The Hogarth Conspiracy (19 page)

He walked past the New World restaurant and turned into Red Lion Street, watched by a Chinese woman who had her arms folded and was talking to a male kitchen hand who was rolling a smoke. From the open back door behind them came a billow of kitchen steam and the sound of dishwashers slamming closed. Skirting the pavement trash cans, Lim Chang watched as a van pulled up; two agile men opened its back doors and slammed crates of fish onto the pavement, calling out loudly in Cantonese. He nodded as he passed by, and they stared curiously after the businesslike figure, seeing him turn into one of the most notorious side alleys in London.

Uninterested in the effect he was creating, Chang moved down the passageway, past two closed shops and a known gambling club fronting as a lap-dancing venue. When he reached the third doorway, he looked down into the basement. A light was on, and after pausing for an instant, he descended the narrow stone steps. Through the open basement door, he saw two men playing cards and a woman feeding a scrawny baby, her eyes unfocused as the child suckled. Against one window was a table piled with unwashed plates and a knotted glue of burned candle ends. On the wall beside it hung a poster of Hong Kong with an obscene image drawn on it.

Slapping down his cards, one of the men—grossly fat and sweating profusely even though the temperature was hardly above thirty-five degrees—turned and looked at Lim Chang hovering in the doorway.

“I need some information,” Lim Chang said simply, introducing himself to both men. He could see that his name registered, and the obese man gestured toward a chair with his puffy hand.

Lim Chang took the plastic seat, keeping his gaze averted from the woman feeding the child, who seemed indifferent to the fact that both of her breasts were visible The room smelled unpleasantly of onions, cooked food, and the giveaway stink of bugs.

“Information?”

Lim Chang nodded. “Do you know of a painting coming onto the market?”

Suspicious, the fat man looked over to his thinner companion, who idly scratched his shoulder with long yellowed fingernails. He turned bloodshot eyes to Chang.

“A painting?”

Chang inclined his head. “I want to know where this painting is. The artist is Hogarth, William Hogarth.”

“Why would we know?” he said, turning to the gross man.

“If the painting is in London, you'd know about it,” Lim Chang replied. “The Chinese government wishes to own this work. They would reward anyone well for assistance in this matter.”

“Was it stolen?” the thinner man asked, moving to the sink and running the water. As he did so, the woman seemed to come back to life as she shoved the infant into a grubby crib and went and leaned against him.

“What's going on?” she asked.

He ignored her and went back to the table, his bleary eyes hard as he looked at Lim Chang. “Well,
was
it stolen?”

“I'm not sure,” Chang replied with awesome composure. “The Australian art dealer Bernie Freeland recently acquired the painting.”

The fat man wiped his forehead with a cloth. “And?”

“He's now dead.”

“And the painting?”

“No one knows where it is,” Lim Chang said tonelessly. “Mr. Freeland's death was supposedly an accident.”

The men exchanged a glance, both picking up on the word
supposedly
.

“You've not heard about this death? This accident?” Chang persisted. “But you know who Mr. Freeland was?”

The obese man nodded.

“This painting is of great significance. As I say, the Chinese government would be most desirous of owning the work.” He rose to his feet, certain that they understood. “I would pay very well for information regarding Mr. Hogarth and his whereabouts. I feel sure you will want to assist me in this.”

Both men watched him in silence as he walked to the door, then listened to his footsteps as he climbed the basement steps. After a second or two, the fat man jerked his head.

Moments later, a wiry little man with spatulate yellow nails was following Lim Chang through Chinatown, watching the smart figure move farther and farther from the welcoming red gates into the mire beyond.

Surprised that he hadn't heard from Victor, Tully considered the brief telephone conversation he had just had with Bernie Freeland's pilot. Arrogant and short-tempered, Fairfax had answered Tully's questions curtly, with no embellishment. Yes, he had worked for Mr. Freeland for a decade. No, he didn't know the whores on that ill-fated flight or any of the hookers who had come and gone over the last ten years. Yes, it was a pity Freeland was dead as it would be the end to his lucrative pilot contract. And no, Fairfax said firmly, he hadn't liked the man one iota.

“I was doing my job, for which I was very well paid,” he'd said, his tone impatient. “I'm a pilot. I don't mix with the passengers, especially the types Mr. Freeland liked.”

“But there weren't only call girls on that particular flight,” Tully had said. “There were some very important art dealers too, one of them a distinguished peer. Weren't you tempted to talk to them?”

“I was flying the plane.” Fairfax's tone was pompous, self-important.

“You could have handed it over to your copilot, John Yates.”

“Hah! A novice. It was his first flight for Mr. Freeland. I'd hardly let him take over, even temporarily.”

“But he must have done that now and again, if only to let you stretch your legs.”

The pilot's tone was metallic. “Are you trying to imply something?”

“Should I be?”

“I don't like your tone—”

Tully cut him off, oiling his ego into good temper again. “Forgive me. I appreciate your talking to me. After all, one of the young women who had been on that flight was killed shortly afterward.”

“It didn't happen on my plane, so it has nothing to do with me.”

“I understand,” Tully responded patiently. “I was just wanting information for her family. They just want to know about Marian Miller's last hours.”

“As a whore?”

Inwardly boiling, Tully struggled to keep his voice steady. “Nothing happened on the flight? No arguments between the passengers?”

“No.”

“I've talked to the stewards and everyone else. It seems cut and dried except for Bernie Freeland's death. First Marian Miller's death, then Mr. Freeland's fatal accident. Seems oddly coincidental, doesn't it?”

Duncan Fairfax took in a pained breath.

“Let me spell this out for you. I was paid a great deal of money to fly Freeland's jet, and I liked the lifestyle. If you're implying that I would do anything to endanger that—”

Tully took a shot in the dark.

“Did Mr. Freeland threaten to fire you?”

“
What
? Freeland never threatened anything like that!” Fairfax snorted, caught off guard. “He promised me that it was my job for as long as I wanted it.”

“But he'd just hired a new bright young pilot. John Yates could have turned out to be your rival.” Tully paused before changing tack. “Did you recommend John Yates for the job as your copilot?”

“No; Mr. Freeland hired him on a personal recommendation.”

“What did you think of Mr. Yates?”

“Very little.”

Tully shifted gear. “What about Marian Miller?”

“The whore?” Fairfax snapped. “What about her?”

“Did you know her?”

“No!”

“Did John Yates?”

His temper ignited. “Right, that's it! That's all I'm going to say. The matter's closed.”

“Especially for Bernie Freeland,” Tully replied archly, ringing off.

He was thinking about the conversation as he made his way toward Peckham and the address he had been given for Terry Shaw. Knowing that the area was rough and that many of the houses were boarded up in preparation for redevelopment, he was not surprised to have his car surrounded only moments after he had arrived. Sitting in the driver's seat, he stared back at the group of kids and then got out of the Volvo, picking out one boy and beckoning to him.

“You a pedophile?”

Tully sighed expansively, passing the boy a fiver. “Watch out for my car, hey?”

“Just a fiver?”

“Another one if it's still got wheels when I come back, all right?” He looked at the group of kids, then glanced over to one of the boarded-up houses. “D'you know which is number twenty-three?”

The boy with the money pointed down the street. “Next door to number forty-seven,” he said with a smirk, to the sniggering delight of his companions.

“Of course it is,” Tully said wryly, walking off toward the occupied houses. The sleet was working itself into a temper; portentous clouds overhung the dull streets. A dog barked at Tully as he passed.

Tully rang the bell of number twenty-three.

“No one home,” a voice called from inside.

“Mrs. Shaw?”

“She's moved.”

“Mrs. Shaw, you're not in any trouble; I just wanted to have a chat with you,” Tully said soothingly, staring into an old whey-colored face peering through a gap in the net door curtain.

“Oh, don't listen to my gran,” a young man said suddenly, ushering the old woman into the front room and opening the door to Tully. “Malcolm Jenner said someone had been asking around. I was expecting you. Said your name was Sully.”

“Tully.”

“Yeah, Tully.”

Walking into a narrow hallway made even narrower by packing cases, Tully followed Terry Shaw into the back kitchen. A cat sat on the table next to a half-eaten can of sardines.

“Lunch,” Terry explained.

“For you or the cat?”

He smiled, clearly cold in his thin, creased shirt, his bony hands thrust deep into his pockets. Unshaven, his hair greasy and uncombed, a patch of acne on his forehead, Terry Shaw looked as though he hadn't slept properly for days. And he certainly didn't look like the kind of man Bernie Freeland would have hired for his cabin crew.

“You heard about your boss?”

“Yeah.” He pushed the cat farther along the table and sat down, indicating the seat next to him for Tully.

“I thought it was too good to last,” he went on, sounding despondent, running his nail along the table edge. “People like me don't get chances like that every day.”

“Won't you go back to Australia?”

“What for? Mr. Freeland's dead; all his staff will be laid off.” He stared dreamily ahead. “I wonder what they'll do with the jet. You think the person who buys it will want to hire me? I know I look a bit skanky now, but I scrub up well. I was proud of that job, that uniform. People envied me when I told them what I did. My girlfriend couldn't get over it.”

“Terry, I want you to tell me about the flight.”

“I'm never going to do another one, am I?” he said as the old lady shuffled into the kitchen and put on the kettle. “It's okay, Nan; I'll make the tea.”

She turned and stared at Tully. “I know you,” she said. “I know your voice.”

“You don't, Nan.”

“I
do
too,” she said emphatically, “You do adverts on the TV. I know your voice.”

Amused, Tully nodded. “You're right, Mrs. Shaw. That is my pleasure.”

“You an actor?” Terry asked, impressed.

“Sometimes.”

Terry frowned. “So why are you doing this?”

“For money, dear boy. That's why we all work.”

The old lady was watching him as though transfixed.

“Are you queer?”

Tully shook his head. “No, Mrs. Shaw; sorry to disappoint you.”

“Then why did you call him ‘dear boy'?”

“Just a figure of speech.”

“Oh, I see,” she said seriously. “I just wondered. You know, you hear about actors, and you wonder. So many of them on the television act feminine these days.”

“
Nan.
” Terry's voice was almost a wail. “Go in the front room. I'll bring you some tea.”

She ignored her grandson and stared at the newcomer.

“Say it for me.”

Tully's eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon.”

“Say the advert for me,” she repeated, humming the jingle tune to herself. “Go on. We don't get famous people here often. Say it for me.”

Impatiently, Terry steered his grandmother into the front room. He came back to the kitchen and with a wary expression asked, “Why are you
really
here, Mr. Tully?” Tully didn't bother to correct the “mister.” “Malcolm Jenner said you wanted to know about the flight, but I don't know any more than he does. In fact, he did most of the serving of the food and drinks and I was just helping him, learning how to do it. You know …”

“You didn't overhear anything? Any arguments?”

“Nah.”

“And you didn't know the girls before the flight?”

He flushed. “How would
I
know them? They were all tarts, and anyway, they were like in the bedroom most of the time.”

“What happened after you landed in London?”

“Bernie Freeland and another crew flew on to New York. I stayed here.”

“When did you hear that Marian Miller was murdered?”

“Malcolm phoned and told me Mr. Freeland didn't need me anymore, and then he told me about her. You can imagine how I felt when I heard Freeland had died.” He stared mournfully at the tabletop. “I thought it was too much of a lucky break. I don't get lucky like that. None of our family is lucky. Not like that. And now I'm stuck here, back living with my mother and grandmother.”

“Will you really never go back to Australia?”

“Dunno. Haven't made up my mind yet.”

Tully sighed. “So you can't remember anything strange or suspicious that happened on that flight?”

“No. It was heaven, something I'll never forget. Like being a movie star.” He leaned toward Tully. “As for Bernie Freeland … Malcolm said maybe his death was
not
an accident.