Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  ‘A tortured soul, I guess.’

  ‘That about sums it up. It was well documented…’

  ‘And Michael was giving the bitch one, yeah?’

  Ronald squirmed.

  ‘Takes all sorts,’ Mildred said, shaking his head. He then walked out as happy as Larry, his purchase in hand.

  Ronald wondered at the inference to the Patrick Porter painting: Perhaps 40k wasn’t so bad after all. This was indeed odd though: Was this the first to come to market since the death of Lauren O’Neill? Who could be trying to sell one? Usually, the galleries get first option…he concluded that this was being sold behind closed doors, and Mildred (just as suspicious as he would be in the same circumstances), was asking the right questions.

  Ronald vowed to have a word with Michael sooner rather than later. He watched the client swagger across the road and thought: Great taste in art, great taste in suits. Shoes were pretty smart too. That got him thinking:

  Crime does pay.

  Takes all sorts, he mused.

  ***

  Back at his apartment, Michael showered and changed, his shirt reeking of stale beer and exhaust fumes. He suddenly realised he was starving and decided to eat up the road at Carluccio’s. Down at reception, he dropped Nick a £50 note for his troubles of late, an unexpected payment that he didn’t refuse, Michael observed. It was the least he could do for the guy’s assistance in their little snooping exercise.

  Nick said, ‘I had to clean up the offending mess on the window. However, you might be interested in this…’ He leaned forward over his desk and handed Michael his mobile phone, with the screen in full view. ‘Took a pic, just in case you ever needed the evidence.’

  ‘Appreciated, Nick.’

  ‘Everything OK, Mr Strange?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out. Not your problem though.’ He mulled things over in his mind, and added: ‘Keep all this to yourself, Nick. If either Theo or the woman resurface, contact me immediately. Can you do this for me?’

  Nick folded the crisp note and placed it in his jacket pocket, and grinned broadly.

  ‘You can count on it,’ he said.

  Out on the street, it was raining. Michael checked his watch: four-forty. The gallery would be closing soon, so he wasn’t going to check in. Ronald could and would handle anything that came his way. It was a little early to eat, but what the hell. He walked briskly, his coat collar pulled up. On the way he saw a payphone, thought of Terry’s last comment, and inserted the appropriate coins. He punched in the numbers and waited for a response.

  ‘Chelsea police station.’

  ‘Listen carefully,’ Michael said, muffling his voice with a handkerchief, ‘I’ll only say this once –’

  ‘Please can I have your name and contact number, sir.’

  ‘Listen! I have information as to the identity of the man found dead in the Thames.’ He felt the badge between his fingers. ‘I believe his name is Martin Penny, ex-army.’

  ‘Sir, please…’

  Michael replaced the receiver, satisfied that he had done his civic duty.

  ***

  Kara did the shopping at her local Tesco, and ambled back in the direction she came. The park was quiet, and bathed in the last remnants of light. She instantly regretted her decision, feeling vulnerable, but moved on regardless, quickening her step, relieved to suddenly spot a police car parked up close to her exit. Two officers were out on the street, talking to a gang of teenagers. She passed them by, knowing she was but moments from home.

  Her heart missed a beat as a stranger, a man, stood by the communal entrance to her block of flats. He saw her coming and approached her.

  ‘Kara Scott?’

  He looked respectable enough, middle-aged and without menace. He had a card in his hand and offered it to her. She suspected he was a detective. Not what she wished for, preferring to get indoors, change Harvey’s nappy, grab a glass of wine and prepare dinner. She craved just a simple life.

  ‘Y-e-s,’ she replied cagily.

  ‘Sorry to startle you. My name is Terry; I’m a friend of Michael’s.’

  She examined the card. It read: Terence Miles, News International.

  ‘I know of you,’ she said cautiously.

  He moved closer, the overhead security light bathing him in a yellow pallor.

  ‘Kara, the point is, we need to talk…’

  She knew this day would come. She’d warned Marcus that their little secret would one day be exposed. Michael had told her that a news story was about to break. And now here was this Terry, and his persuasive line of questioning. Why couldn’t they just be left alone? No fucking chance.

  This was just the start. This was the reckoning.

  ***

  Kara cut the journalist short and sent him packing. Now was not the time. The baby was crying. Later, she prepared dinner as best she could, her thoughts interrupted by the sudden appearance of this fella called Terry, and decided on a whim to lay the table with candles as a surprise for when Marcus got in. Normally, they ate from trays, sitting in front of the TV, surrounded by toys. Not tonight.

  This time she was organised. The floor was free of clutter and fresh flowers adorned the table, which was covered by a newly ironed white linen cloth. She was in the mood, feeling guilty for treating Marcus like shit recently. She’d checked with him earlier, and agreed that he would be home by seven. She insisted he call in on the way home and buy a bottle of vintage Burgundy, the one with the yellow label. That’s all she could remember. He laughed. She laughed too: he was bound to get the wrong one.

  She immersed herself in the kitchen, making stuffed mushrooms with stilton, an apricot and marsala based chicken dish with roasted vegetables, followed by jam roly-poly and custard. That would get him in a romantic mood, hopefully.

  She made a decision to not mention the confrontation with the journalist. It would create a terrible tension between her and Marcus. Instead, she agreed to meet up with Terry, alone, to discuss the events at Laburnum Farm in a couple of days’ time. Although a friend of Michael’s he was still a stranger to her, and she felt uneasy inviting him into her home. Instead, he’d arranged to be in touch within the next twenty-four hours: Fine by her. Just time to get my head straight, Kara thought.

  ***

  Terry moved on to a pub closer to home and settled in for a marathon drinking session, determined to forget his prostate bollocks thing and hopefully meet up with a few colleagues for a bit of banter. He needed to lighten up. All the talk of Martin Penny supposedly missing and this Theo and Maggie duo living above Michael was proof enough that things were really hotting up. It was evident that there were people out there serious in their intent to cause harm. He needed to up the game too. He spoke to Michael on the phone and hinted at his bizarre theory of what might have happened at the farm, but he needed proof to confirm this. Michael was perplexed, and dismissed what he had to say on the subject, describing it as “crackpot journalism”. He was probably right. The tosser…

  In the morning, he had a little more detective work to do. He was heading back down to the farm.

  ***

  Ronald cashed up and checked the time: ten minutes to go. The street was empty. He momentarily stood outside and breathed in fresh air and decided to check with his boyfriend to suggest they splash out on dinner at the nearby Atlantic Bar. He phoned, made his proposition. More to the point: His treat. The answer was a resounding yes. He had a date.

  Great.

  ***

  Michael ate lightly, a salmon pasta dish with a glass of chilled Muscadet. The restaurant was busy, buzzing with hip young things. He felt old and a little sad. He wished Agnes was with him. There was something else too, but he couldn’t put a finger on it, probably the stress of the phone call to the police. Somehow though, he felt that a terrible thing was about to happen. A black mood descended. Where did that come from?

  He finished with coffee, paid with cash, and walked home, thinking of everyone and everything. His life was
one colossal mess. Could Maggie, this monster incarnate, really have been camping out above him? Where was the evidence, apart from a deranged message of sorts? He could not establish categorically that it was her living there. There were plenty more crazy people about. He laughed, nervously: why did they all have to follow him about?

  He crossed the road in front of a line of taxis and took the short cut through an alley. He regretted it instantly. He was grabbed from behind and pushed to his knees. At first he thought he was being mugged, and instinctively reached for his wallet. He didn’t want a fight. He remembered that only three months ago a barrister was knifed just a quarter of a mile away in similar circumstances.

  ‘Take it, take it!’ he yelled, tossing the wallet in front of him. He knew it contained little in the way of cash. Luckily, he’d left his credit cards on the bed. Wise move, he knew.

  He felt the grip on his throat tighten. This was no ordinary mugging. His head was suddenly yanked around, giving him a view of his attacker: Vladimir the impaler. Oh, Christ…

  ‘Theo sends his regards. He rather thinks you owe him something.’

  ‘Tell Theo I’ll repay the cash. Our deal is off…’ The pain intensified. His eyes turned bloodshot.

  ‘He decides that, not you. He doesn’t want the cash. He expects you to fulfill your side of the bargain.’

  ‘Tell Theo to fuck off, shithead.’ It was the wrong response.

  The henchman picked him up and slammed him against the wall, then punched him hard in the gut.

  The lights went out. Michael buckled over, bile flooding his mouth. The fucker could punch, that was for sure.

  ‘What part don’t you understand?’ Vladimir asked through gritted teeth. ‘He expects you in Venice within three days, without fail. He will be waiting.’

  ‘Waiting? I thought I was to go alone…’

  ‘Change of plan. He wants assurance that you will be there. So far you have not carried out your promise. My boss doesn’t take kindly to that.’

  Michael was aware of his attacker’s clenched fist, ready to strike again in the event of any more wisecracks. He kept his response simple.

  ‘And if I decline his generous offer?’

  Vladimir smiled, released Michael, who crumpled to the floor, and slowly dusted down his long black leather overcoat. He looked the part and acted the part, Michael had to admit.

  ‘You will not decline, Mr Strange. In fact, you will be in a decent hurry to comply with his request. It is in your express interest to do so.’

  ‘Why would that be?’ He got up, his trousers torn at the knees.

  ‘Mr Theo has taken a particular shine to a…friend…of yours?’

  Michael’s heart turned to stone. The air was sucked from his body.

  Vlad grinned. ‘Her name is Agnes, I believe.’

  Michael watched as his attacker swiftly vanished from his view, his coat swishing. He grabbed his wallet from the cobbled floor and steadied himself, using the wall as a prop. There was blood on his knuckles.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Then he threw up.

  ***

  Ronald closed the entrance door, and washed his hands and face in the kitchen sink. He wasn’t expecting anyone at this late hour. The street was still deserted.

  He always kept a clean shirt in the staff room, which he now changed into. He dabbed Ted Baker aftershave on his ruddy cheeks. He combed his hair and checked himself in the mirror. Not bad for an old geezer. The two Ronnies were about to hit the town.

  He heard the doorbell chime…a last customer perhaps?

  Gathering his coat, he switched off the downstairs lights and climbed the short flight of steps. A woman stood in the gallery. He instantly recognised her.

  ‘I came back, as promised,’ she said keenly.

  ‘Indeed you did…’ he replied. He walked to the small painting that she had earlier admired, removed it from the wall mounting, and brought it for her to inspect once again.

  ‘Delightful’ she enthused.

  She returned the painting to his safe pair of hands. He cradled it and waited for her instruction. It looked a done deal, but he was now anxious to lock-up and meet with his boyfriend. A double gin/tonic and lime beckoned.

  He studied her face again: Too much make-up. He couldn’t help but look closer. Her eyebrows were missing, drawn on with pencil. Again, weird.

  He took a step back. Was that a scar running down her cheek? Was that a burn mark on her neck? Suddenly, he realised she was wearing a…a… partial face mask. It was a damn clever fit. He caught the steely look in her eyes and the toughened stance in her body. He tried to make small talk, waiting for the negotiation to start, but was aghast at her injuries. Frankly, it was off-putting to say the least. He wasn’t going to play hardball with her…he was running late. Now something had changed in her demeanour. For the first time he felt…unsure of things. He tried small talk again.

  ‘What part of Ireland are you from?’ He had distant family connections himself, and recognised her accent. All he was trying to do was lighten the atmosphere which was now charged with electricity. His eyes affixed themselves to her neck for confirmation of the scar… It was a nasty one.

  ‘Limerick,’ she confided.

  It was the last word he ever heard.

  He felt the blow, but had no idea of what it was, or where it came from. It was an instant sharp pain, which ricocheted around his head, scrambling his brain. He rotated, fell like a stone, his head crashing against the wooden floor with a sickening thud. The painting clattered to the ground too, spinning away from him, wooden splinters breaking from the frame and scattering across the floor.

  Everything happened in a split-second. He remained motionless, eyes alert but dead all the same. He stared into nothingness, baffled, his last breath cruelly exhaling into finality. What the hell was happening to him? As darkness enclosed all around, he could see the fading image of the woman standing over him, a mocking grin erupting across her lop-sided face.

  For her part, she watched in silent fascination as a widening arc of crimson sticky blood slowly encircled his battered head. Then she left him to die alone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Dad, it’s Toby.’

  His tone was odd, almost urgent.

  ‘I’m listening,’ Michael said. He stood in the bathroom, naked save for a white towel around his waist. He was inspecting the giant bruise spreading across his stomach. He stopped inspecting…Toby sounded distraught.

  ‘I have some awful news to tell you.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘It’s Ronald.’ A moment’s hesitation: ‘He’s dead…’

  Michael almost stopped breathing. Christ. The walls closed in, making him tumble with dizziness. ‘How…How is that possible?’

  ‘His boyfriend found him at the gallery after closing time.’

  ‘Was it a heart attack?’

  ‘No, Dad. It’s as bad as it can get, I’m afraid. Ronald was murdered.’

  ‘Jesus…what happened? Are you at the gallery now?’

  ‘I am. Apparently Ronnie was due to meet up with him for dinner and he failed to show. He didn’t answer his mobile, or the gallery number. He was worried, naturally, and came over and found the door ajar. Ronald was lying on the floor, his head bashed in. You can imagine how hysterical he is…’

  ‘Have the police been notified?’

  ‘They’re here now, with forensics. I think you should come over immediately.’

  ‘I’m on the way.’

  ‘Be warned, Dad. The press have got wind.’

  ‘Are they there now?’

  ‘The place is swarming.’

  Hell.

  ***

  Michael parked up in the underground NCP and walked the last two hundred yards to the gallery. Cork Street was cordoned off. The press had gathered, and the photographers immediately started snapping when they recognised him. He explained his presence to a policeman on duty, who escorted him to the guarded entrance. Inside, it was ch
aos.

  Toby came over and gripped his arm, pointing to Ronnie who sat slumped in the corner being interviewed by a detective. They exchanged glances. Several men in white overalls, slipovers on their feet, hovered over the stricken body in the middle of the gallery. Ronald. Dear Ronald.

  Michael felt sick, unable to grasp the horrible sight that confronted him. It was all so senseless. Who could do such an appalling thing?

  ‘The police want to interview us down at the local station,’ Toby said, adding: ‘As of now, the gallery is closed until further notice.’

  ‘Of course,’ Michael muttered, numb.

  A tall balding man approached. Michael recognised him from a TV news bulletin a few nights ago.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Keene,’ the man announced. ‘I understand you jointly own the gallery with your son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Until further notice, this gallery is not to be open to the public until we have concluded our forensic investigations.’

  ‘I understand…’

  ‘This is a crime scene. Your colleague was murdered. We suspect he was killed by a fatal wound to the head. A needless killing. So far, your son has found nothing missing so we can rule out robbery. The safe is intact. Just one damaged painting. However, from your recent history, which is well documented, it seems we already have a clue to the identity of the killer…do you agree with this assumption?’

  Michael couldn’t have agreed more. It was her.

  ‘Could this be Maggie Conlon?’ Keene said specifically.

  Michael nodded weakly.

  ‘I need to conduct an urgent interview with all those who knew the deceased. We also need to inform next-of- kin…perhaps you can help?’

  Michael stared at Toby, and then answered: ‘Ronald was an only child. Both his parents died years ago. Only friends would need to be informed. His boyfriend would be able to do this, I’m sure.’