The Hogarth Conspiracy (30 page)

E
LIZABETH
W
ILKES STARED AT THE STILL-LIFE PAINTING ON THE WALL
of the office, her expression blank. She hadn't visited Park Street for many years and found it changed. For all the discreetly new wallpaper and furnishings, there was the same distinct and palpable aura of sex. The pictures might be tasteful, but she knew that behind the soundproofed doors men were being relieved or humiliated; all the muted lamplight in the world could not romanticize the humping of paid sex.

Uneasy, she touched her hair several times as though to reassure herself that the expensive cut was in place, not cheapened by her surroundings. She even wondered momentarily if she should leave, then realized she couldn't. Her son was dying. Or so his consultant had told her that morning. Her beloved Kit was barely alive, and without him there was nothing. No life, no future. Hearing a sound overhead, Elizabeth tensed, but no one came into the office, and after another moment she sat down, sighing nervously.

Perhaps she had been foolish to stop James Holden on the street in that way. But seeing him, portly and prosperous, had reminded her of her past. The disappointment of her failure underlined the anxiety she had over her son's condition—
their
son's condition—and she hoped desperately that Kit might activate some belated paternal response.

“What on
earth”
James Holden had expostulated, feeling someone touch his arm and turning to see who. “Elizabeth! I don't wish to talk to you.”

Piqued, she had nonetheless fallen into step with him as he pounded toward Marylebone High Street. “We have to talk about Kit. I have to thank you—”

“Hah!”

“—for what you did. Getting him admitted to the Friars Hospital.” She had to hurry now, almost running to keep up with him. “How did you know he was ill?”

Arriving at the traffic lights, James had been forced to stop walking but had kept his gaze averted from his ex-lover.

“A friend of your son's—”

“
Our
son.”

“—contacted me. Look, I only acted out of common decency, not paternal concern. I did what I thought was for the best.”

“And what would look right if it came out in the press.”

“Oh, think what you like!” he had snapped, “but I don't want to be drawn into this anymore. You know that, and if you don't, you should. I don't want any contact with you
or
that young man.”

“He's dying.”

“I doubt it,” James had replied, pulling down the bottom of his waistcoat and staring ahead. “He's just taken an overdose. Addicts do that, I hear. Doctor Fountain is hopeful that he might recover in time. No doubt he'll soon be back to talking to the press about this latest scandal.”

“Kit is dying,” Elizabeth had repeated. “He's in a coma.”

Exasperated, James had finally turned to face her. He saw a handsome woman but felt no attraction to her. Her demands and the appalling behavior of her son had made him loathe them both. How he had been made to pay for his affair; how he had danced to the mockery of the tabloids and the eternal postings on the Web. No one—not even his most bitter political enemies—could have employed such determined and constant battery. That he was still respected in some quarters, still in the running for an honor, was little short of a miracle. And now Kit Wilkes—the tick that had burrowed under his skin for decades—had been silenced.

And he was supposed to care?

“Elizabeth, there is nothing more I can—or am willing—to do.”

“But if Kit dies …”

“It will be a tragedy, but a self-made tragedy,” he'd said coldly.

Remembering those words, Elizabeth shuddered. There had been something in James Holden's tone that had worried her. Nothing obvious but something under the words that prickled and tickled like a burr. Had it been relief? She cringed. Had she overplayed her hand? Had her encouragement of her son's vitriol backfired? Surely a father couldn't welcome his child's death. Surely not even a harried, humiliated father could see it as a deliverance. Elizabeth stared at the handbag on her lap. Bottega Veneta; so expensive, so divinely exquisite. If Kit died, how would she afford such luxuries? How could she run the gallery without his input? His punishing skill? How could she maintain her livelihood or her status if Kit perished?

And just
who
, she wondered, had told Holden about her son's overdose? Elizabeth should have asked him for a name, demanded one. Who had been with Kit when he was taken ill? Ronan Levy? Her thoughts tangled themselves as she remembered what Ronan had said at the hospital, how insistent he had been that Kit's condition was not accidental.

“He knows his limitations…. Kit's always in control. He looks after himself.”

“So someone did this to him?”

“Someone must have. Kit was a different person when he came back to London.”

When he came back to London … on a private jet owned by Bernie Freeland, the same Bernie Freeland who had been killed so coincidentally a day later. Unnerved, Elizabeth jumped as the door opened and Charlene Fleet walked in. Behind her came the dog, which settled beside her at her feet as she sat down opposite Elizabeth. Having not seen her for many years, Elizabeth was struck by her confidence and her looks, subtly assisted by surgery. Her hands were the only clue to her hard beginnings. Always rather large, they were clumsy for a slim woman and bare of jewelry as though any ornament would draw attention to them.

Elizabeth remembered Charlene Fleet's hands well.

“How are you? I haven't seen you for a long time,” Mrs. Fleet said.

“My son is very ill, in a coma.”

“Really? How sad.”

Elizabeth faltered for a moment, then drove on. “I've been hearing some very strange things.”

“You should never listen to gossip.”

“Apparently my son was given a lift on a plane owned by Bernie Freeland.”

Nothing changed in Mrs. Fleet's expression. “Poor Mr. Freeland. He was killed in a traffic accident, you know.”

“I heard.”

“But then you knew him rather well, didn't you?” she asked, looking coolly at Elizabeth. “When you were working for me. You were one of my best girls, you know, always very popular. It was a shame you left the profession.”

A chilly silence descended and hung over the two women before Elizabeth replied.

“I wanted to get out of the business as soon as I could.”

“With as
much
as you could.”

“I won't deny it,” Elizabeth said, conscious of the other woman's hostility. “I wanted to make money. We both did, Charlene.”

Smiling, Mrs. Fleet looked around the room, her gaze settling briefly on the view outside the window. She was inordinately pleased with her success, with her power even more than her money. Long gone were the days when she had been at the mercy of others—men and women. Long gone, left in Scotland Road and Liverpool, where she had kept a knife in her pocket for protection. No one knew where Mrs. Fleet had originated. Her past had been obliterated by a series of clever moves and meticulous attention to detail. With savage ruthlessness, she had cut off any ties to her earlier life and perfected her cover. No one knew who she was, where she had come from, or what she had done.

Except the woman sitting opposite her now.

“So why are you here, Elizabeth?”

“Something happened on that flight, and you had girls working it.”

“So?”

“I want to talk to them.”

“Really!” Mrs. Fleet replied, shocked by the sheer nerve of the request. “Well, they're unavailable.”

“Are they here?”

“No.”

“Well, where are they?”

Mrs. Fleet took in a long breath.

“If you must know, one of those girls has been murdered.”

Elizabeth blinked, her mind processing the information. But she knew enough about Mrs. Fleet to suspect the account and she immediately questioned it.

“When?”

“The evening after her trip with Bernie Freeland.”

“Odd, isn't it, that Freeland was killed too?” Elizabeth parried. “And that my son was admitted to the hospital just hours after he got off the same flight.” She held her nerve, facing up to Mrs. Fleet. “What really happened on that plane?”

“Nothing as far as I know.”

“Liar.” Elizabeth was afraid of Mrs. Fleet but more terrified of losing her son. “Kit is dying.”

“That has nothing to do with me. You had a good run, God knows. You and I worked out a very clever plan which you've benefited from for years. I organized a life for you, Elizabeth—a cushy life. Don't come crying to me now that your luck's run out.”

Elizabeth was losing her grip. She fought to keep control but couldn't stop herself from hissing, “I know about you.”

“And I know about you. All the things you wouldn't want other people to know,” Mrs. Fleet replied. “Remember that.”

“I know where you came from, who you are.”

“Yes, you do.” Her composure was terrifying. “Well, Elizabeth, you blackmailed me once and I went along with it, but I didn't have the same power then. Didn't have much power at all—
then
. It was lucky that James Holden was a client of mine. You got a good living out of him by passing your bastard off as his. It's a shame that Bernie Freeland never knew he had a son
without
learning difficulties.”

Flushing, Elizabeth gripped the bag on her lap, her nails scraping the leather.

“You can't tell anyone now!”

“I don't need to,” Mrs. Fleet replied. “If your son dies, your life's finished anyway. You're nothing without Kit Wilkes. Nothing without your hold over James Holden. I wonder what he'd say if he knew that he'd been cheated? That Kit Wilkes, who's tormented him for years, isn't really his son? It could turn a man's mind, something like that. To think of all he's suffered, all the humiliation. His wife's tolerance, his party's pity, his ambitions constantly thwarted by embarrassing disclosures and mockery. And for what?
A lie.
Poor James Holden, suffering—and paying—for another man's kid.” She sighed, the sound empty, lethal. “Don't get in my way, Elizabeth. Not this time. You're out of your class.”

But Elizabeth, her voice shaking, still pushed her.
“What happened on that flight?”

“Nothing more than I told you. Your son overdosed; that's all.”

“I don't believe you,” Elizabeth said. She rose and moved toward the door. “I'm going to get someone to look into this.”

Mrs. Fleet was on her feet instantly, catching hold of the other woman's arm and tightening her grip. Her face was only inches from Elizabeth's, her voice threatening.

“Take me on and you'll lose,” she hissed. “You think you know me? You did when we were children, when I was young. Well, now I've had years to learn how this world runs, and there's no one I'm afraid of and no one who can touch me. People
fear
me now. I have power you can't imagine, Elizabeth, so don't begin a fight you can only lose.” She let go off her arm and stepped back. “Now, get out.”

“My son—”

“Needs you. So I'd go back to the hospital right away, Elizabeth. Sit at his bedside, be the good mother.” She paused, all the malice of years in her voice. “After all, you were never much of a sister, were you?”

Thirty-Eight

“D
OES IT
LOOK
LIKE YOU CAN TALK TO HIM?
” R
ONAN
L
EVY ASKED,
turning from Victor to the immobile figure on the bed. “Kit's in a coma.”

“I know. I didn't want to talk to him; I wanted to talk to you.”

“
Me?
Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who isn't convinced about Kit Wilkes's overdose.”

“Did his mother send you?”

“No. I've never met Elizabeth Wilkes.”

“She was here a few days ago, but then she backed off. Until this morning, and then she was fussing over him like she cared. Some mother, hey?” Ronan was fiddling with the gold ring in his ear, wary, suspicious. “Are you police?”

“No.”

“Thought not. She wouldn't call the police in even after what I told her.” He paused, suspended between disbelief and anger. “I care about Kit.
Really
care. More than she does.”

“How did you two meet?”

“I was in a band, and Kit saw us playing some club.” Ronan paused. “He just came over and said he'd like to fuck. Then he passed me a card with the name of a Dr. Eli Fountain on it. I went to see him and got the all clear.”

“You didn't mind?”

Ronan shrugged. “The gay scene's dangerous. In a way I was glad to know he was careful. Kit never takes chances. Which is why he'd never overdose. He's too cautious.”

Following Ronan's gaze, Victor stared at the inert figure in the hospital bed.
How you would have crowed about the Hogarth,
he thought.
What a brilliant way to embarrass your social-climbing father. And what a coup for your own career.
Staring at the closed eyelids, Victor found the ambiguity of the figure, his stillness underlying the menace of his character, compelling and fascinating.