by Alex Connor
Victor leaned back, thinking. Arnold Fletcher … He could picture his old colleague easily. Overweight, erudite, private. But criminal? A killer? No, not Arnold.
His attention shifted back to Tully.
“You interviewed Malcolm Jenner. What kind of man is he?”
“On the make. Enjoyed his job. Hag of a wife who thinks the world of their ghastly rough-ass son.” Tully shrugged. “Jenner’s no mastermind, but I’d put money on it that he’s no killer either.”
“So why would he have Annette Dvorski’s phone?”
“Jenner was the chief steward; he was responsible for the plane. He’d pick up anything left behind.”
“Why not give it back to the girl?”
“Was it an expensive phone?” Tully asked archly. “Because if it was, I imagine Jenner might think lost property counted as one of the perks of the job. After all, a call girl would hardly be strapped for cash, would she? More than capable of buying herself another cell phone, especially if she was one of Bernie Freeland’s favorites.”
The explanation was plausible. “So what’s Malcolm Jenner planning to do now?”
“He didn’t say. Like Terry Shaw—the other steward—he was shell-shocked.”
“And the pilots?”
“Duncan Fairfax is a pompous prick,” said Tully. “Puffed up with himself, full of it. Didn’t mix with the passengers. His copilot was new, a man called John Yates.” Tully thought back over what he knew. “I haven’t managed to get in touch with Yates yet, but I asked around. He seems well thought of, nothing suspicious.”
“What about Fairfax?”
“No gossip. Apart from him being unpopular, he’s respected. Jenner said that he’s the pilot for another hotshot with his own plane, so I imagine he’ll carry on working for him.”
Victor pricked up his ears. “An art dealer?”
“Apparently. One thing I did find out that was interesting …” Victor looked up, watching Tully as he continued. “In the twenty-two years he’s been a pilot, Duncan Fairfax’s only ever worked on private jets. Mostly for art dealers.”
“So he has to know about the business,” Victor said. “Some knowledge must have rubbed off along the way.”
“I doubt it. You see what you think of him, but to me Duncan Fairfax is ignorant, money-grubbing hired help. All the pomposity in the world can’t cover his true nature. He wasn’t even slightly bothered about Bernie Freeland’s death or the girl’s. He only cared about losing the job. In fact, the only time Fairfax showed any real anger was when I suggested that Freeland might want to fire him.”
Victor raised his eyebrows. “Why did you say that?”
“I don’t know; just a hunch. Fairfax made no secret of despising his employer, and I suppose I just wanted to rattle him. But he wasn’t being dismissed, and he certainly wouldn’t have killed the golden goose.”
“The numbers are dropping,” Victor said quietly. “Marian Miller, Annette Dvorski, Bernie Freeland, now Lim Chang—all dead. And Kit Wilkes critical in the hospital. The list is getting shorter by the day.”
“Of people who were on the plane,” Tully reminded him. “Not of suspects. That list keeps growing.”
“You asked around about Sergei Ivanovitch?”
“No one’s ever heard of him.”
“Someone said that Kit Wilkes might have been doing business with Guy Manners.”
Tully smiled. “Rumor.”
“And like you said, there’s always Arnold Fletcher to consider. He did have dealings with a gallery in Moscow about four years ago; he was doing very well, and then suddenly it all fell apart. I don’t remember the details—it was during my trial, and I had other things on my mind—but someone said Arnold had tried to cheat them.” He frowned, remembering. “The Russians stopped trading with him and moved on to Kit Wilkes.”
“Interesting.”
“Very,” Victor agreed. “It would take a tough man to stand up to the Russians. Wilkes is cunning, but tough? Who knows?”
“So Oliver Peters is the only dealer left,” Tully said, musing. “I remember him from when I was a boy. My father knew his father quite well, but I’ve only met him a couple of times since. He came to see a play I was in. Said his wife was a fan of mine, and we had dinner at the Ritz afterward. He paid, naturally; I was only twenty-four.” He smiled at Victor. “My father used to say that Oliver Peters was a very clever man, very well thought of in the highest circles. The kind of man who’d want to protect those who’d honored him.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s dying,” Tully said quietly. “He could afford to sacrifice himself. After all, he’s got nothing to lose.”
“You’re wrong. Dying, Oliver Peters has options. If he has the Hogarth, he can destroy it in an act of royalist loyalty. Or sell it to protect his own family after he’s dead.”
“Which would go against everything he stands for.”
Victor shrugged. “Maybe what Oliver Peters stands for doesn’t matter so much now. Of course, there is another choice he could make. He could up the stakes and bargain.”
“With the royals?”
“With those close to the royals,” Victor said. “Oliver’s time is short. He might throw caution to the winds. If he went to the royal advisers and told them he had the Hogarth, he might ask them to buy it. He might also mention that he had already spoken to other interested parties, like the Chinese or the Russians.”
“No! He wouldn’t dare.”
“He’s close to death, Tully. He might dare anything. If the murders were done by a dealer, Oliver Peters is the prime suspect. After all, he was on the plane. He knew who heard about the Hogarth. He knew what had to be done to secure that painting. Perhaps he would go to any lengths to do just that.”
“But blackmailing the royal family …”
“Their advisers might think it was worth a fee to stop the Hogarth from ever seeing the light of day, which would prevent any question mark over the validity of the House of Windsor. After all, what would be the alternative? For Oliver Peters to sell it elsewhere? Those close to the royals wouldn’t want a foreign power using Hogarth’s painting as leverage.”
Shaken, Tully held his gaze. “You really think the picture is that powerful?”
“Yes. It was powerful when it was first painted, and it’s just as potent now. Perhaps more so if it brings into question the line of succession.” Victor turned to Tully, his voice low. “There’s blood on this painting. To the ruthless, a little more will count for nothing.”
Forty-Five
SMILING, OLIVER PETERS SAT IN THE FRONT OF HIS RANGE ROVER AND watched the rugby match. Although he had wanted to spend the weekend in London, his family had pleaded with him to stay with them in the country, and he had relented. Oliver might want—might need—to be in London, but he was more than a little aware that he had few weekends left.
As usual, Sonia’s arrangements had been extensive: a dinner party, a visit to her parents, and a shopping trip for an antique desk. A normal if busy weekend, but with one difference: Simeon, their son, was playing his first rugby match. Sonia couldn’t go, but Oliver had promised he would attend, and even though the day was cold and he was in desperate pain, he made the journey: he knew it might be the last time he would watch his son play.
In the drizzling rain, he could make out his heir in the distance: tall, mud-splattered, and tough. A son to be proud of. A son who would in time have a great responsibility to carry. Oliver swallowed some pills with a little bottled water, turned on the radio, and listened to a snatch of Rossini. The music cheered him, as did the sight of Simeon waving to him from across the field as the sides changed at halftime.
In his youth he too had played rugby. In his youth … when he’d been fit and well, when running was easy, movement fluid. That morning Sonia had again commented on his weight loss, and again he had avoided the truth, telling her that it was due to an ulcer and that he was getting treatment. She had no reason to doubt him; he had never lied to her befo
re, so why now? She had stroked his hair and told him she would look into a better diet for him, food that would be easier to digest. How he had longed then to cling to her, to tell her that no diet on earth could help. Tell her he that was mortally afraid and that he didn’t want to leave her and didn’t want her to go on alone. That every moment with her was now doubly precious. He wanted to ask if she believed in life after death. If there was some comfort she could offer that would make their parting bearable.
But he said nothing. He refused to unburden himself only to burden her. And yet, at the same time as he longed for the cancer to halt its indecent progress, Oliver wanted the end to come quickly, before he had to put his family through the anguish of seeing him decay. But no matter how hard it was, he had to live a little longer to secure their futures. When he had done that, he could go with a quiet heart.
He stared into the drizzle, thinking of the murdered Lim Chang and the half a million pounds he had managed to raise. It had surprised and flattered him to discover that his blameless reputation had stood him in good stead. He had managed to get the money relatively easily, ready to hand over to Lim Chang in return for the Hogarth. His Hogarth.
But Lim Chang was no more. It should have been so simple.
Oliver’s stomach clenched in agony, his eyes watering as he stared ahead. Slowly the pain subsided, leaving him with shaking hands and a sweaty brow. But his mind was clear. Sir Oliver Peters’s body might be decomposing by the second, but his brain was working perfectly.
So much had been riding on the Hogarth that he hadn’t trusted Lim Chang to keep his word. Instead, he had suspected that his Chinese colleague might pass over his money, take the painting, and disappear. And if he did, God knew how many people would be affected by the fallout. Oliver couldn’t possibly allow that; he had to safeguard those who relied on him. All those who relied on him. Whatever it took. And so the distinguished Sir Oliver Peters had found himself assuming a new role, that of watcher. He had given the money to Chang, but he wasn’t going to let it or Lim Chang out of his sight for a moment.
In the cold morning he had pulled on his gloves and turned up the collar of his coat, shivering in the unexpected wind as he followed the Chinese man. For a time Oliver had waited outside a row of shops, trying not to look too conspicuous; then, when he had seen Lim Chang leave, Oliver had followed him. An hour earlier Oliver had handed over a briefcase containing half a million pounds to Lim Chang. This time the briefcase held the Hogarth. Following Chang from a distance, Oliver saw him enter Hyde Park and realized that he was heading for Piccadilly and therefore—or so he believed—for Oliver’s gallery.
He was going to keep his word. He was bringing the Hogarth back!
Oliver, eager to get to his gallery before Lim Chang arrived, began walking through the park as swiftly as he could manage. It was still very early and very quiet, and he hadn’t gone far when he heard the distant sound of a dog barking hysterically.
The park was empty of people, but the barking was incessant and getting louder, so unsettling that Oliver began hurrying toward the noise to see what was going on. The unsettling incessant barking increased in volume as he approached. As Oliver, his heart pumping, paused for breath at a clump of trees that blocked his view, the barking stopped. Hidden behind the trees, he peered through the leaves to be met by a sight so horrific that for a few seconds he couldn’t breathe.
What he saw was Lim Chang tied to a water fountain under an overhang of trees. A Chinese thug was pummeling his bloodied face, and another was pushing firecrackers into his ears. One of the men lit them, and both of them were convulsed with laughter as Chang struggled hopelessly, making a gurgling, choking sound as a third man approached, struggling to hold onto a dog that was snarling and straining at its leash. Chang’s eyes bulged with terror as one of the men unfastened the fly of his trousers.
Rooted to the spot behind the bushes, Oliver saw the dog released and flying at Lim Chang’s genitals. Sickened, he turned away, retching. Forcing himself to look back, he had seen the attackers reach for the case; they had the money but had come to steal back the Hogarth.
Instinctively, without thinking, Oliver shouted, “STOP! POLICE!” as loudly as he could, praying someone would be drawn to the scene.
Panicked, the men tried unsuccessfully to open the triple locked case. Desperately they tried to snatch it away, but Lim Chang had fastened it to his wrist by a chain, and as they tugged, they pulled the bloodied man half over. Chang slumped against the water fountain, the bone of his wrist breaking from the force.
A police car siren sounded, and, defeated, the men ran off. But the car didn’t come into the park; no one did. Instead, Oliver Peters stood alone, immobile, staring at the body of Lim Chang. He knew that before long the corpse would be found, just as he had known that the killers had made a point of killing Chang in the open. They could easily have killed him earlier, when he gave them the money in exchange for the painting, but why murder him covertly in a basement when they could send out a warning signal to everyone with such a vicious and public killing?
Hardly believing what he was about to do, Oliver had taken a key from his pocket, unfastened the lock of the case, and taken out a small package. Bundling the precious Hogarth under his arm, he had begun to run. He had left the park, left the mutilated body of Lim Chang. Clutching his picture, Oliver Peters disappeared instantly into the back streets of Mayfair.
The rain was drizzling down the windshield as Oliver looked out into a dismal sky. Simeon was still playing rugby. Sighing, Oliver thought of the painting hidden in a safety deposit in an obscure bank in Henley-on-Thames. The safe at his gallery would have been too obvious a target, and he certainly wasn’t going to risk his usual safe deposit box that had been robbed in the first place. Not for the first time, he prayed that the triads would be content with half a million pounds. They might have lost the Hogarth, but they were considerably richer. Please God, it would be enough.
Had he really gotten away with it?
His first responsibility was to the royal family, but his family’s security was vital. The line of succession might be imperative, but he also had to protect his own kin. Waving to Simeon, Oliver smiled at his son through the rain, thinking of the kink of fate that had made him accept the lift on Bernie Freeland’s jet. Then he thought of the others on the flight. Remembered them. And the way they had died.
Fear dug its claws into him.
The previous day Oliver Peters had been followed. And the private phone in the gallery had rung a few times, but there had been only silence when he answered. He felt threatened by shadows he would never have noticed before, and noises could make his stomach lurch and his heartbeat quicken. He knew that he wasn’t being watched by any members of the court circle. If they had discovered his error, they would also know that the Hogarth was safe again and would have had no reason for further surveillance.
It was now obvious to Oliver that the people after him were those who wanted the painting not for its incendiary secret but for its market value. But they would not get it. Who cared if the Chinese came for him? Who cared if the Russians killed him? He was dying already. All that mattered was that he should fulfill his duty.
Then Oliver remembered the half a million pounds he had borrowed and felt his spirits fold. He had safeguarded the royals but left his own family vulnerable. How could he repay the money before he died? How and where could he find it? He could hardly leave the burden of debt with his family. He recoiled from the thought of selling off any of his children’s inheritance, but he had to raise money. And quickly.
Then a profoundly shameful thought entered his mind. He could sell the Hogarth. And he had the ring: the ring with its damning inscription, its existence kept hidden for so long. But the Hogarth … What a fortune it would fetch, Oliver thought. He could pay back the half a million loan easily and put the remainder of the money in the bank in his wife’s name. His family would be provided for, and no one would know. To all intent
s and purposes the painting would be hidden as it always had been. Who would know if he sold it? No one had ever asked to see it. No one spoke of it.
Oliver clenched his fists as his conscience shifted. Why, he asked himself, had his first duty always been to the royals? He hadn’t asked to inherit the Hogarth legacy; it was foisted upon him, passed down with the family silver and the country house. It was a fact known to only a handful of people, a rumor known to only a handful more. So why should he be expected to put the royal family before his own family? He was soon to die, owing a fortune; surely the rules couldn’t remain the same.
Still staring at his son, Oliver let his thoughts drift. An idea, shocking and unthinkable only minutes earlier, had begun to seem reasonable. Ten minutes later, he’d made up his mind. He would drive back to London, to the gallery in the Burlington Arcade, and begin making some discreet phone calls.
But first he would stay and watch his son for a little while longer.
Focusing on the rugby game, on Simeon, Oliver silently addressed his son. When I’m gone, he thought, you’ll think of me well, as a good man, a good father, a good provider. You’ll never know what Hogarth’s reckless painting cost me. Or what it made me—a man I would never have suspected I could have become. It corrupted me, Simeon, made me a little mad. But you won’t know that. You’ll never know I robbed a dead man. You’ll never know what amount of blood was spilled for that painting now and in the past.
You won’t know. And it won’t matter, because thank God, it will all have been worthwhile.
Forty-Six
WATCHING FROM HIS CAR, VICTOR RUBBED HIS NECK AND KEPT HIS eyes fixed on the back entrance of Charlene Fleet’s Park Street premises. Having checked that Liza was safe in the apartment, he had driven over to Mayfair and waited, watching throughout the evening and into the small hours. Scared but willing to help, Liza had given him a list of Mrs. Fleet’s clients. As Victor had expected, there was a smattering of prominent figures in law and medicine, but most were art dealers. Many, like Arnold Fletcher and a number of Japanese and Chinese connoisseurs, were known to him. As for the Russians, it was no surprise that Marian Miller’s last assignation had been with the mysterious Sergei Ivanovitch or that Mrs. Fleet had nine Russian dealers on her books.
