The Hogarth Conspiracy (18 page)

“Terry Shaw took photographs?”

“Yeah,” Jenner agreed. “Just of the inside of the plane and the bar. You know what kids are like; they're easily impressed.”

Tully frowned. “He didn't take photographs of the girls?”

“Nah; his girlfriend would have gone mad. Terry was just thrilled about being on the private jet with Bernie Freeland.”

“But didn't he work for Bernie Freeland in Australia?”

“Yeah. Shaw's family's English, but they emigrated a while back. He's got an English passport, but he was brought up in Australia. Terry had been working for Mr. Freeland at his house in Sydney, so it wasn't surprising he came on the jet. The boss didn't like strangers; he would never have let someone he didn't know on board. You can bet your life John Yates had been thoroughly checked out.”

“Why was Freeland like that? What was he hiding?”

“His life, his business? There were call girls on the flight; you know that. Mr. Freeland liked to know that his staff was discreet,” Jenner answered, his tone curt. “Who are you working for?”

“Someone who wants to know what happened. And you were there; you had a bird's-eye view.”

“I wasn't in the cabin every minute.”

“But if you weren't, then Terry Shaw would have been.”

Jenner shrugged. “I can only tell you that there was some kind of upset with Mr. Freeland.”

“Was he angry with Marian Miller? Or one of the other girls?”

“You're asking me questions I can't answer. What went on in the private part of the jet was off limits,” Jenner replied emphatically. “I can only tell you what I know.”

“What about the other dealers? Did Mr. Freeland talk to them?”

“Not much,” Jenner said. “He chatted to Sir Oliver for a while, Kit Wilkes wasn't talking to anyone, and as for the other guy, I don't remember my boss talking to him at all. Mr. Freeland had the girls for company.”

Tully nodded. “D'you know where Terry Shaw lives?”

“When he's in London, he stays with his family in Peckham. Does he know about Mr. Freeland?”

“Not through me,” Tully replied, changing the subject. “So there was nothing that struck you as strange about that flight?”

“Only what an odd bunch they were,” Jenner said, “Everyone seemed ill at ease, a bit uncomfortable. Even that bastard Wilkes.”

“You don't like him?”

“Come on, who does? That little bum's made a living out of being a professional shit. Now, if you'd come to me and told me that
he'd
been killed, I wouldn't have been surprised. In fact, I'm amazed James Holden hasn't done him in years ago.”

“So it was just a fluke that these art dealers were thrown together on the jet? You'd never seen them mix with your boss before; they weren't friends?”

“No,” Jenner replied firmly. “We gave them a ride because their flights were delayed. As far as I know, they weren't friends and didn't socialize with one another.”

“Thanks for your time,” Tully said.

“Is that it?” Jenner sounded surprised.

“For now, yes,” Tully replied, passing him a card. “If you think of anything, ring me.”

“Just like that? You're not bringing the police into this?” Jenner said, baffled.

“To the outside world, the deaths look unrelated,” Tully replied calmly. “The police believe Marian Miller was killed by a john, and Bernie Freeland died in a traffic accident. And for the moment, that's the way it's going to stay.”

Behind them Tully could hear the sound of dogs starting to bark, and a battered metallic 4 × 4 pulled up alongside the tent. As a thickset man got out of the passenger seat. Jenner called out a nervous greeting, then walked off, the sound of the dogs echoing eerily in the city night.

Twenty-Two

B
ACK INSIDE
B
ERNIE
F
REELAND'S APARTMENT,
A
NNETTE
D
VORSKI
noticed that her hands were shaking uncontrollably as she locked the door behind her. Throwing the baseball bat onto the sofa, she began pacing the room, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. Bernie was dead. Bernie Freeland, the man she was relying on for an easy life, was dead.
Jesus
, she thought angrily,
why?
Why
was he dead? What kind of fucking accident had killed him? He never walked anywhere, so what the hell was he doing getting himself run over? It was such an ordinary, stupid way to die,
she thought, flopping heavily into an armchair and staring ahead.

He might not have known it, but Bernie Freeland had been chosen to become Annette Dvorski's personal, lucrative pension fund. He had always liked her and had recently mentioned that he wanted to set her up in her own apartment, keep her available just for him. Not bad, Annette had thought, imagining Mrs. Fleet's face when she told her. Rehearsing and relishing the words she would say to her bitch of a boss:
I'm set for life, no more working for you, you cold freak. No more Park Street, no more Mother Fleet. I'm home free, landed one of the biggest fishes there is.

But then a lovely, fat, unexpected bonus had dropped into Annette's lap. Not only had she dreamed of landing Bernie Freeland, but she also dreamed of getting her hands on the Hogarth painting. She had worked for many of the art dealers from London, New York, and the Far East, and her connections were legion. How better to escape the whoring than by buying herself out? After all, she knew Arnold Fletcher and still had tentative contact with the reckless and deviant Guy Manners. She would auction the Hogarth privately, setting up a bidding war and knowing that the art hyenas would gather for the kill. All she had to do was get hold of the painting.

But right now all Annette could do was stare ahead, unable to act. If Bernie had just managed to live a bit longer, she would have been able to tease the hiding place out of him. She knew how much he'd cared for her. When the moment had been ripe, she would have made her move, landing the Hogarth and her own personal big fish. Instead, the big fish had landed on a mortuary slab, not going anywhere. Rage and frustration overwhelmed Annette, and she hurled a glass figurine against the wall, heard it splinter into a dozen fragments.
Why now? Why did he have to die now? A traffic accident, a bloody traffic accident—

Annette stopped short, her mind in free fall.
A traffic
accident
. But was it really? Bernie was dead; Marian was dead.
Unnerved, she shivered.
Two deaths happening to two people who had traveled on the same plane. Two people who had known about the Hogarth.

The hairs rose on the back of Annette's neck. She hurried into the bedroom, changed out of her sporting gear, and began tossing her clothes into her case. Zipping up her boots, Annette paused, cold to the bone. She was in New York, alone in a dead man's apartment with no protection and with knowledge that had already cost two lives. Unsteadily, she stood and picked up the baseball bat. She thought of Bernie Freeland and was tempted to leave it behind, but she pushed it into her suitcase and slammed the lid closed.

She would run, she told herself. Go back to the airport and catch the first flight home. It would be safer hiding in plain sight, much safer than going to an unfamiliar hotel. And much safer than staying in a dead man's home. Suddenly remembering her cell phone, Annette took it out of her bag. There had been four missed calls but no messages, and she was just about to put it back in her pocket when it rang.

Surprised, she stared at it, not recognizing the number, wondering if she should answer. It rang again, piercing in the quiet apartment, the snow muffling the usual noise outside. Again it rang, and Annette finally answered.

“Hello?”

“Annette Dvorski?”

“No; she's out.”

“I don't think so.”

Her hand gripped the phone, terror welling up inside her, her mouth dry as dust. “Who is this?”

“My name's Victor Ballam. I'm working for Mrs. Fleet.” He could tell that she was confused and pressed on. “Are you all right?”

“Bernie Freeland's dead.”

“I know.”

“You
know
?”

“Yes,” he said, catching the imminent panic in her voice. “Where are you?”

“In his apartment,” Annette said, looking around.

“On your own?”

“No, there's a bar mitzvah going on in here! Of course I'm on my own.”

“I'm in New York. I'm on my way to the apartment now.”

“
What?
”

“I thought you'd be there. I'm close, really close.” Victor said, obviously running. “Just wait for me.”

But even as he spoke, Annette heard a sound coming from the bathroom and tensed. Her voice fell almost to a whisper. “I can hear noises!”

“Noises?”

“Maybe … I don't know; it could just be the plumbing. Or someone in the next apartment.”

“Get out of there, Annette.”

She nodded, hardly breathing. “I will, I will,” she replied, her ears straining for any other sounds. Silently, she picked up her case and tiptoed toward the door, but when she tried the handle, it was locked.
“I can't open the door!”
she hissed into the phone, “It's locked.” Frantically she rattled the door.

On the inside, the bolts were all drawn back.
Which meant that someone had locked it from the outside.

“Jesus, I can't open it!”

“Is there another exit?”

Desperate, she ran into the kitchen, looking around. “No, no other exit.”

Terrified, she moved into the living room again. The light was dim from the heavy snowfall as she flicked on a lamp. And then she saw the footprints on the balcony outside.

“Oh, Jesus,” she sobbed. “Oh, no.
No!
”

“What is it? Annette, what is it?”

Her eyes were fixed on the footprints, her voice hoarse.

“Someone's here.” She ran to the door again.

He could hear the frantic drumming of her hands on the wood, her muffled sobbing coming desperately over the phone line.

“Annette!” he shouted. “Annette!”

But she didn't answer. Victor ran the rest of the way as fast as he could. Arriving at the apartment block just as someone was leaving by the back door, he took the stairs two at a time, pushing open the fire exit doors on the seventh floor and then racing toward Bernie Freeland's apartment. Expecting to hear Annette still banging on the door, he slowed as he approached, unnerved by the total, threatening silence. Silence in the hallway and silence coming from the locked apartment.

“Annette?” he called anxiously. “Annette?”

He grabbed the handle and, to his surprise, felt it turn and the door open. Inside the apartment the lights were turned off. Victor's shadow fell onto the pale cold carpet of the dead man's home. His heartbeat drumming in his ears, he stepped into the darkness, feeling for a light switch on the wall.

“Annette?” he called out again. “Are you in here?”

He groped in the darkness, urgently looking for the switch. Then he heard a soft muffled sound and turned. In that moment something struck the back of his skull with such force that he fell forward, the floor rising to meet him as he lost consciousness.

Twenty-Three

D
OWNING HIS THIRD CUP OF ESPRESSO IN THE TASTEFUL SURROUNDINGS
of the Ritz London, Lim Chang dabbed the corners of his mouth and paid his bill. Once outside on Piccadilly, he was struck by the freezing sleet of the early morning and dipped his head against the cold. The black and gilt entrance to the Burlington Arcade was enticing, but he wasn't going to see Sir Oliver Peters. At least not yet. Although Chinatown—his immediate destination—wasn't far, he hailed a taxi to take him there.

He knew that most of the residents he wanted to talk to would not be up and about so early. Most worked night hours and slept late, which might well give him a slight, if temporary, advantage. Dressed in a dark suit and coat, he fiddled nervously with the white collar of his shirt and wondered if he should have gone for less formal attire after all. But then again, he was an outsider; no point trying to pretend otherwise. Besides, his appearance would ensure that everyone noticed him. The cab pulled up outside the New World restaurant, and Lim Chang got out and paid the driver. He glanced at the red gates that signaled the entrance to Chinatown and thought, not for the first time, that they were looking shabby, the red paint a little chipped, the florid display too stereotypically Far Eastern to enchant. Or maybe he was just jaded.