her hands were just as white, and something very like regret made him react harshly.