The woman scrutinised him from head to toe, examining his immaculate navy wool suit, sky blue shirt, navy tie and highly polished black shoes. The shoes were a must: they would gain entry to anywhere on the planet on gleam alone. Satisfied, she searched down a typewritten list on her overcrowded tabletop, frowning intently as she went. ‘Here you are. A man telephoned to make an appointment at two-thirty in the afternoon. ’ She frowned again. ‘You are rather early, don’t you think? ’
Michael knew Terry had made the appointment on the day he left England. It was a mistake not to have kept in contact. They had made an error. ‘Unfortunately, my plans have changed. I am expected in court this afternoon. I have a flight to catch, and I needed to rearrange my timetable. ’ He raised his eyebrows, lowered his briefcase to the floor and surrendered his arms to her mercy. ‘Quite clearly, you should have been informed. I apologise. Does this present a problem?’
The woman puffed out an almighty huff. She opened a large book from a shelf and inspected the contents. Again, she ran a finger down a list. Michael caught sight of her badge. Miss Brogan.
‘I have a taxi waiting for me,’ he said firmly, adding, ‘What I have to accomplish will only take a few minutes. I would appreciate your cooperation, Miss Brogan. ’
She looked up, and straightened her back. She was as wide as she was tall. And she wasn’t tall.
Michael glanced at his watch for additional impact.
The formidable Miss Brogan relented. ‘Very well, Mr Strange. You have fifteen minutes only. I must warn you that you must not upset her in any way, is that understood? She can easily get into a distressed state of mind, and she must remain calm at all times. ’
Michael gave the reply she wanted to hear. ‘Understood. ’
She wasn’t quite won over. ‘I will be keeping a very close eye on you, Mr Strange. ’
‘Indeed. ’
‘Wait here. I’ll make her comfortable and explain who you are. ’
With that, Miss Brogan disappeared down the long corridor to his left. Waiting patiently, he made way for a mobile bed being ferried past by two male nurses. A fragile old lady barely glanced in his direction. The smell of urine invaded his nostrils.
Several minutes elapsed, making him restless.
‘Come,’ Miss Brogan barked, waving at him to follow in her path. At the end of the hallway, Michael stepped into a grand glass orangery. It had seen better days, but it was impressive nonetheless.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ came the instruction.
Michael silently crossed the black and white tiled floor and recognised the woman who had passed him in the bed. She occupied a place by the entrance to the garden and was bathed in light from the vast windows. The back of the bed had been raised, allowing for Delores to be propped up using extra pillows behind her shoulders.
Michael pulled a chair across and sat beside her. He had to act quickly. From his briefcase, he pulled out a photograph of Lauren and himself taken several weeks ago. It was in the garden at the farm. They were smiling together. He had to make immediate impact with Delores, and this he hoped would be the start.
‘Hello, Delores. My name is Michael. Do you recognise the pretty girl in the picture? ’
He held it up in front of her seemingly vacant gaze. Her eyes did not flicker. ‘It is your daughter, Lauren…’ Shit. He quickly corrected himself. ‘Laura. ’ He disguised his mistake by adding, ‘The good looking fellow is me. We are friends. Good friends. ’ Thankfully, he seemed to get away with his stupidity. Although her daughter had undergone a change of identity, it was inconceivable that any mother would relate to another name than the one that she herself had chosen.
Delores remained impassive. It was a bad start.
‘I know that she came to see you recently, with Maggie. That must have been a wonderful surprise. Laura told me all about it. I’ve been to Dublin on business and I promised your daughter that I would call in and say “hello”. It is a real pleasure. ’
He took her hands in his and gently caressed them. They were gnarled and cold and bony. He suddenly felt awful, attempting to deceive her with his false tales. Just what did he think he was playing at? He reached into his case once more. ‘These are for you. ’ He placed a gift-wrapped box of soft jellies on her lap, and then, rather more secretively, a tiny bottle of brandy, which he slyly slid under her bed sheet. ‘I know this is naughty,’ he glanced around in a bold gesture of defiance, ‘but what the hell…’
For the first time, he registered an inkling of response; just the slightest movement of her mouth. It was a smile. And slowly, he traced it to her eyes.
‘You can hear me, can’t you, Delores? ’ His heart beat faster. Just then, they were interrupted by Miss Brogan, who marched over to the bed. She silently wiped around Delores’s mouth and chin with a sterilised cloth, finishing with a cold stare in his direction. ‘Ten minutes. ’
He waited until they were alone again. Michael needed something.
In desperation, he tried another tactic, more underhand. ‘Laura, your daughter,’ he whispered. ‘She and I are to marry. Does this make you happy? Did she tell you about us when she visited recently? ’ He cradled her hands once more. ‘We can arrange for the ceremony in Dublin, if you like. Then you can attend, if you feel well enough. What do you think? ’
He felt a reflex from her hands, a gradual tightening. She really was aware of everything he was telling her. It was a big breakthrough.
‘Squeeze my hand if it pleases you. That is, our marriage. ’
Delores did not respond.
‘Would you be unhappy with this? ’
He felt a tightening.
‘Are you not happy for Laura, Delores? ’
Tighter.
‘Do you not approve of what she is doing? ’
Tighter still.
‘I know it is difficult for you, but can we somehow talk about this?’
No response.
A commanding voice roared from behind him. ‘Five minutes, Mr Strange. ’
Michael leaned closer to her. In the strong light, her skin was pure white and translucent. Her hair was sparse and wiry, revealing a fragile scalp. Blue veins protruded on her bony arms.
‘Delores,’ he said softly, ‘I would like to help your daughter. She is seriously ill. I believe that she urgently needs medical supervision. If you cannot talk, squeeze my hand again if you agree with what I am saying. ’
He felt her grip on his hand.
‘Is she a danger to herself? ’
She responded again.
‘To others? ’
A firmer tightening.
‘Delores, I will only get one chance to say this. I need you to trust me. I know the family history. I am aware of the tragic circumstances that have befallen you all. But I need to know what happened to Patrick, your son. I know this is distressing for you, but it is pivotal in understanding where the first trauma manifested itself with Laura, because in my opinion it obviously deeply affected her. It shaped her later life, far more than when she killed her father. ’ Michael watched for signs of distress but Delores remained unreceptive. ‘According to the police, Patrick died as a result of an accident. But there were doubts cast. Do you believe it was an accident? ’
No response.
He tried again. ‘Was his death the result of harmful activity? ’
Engaged pressure.
‘Was your husband responsible? ’
Static.
‘I have to ask this. Were you implicated? ’
No response. He was aware of her breathing becoming erratic. Her skin was sticky. His questioning was causing stress.
From afar, he heard Miss Brogan yell, ‘Time for you to go, MrStrange. ’
He heard her footsteps approaching. Fast.
‘Delor
es,’ he pleaded, ‘however painful this must be for you: tell me now, because I know you want to unburden yourself. Was Laura responsible for the death of your son? ’
‘That will be all,’ Miss Brogan demanded, her immense shadow looming over them both. She cleaned Delores’s mouth and chin again, and wiped her brow. ‘No more talking. ’ She then turned and admonished him. ‘Delores is clearly exhausted, Mr Strange. ’
Michael clung to her hands just waiting for a sign – any sign – but to no avail. She was too feeble to respond. Her eyes were closing.
Miss Brogan persisted, ‘Mr Strange; that will be all, now I must ask you to leave. ’ She raised her formidable eyebrows. ‘Immediately.’
Michael stood and fastened his briefcase. He was beaten by his own impatience. He hated himself. Loosening his tie, he turned for the exit.
‘Goodbye, Delores,’ he said, adding, ‘I hope you find a peace that you deserve. I will do everything in my power to protect Laura from the demons that possess her. You have my word. ’
In the hallway, he became agitated and despondent. He had subjected an old lady to a painful reminder of a brutal past. But she had wanted to communicate with him. She was not hiding from the past. She was confronting it. The fact remained that with his final question Delores had chosen deliberately not to respond. Christ. He retraced his steps and found Miss Brogan barring his way. Behind her, Delores was being wheeled off in the other direction.
‘Is there a problem? ’ Miss Brogan asked. ‘Or did I not make myself absolutely clear. ’
Michael protested. ‘I need to ask just one last question…’
‘Time is up, Mr Strange. You have caused enough anguish for my patient. ’
‘Delores! ’ he shouted.
‘Mr Strange, I must warn you…’
‘Delores! ’
Miss Brogan snapped her fingers and suddenly a uniformed male nurse grabbed him by the arms. He struggled to get free, mindful of her final order: ‘Have this man escorted from the premises. Now! ’
He had but one slim chance. Above the din and chaos, he screamed, ‘It was Maggie, wasn’t it? ’
But he knew it was a futile request. She could not tell him. Speech was truly beyond her, her voice sealed by a suffering beyond the comprehension of others. She existed in a tomb of remorse.
Just then, a peculiar crack invaded the mayhem. Momentarily, everyone hesitated, almost in slow motion. It gave Michael time to direct his gaze to where the sound had come from. Then he saw it. Rolling toward him, across the highly polished floor, was the miniature bottle of brandy that he had hidden under her bed sheets. Delores had managed to secure it in her hands and then, with great fortitude, released it to fall to the ground. He was convinced it was her way of catching his attention.
It was her only possible way to communicate. He had to believe it. Delores was a determined old lady. She had made her last defiant signal. It was a call to witness.
***
Outside, Michael brushed off his escort, dusted himself down and gulped clean air. His taxi driver had nodded off. He checked his watch. It was time to make the airport, get home, and coordinate with Kara and Lauren. He had deliberately switched off his mobile during his short stay at the care home. He didn’t want interruptions. Now the bloody battery was almost dead. It was vital to make sure that his plans were proceeding as normal, and that Kara knew exactly what she was doing. God, the very thought turned his stomach. Did she know what she was doing? Had he gone too far with this? With regard to Lauren, he was confident that she was not aware of his journey to Dublin. What concerned him now was whether Miss Brogan would contact one of the two sisters and spill the beans of his visit to their mother. He had made one mistake, now an even bigger mistake, causing a ruckus in the nursing home. It brought unwarranted attention.
Maggie scared him. She had already warned him not to mess in family affairs. He had now. Big time. He now knew a family secret that had been kept silent for over thirty years. If it could be seriously believed, that is. Maggie was the elder sister, and held a firm stranglehold over both her sister and her ailing mother. Secrets are best kept secret. Maggie, he felt, would go to any lengths to protect her own guilt. What wasn’t known, of course, was how much of this did Lauren have knowledge of?
Michael found a payphone in the street, just a hundred yards from his stationary taxi. He dialled Maggie’s number. No response. Just where was she? It bothered him. He dialled Lauren’s number. It was disconnected. He tried Kara. No connection. It was past ten o’clock. By now, Kara should be on her way to the farm. Shit. He had to reach her, to warn her of the danger she was in. It was only now that he could see this clearly. It was inconceivable that she should be left alone with Lauren, and that’s precisely what he had stupidly organised. He hoped that she had the sense to take Marcus. What had he been thinking, putting Kara right into the lion’s den?
He roused the driver from his slumber. ‘To the airport! Fast! ’
***
Ronald was not happy. After the weird episode with Kara yesterday, he had decided to contact his boss and make an official complaint about her. He considered the whole affair a direct attack on his integrity. He would also now consider his position in the business; such was his humiliation at being challenged by a mere secretary. It was the last straw. He came into the gallery this morning as a sense of duty to Michael. That was all. Where Kara was, he could not care less. What worried him, though, was not being able to contact Michael by phone. What was going on?
As instructed, he had spent considerable time over the past couple of days digging up information on the artist, Patrick Porter. But that was the trouble. He had spent time and energy not finding out information. There simply wasn’t any. Not of any great substance, anyway.
He considered the facts. Like a lot of artists, whether local or international, information is usually forthcoming from sketchy biographical records, either through the artist themselves, the artist’s agent, the internet, the auction houses or official art publications, such as Who’s Who in Art. Of course, many artists introduce themselves to the galleries with a personal appearance, or present their work on CD. However, in the vast number of cases, the gallery and artist never meet. The actual identity or description is taken on face value, without cross checking the credentials. It was the way it was, unless the gallery had direct contact with the artist, as was the situation with Marcus Heath.
Ronald was aware of many, many artists who had found great success with Churchill Fine Art. Michael had discovered their early talent, represented them, or promoted them to the wider buying public. But here was the rub. The artist, in many cases, was never personally known to the gallery, very rarely to the public. Why? Because there were thousands and thousands of successful artists from all over the world, who either employed agents or simply crated up their work and posted it straight to the gallery concerned. It was impossible to have a relationship with all but a handful. In reality, the bottom line was supply and demand. The artist himself – unlike his name – was often inconsequential to a commercial gallery. He or she was just the vehicle to a potential sale. It was the actual painting that was the essential asset, a tangible tool to turn a profit.
The work of Patrick Porter was one such case. Internationally renowned, but who had actually met the artist? Certainly not Michael, nor Ronald. The two most noticeable things about Patrick Porter were his sublime artistic abilities and his untimely, mysterious disappearance: the perfect ingredients to create intrigue and romance to promote keen sales. If the quality of a canvas was of the highest calibre, and reflected in a high price tag to match, then the profit was the guiding force in the mercenary art world. It was a multi-billion dollar franchise. Art was now the hotly traded commodity of the super-rich. As far as Ronald was concerned, it didn’t require much analysis that in order to publicise the “next best thing”, a group of shrewd a
rt dealers would willingly join forces to reinforce this line of thinking. He chuckled to himself. There were several prominent public figures that did this to brilliant effect. In a nutshell, these people created a manufactured market overnight by simply lending their names and reputations to these unknown artists, underpinning the perceived success of the next “big thing” by sustainable investment. First, the speculation and then the manipulation. As a result of the publicity and hysteria, the wheels would begin to turn, with lucrative returns coming in. The monster was born.
Ronald understood this. He had been in the business a long time. There was always somebody ready to create an opportunity to dispose someone else of his or her money. It was called salesmanship, and all you needed was product and chance. It was the way of the world.
Patrick Porter was a product. The rest was immaterial. It did not surprise Ronald that he had very little to report to Michael. One thing he did have though - a poor monochrome photograph of the artist, taken from an exhibition brochure for a one-man show in Miami, Florida, in 1991. He looked gay, Ronald observed, with a smirk.
***
Kara and Marcus got out of London early and travelled mostly in silence, down the A3 toward the little village of Old Hampton, where Laburnum Farm was located. Marcus knew the way and drove at a steady pace. He was nervous. The memory of the farm and the bad vibes he had encountered were not something he wished to relive. However, he was with Kara and this made him feel reassured. Although he was dead set against the reasoning behind the trip, he was immensely proud of her professionalism and guts. On the flip side, Michael was, in his opinion, a fucking arse for allowing her to enter the lion’s den. He would make his opinion known at a later date.
***
Kara sat quietly beside Marcus. She fiddled distractedly with a camera, trying to occupy her muddled brain with thoughts other than dealing with Lauren O’Neill. Their meeting would not be a joyous occasion, she was certain of that. She had decided that if she encountered any kind of hostility or lack of cooperation, then she would down tools, so to speak, and retreat in a manner as dignified as was possible. Michael had his viewpoint. So did she. In her view, this woman was a complete and utter “off her head nutter”. It didn’t need further qualifying.
All the Rage Page 24