Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked.

  ‘Two-sixty,’ the girl replied, without looking up.

  Terry dropped three quid on the bar. She made no effort to move , preoccupied instead with a magazine resting on her lap and a mobile in her hand, which she was texting manically on.

  He tried communication. It usually worked. ‘What happened to the previous tenants?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  A good start. ‘Have you just taken over?’

  ‘Do I look like a landlord?’

  Terry noticed that she had the same beady eyes as the crow that stared him down at the farm. This really was horrorville.

  She surprised him by making conversation. ‘Not sure when the changeover will happen…I’m just keeping things ticking over. The new owners arrive next week I think.’

  ‘Do you live in the village?’

  She looked up again, distracted from her mobile. She viewed him with the same disdain as someone would view shit on their shoes. He clearly wasn’t making a good impression on her. He tried again.

  ‘Perhaps you knew the woman who tragically died in the fire, up at the farm?’

  ‘What fire would that be? I’ve been away at Uni.’

  Terry cut his losses. ‘I’ll be on my way,’ he said. He went to his car, disillusioned (using that time-honoured cliché) at what had got into the youth of today. He suddenly felt old and culturally detached. He then had an urge to look over his shoulder. She had followed him.

  ‘You forgot your change.’

  ‘Keep it.’ He couldn’t help himself, adding mischievously: ‘And thanks for the conversation. It was riveting.’

  She came closer, revealing a silver nose piercing. ‘I have a degree in sociology and economic history if you must know.’

  ‘I don’t remember asking. But I’m pleased for you, really.’

  ‘I’m just holding the fort. Then I’m off to Belgium, where I start my new job at the EU headquarters in Brussels.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I was thinking about what you said earlier. I do recall something about a fire in the village. The tenant’s name was Dougie. Anyhow, he showed me the ropes, so to speak, but there’s not much to do here…it’s a bit of a dead hole these days. He was a nice man, but a bit twisted I’d say.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘The rumour was his wife, who ran the bar, left him and never returned. Her name was Sheila, I think. She’d run away before, so it was nothing unusual. But this time she disappeared for good. He was devastated apparently. Never said a word to me directly, just gossip I picked up. After a while, he too upped and left. Now it’s just me. I live about twelve miles away, in that direction.’ She pointed.

  ‘Who pays your wages?’ Terry asked.

  ‘The brewery.’

  ‘Not as much as you’ll get in Brussels, I bet.’

  ‘My first salaried job… and I get to travel first class on Eurostar,’ she added in triumph.

  Terry smiled. He liked her impish grin. ‘You’ll go far, young lady.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  He was warming to her. ‘Be careful in Brussels: It’s a strange place. Just being there afflicts everyone...especially those who work in central office, believing that money really does grow on trees. You’ll see when you get there. What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Lilly.’

  ‘Well. Good luck, Lilly.’

  Then he drove off, back to London: never wishing to return. At the back of his mind, though, he had a nagging feeling his wish would fall on deaf ears. Lilly would never return though, that he could confidently predict. Just as he could confidently predict that both the current world fiscal collapse and the ever-insatiable demand for an unrealistic increased EU budget from Brussels Headquarters went hand in hand.

  Some things would never change.

  ***

  Michael sold his shares in Northern Rock, against the advice of his broker. The grand total came to just short of twelve thousand pounds. Enough, he reckoned, for the laser surgery which he had promised Terry. He felt good. While on a high, he phoned Kara. No answer. He decided against leaving a message. At work, the hours passed slowly. Business was non- existent in the city. Everything was too quiet for his liking. The Financial Times spoke of rumblings in the US stock markets. For the first time, he read about sub-prime. He searched his memory. Hadn’t Terry vaguely mentioned this term on the phone? It meant nothing to him, of course. What was happening over the pond could, quite frankly, stay that side of the pond. He searched for news on Northern Rock. Sure enough, a piece on the front cover of the Financial Times warned of a run on deposits as confidence evaporated between the major high street banks on matters of internal lending policy. Basically, as he saw it, the Rock was being squeezed of cash flow. Just like Churchill Fine Art. If the punters dried up, so did the ability to trade. Liquidity then disappeared. Bills couldn’t be met. You were basically fucked. He read a disturbing report that the Bank of England was issuing a statement that a period of reflection was needed, in order for the volatile markets to settle down. Michael scanned the pages again, then switched on the portable TV in his office. He caught the tail end of Sky News. The commentator spoke of thousands of ordinary people, simple account holders, queuing outside their local bank branch seeking assurances that their deposits were safe. Christ. When did that last happen in Britain? No one was looking for a period of reflection: They wanted decisive action now. The Chancellor looked like a rabbit caught in the headlamps. Michael urgently rang Toby, who was out on the road seeking new artists for the gallery.

  He got him on the second ring.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ Michael asked.

  ‘As much as you, I guess,’ Toby replied.

  ‘Are you driving?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Switch on the radio.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Maybe I’m being alarmist, but there is unrest in the city. A friend of mine warned me of a global meltdown. I’m sure he is misinformed, but perhaps we should curtail our spending and watch and wait until the economic upheaval settles down. We might need to increase the overdraft facility to tide us over.’

  ‘Makes sense. Let’s meet shortly and draw up a contingency plan in case the shit hits the fan. I’ve spoken to former colleagues in New York and I’m picking up on their nervousness. No one is saying anything to the contrary, but I can tell when a market collapse is imminent. The US dollar is in freefall. Our Government is dithering. Sometimes, silence is deafening.’

  Michael had one instruction: ‘Stop spending.’

  He clicked off, and returned to the extended news. The Prime Minister was uttering assurances (with a thin smile) to the nation outside Downing Street. He looked shell-shocked and weary, Michael observed. That spelt trouble.

  ***

  Terry got back to International House in Wapping at three o’clock. The news floor was chaotic with fellow reporters screaming into their phones, seeking updated information on the looming financial crisis. Terry’s hard-hitting front liner on the evening editions would bring the city to a standstill. He was certainly not going to be flavour of the month, with a story of impending doom and gloom but he had to tell it as it was. His editor would be delighted: sales of the newspaper would go through the roof. In the good ol’ USA, he somehow imagined the reverse: no one would have a roof to speak of.

  Amid the clatter, Terry got his head down at his desk and started on the follow up piece, headlined succinctly: ‘World in Freefall’. He thought of his cancer and the comparison to world disorder: The enemy within. The hidden disease. Nothing was as it seemed on the surface, whichever way he looked at it. Everything and everyone was in freefall. Then he started to write his story, fast. Accordingly, his great journalistic page grabber spoke of the disease in terms of unprecedented banking greed and risk-taking on a scale never been seen before, fuelled by wide- boys chasing their inflated bonuses, knowing that the rewards of thei
r endeavour was wholly out of context with the false dream they promised: unimaginable profits. There was a fundamental problem here though. The profits were unsustainable and where there was a profit, there was always a loss to someone else. It was a trade-off. Someone would get hurt. In this case, the sucker was the public: in other words the tax-payer. Eventually, he stopped writing on his computer. The screen was filled with emotive language, and damning statistics. It was a hard and brutal condemnation of all that was decaying in western commercial civilisation. Someone would get their fingers burned. Eventually, someone would go under…but who?

  The words stuck in his throat. It then dawned on him that everything he expressed in his pent-up anger was actually mirroring the state of his crumbling body: the disease had taken hold, at first hidden, now exposed by the biopsy. Just like the nation’s woes had been highlighted by the government. But it was too late to offer words of comfort, either to him or to the country’s population. The bottom line was that everyone would have to pay. Everyone carried the bloody tumour. For some poor souls, they just weren’t aware of it yet. The cancer was the big society, out of control; manifesting itself and growing inwardly and outwardly until it consumed everything in its path. It was bloated beyond repair. There was no stopping it on its path to self-destruction. Terry could not remember the last time he cried. It just wasn’t something he did. But as he resumed his typing, he felt a tear falling on his cheek. And he realised just how upset he had become since the doctor sat him down and explained how this unwanted malignant tumour would impart on his life. He finished the story and sat back in his chair. The official line at the end of his report contained words of optimism to the reader. His own line was this: Do not believe the politicians, and certainly not the bankers. Think of the deepening crisis as a piece of fruit. The core of the apple is rotten. They will try to convince you otherwise.

  On the outside, the skin appears to be ripe and golden. It is an illusion. There is no ripe juicy apple because within days, it will have shrivelled and turned to pulp. So will your savings, dear reader, if you do not take an early bite while the fruit is still edible. In other words, grab your money.

  He too felt just like the bad apple: Rotting inside.

  ***

  At just before five, with Gemma and Ronald now departed, Michael closed the gallery. He had switched off the lights, except for the one illuminating the reception desk, normally occupied by his secretary. He took a final call.

  ‘Churchill Fine Art,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Could I speak to Michael Strange, please?’

  ‘That would be me.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Theo Britton, spelt B-R-I-T-T-O-N and I represent a company called Britton on the Map.’ He hesitated, adding, ‘I hope you like the play on words.’

  Michael was too tired for this, but humoured him anyway by means of a small snigger.

  The man continued. ‘Some time ago, my father died and as an only child, I inherited his entire estate. My mother had passed away many years before. The point is, he had three homes and it is only recently that I had the opportunity to examine the last house, and the contents held within. The house, or piazza, is in Venice. My father was a secretive man. I didn’t even know that he owned a property abroad. On my visit, I discovered a rather good collection of decent fine vintage wine, Chinese porcelain and antique paintings which, in the latter case, I am not sure of their value or desirability. I collect clocks and vintage wrist watches, Mr Strange. Those are my passion. And so I am at a loss as to what to do with all this additional clutter in my life.’

  ‘You could drink the wine,’ Michael suggested.

  ‘That I will happily do… However, I need your help with the artwork. I want to liquidate the entire collection.’

  ‘Have we met before? Did I have dealings with your father? I wonder because usually there is a connection between client and gallery. Why did you choose us?’

  ‘We certainly haven’t met, but here is the intriguing thing, and the reason why I chose to ring you. On the back of one of the paintings is a label marked Churchill’s Fine Art, dated 1986 - so it was purchased just over twenty years ago. I did a little research on the internet and discovered your father established the business before you so I presume the painting was bought from him, perhaps?’

  ‘Certainly, that fits.’

  ‘Basically, I need the various works valued and then put into auction. You will, of course, be amply rewarded for your endeavours. I need someone I can trust. You come highly recommended.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I visited a gallery while in Venice, run by a woman called Agnes, who mentioned your name. I have her business card somewhere…’

  ‘Agnes Olivetti.’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘We go back a long way. We worked together in London, before she returned to Italy.’ Michael’s faltering voice conveyed his tiredness. ‘As she is in the vicinity of your newly acquired home, and comes equally highly recommended by me, I suggest you use her instead. Her local contacts will be better acquainted with the paintings, and it will be cheaper for you as well.’

  There was a long pause. Michael began to lose interest and tidied the papers on the desk.

  The man cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Mr Strange, most of the work is by English artists, mainly by minor masters, I think. Forgive my ignorance in these matters. There are, of course, one or two Italian scenes, which might not be your cup of tea. But there is a rather special one which warrants expert attention. That is where you come in. Take a look and tell me if it is authentic. My father collected good art, but I was surprised that, in this case, he acquired great art.’ He fell silent once again, then added, ‘I am not averse for the two of you to work together. Name your price, Mr Strange. I require you to travel to Venice, do the inventory, organise the sale and authenticate the masterpiece in question. I am a wealthy man, and will pay handsomely for your services. If you do your job properly, I will be a seriously rich man and you will benefit greatly as well. Shall we say ten per cent of the sale price?’

  Michael was becoming slightly irritated by the over-confidence in the man, but was reminded of the fiscal meltdown on his doorstep and pressed ahead. He liked the sound of the commission.

  ‘Can you reveal the name of the artist that merits such special attention?’

  ‘Not on the phone, no. I need you to travel over soon. Within the next, say, seven days. Then you can feast your eyes on the work and report back to me, ensuring the utmost confidentiality of course. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘In theory, yes. I’ll draw up a contract of service, including expenses for you to consider…’

  ‘Already agreed, your expenses will be met. Paperwork is not necessary. But I like your efficiency. It is late. In the morning, my secretary will phone you with all the details of the entire transaction, and what I want you to do in the case of the supposed masterpiece, if that is what it turns out to be. One last thing: I will pay you in cash, in advance, no questions asked. I will arrange for someone to drop in the key and address details, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Just email me the details. I’ll pick up on it.’

  ‘Too many prying eyes, Mr Strange. This is a private commission, do you understand? I am happy for a partner to be involved with the general auction, but not with the main event. I’ve heard you can do this?’

  Heard? Was this a trick or did the stranger know things that he shouldn’t? He had to be careful with this guy. The last private cash transaction he got involved in was the ill-fated sale of the twelve Patrick Porters: and look what happened there. It nearly killed him. It resulted in the death of Lauren O’ Neill. His mind began to focus on these matters. The voice on the phone cut through his meanderings. ‘…Therefore, I have hidden it from view in the house. You will find it, eventually if you search the property thoroughly... I am looking forward to your reaction. If you can place a private sale – discreetly, of course – then I am happy for y
ou to receive a bonus…shall we say a fifteen per cent cut on this one?’

  Michael’s brain came back sharply into the present. The figures were getting better.

  The man continued: ‘That, I can assure you, will be considerable money.’

  It was Michael’s turn for reflection. It took him three seconds. He was in. Then he said, ‘I look forward to meeting with you, Mr Britton.’

  ‘And I look forward to doing business with you, Mr Strange.’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Very well, Michael it is. I am Theo. Once you confirm the date of travel, I will forward the cash to your door. Clean and simple. Of course, as I have already stressed, I will expect total confidentiality in this little matter…’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then good night.’ The line went dead.

  Michael immediately switched on the desktop computer and typed in a search request on Britton on the Map. He waited in anticipation. He checked Google and was rattled to discover that no such company existed. He wasn’t going to sleep well tonight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He was right on that score. He slept dreadfully, tossing and turning all night. And the next night. By the third night, the bizarre phone call had become as troublesome as a toothache. It kept nagging at him. In the intervening days, he tried to put it out of his mind. No chance. His first thought awakening on this morning was to decline the job. Then curiosity kicked in. What mysterious painting did Theo Britton have in his possession? So prized he had taken the trouble to hide it. Why not put it in a bank vault? A hideous thought crossed his mind: Was it a stolen work of art? Oh, Christ…He had to put that notion right out of his mind. Looking back, he’d had enough drama in recent times to last him two lifetimes. But there was the money to consider and business was business. He wasn’t going to let a competitor steal it from him. When the going gets tough…