by Alex Connor
Victor raised his eyebrows. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She came from up north somewhere. Maybe she went back. Or maybe she was after the Hogarth for herself.”
Victor shook his head.
“When I spoke to Liza, she was afraid for herself and for Annette. Obviously she was so scared, she went on the run.” He paused, staring at Mrs. Fleet. “And why would Liza do that if she was involved?”
“A bluff?”
“Come on; you can’t believe that!” He stared into the composed face. “Liza’s just another working girl. You’re the one with the contacts and the power. You’re the one with the money, Mrs. Fleet.”
“Meaning?”
“You could be behind all of this.”
“Well, I could, but I’m not. Besides, I want all this to be over as quickly as possible. The police”—she said the word with contempt—“have been asking me some questions. Nothing I can’t handle, but an irritation nevertheless. I’m afraid I lied, denied that any of my girls had been on that plane with Bernie Freeland. To all intents and purposes, the late Mr. Freeland had been traveling alone.”
“And they believed you?”
“I told you before, Mr. Ballam; I have a certain arrangement with the police.” She smiled. “I’ve also had a word with Malcolm Jenner, the steward. He seems more than willing to agree with my story, even embellish it. We thought it might be better for everyone if there was no mention of call girls. Or art dealers.”
“How much did you have to pay Jenner?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You should be grateful to me. I’ve gotten you off the hook. Now no one will make the connection between me, my girls, the dealers, and you. You’re out of the woods.”
“Funny, it doesn’t feel like that.”
“You worry too much.”
Victor laughed sardonically. “Like you say, Mrs. Fleet, you have a lot of contacts. If you can control what the police know and get Malcolm Jenner to say what you want, why stop there? You could be running the whole show.”
“Really? And what would I get out of it?” she said dismissively. “I told you I don’t want the painting.”
“You could just be saying that.”
“Oh, so now I’m bluffing, am I?”
“Why not? You hired me knowing I’d take the bait and also knowing I’d fail. You relied on that. You realized I’d follow whatever information I had, knew that I’d blunder into that apartment in New York—and you knew how easy it would be to set me up for Annette Dvorski’s murder.”
She sighed, sounding almost bored. “How exactly would I profit from another of my girls being killed?”
“To get the painting.”
“I don’t want the fucking painting!” she said emphatically. Then, her eyes fixed on him, her tone sly, she said, “Why? Did you get it?”
“Where from?”
“Don’t be irritating. Did Annette Dvorski have it?”
He lied without conscience. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t underestimate my intelligence. You want that painting, Mr. Ballam; you ache to get your hands on it. Don’t tell me you didn’t search that apartment for it.”
“I didn’t see any painting.”
“Maybe Annette had hidden it.”
“Maybe Bernie Freeland had and Annette didn’t find it,” he offered. “Or maybe her killer tortured her to tell him where it was.”
Thoughtful, Mrs. Fleet rubbed her left knee, her expression unreadable. “I think you have it.”
“I don’t. But if I did, why would it matter to you? You said you didn’t want it.”
“But if the painting is the reason for all these killings, we should find it.”
Smiling, Victor put his head on one side, watching her. “What if I was to tell you that I did know where the painting was?”
“Do you?”
“That knowledge would be my protection, wouldn’t it? I mean, if you—or anyone—wanted the Hogarth, they’d have to come to me.”
“Or simply kill you for it,” she said, her tone eerily blank. “After all, they’ve killed all the others, haven’t they?”
“But they haven’t got the Hogarth,” Victor said, baiting her and waiting to see if she would take the bait. “After killing three people and damn near killing Kit Wilkes, they still haven’t got the painting. Not very successful, are they?”
“Not as art thieves. But as murderers, extremely.”
He couldn’t fathom her. Was she was masterminding the whole episode or merely watching from the sidelines?
“You could sell the Hogarth privately, you know.”
He waited for the reaction, but there was none.
“And share the proceeds with you, Mr. Ballam?” She walked over to him, standing very close, the scent of Chanel faintly perceptible on her skin. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t share; I never have. And attractive as you are, no man has ever made me lose my head.” Slowly she fastened her coat, her hands steady. “I want only one thing from you—find Liza Frith and bring her back to London.”
“Because you think she has the Hogarth?”
She smiled distantly.
“No, because she walked out on me. And no one does that, Mr. Ballam. She owes me a good lifestyle and a great career. She owes me loyalty. When it’s time for someone to go, I tell them, they don’t tell me. No one ever leaves me. You would do well to remember that.”
Out in the chill of the night, Victor paused on Park Street, glancing up at the window of Mrs. Fleet’s apartment. He wondered if she was making herself a drink or something to eat or if perhaps she would suddenly come out to take the dog for a walk. Then he realized that he was giving her normal habits, a routine existence. Whereas in fact she was hermetically sealed in her own world, fighting to control everyone who came within her sphere.
Hearing his cell phone ring, Victor glanced at the unfamiliar number, then answered it.
“Hello?”
“Is that Victor Ballam?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Elizabeth Wilkes,” the voice said crisply. “Ring any bells?”
Forty
WALKING THROUGH THE ARUNDEL CENTRE, LIZA STARED INTO THE window of Boots the Chemist, checking to see if anyone was following her. When she had first arrived in Manchester, she had decided not to go to her parents’ home, worried that she might bring trouble to their door. She had gone to a friend, another working girl, who was happy to get the additional rent from a roommate and not interested in asking too many questions. All Liza offered was a story that she had left her pimp in London and come back to the north for a break. Don’t worry, she told the girl. I won’t be competition; no working up here. I just want a few weeks off.
The first night she had slept on the sofa in the shabby front room of the apartment, listening to the sound of someone’s television, and when she finally dropped off, a car alarm woke her around one. Disoriented, Liza had gone into the kitchen, the apartment empty, a note pinned on the fridge—get some milk and bread. Homesickness had overwhelmed her as she looked around at the squalor. This was how she once had lived, the life she had fled when she grabbed the chance Mrs. Fleet had offered.
That was still on the game, yes, but on the game in comfort. Liza studied her reflection in the Boots window and thought of Marian Miller. Then she thought of Annette Dvorski and the flight in Bernie Freeland’s plane. It seemed like another existence, another time, so different from the bleak northern afternoon that she shivered and pulled her coat around her. Her fear was always present, intensifying as the days passed.
She had believed herself to be under threat at Park Street, but since leaving the familiar surroundings, she found herself startled even by shadows. Increasingly desperate to make contact with Annette Dvorski, she told herself that if she could just talk to Annette, she would calm down. Just talking would help; after all, they had been on the same flight. Not knowing where Annette was or if, God forbid, something had happened to her was unbear
able. The cell phone number Liza had used so many times before kept ringing out unobtainable. But that morning, after one more queasy night, Liza remembered something: years previously, Annette had handed her a note with another cell phone number. “Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency,” she had said. “If you need me, you can call it, but only in an emergency.”
Liza dug out the faded Post-it note from her Filofax and looked at the number. Well, she thought, this was an emergency, wasn’t it, and the only way she could get to talk to Annette—if the number was still valid. She knew how often working girls changed their cell phones, sometimes to avoid suspect johns and sometimes to drop out of sight for a while. It was a familiar ploy to give a client the number of a phone you would dump later, so Liza knew that the chances of Annette keeping the cell phone for over three years were less than slim.
But still, it was worth a try.
Glancing once more into the window of Boots, Liza searched the faces in the crowd. Nobody looked obviously suspicious, although there had been odd phone calls late at night at the apartment when her friend was out working. And the previous week she had been followed by a couple of men. Liza realized that her courage was disappearing fast; every day was taking her farther away from London and the familiar, into the shadowy and threatening life of streets she no longer knew. Comforting landmarks from the past—roads, shops, houses—had all gone. She’d found herself in a city that had changed beyond all recognition. Killing time, she had passed boarded-up churches and job centers, walking without knowing where she was going, the memory of the flight in Bernie Freeland’s jet replaying constantly in her head. And along with the images, there was the knowledge that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Taking a deep breath, Liza punched in Annette’s emergency number on her cell phone but missed a digit and had to start again. She tensed, expecting to hear the disconnected tone or a mechanical voice telling her that the phone was no longer in use. But instead the number rang.
Hopeful, Liza felt her heart racing, her mouth pressed to the phone as it was answered.
But instead of Annette’s voice, she heard a man’s.
“Hello? Who’s this? Hello?” he snapped irritably, his voice hoarse. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
And then silence, the connection severed.
Shaking, Liza leaned against the wall and stared at the phone in her hand. She didn’t wonder why she hadn’t spoken; she was just glad she’d stayed silent.
Because there was something wrong about the man who had answered the phone. Something familiar. Something that made her breath catch in her throat. Of all people, she had not expected him to answer Annette Dvorski’s cell phone.
Fighting panic, Liza rang another number. “Victor Ballam?”
“Is that you, Liza?” he asked, relieved. “Are you all right?”
She wasn’t all right; she was terrified. “I need help. I’m in Manchester.”
“Are you on your own?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think anymore. It’s all muddled up, and I’m scared; I’m so scared.”
“Get the next train back to London. I’ll meet you at the station—”
But Liza was past reason. “I shouldn’t have rung the number! He shouldn’t have answered.”
“What are you talking about? What number, Liza? Who shouldn’t have answered?”
Her mouth was pressed against the cell phone. “You have to help me!”
“I will.”
“People are dying. They’re killing all the people on that flight.”
She stopped talking suddenly. “Liza? Are you there?” Victor asked, anxious.
“I don’t trust that bitch Fleet. I don’t trust anyone. I shouldn’t even be ringing you; I don’t know who you are really.” Her voice speeded up; her hand gripped the phone tightly. She sounded confused, childish almost. “I tried to ring Annette Dvorski,” she said, explaining about the emergency number.
Victor’s stomach turned over.
“I rang the number,” Liza went on, “and a man answered. I knew him!” She sounded almost hysterical. “The man who answered Annette’s phone? I know who he was; I recognized his voice. It was Malcolm Jenner.”
“Malcolm Jenner?”
“The steward who worked for Bernie Freeland!” Liza went on blindly. “He was on the jet! He was on the flight we were on. He was there; I remember him. I remember his voice. Jesus,” she said, her voice plummeting. “Why did he answer? And why has he got Annette’s cell phone?”
Forty-One
EVERY DAY IN LONDON, EARLY RISERS WALK THEIR DOGS IN THE PARK. There are numerous plastic doggy bags attached to bins so that no one leaves a souvenir of his or her animal on the large verdant expanses where the dogs run. While cabs and buses begin to crawl down Park Lane and up Piccadilly, buses empty out groups of tourists, and rain falls on the shop windows and concrete pavements—while all this is happening, the dogs in the park bark for bones, for balls, for attention. They bark enthusiastically at passing horses or aggressively at airplanes overhead. The dogs bark early in the mornings and in the cold gray winter afternoons before night falls.
And they bark when they are afraid.
This morning in Hyde Park, a young woman ran toward the sound of her dog barking. She called him, but he didn’t respond, remaining a little way off and snarling. As she approached, the woman saw her pet and peered over to where he was looking and barking. She thought for some moments that she had happened upon some discarded Guy Fawkes left over from the fifth of November, but when she drew closer, she stopped, a hand covering her mouth to prevent a scream. The dog had stopped barking. He was now whimpering, down on his haunches, staring at the tableau in front of him.
Lim Chang was bound tightly with rope around his chest and ankles, his head bent at an odd angle on his shoulder. He was propped up against a water fountain, and his left arm was depressing the nozzle so that a steady stream of water had soaked his scorched sleeve and run down into the blood around his feet. His clothes had been stuffed with straw and Chinese firecrackers had been pushed deep into his ears and mouth, and both were set on fire. His trousers were undone, and around his private parts there was a smearing of what looked like some kind of food paste; what was left of his penis was little more than a bloodied gnawed stump. There had been no clean, surgical cut—just a jagged tearing of the flesh, an eating away of the organ. An animal attack. A hungry animal going for the scent of food, eating away at flesh and muscle that had been prepared for it. As the woman stared, immobilized with horror, she saw to her disbelief Lim Chang’s eyes flicker for an instant, then roll upward, the whites exposed as his body gave a sudden ghastly shudder before death.
All the time he had been tortured, Lim Chang had been alive.
No one had seen or heard a thing.
He had died within walking distance of Piccadilly, of Bond Street, of the many London galleries and auction houses he had dealt with for decades. Later the police would find in his inside jacket pocket an airline ticket to Hong Kong dated the following day. They would also find, behind his bare feet, a briefcase, now empty.
Nobody knew what had been taken from the case or why he had been tortured to death. Nobody knew that of the six passengers who had taken that ill-fated flight in Bernie Freeland’s plane, only two were still around.
And the painting that had led indirectly to their deaths was on the move again.
Part Four
Forty-Two
WITHOUT INGOLA REALIZING THAT HE WAS WATCHING HER, CHRISTIAN studied his wife’s blond hair and the line of her cheek. He thought, as he had so often over the years, that he had been a very lucky man—even though it was only because of his brother’s fall from grace that he was able to claim Ingola as his own. Guilt, as it did often, nudged Christian. And, as he did often, he reassured himself that it had been Victor’s wish for him to marry Ingola and take care of her. And he had been more than willing to do so. When his son was born, Chri
stian had felt himself blessed. By default, but blessed nonetheless.
He knew that if Victor had continued his spectacular rise, Ingola would have been married to his brother now, living in London, a talented couple, inviting admiration and provoking envy. Ingola would not be leading an unremarkable life in Worcestershire. Still staring at his wife, Christian wondered if she regretted her decision and realized that of course she did. Ingola had been very much in love with Victor. Christian’s devotion, however much needed, would have come as a poor substitute.
“What is it?”
Christian blinked, realizing that she was talking to him. “I was thinking … about Victor.”
He waited for a reaction, but she answered very calmly, “What about him?”
“D’you think he’s all right?”
Turning away, Ingola reached for the evening paper, her heart speeding up. Guilt was hardly a big enough word for what she felt. How could she have cheated on Christian? This man who loved her and looked after her. Who did everything in his power to make her happy. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t Victor. It wasn’t his fault that life had shunted her off the path she had wanted. And it wasn’t his fault that she didn’t—couldn’t—love him enough.
It was her fault that she had lacked the courage to stand by Victor, putting her own career before him. That she had ducked out of the shadow of his disgrace and sacrificed their future for her security. Feel all the guilt you want, Ingola told herself; it was your choice, and you have to make the best of it.
“Are you worried about him?”
Christian nodded. “I just wonder what he’s doing. For a job, I mean.”
She feigned ignorance. “I don’t know. Ring him if you’re anxious.”
“We didn’t part on good terms last time we spoke,” Christian admitted. “I said something which annoyed him. Without meaning to, I implied that I thought he was guilty.”