‘We have a problem,’ Terry said, lowering his gaze once more. ‘I’ve been commissioned to write a lead story for a weekend glossy magazine. Piece of bollocks, normally. Good money for me and high profile readership material that will add weight to my CV. A no-brainer. However, it’s a controversial piece, and highly damaging to the reputation of the main protagonist who the editor wants me to take issue with. I’ve been told to dig up all the dirt. It’s called character assassination in the trade. You know the type of thing: Lurid headlines.’ He waited, frowned, then said, ‘It concerns an infamous London art dealer.’
‘Fuck,’ Michael said. He hadn’t seen this coming.
Terry swallowed hard from one of the unfinished bottles. ‘Michael, it’s an investigative story. No stone unturned. Heavy hitting, do you understand what I’m saying?’
Michaels’s face turned ashen. ‘I can see it now: “Inferno at farm!”’
He shook his head slowly, then continued: ‘Rich Mayfair art dealer caught in web of deceit, trying to offload paintings for a shed full of cash. Woman found dead in suspicious circumstances. How did she die? Was she silenced? Who killed her? Is that the kind of thing, Terry? It would leave my professional standing in tatters: utterly destroyed. It would bring my ex-wife Adele out of the woodwork as well, and she would revel in it and then blame me for failing to protect family privacy, blah, blah, blah. Her vendetta against me would not be a pretty sight in the newspapers. Not to mention what a story like that would do to Kara and Marcus.’ He shook his head violently. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Terry, this is becoming a witch-hunt!’
Terry leaned forward and grabbed Michael’s arm. ‘This story is big because the public have a thirst for it. It’s going to be written, Michael, and whether you like it or not, published and syndicated right around the world. It has all the ingredients of high drama and intrigue and, dare I say it, enough sex to entice the movie men as well. Listen to me. Let me do the story, this way I keep control. I can protect you. If it goes out to commission you’ll get hammered by a third-rate journalist who will portray a juicy tale of lust, betrayal and grandiose greed. I can at least bring a degree of dignity to the proceedings. You’re going to have to trust me on this, OK?’
‘Can we stop it?’
‘No.’
‘Can we delay it?’
‘No, not if you want me on board.’
‘I can sue the bastards, take out an injunction.’
‘Not a chance. The story is already in the public domain.’
Michael gripped Terry’s hand and squeezed. ‘Keep me informed of every development…and I mean everything. I need to speak to people. Find me time, OK?’
‘We can do better than that. We’ll work together on the project. This way I can emphasise your support for the truth and bring credibility to your character and the reason for your actions. I’ll keep Kara in the margins. I can also gain sympathy from the reader, especially in regard to your injuries but – and I must stress this point – I cannot hide from the facts, Michael. A woman was killed, and a damned glamorous one at that, even if she was a mental case. Work with me and you will survive the sneers and pointed fingers that will inevitably come your way. It won’t be pretty, the tabloids will hunt you down like a pack of wolves. Don’t hide, show your face. Damage limitation is the name of the game.’
Michael slumped in his chair, overcome by a mist of uncertainty and absolute terror. The devil had returned to the table. Terry was right, they had to collaborate on this one. He felt light-headed and sick. The coffee had gone cold, as had the conversation. Michael was in meltdown.
They sat in silence, two worlds apart, unable to speak. The bar was virtually empty, save for the angelic Sarah B. clearing the tables of dirty glasses. One day soon she could be reading his bloody life story in the papers, Michael pondered with a shudder. He thought, hoped, that everything had calmed down. Yesterday’s news. Not a chance. There was always someone wanting to rake up the past. Then he turned to confront his pal, a thousand thoughts whirling around his head.
‘You said there was two issues to discuss. If my sordid life history is the so-called embarrassment, then what could possibly make you any more angrier than me at this point in time?’
Terry pursed his lips and exhaled breath. Then he lit a cigarette and didn’t care that he was killing himself. He blew a spiral of smoke into the stale air and locked into Michael’s gaze.
‘I’ve got prostate cancer,’ he announced.
***
The following day, Michael awoke slowly and painfully, acutely aware that a pneumatic drill hammered away at his skull. He tried to recall the number of beers he had consumed in the pub, but the count wasn’t necessary… the inner thudding of his head told him everything. The last time he felt this bad was…with Terry. Christ. Would he ever learn? He soaked himself under a blissfully hot shower, towelled down and dressed casually in red cashmere crewneck and corduroy slacks. He made his way into the kitchen and drank copious amounts of steaming black coffee. Pulling back the window blind, he peered down to street level and saw workmen digging up the road. He felt marginally better in the knowledge that the pneumatic drill was not imaginary, nor confined to his head.
Terry. Dear God! His thoughts returned to their conversation last night, cut short by his friend’s sudden admission of prostate cancer. Michael felt a natural obligation to jump in and offer both moral and financial help. Yet at the moment of support it was typical that, like most men, the severity of the situation was suddenly diminished by a series of jokes. Basically, they elected to sweep it conveniently under the carpet and have another beer. He recalled one awkward moment, punctuated by a Terry sideswipe that the side-effects of surgery was incontinence and loss of an erection. What was the problem then? He had joked. Michael reluctantly shared the humour but felt unease at not being able to talk seriously through the diagnosis, as a woman would do in the same circumstances. In a man’s world, illness and especially a terminal sentence was to be avoided at all costs because…well, it might just go away in their fantasy world, and besides it was uncomfortable for men to dwell on such mundane matters as life and death. Football was more important than life and death, as the great Bill Shankly had once remarked.
It baffled him that Terry had been more concerned with Michael’s welfare than his own private issues. Typical of the man, Michael thought of his friend: dismissive of his own serious health problem, which he had referred almost bizarrely as just an afterthought to the evening. Shit. In reality, his friend was desperately crying out for help but was too afraid to ask for it.
Michael dialled the extension number at News International in Wapping and got straight through to Terry.
‘I can help,’ Michael said. ‘I know a top physician who has helped pioneer laser treatment for prostate sufferers. It’s less invasive than surgery, and apparently you get to keep your hard-on.’
Terry laughed and said, ‘Thanks for that. This call was on audio and so you’ve just informed fifty other people in the office, including my secretary who is just twenty-two, that not only am I dying of cancer but I can die with an erection if I so fancy it.’
‘Jesus, Terry. Switch to private. This is serious.’
‘I have, and thanks.’
‘What is the prognosis?’
‘…With the cancer or my dick?’
‘Cut the jokes, Terry. How far has the cancer spread?’
‘I’m due for a MRI scan which will tell me. So far the biopsy result has revealed a localised central cancer, moderately aggressive. My Gleason reading was 3:3 which indicates early malignant growth, a type which can be managed successfully with the right treatment but the specialist is uncertain at this stage. Basically, I’m fucked. Left alone, it will kill me eventually, like the fags. But I like a hard-on as much as the fags. Life goes on, eh?’
‘Listen, Terry, cut the fags and booze. As from now you need to eat healthily and drink pure pomegranate juice…’
‘You sound like my
mother.’
Michael ignored him. ‘I’ll organise an appointment with this consultant at Chelmsford. I’ve been doing some research and he is the top guy.’
‘I can’t afford him, Michael.’
‘I can. I won’t take no for an answer. Will you see him?’
‘Call it a loan and you’re on.’
‘No. I want to help…’
‘Is this a bribe, so that I’ll go easy on you in the news story?’
‘Fuck that, Terry. No bribe. We go back way too far. Money is irrelevant in the circumstances.’
‘I thought you were wiped out from the divorce?’
‘I was, but let’s just say I can get my hands on the amount that is required. I’m not destitute. I can always sell my shares in Northern Rock, what do you think?’
‘A wise move, but do it quickly. The financial markets are getting very twitchy.’
‘Then that settles it.’
Terry went quiet, then said surprisingly, ‘I’m meeting my editor in an hour to outline my take on the events that led up to Lauren’s death at the farm. I intend to tell her that I have approached you and you are fully compliant with my line of enquiry. So much so that you are willing to cooperate in all aspects of how you all came to be engulfed in a fire which ultimately killed someone. I need to convince her that you wish to support the storyline and not jeopardise it. This way I can tone down the context, make it less sensational, but she will insist that my approach is hard-hitting. It is fair to point out that things will get a little uncomfortable, but I have to ask the right questions or she’ll see straight through me. I mention this because I can easily be replaced if I sway from the original idea for the piece. Are you on board with this?’
Michael pondered. ‘Will the police be brought into the equation?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Will I be quoted in your piece?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Kara too?’
‘As I said last night, I’ll keep her on the margins but she will need to be informed of what I’m doing. Will you do this?’
‘Yes, with reluctance.’
‘Remember, trust me on this. We can wash our dirty linen in public but in this case I can make sure that the public ultimately see only the whites blowing squeaky clean on the line. Within a fortnight everything will be forgotten. Fish and chip paper. Then the story can be buried.’
‘Deal. Now let’s get this medical treatment sorted and quickly, so that the story is not the only thing we are burying.’
Terry laughed again. Only this time his loudness was subdued, rather like the gravity in Michael’s pointed tone.
Both knew he wasn’t joking this time.
‘Piece of advice,’ Terry said. ‘Sell your shares first thing tomorrow. Take whatever price is being offered. There’ll be no recovery.’
There wasn’t a trace of amusement in his voice either.
CHAPTER TWO
Gripping the metal railings, her balled hands turned knuckle white with fear. She peered tentatively into the dark waters of the lagoon below and caught sight of her reflection, which sent an icy shiver rattling through her spine. It was as if the ghosts of her past stared back and haunted her, bringing first terror and then tears to her eyes.
Was this a movie? Was this a dream? Unnervingly, whichever way she viewed it, the logic in her brain told her that this was for real. But how could it be so? She was on the footbridge, but now, in a second instance, she also stood observing this odd situation a few paces away: in a parallel world, unable to make contact, as if separated by…what exactly? It was like a weird out-of-body-experience, the sort of thing people try to explain, but fail. This young woman, wrapped in a red woollen overcoat, hesitated on the precipice of the subconscious world and thought of…well, murder; and then the consequences of her own demise. It scared her witless. And she wanted to scream, but no sound would come.
Although feeling nauseous and ill-at-ease with her predicament, the young woman somehow regained her composure, and in spite of everything, remained surprisingly firm and defiant in the face of adversity. Killing, after all, was the reason why she was here in Venice. This was ordinarily a place for lovers to meet, certainly, and sworn enemies too, it now seemed.
Love and loathing, separated only by the whisper of betrayal and broken promises.
My name is Kara Scott, she lamented so quietly, fearful of revealing her identity to the unseen eyes of the forgotten. They were out there, somewhere, for sure. You’d better believe it, she reminded herself forcefully, shouting the words aloud this time: My name is Kara Scott! She was determined not to hide away, stepping meekly into this world of the unforgiving. Her booming voice unsettled a flock of seagulls and they erupted into the sky, leaving behind a widening arc of glistening foam on the surface of the black water. A line of canal boats, held together tightly by rope, creaked and moaned, their polished timber hulls rhythmically colliding as the ripples unsettled the moorings.
This city: a place of poetry, for sure; never of death. From somewhere above her, a window shutter clattered open, revealing a bare-chested man on a balcony. The dazzling light caught his rough, unshaven face. Beguilingly, he then played a violin recital to sweeten the ears of those blessed to be so close. Such magical repose…just then, this same sunlight sliced through the shadows and illuminated the decayed houses, signalling church bells and people gradually awakening to their daily chores and early morning Mass.
Kara marvelled, and then came back to earth, reminding herself of why she was here…An eye for an eye. She walked a solitary path, leaving music and dreams to others. Slowly, the streets came alive. Behind closed doors, idle chatter began to emerge and daily life infiltrated the deserted alleyways once more. She was no longer alone. Yet in her mind, she was alone for eternity.
Meandering across a pretty, cobbled square, Kara cherished the first of the sun as it caressed her pale skin. The aroma of bitter ground coffee and fresh oven-baked bread invaded her nostrils. Before, when death had not become her constant companion, she would happily embrace the sights and smells of the world, rather like a child would her first rag doll. But now though, it was almost impossible. For Kara Scott, the bloody violence of her history was a burden too great to carry.
This was the reason for being here, in this bejewelled city: to confront her demons, and force a path to a new beginning. A renewal of her faith; was how she best summed it up. One problem plagued her, though. Was she capable of a cold blooded killing, when it really came down to it? Her own life was on the line. She had to be prepared to forsake it in order to rid the world of the evil that forever followed her.
In her tortured mind, betrayal and trust was a two-headed monster, with far-reaching tentacles that lured her to a place too dark to speak of. Marcus, dear, dear Marcus spoke of it as a form of depression, something that she should merely ‘get over’. Not so. Revenge was silent like the assassin, ready to explode with deadly intent. If asked, she would tell it like it was…
Why were these images so vivid…so haunting?
She hated herself for thinking such shocking thoughts…the very notion of retribution made her feel violently sick. But it came nonetheless, and now she had to deal with it. A tooth for a tooth…
If need be, she was prepared to die here on these ancient streets. The prospect was both chilling and repellent, and very, very dominant in her head. The enemy was close, after all.
As quickly as she contemplated this, she instinctively turned to look over her shoulder. In the darkness of an archway, a slight movement in the shadows made her jump. It was nothing of course, just the scratching of a water rat. But her fear could go beyond the aroma of coffee and bread, and her acute sense of smell picked up danger in the air. She knew she was being stalked. In fact, she had been aware of it for some time, ever since her echoing footsteps carried her off the main promenade and into the unknown streets. This meandering path took her over the Accademia bridge and into the narrow Dorsoduro distr
ict.
It was at this point that Kara halted, took stock, and entered impulsively into the Academy of Arts, knowing that hidden eyes were mapping her unplanned course. This stain from her past almost touched her now, she could even detect the stench from the breath of the beast itself, not far behind her.
Every now and again, Kara deflected her gaze from the gigantic ornate biblical Titians that adorned the walls and paused, listening acutely…Ah, there it was again, that whisper on the wind, a footstep too far, a sigh beneath the quickening heartbeat. So very close…
It was maddening to be the quarry, but the rules of engagement would be set by Kara when she was good and ready. For now, she would play the game and portray herself as the willing victim, drawing her foe into the lair of her making. It was a necessary diversion. Kara wanted the upper hand at the precise moment of combat.
Out into daylight once more, Kara felt the first drops of rain hit the pavement. The early sun had by now vanished behind restless dark clouds, leaving a solemn cast over the faded ochre-coloured houses. Such beauty so saddened.
It did not matter. Beyond the downpour, a rainbow emerged, as yet undiscovered. That was the way with nature. It held surprises, some of which were spectacularly beautiful, some of which were savage. This day, this hour, and the days to follow…well, Kara was sure of one thing. A mighty storm was gathering on the horizon, known to her, undetected by all others. This knowledge kept her ahead of the game.
Or so she thought. A lengthening shadow suddenly reached her from behind, touching her toes, and extending beyond. It made her stiffen. In the square, nobody paid any attention to this, except for a scabby dog that stopped, stared, tilted his head and then looked beyond her. Do dogs see ghosts? This one saw something that it didn’t take too kindly to. It yelped and scampered off with indecent haste, disappearing down a blind alleyway.
Call to Witness Page 3