The Hogarth Conspiracy (23 page)

But his clean clothes seemed too tight for him, his anxiety prickling like heat rash.
Mrs. Fleet,
he thought.
Mrs. Fleet. Had she had something to do with Annette Dvorski's death? She could easily have arranged it.
Knowing that Victor would turn up at the New York apartment, she could have planned for him to be the convenient scapegoat.

But why?

He sat at a bar in the airport lounge and ordered coffee, avoiding eye contact with other drinkers. Of course, setting him up would have been the perfect solution if Mrs. Fleet had wanted to get him out of the way, but hadn't she made it clear that she had no interest in the painting? Victor frowned. So why would she lie? Unless she had been bluffing, luring him in to take the bait. But if
that
was the case, she had failed because he now had the painting. Checking his cell phone, Victor found several messages from his employer asking how he was getting on. Genuine interest? Or would Mrs. Fleet take his silence to imply that he was
unable
to call her, perhaps because he was in a New York jail charged with the murder of one of her girls?

Enough
, Victor told himself, and glanced at his watch. Two hours to wait until he could board his plane. He knew that he wouldn't relax until he was safely home in London, with the suitcase back in his possession. The suitcase that was at that moment piled onto a cart with other pieces of luggage. Every time an airport security officer walked past him, Victor tensed. Watching the police from across the concourse, he imagined that at any moment he would feel a hand on his shoulder. Arrested. For something he hadn't done.
Déjà vu,
he thought grimly, watching the airport clock.

His thoughts slid back to Mrs. Fleet, then Ingola, then Annette Dvorski's desperate hammering on the apartment door. If only he had been faster. If only he had been there a minute earlier.

“Have you got the time?”

Startled, Victor glanced at the Chinese man standing by his side, then looked at his watch. “It's just about three o'clock.”

“Time drags, doesn't it?” the man went on. “When you're waiting, I mean.”

Wary, Victor nodded and turned back to his coffee.

But the man wasn't about to be put off. “I'm flying to Paris. How about you?”

Victor ignored the question, and the man looked embarrassed. “Forgive me. I don't want to make a nuisance of myself.”

“Then don't.”

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, and walked away. Victor stared straight ahead, watching him through the mirror behind the bar. He saw the man looking puzzled, then taking off his coat and sitting down under the departures board. A typical traveler, lonely and looking for conversation; his attention soon turned to a couple sitting beside him.

The waiting time seemed interminable until finally the London flight was called. Relieved, Victor joined the line for boarding, surprised to see that the Chinese man was still talking to the couple, the woman laughing. But why was he in the line for the London plane if he was going to Paris? Victor wondered, suddenly alert and suspicious. Glancing around, he kept his eyes on the airport police and guards, his muscles aching with tension and the wound at the back of his head throbbing. The line eventually shuffled its way forward until at long last Victor found himself on the plane and settled himself into his window seat to wait for takeoff.

Outside it was dark, only the lights from the terminal building and the runway making any impression on the concourse. Seeing the empty luggage cart pass, Victor imagined the suitcase lying in the hold below his feet, its priceless cargo snuggled down among the feminine ephemera of Annette Dvorski's brief life. He heard the engines start up. His breathing slowed, and he secured the safety belt across his lap with a sense of relief.

And then he saw him.
The Chinese man. Taking a seat four rows ahead of him. Only now he was neither laughing nor talking, and the couple were no longer with him. Uneasy, Victor watched him take off his jacket and throw it casually into the overhead locker before sitting down. Then he turned and glanced over to Victor.

And nodded.

Thirty

R
ELUCTANTLY,
L
IZA
F
RITH PULLED ON AN EVENING DRESS AND SLIPPED
into a pair of black stiletto heels. She had applied her makeup slowly and without enthusiasm, with Mrs. Fleet's words reverberating in her head.

Toughen up, Liza. Or get out of the business.

“I
will
get out of the bloody business,” Liza said aloud, throwing her eyebrow pencil into her makeup case and brushing her hair. “Cow.”

She had thought, mistakenly, that her employer understood her anxiety. But Mrs. Fleet—Mother Fleet as some of the girls called her sarcastically—was only interested in business. Still, Liza thought, she could hardly complain. She'd made money at Park Street, lazy money, enough of it to plan with. Having been a university student for a while, Liza had run up doughty debts that neither she nor her working-class parents could ever have paid off—if, that is, she hadn't worked as a call girl for the last eighteen months. But what had seemed like an easy way to earn cash had suddenly soured. Liza had never been troubled by the morality of prostitution, but the flight on Bernie Freeland's plane and Marian Miller's murder had scared her.

Liza could hear the sound of her employer's voice from the landing above, but checking that she was alone in the basement den, she locked the door and tried Annette's cell phone. As before, there was no reply. Hurriedly, Liza snatched up her Filofax and, bending back the leather binder as far as it would go, uncovered a slim inner pocket. Carefully, she pulled out a number of hundred-pound notes and a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. Thoughtful, she stared at the paper.

Bernie Freeland—001 212-555-6000

He had given her his private New York number months before, swearing her to secrecy. But Liza had never really liked Bernie and had never followed it up. Until now. Now it seemed like a good idea to phone him and ask if Annette was there. What harm could it do? It would reassure her, and Bernie would hardly be likely to mention it to Mrs. Fleet.

Dialing the number, she waited for the phone to be picked up. On the fourth ring, it was.

“Hello? Mr. Freeland?”

There was a slow pause.

“Who's this?”

“I was asking for Mr. Freeland,” Liza said cautiously. “Isn't this his number?”

“It is.”

“So is he there?”

“Who's asking for him?”

“A friend,” Liza said, worried and hesitant. “If Mr. Freeland's not there, can I talk to Annette Dvorski?”

“There's no one here with that name.”

“She was supposed to be visiting Mr. Freeland,” Liza went on, turning toward the door and checking that it was locked. “Annette Dvorski was coming to see him. I know she was; she told me.”

“I'm very sorry to have to tell you Mr. Freeland's dead, killed in a traffic accident. I'm the manager of the apartment building. I was here when the phone rang, so I picked it up.”

Liza was shaking uncontrollably. “
Dead?
Mr. Freeland? He can't be! He can't be!”

“I'm so sorry,” the manager continued. “I wish I could have given you better news. Mr. Freeland will be buried tomorrow.” For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should mention Annette Dvorski's death, but decided against it. Why should he spread news that would become public all too soon?

“But she was …” On the other end of the phone, Liza was finding it hard to speak. “
When
was Bernie Freeland killed?”

“The day before yesterday.”

So Annette had traveled all the way to New York to meet up with a corpse,
Liza thought helplessly. She must have gotten there, found out Bernie was dead—but then what? Came back to England? But if so, why hadn't she been in touch? Clicking off the cell phone without saying another word, Liza collapsed onto the sofa.

It couldn't be a coincidence
, she thought. Hadn't she known there was something wrong? Marian was dead, and now Bernie Freeland was dead, and Annette was missing. Frightened, Liza looked around the room, trying to collect her thoughts. Mrs. Fleet was sending her out to work, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. If there was someone after all the girls who had been on that flight, she wasn't going to let herself be the next target. So where could she go? Home? Up north? Looking down at her evening dress and coat, Liza realized that the day clothes she had been wearing earlier were upstairs, on the second floor. There was no way she could get to them without passing Mrs. Fleet and being questioned about what she was doing.

Suddenly she was even more suspicious of her employer. Did she know what had happened to Bernie Freeland? She had lost interest in Annette's whereabouts very suddenly after first appearing to be so concerned. Liza stopped dead, staring at the door. Surely Mrs. Fleet wouldn't have sent her back to work if she thought she was in danger. Surely she wouldn't have booked an eight-thirty appointment for her at the Hilton, Room 899, with a stranger who could turn out to be anyone.

Unless she was using her.

In that moment Liza didn't know who she was most afraid of, her employer or whoever was coming after her. Because she was sure that someone was. Someone was after all the girls who had been on that flight. But why? For a bloody picture? Was that it? Liza could feel her breathing speed up. Of course it was the painting; it was the only thing they all had in common.

Spooked, Liza reacted. Hitching up her skirt, she clambered onto the table against the wall and tried to push open the narrow window at street level. But the metal had been painted over and didn't give. She would have to find another way to get out of the house without running into Mrs. Fleet. And whoever was waiting for her at the Hilton. If she went up north, she could hide out for a while. All she had to do was get herself out of Park Street.

Composing herself, Liza put on her coat and walked upstairs. Unlocking the front door, she looked out into the street. Immediately, Mrs. Fleet came toward her, smiling approvingly.

“You look wonderful. You know where you're going?”

“Room 899, the Hilton. Do you have a name?”

“Mr. Gillow.”

“Has he used us before?”

“No. He sounds young; that's why I thought you'd like him. Asked to book you for two hours. Make sure you get the money first.” Mrs. Fleet paused, irritated. “What's the matter now?”

“He's new. The last client Marian Miller ever saw was new. And he killed her.”

“We don't know that.”

“The police think he did.”

“They think it was a sex killing, yes.” Mrs. Fleet thought of the thirty rubles and hurried on. “These things happen occasionally.”

“I don't want them to happen to me!” Liza replied stubbornly. “They haven't caught Sergei Ivanovitch, have they? What's to stop him coming after me?”

“Why should he?”

“He might. If it all has something to do with the Hogarth.”

“Oh, that bloody painting!” Mrs. Fleet snapped. “Marian Miller was a bitch. For all we know she might have tried stealing from the john. Or provoked him, pushed him over the edge. Or maybe she wasn't into sex as much as usual. After all, she
was
pregnant.”

“Marian was pregnant?”

“You didn't know?” Mrs. Fleet responded. “Neither did I until the police told me.”

“But she was infertile.”

“Apparently not. Look, Marian was a difficult woman. I had several complaints about her. You know what she was like, jerked the men around sometimes. But I seriously doubt her death had anything to do with William Hogarth.”

“But you don't know anything about the client I'm going to meet tonight.”

“We hardly ever know about the clients. It never bothered you before.”

“Marian Miller hadn't been murdered before! I'd rather go with a regular, someone I know.”

“Listen,” Mrs. Fleet said, moving closer to Liza, the dog as ever following close behind her. “I've had enough of this hysteria. You get your ass out there and do what you're paid for.” She took hold of Liza's shoulder and pushed her out the door. “There's a taxi waiting.”

With a resounding bang, the front door slammed shut in Liza's face. All her belongings, her clothes, and her possessions were on the second floor in the front bedroom she shared with Annette. Or
had
shared with Annette. They hadn't needed to share—there were enough bedrooms to house five working girls at any one time—but Liza and Annette had liked company and the camaraderie that came from sharing clothes and talking into the small hours.

Damn it,
Liza thought helplessly. Everything she owned was at Park Street. Her life was there, her friends, her security. Or what she had taken for security. But now the smart black door looked uninviting, almost sinister, and as she walked to the waiting taxi, Liza knew Mrs. Fleet was watching her from a window above.