Free The Hogarth Conspiracy by Alex Connor

nodded. “I run an exclusive whorehouse. I can’t risk my clients being investigated and exposed. You don’t use call girls, do you, Mr. Ballam? You wouldn’t have to. You’re attractive; you don’t have to pay for it. But some men do. And some men want things only a working girl will do for them. Some hate their wives or don’t have time for relationships. Others can’t get a woman because they’re ugly, or shy, or they can’t get it up. There are men who want to be humiliated and degraded in every way physically possible, and everything they want, we give them. For a fee.”
    He held her gaze as she talked on.
    â€œThere’s a recession on. In Germany the brothels are offering discounts for clients who arrive on their bikes. Yes, seriously.” Her laugh was short on mirth. “But I don’t have any problem keeping my girls busy. The art world provides my best customers. Some dealers use us as a bribe, an extra to sweeten a deal, and who can blame them? If a buyer is reluctant, a weekend with one of my girls could be the deciding factor. In the art world, the flesh and the Devil are close runners.”
    â€œAnnette Dvorski is a foreign name.”
    She blinked, wrong-footed.
    â€œAre you asking me if I’m using illegal immigrants?”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Ballam. Annette came to London to study, then decided that she preferred to make money horizontally. My girls are never forced into prostitution; they are all at the top of their game, hired for their looks and their brains. They aren’t—or ever will be—King’s Cross whores.”
    â€œDo they work for you exclusively?”
    â€œAbsolutely. If I catch a girl working for anyone else, she’s fired.”
    â€œWithout references?”
    â€œI’m sorry you don’t approve of me, Mr. Ballam, but you’re hardly one to sit in judgment.”
    The barb found its mark.
    â€œSo if you won’t confide in the police,” Victor said evenly, “what d’you expect me to do?”
    â€œLet me make myself clear. I am very rich, and I have power because of my influential connections. My client list relies on my discretion to protect them.”
    She leaned back in her chair, the dog immobile at her feet. “I don’t care about the painting; I decided long ago not to enter the art market directly. I work the dealers another way, so the Hogarth means nothing to me. Neither do the other dealers on that plane, and I don’t care about the money. If you get hold of the picture, keep it and good luck.” She raised her glass in a mock salute, her tone confusingly gentle. “I just want you to find out if my employees are really in danger, and if they are, I want you to get them out of danger.”
    â€œThat’s a lot to ask.”
    â€œI’m offering a big fee.”
    Victor paused, caught between two emotions: fascination and caution.
    â€œWell,” he said finally. “You’re clever, Mrs. Fleet; I’ll give you that. You knew that I’d be interested because the art world’s what I know, and you knew that I needed work because there’s no queue to hire me. I also think you relied on the fact that I’d probably want to get revenge, but what is really clever—and I take my hat off to you for this—is that you knew that the moment you told me about the Hogarth and made me complicit, I was screwed.”
    She smiled slowly.
    â€œLike I said, Mr. Ballam, welcome to my postal code.”

Twelve

    L OOSENING THE COLLAR OF HIS ELEGANT SHIRT, O LIVER P ETERS stared at his oncologist, his expression momentarily blank. On the wall was the x-ray viewing machine showing the images of his stomach, lit from behind and looming like Halloween ghouls. But they looked fine to him. No gaps, no huge black crosses, no signs saying “diseased.”
    He blinked, looked away, and, sounding confused, said,