Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  The day finished uneventfully. He had a quick Guinness with Ronald at the corner pub, grabbed a Metro freebie to read on the tube and was back at the apartment at seven. He ordered an Indian takeaway over the phone, a combination of four starters from the menu, to be delivered at eight. This allowed him time to settle into more comfortable clothes, jeans and T-shirt for the hours that remained before sleep. It didn’t take long for the wine to be opened.

  There were two messages on the answerphone and several emails, most of them unwanted. Of special appeal was one from Agnes, expressing her excitement at meeting up again at the weekend. Inexplicably, his heart pounded. Another email brought him down to earth: a request from his accountant for overdue settlement of payment relating to his divorce from Adele. She was always there hovering in the background like a bat out of hell.

  He turned his attention to the messaging machine. The first bleep was a reminder of his dry cleaning which the delivery man had twice tried to deliver without success. The suits now required collection. He swore. Then the following bleep caught his attention:

  ‘Hi Michael, it’s Martin Penny here. I’ve had a chance to do some digging around, and I’ve now put into place the surveillance team which we discussed earlier. Rest assured I have the operation under control, and have put protective security into place with regard to your apartment and that of Kara and Marcus. I need additional information in regard to Maggie Conlon’s background, and any sightings from the CCTV cameras from outside or in the vicinity of the two galleries which were vandalised. I can liaise with the police on this and I’ll report back with any information I receive. I got the email and photo attachment of your vehicle… interesting. Things are moving closer to home, eh? We all need to be extra vigilant from now on. I’ll check CCTV at the NCP car park and speak to the staff. I’m compiling my own dossier and have employed a few chums to help track down our target, to make the job of apprehension a quicker one. The more I look though, the more I don’t like this one. This woman is clever. However, I do not believe that she works entirely alone. I’m already thinking of an accomplice, or at the very least someone who is hiding her in the vicinity. She moves too quickly to be holed up outside a two or three mile gap. Who knows, she could be living right under your nose? I’m checking local hostels and bedsits to see if we can locate her lair. Oh, funds received. Many thanks.’

  The connection went dead. The more I look, the more I don’t like this one. The words were chilling. The doorbell rang, which startled him. He relaxed, knowing the delivery man with the Indian takeaway was imminent. Sure enough, the aroma reached his nostrils before he even opened the door. He didn’t somehow enjoy the feast. His appetite was shot through. He thoughts returned to one of Martin’s suggestions. He had intimated an accomplice. Things were looking bleak. First he had the bitter taste of Adele and her financial demands stuck in his throat, now the spectre of Maggie and her devoted army invading his space.

  He ditched the leftover food, read a Harlan Coben paperback for an hour, finished the last dregs of wine and cleaned up. He retired and slept fitfully, dreaming of demons and sorcerer’s magic and wished he too had the supernatural powers to defeat the fabled beast. In this case, one he had fought and duelled with before. No fable. He knew the enemy, or did he? Was she more capable than even he reluctantly gave her credit for? He had to admit it: she scared him. He awoke one time, listening intently, convinced there was someone sneaking around in the apartment. That was the affect she had on him. He checked each room.

  Nothing. The front door was double-locked, just as he had left it. He peered through the peephole into the dimly lit communal corridor. It was empty, although he detected the distant hum of the lift moving between floors. Satisfied but not entirely settled, he padded back to bed, drank water and laid down once again. It was 3am on the bedside table clock. This time sleep came quickly, without dreams.

  ***

  The next day, Michael penned a simple message on a notepad which read:

  I would appreciate it if you could kindly keep the noise down in the evening. Many thanks, Michael from flat 26.

  He took the stairs to the floor above and placed the note under the relevant door. He was tempted to knock but decided against it. Then he returned to the safety of his domain, forgetting the matter in hand. He had more pressing things to attend to. Two days to kill.

  This day though was going to be a difficult one. He knew what he had to do next, but he dreaded the prospect of what was required: His confession. More to the point: his admission of guilt to Terry. How long would it take to retell the whole sorry saga? A saga which in turn would form the basis for his own demise: In the shape of the very story that his pal was then going to write for all and sundry to read? The magazine exposé, in all its glory, would do just that. Destroy him, and destroy all those around him. He couldn’t avoid it any longer. It was a uniquely long chronicle, but how much should he keep from his pal in order to protect those he so wished to protect? Terry had insisted from the very start that cooperation and honesty was essential if they were to be partners in this charade of sorts: Because in reality the bitter truth didn’t shine a good light on any of them, particularly Michael himself.

  He was acutely ashamed of his motives and past actions. He had ruthlessly pursued an avenue of such monumental greed with this woman called Lauren O’Neill. He had manipulated her and she had manipulated him, both of them showing a callous disregard for the safety and wellbeing of all others who were sucked into their world of betrayal and jealousy. These were the people he loved, who were themselves drawn inadvertently into his murky world of obsession and deceit. He behaved appallingly, putting all their lives at risk. And for what? A dubious profit and a quick shag. It was time to seek forgiveness, but from whom? Betrayal cut deep. It was time to face the music.

  As previously arranged, he met with Terry at a secret location, a safe house in North London, and for the next 48 hours laid bare his soul, revealing everything – everything – until he had nothing else to say. He was spent of every last ounce of emotion. His story was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He was shocked that he revealed every detail, even aspects which he desperately wanted to keep hidden, in a declaration of brutal honesty and intensity. At the end of his rant, amid tears and physical shaking and cold sweats, he could barely look Terry squarely in the face, such was his shame.

  It was all down on tape. There was nowhere to hide.

  ‘In a nutshell,’ Terry said finally, ‘you sold your soul to the devil.’

  ‘That about sums it up…’

  ‘First you get involved with a temptress. She ensnares you and drags you into a plan to sell artwork under the counter.’

  ‘I didn’t need dragging…I wanted the money for my divorce.’

  Terry shook his head. ‘A desperate situation, no doubt. The deal was worth a million quid, give or take a bob or two. Her estranged husband, Julius, gets wind of this deal and tries to stop the sale, knowing that he too has entitlement to the proceeds. She, jealous of his unfaithfulness with Antonia, had decided to shaft him, hence the secrecy involved with bringing you on board. He can’t confront his estranged wife because he and his girlfriend have run away to hide in Venice, for fear of retaliation from her insane jealousy and rage. He wanted a new life, a quiet life. After all, she had tried to kill him on numerous occasions. But enough was enough when he found out about her deception with the artwork. How am I doing so far?’

  ‘You have the makings of a decent journalist.’

  ‘Julius couldn’t go to the police because he was complicit in the charade of who the infamous Patrick Porter was…which was Lauren herself. They were manipulating the art market and made a lot of money over the years until they separated acrimoniously after Julius cheated on her with Antonia. Lauren vowed to take revenge for his betrayal. Later, she decided to sell the remaining Porter paintings that she held at Laburnum Farm and pocket the money without sharing it with her husband. The farm wou
ld have been next to go, no doubt. Again, it was worth a million or more. Julius was broke and had a family to support. Okay with this…?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘It was at this point that Julius secretly approached you by means of cryptic messages, warning you of the danger you faced if you dealt with Lauren, the devil in his eyes. She had a destructive past, found guilty of battering her abusive father to death while a minor. Her trial caused an uproar back in the seventies, as the public were largely on her side at the time. He deserved his fate, after evidence at the trial revealed he had raped her. But the guilty verdict scarred her, the trauma of which bestowed upon her a split-personality. In later life, Julius found out the hard way just how vindictive this disorder could be. Eventually, he escaped from her clutches. By working undercover he was at first able to remain hidden from retaliation by his wife. The ruse worked, pulling you into his game plan. He used you, Michael. The hapless Marcus was his go-between who delivered the messages to you, an old friend of his from way back who had temporarily camped out at the farm in the wacko years of booze and drugs. Happy days.’

  Michael cut in. ‘It was only after I deciphered the messages that I finally understood the mental anguish that Lauren endured during her life, a life of family abuse and judicial injustice. Was it any wonder that she hid this trauma behind the illness that ultimately led to her downfall.’

  ‘...And so nearly yours.’

  ‘As you say, I was desperate and allowed the money to sway my judgment. Greed got the better of me. The funny thing: We so nearly got away with it.’

  ‘Perversely, you did. You evaded prison. How much of the story have you revealed to the police?’

  ‘All of it, except the secret sale of the paintings. I led them to believe that it was a gallery exhibition, all above board. That got us off the hook. They couldn’t dispute this point.’

  ‘Was Kara in on this?’

  ‘Not at first.’

  ‘Christ. Let me get this straight: You intended to sell the entire works by Patrick Porter for cash, thus avoiding tax and VAT?’

  ‘Most of it, anyway. I have clients who deal in cash. I have the means and I wanted to keep the money from the clutches of Adele, who, as you know, was a partner in the gallery. I needed the cash to pay her off, settle debts and help save the business.’

  ‘You have clients with that amount of cash?’

  ‘In many cases, yes. They need to offload the readies. Buying art is a good way of doing this. I had already set up the private exhibition in the gallery basement, away from prying eyes, and tempted the selected punters! The date was set when the shit finally hit the fan…’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Wary of Maggie, who was becoming a troublemaker, I went to Ireland where the sisters were born, and investigated the family history, and especially the police prosecution and trial at the time when Lauren was convicted. I interviewed several people who were connected with the case during my trip over, all retired by now of course. I even spoke with their mother before she died. Incredibly, I discovered from psychiatric papers that it was Maggie who told a pack of lies in court and had in fact killed their abusive father, and it was she who duped the police, allowing Lauren to take the rap. She was called Laura Porter back then. Tragically, she served her sentence in a prison hospital while the real culprit, her sister, escaped punishment and led a normal family life. Eventually, after her release, Lauren, as she was now called, moved to England under this assumed name, within the protection of the Home Office. She met Julius and set up home at the farm, which in those days became a commune for artists and musicians. It was here that Lauren, with the help of Julius, a painter himself, first created Patrick Porter, her alter ego. This homage became an obsession, and the sublime work she produced became a symbol of recognition to her dead brother. Over the years, they made a huge amount of money selling these paintings.’

  ‘What came between them then?’

  ‘Antonia. She was a model for many of the paintings. Julius fell in love with her and Lauren resented it. The old story of plain jealousy, really. So they did a runner. It was only later that Julius felt cheated out of what was rightfully his…half the farm, entitlement to the valuable paintings left behind…but Lauren was not approachable to do a deal. She would have preferred to kill him.’

  ‘So he took another approach, and tried to destroy her plan of selling the paintings behind his back.’

  ‘Yes, by manipulating me. It worked.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because I discovered the truth…and much more into the bargain. The confrontation at the barn brought it all to the surface. For instance, on the day of the fire Lauren found out from me that it was her own flesh and blood who had betrayed her, namely Maggie. On top of that she also discovered that her cherished baby brother died at the hands of her father while a toddler, when she had always been led to believe that it was an accident. Another tragedy. The past marked her deeply and pushed her over the edge, culminating in the kidnapping of Kara. Her sweet personality in childhood had changed irrevocably to a flawed one in later life. Stupidly, I thought I could save her. But she mistrusted anyone who crossed her, including me.’

  ‘Julius, in particular. Then you, then Kara.’

  ‘She mistakenly believed we were having an affair…’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘We were – are – very close, but our relationship is more like father and daughter. Lauren’s twisted viewpoint refused to believe this…she felt threatened. That’s why she kidnapped Kara and came so close to nearly killing her.’

  ‘Is that the reason you were all at the farm?’

  ‘Partly. It was my fault. I should never have allowed Kara to go there to do the inventory. But once there, it became a stand-off. The sisters trapped Marcus and Kara and used them as bait to lure me in as well…’

  ‘I’m curious: What happened to the surviving paintings after the fire? How many were you trying to sell?’

  ‘Twelve. From my understanding, they were put into storage by Julius until he could establish rightful ownership of them.’

  ‘Are they still in storage?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘A fortune to contest, am I right?’

  ‘A huge amount of money, even more so now because of the notoriety of Lauren and the publicity she received. A will is yet to be found, so Maggie could stake a claim.’

  Terry changed tack. ‘Who started the fire?’

  Michael froze. He had to be careful. An image of Marcus recklessly throwing the ignited bottle of white spirits to threaten Lauren suddenly flashed into his head. It all happened so quickly, then chaos. Sweat poured down his neck. He hesitated, trying to banish such visions, before replying unconvincingly: ‘I can’t recall… someone probably knocked over the lamp. Tension was high. It could even have been the dog, Bruno. He went on the rampage and we all scattered…so who knows?’

  Terry wasn’t fooled, but concluded that the pact the three of them – Michael, Marcus and Kara – made was unbreakable. They each shared the guilt and the sorrow. Only they knew what really occurred that fateful day. They had to live with the dire consequences of their actions.

  Michael stared into nothingness.

  ‘Go home,’ his friend advised.

  ‘What do you make of it all?’ Michael asked, his eyes reddened and swollen.

  Terry gulped the remains of his whisky, switched off the Dictaphone, and stretched his aching limbs. He was fucked, too exhausted for deep analysis and the offering of absolution. He spoke candidly.

  ‘Though he’d have struggled with the complexity of such a plot, Hemingway would have relished writing this epic,’ Terry replied. ‘But no one would have believed a single word of it. Even a master storyteller as he would hardly dared make fiction so sordid and get away with it even with his devoted readers.’

  ‘I need you to believe every word of it.’

  ‘No one could hav
e that much vivid imagination, it’s impossible. So, yes, I do believe every word of it.’ He lied at this point, aware that the future of younger lives depended on his acceptance of the story he had been told. He wasn’t about to destroy the dreams and aspirations of others. He had less sympathy with Michael. ‘I thought I knew you. I really did, but even I’d have struggled to make such a venomous deal with the devil, however desperate I felt at the time.’

  ‘I was out of my mind.’

  Terry gathered up the mass of files spread across the table that he had meticulously written up and set them in a box together with the Dictaphone. He then discarded the empty whisky bottle and two glasses into the kitchen sink. He studied his friend with part-pity and part-loathing.

  ‘You had to be,’ he said finally, before turning off the light.

  ***

  Kara was aware that she was being followed, but by whom she did not know. It was easy to speculate though. This shadowy figure seemed to slip in and out of spaces undetected whenever she felt vulnerable (which was every fucking second) and her mistrust extended to everyone in her vicinity, either on the street, in the library or in her local supermarket. Who was this person? What did they want? The mind played tricks. For example, just yesterday at the bookshop, she got nervous when a woman stood too closely behind her, which in turn made her assume guilt: Have I seen you before? Are you stalking me? Why are you crowding me?

  Christ. This was getting scary. On top of that, Marcus was evasive and unsettled at home, forever peering out from the curtains. What was he looking for? Michael, too, had kept his distance. Had she offended him in any way? She knew of his trip to Venice…was he there already on his secretive mission? Was this the reason for his silence?