by Alex Connor
She smiled, but the effect was unnerving. “Who cares if the painting is exposed? Who cares about the royals?”
“I certainly think the House of Windsor would care.”
“And we should protect them?” she queried. “That girl in the painting wasn’t the first—and won’t be the last—to have fucked a prince. Royalty’s a busted flush. Some say they’re good for tourism, but when the old queen dies, what then?” Mrs. Fleet raised her eyebrows. “You think people will follow the next king? No chance. The time and place for royalty is dying out. Celebrities are the new kings and queens; movie stars are the Knights of the Round Table. No one wants to be a minor royal when they can make a million with a film or a line of cosmetics. Or by kicking a football around. Royalty was everything—in the old world. Your painting, Mr. Ballam, might not have the power you think.”
“Or you hope,” Victor parried, unconvinced. “The wealth and status of the monarchy counts for more now than it ever did. It’s not long since the last royal wedding. The whole world watched that; don’t tell me no one cares about the monarchy.”
“Hah!”
“People want to be honored; no tin-pot president can rival a king. This country’s admired for its royal family and its traditions. Others envy us the pomp and ceremony. Republics and communist states resent our traditions, but they covet them. They might not admit it, but they do. The House of Windsor still wields huge influence in the world, so yes, I believe that the Hogarth painting is still lethal.”
Mrs. Fleet’s eyes were fixed on Victor’s, unblinking, as he said, “You know as well as I do that the killing won’t stop.”
“Lim Chang—”
“Was mauled to pieces by a dog.”
Unsettled, she turned away, her hand momentarily covering her mouth.
“Someone set a dog on him. A big dog, vicious, trained to its owner’s command.”
With one quick movement, she turned back to face Victor, her expression frantic. “Go on, say it! You want to, so say it. You think I did it. You think I set my dog on Lim Chang. I hired you to find out what happened to my girls, not to start accusing me of murder! Would I be that stupid to have you working for me if I was involved?” Her hand drifted to the edge of the desk, then fluttered momentarily in the dead air. “Let it be, Mr. Ballam. It’s gone too far. For my sake—and your own—let it be.”
“I can’t do that.”
“They killed my dog,” she said, her voice breaking for one brief moment. “They ran a car over him. They killed him and left him in the road. They killed my dog.” Her shaking increased; her eyes dimmed. “He meant everything to me. More than my girls or my business or any damn painting!”
Surprised, Victor stared at her. He had been so sure that she had used the mastiff, that she was involved in Chang’s death. But here she sat, shaking in her chair, a yawning empty space at her feet, and he realized why the atmosphere was so eerie.
“Before you wonder,” she went on. “Before your limited brain conjures up the thought, my dog was killed before Lim Chang died. If you don’t believe me, call the vet. He’ll confirm everything I’ve said.” She tossed a phone book across the desk. “Go on, ring him.”
Victor glanced at the book and then back at Mrs. Fleet. “Who killed your dog? Why would they kill your dog?”
“As a warning, Mr. Ballam.”
“You should take it.”
“No. They’ve gone too far. They killed the one thing I cared about, and someone will pay for that, believe me. Someone will really pay for it.” Her voice was deadly. “No one takes what’s mine. No one.”
Forty-Eight
LIZA COULD HEAR A RADIO PLAYING IN THE BASEMENT NEXT DOOR, then the sound of a child laughing. The noises soothed her, and she opened the curtain over the window. High over her head, the lofty white townhouses shimmered under the winter lamplight. A man rode past on a bicycle. Turning away, Liza made herself some cereal, then took out her wallet and counted what was left of her money.
Worried, she slumped down on the sofa, flipping the wallet onto a cushion. How long could she go on without earning money? She had hardly anything left and no one to beg a loan from. She could hardly ask Victor Ballam; he had done more than enough for her. She thought wistfully of how much she could have made in one night working for Mrs. Fleet, then remembered the flight on Bernie Freeland’s plane and jumped when someone tapped lightly on the basement door.
“Hello?” a friendly female voice called. “Hello? I know there’s someone in there.”
Looking through the peephole, Liza saw a smiling face looking back at her.
“I live next door. We’re neighbors. Can you open up; I want to ask you something.”
Cautiously, Liza opened the door as far as the chain allowed and peered through the gap. “Sorry to disturb you, but the cat wandered off this morning. A big ginger tom we got from the rescue center. I just wondered if you’d seen him.”
Liza shook her head. “No. But I haven’t been out today, and I didn’t see him in the backyard.”
The woman shrugged. “I suppose he’ll come back,” she said with a smile to her daughter, who was standing beside her. “He will, darling; he’s just having a look around his new territory.”
“Cats wander all the time,” Liza added, her tone reassuring. “He’ll probably come home when he’s hungry.”
“Speaking of which,” the woman said, “we’re going to have dinner now, and I’ve made loads. D’you want to join us?”
“No; no thanks.”
“Oh, come on,” the woman said. “My family want to meet you. We heard you moving around and thought you might be lonely.”
Tempted, Liza looked at her. She was a mother with a child in tow. They lived in the house next to hers. How dangerous could it be to have a chat? Liza hesitated. Victor hadn’t called for hours, and the night promised to be another lonely one. Suddenly she hankered after company.
“Please, do come,” the woman urged. “This is my daughter, Shauna, and I’m Jayne. I’ve made far too much food for us. You’re very welcome to share it.”
“Well—”
“Come on!”
The decision was made at that moment. “Thank you, Jayne; I am hungry and a bit lonely,” she said, grabbing her bag and undoing the chain. “I’m Liza, by the way.”
Showing Liza into the basement of the house next door, Jayne busied herself with the food. “Are you working in London?” she asked, her tone warm and interested.
“No; I’ve come down from the north.”
“Looking for work?”
“Yes, in a while.” Liza smiled at the little girl beside her, who was nursing a doll on her lap. “Have you lived here long?”
“No, not long,” Jayne replied easily.
Liza glanced around and noticed a photograph on the shelf by the window. A picture of a middle-aged couple. With no children.
“Is this your flat?”
“Oh, yes. It’s not very big, but you make do. I think your flat might be a bit larger than this one. But then, if you’re on your own, you’ve got more space, haven’t you? No family to clutter it up. Still, although this flat’s a little cramped, I like the area.”
Slowly, Liza continued to look around, noticing another photograph of the same middle-aged woman, who was nothing like her hostess. In the cramped confines of a small central London apartment, why would someone put out pictures of other people? And not just one but a few of them. Slowly she kept scanning the room, noticing that the furnishings were old-fashioned for a young mother and that there were precious few children’s toys. Suddenly nervous, Liza felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck and stood up.
“The food’s nearly ready,” Jayne said.
“I have to go. I can hear my cell phone ringing.”
“Have your meal first,” Jayne replied with just a tinge of irritation in her voice. “They’ll leave a message.”
Liza shook her head. “I think I should answer it. It might be important—�
�� She stopped short as a man entered the room. A thin Chinese man with yellow spatulate fingernails.
Finding the address that Tully had given him in the backstreets, Victor walked into the large covered area. But this time the place was quiet. There was no dogfight taking place, only a group of men talking at the back. As he entered, they all looked over to him, but only one approached.
“Can I help you?”
“I want to talk to Malcolm Jenner.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Victor Ballam.”
“Congratulations,” Jenner replied sourly. “What d’you want?”
“I want to talk about a cell phone. Annette Dvorski’s cell phone.”
He could see Jenner’s eyes flicker and followed as he led him farther outside. Jenner lit a cigarette and stared at Victor.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. Annette Dvorski was on Bernie Freeland’s plane. You talked to my colleague about it, Tully Harcourt.”
“Okay, so I talked to him about Mr. Freeland. I don’t remember talking about any girl, though.”
“Did you know her?”
“Who?”
“Annette Dvorski.”
“She was a hooker on the flight.”
“Nothing else?”
“What else is there?”
“So why have you got her cell phone?”
“I found it,” Jenner replied, but he was clearly uneasy, unable to look Victor in the eye. “I can’t tell you any more than I told your colleague.”
“You know that Annette Dvorski’s dead?”
He paused, took a long drag of his cigarette, and stared hard at the ground. In the building behind, several of the men were moving, bringing out dogs. The animals were pulling at their leashes and snarling, their hackles raised. Fighting dogs. Killing machines. Animals that could easily tear a man to pieces.
Victor’s breathing quickened as he gestured to them. “You run dogs here?”
Jenner looked up, half regretfully, half resigned. “My wife does. Your friend said he’d keep it quiet.”
“He certainly did. He didn’t even tell me.”
Victor watched as the men came closer; the dogs were focused, alert.
“Like I said, Mr. Ballam,” Jenner went on, aware of his backup. “I’ve got nothing more to say about that flight.”
“Why are you so scared?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not.”
Victor smiled ruefully. “Oh, I admit it; I’m bloody terrified. But you—why are you so afraid?” He reached out and gripped Jenner’s arm. “Look, I’m past caring, and frankly, if you want me to beg, fine, I’ll beg. I’m involved in something I don’t understand. Everywhere I go people are telling me to back off or they’re threatening me.” Fear was making him angry. “Well, I won’t back off. Not now, not ever. But I’m floundering, and I need some help.”
“I can’t give it to you.”
“You know something,” Victor persisted, glancing at the dogs and then back to Jenner. “You have to help me. Four people on that flight have already been killed.”
“Yeah, and I don’t want to be the fifth.”
Victor increased his grip on Jenner’s arm. “Neither do I. I want to put a stop to it, but I can’t unless someone helps me out. Give me something. Anything.”
The dogs were only five feet away from Victor now, surrounding him. Jenner stubbed out the cigarette butt with the heel of his boot.
“Leave now, before you get into any real trouble. I only have to say the word and they’ll set the dogs on you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Victor said quietly, letting go of Malcolm Jenner’s arm. The dogs were so close, he could smell them. “But I want you to remember those girls and what happened to them. I want you to close your eyes at night and think of what they suffered. Marian Miller’s head smashed in, Annette Dvorski tortured and forced to swallow bleach.”
To Victor’s surprise, Jenner suddenly gestured for the men to back off. For a moment they hesitated, then moved away, walking the dogs back into the building beyond. In the grim, chill daylight, Malcolm Jenner reached for another cigarette, his hands shaking so much that he could hardly light it. His color had faded, his eyes were watery behind his glasses, and a cough rasped from the back of his throat.
“She was tortured?”
“Yes.”
“How d’you know?”
“Because I found her.”
Jenner nodded, struggling for breath. “She suffered?”
“More than anyone should.”
There was a pause as Jenner stared upward into the dead sky. Finally, he looked back to Victor.
“It was supposed to be so easy. She had a plan, you see. She said we could pull it off, that it would be a breeze. Annette told me she had Bernie Freeland eating out of the palm of her hand.”
Stunned, Victor stared at the man in front of him. “A plan?”
“She was all lit up, excited. She said she was going to get her hands on some painting that was worth a fortune. She’d been larking around, spiking Mr. Freeland’s drink for a laugh, but then she overheard something he said. When we landed, she phoned me and told me all about it.” He smiled at the memory. “Annette said we’d be living like royalty. Said we were really onto something, that we could sell the picture for millions.”
“But you didn’t even know her.”
“We pretended we didn’t know each other. It stopped people from asking questions. But we’d known each other for a long time.” Jenner paused, his voice hardly audible. “Annette Dvorski was my niece.”
Forty-Nine
RACHEL FAIRFAX, BELOVED WIFE OF DUNCAN, WAS TRYING TO WORK out a recipe for that evening’s meal. Having spent half an hour in the butcher’s choosing the right cut of beef, she was now frowning as she read the instructions for St. James’s stew. She was the only person who didn’t think her husband was a son of a bitch. In all the years they had been married, Duncan had worshipped his wife, and the fact that they had no children had not weakened but strengthened their bond. In Duncan, Rachel had found a protective admirer. In Rachel, Duncan had discovered an uncomplicated, endlessly affectionate—and undemanding—consort.
He was not a man to offer information, and she was not a woman to ask questions. Her mind held no room for suspicion or doubt, whereas his was a pot roast of secrets seasoned with a garnish of folie de grandeur. Coming from a comfortable and respected army family, Rachel was at ease with the world. Born into poor stock and having lied about his lowly beginnings, Duncan felt unsteady in life. At any time he was liable to fall, to have his humble origins revealed and laughed at.
Rachel was terrified of only one thing: losing her husband in an air crash. He was terrified of being exposed, being brought down to earth and viewed as a social calamity, the bogus puffed-up liar that he was. But for all Duncan Fairfax’s failings, his love for his wife was genuine. It was the only genuine thing about him. There was no straying from the marital bed, no accepting any of the sexual treats on offer. He could have added adultery to his many failings, but Duncan was a moral hypocrite. Lying to prop himself up was justifiable; lying to deceive his wife was unforgivable.
And over their eighteen years of marriage Rachel had nurtured an image of her husband that he saw reflected in her eyes and in everything she did for him. It was a false image but a precious one. An image not of the man he was but the man he pretended to be. Rachel was his mirror. The uncritical, loving reflection of his importance.
Hearing the kitchen door open, Rachel looked up and smiled as her husband entered. “I’m making your favorite.”
“Everything you make for me is my favorite, darling.” He kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“You worry too much about me.”
“You need looking after, and there’s no one better to look after you than me. Did you check your blood sugar?”
“I can cope with my diabetes, darling; you know I can,�
� Rachel replied, turning back to the recipe. “I thought we could eat around seven?”
“Good.”
“You could watch the golf on BBC2,” she offered, “or go out and play a few holes.”
He shook his head, weary as he sank into a chair in the open-plan kitchen. For once he had a week off. Bernie Freeland’s death had given him an unexpected break. Naturally, Duncan had told his wife about his employer’s death, but not about the gruesome murder of Marian Miller. He glanced at Rachel, knowing how much the news would upset her, send her blood sugar through the roof. Why tell her when there was nothing to be gained from it? Wasn’t it enough that she got anxious every time he flew?
Rachel had never demanded that Duncan stop flying, but she had hinted at an early retirement. He had ducked the suggestion because he liked his work and loved the money he made. Flying for a regular commercial airline would never have been as lucrative as piloting a private jet, and for a snob like Duncan Fairfax, the status of being among the elite was to be guarded at all costs. Not for him the horror of domestic flights, the daily shuttle run to Glasgow or Newcastle. Not for him the faded interiors of old 747s. Oh, no; his world above the clouds was gilded, exclusive. His uniform bore a designer label; his passport proclaimed Monte Carlo, New York, Hong Kong….
“Is there going to be a funeral?”
Duncan blinked. “What?”
“For poor Mr. Freeland. Is there going to be a funeral?”
“It was yesterday, in New York,” Duncan explained. “A quiet affair, apparently. Just a few friends and his son.”
“I didn’t know he had a son.”
Duncan nodded. “I only met him once, a few years ago.”
“You never said.”
“To be honest, I forgot about it. Mr. Freeland wasn’t with Louis—that’s the name of his son—he was traveling alone. Well, not entirely; Louis was with one of the family’s lawyers. If I remember rightly, he was being taken from the USA to Europe for a trip. A treat, because his father hadn’t been able to spend Christmas with him.”
