Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  ‘Of course, and thank you for that information. It makes our job more tolerable…’

  Michael excused himself and spoke with Ronnie in a quiet corner. They hugged. What could he say? It was a nightmare.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Keene said, approaching. ‘I have a vehicle waiting.’

  Michael and Toby were escorted to the police station. Keene interviewed Michael separately for over two hours, conducting the investigation into Lauren O’Neill’s death which he had previously agreed to cooperate on. He felt pushed into a corner, victimised, as if forced to go over old ground. What more did they want from him? He was exhausted by the interrogation.

  Eventually, Toby joined them. This second interview lasted for over an hour. It centred on Ronald’s life and work. Michael revealed all he knew that was relevant to the crime, and after finding out how his colleague was murdered, readily agreed with the police suggestion that Maggie was the

  main suspect. The finger of blame for Ronald’s death was pointed squarely in her direction. Who else could it be?

  ‘A revenge killing? Keene suggested.

  Michael looked at his son, and was thankful that he was unharmed…so far. They were all targets now.

  ‘More like a sacrifice,’ he replied quietly, his brain scrambled.

  It seemed to him that his son aged ten years in that second.

  ***

  Later, they returned to the gallery (camera lights flashing) under police supervision and locked up the premises, providing the police with duplicate keys. The forensic team had gone, leaving one man who diligently powdered down the door handles and work tops. By then, Ronald’s body had been removed in a bag. All that remained was a white chalk outline at the spot where he had been slaughtered.

  ***

  Michael started to drive home, then diverted to East London. He had to do this now, while he still had the courage.

  Marcus sat, strangely impassive, as Kara cried her eyes out, comforted only by the mug of tea that her boyfriend provided. Michael didn’t get one.

  At this stage, there was nothing else to do except grieve. Everyone who knew Ronald, Michael felt, would be deeply affected by the tragic loss. Words of comfort didn’t seem enough.

  Time to go, he reasoned. Marcus accompanied him to the door and gave him a withering look of contempt as he departed. No words of comfort from him. He had his own demons to conquer.

  ***

  At home, Michael drank a quarter bottle of whisky. Straight. It helped dull the pain. His ribs still hurt as well. The phone rang. It was gone midnight.

  ‘I’ve just heard. You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, Terry.’

  ‘We need to talk urgently. Was it Maggie?’

  ‘It had to be…’

  ‘This was vindictive and senseless, Michael. Why Ronald?’

  ‘She’s showing me who is in control, Terry.’ He thought: First Martin, then Ronald. ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘You all need police protection.’

  ‘I’ll sort it in the morning…’

  ‘Do so. Get some rest, OK?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘And listen, lock the door and put a chair against the handle.’

  Then he was gone.

  Ha Fucking Ha. Then he did precisely that.

  He was shattered. Then the phone rang again.

  ‘I thought you told me everything was in the past?’Toby snarled. ‘That it was finished with these people…’

  Michael could detect the hostility in his son’s voice.

  ‘I thought so too,’ he replied wearily.

  ‘This could close down the business.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘The publicity will hurt.’

  ‘I’m aware of that as well.’ His patience was wearing thin. He changed the subject. ‘We need to inform Gemma of what’s happened.’

  ‘Already done.’

  ‘How has she taken it?’

  ‘She’s shaken up, of course.’

  ‘Not the best of starts for her in a new job…’

  ‘You could say that,’ Toby hissed, but he wouldn’t be deflected. ‘Is there anything else I should know, Dad?’

  He could smell the fear down the phone line. Michael reflected on the police interview, which his son had attended jointly. The questions thrown at him from Keene would have shocked anyone within earshot, even hardened coppers. It had all the hallmarks of an Oliver Stone movie. Only this was for real.

  ‘I reckon I covered everything, Toby.’

  ‘Everything…?’

  ‘Yes.’ He didn’t dare mention the news story that was about to explode across the globe, nor the attack by Vlad, nor…Oh, shit, the list went on and on.

  ‘I’m pretty pissed, Dad. These things don’t just happen for no fucking reason. We have a murder on our premises. Can you imagine the headlines tomorrow? This will ruin us…’

  Michael thought of Theo and Maggie and their little twisted minds, then Agnes and the implied threat to her life. She too needed his protection. There was nothing he could do now for poor lifeless Ronald.

  Peering through the curtains, he could see the gathering Press hovering like wolves at the security gates. This was never ever going to go away, unless he took the law into his own hands and personally brought Maggie to her knees. He just had to think of a way to bring her out into the open. A cog turned in his head…

  ‘I’m scared too, son,’ he said. ‘But rest assured I will sort it once and for all.’

  ***

  Next morning, the dawn broke with relentless rain, adding to the overwhelming gloom that filled Michael’s head as his eyes gradually focused on the ceiling. Then it hit him: Ronald’s killing. Difficult to believe it really happened.

  The effects of the whisky raddled his brain. Sleep, and wayward dreams, did not solve any problems. If anything, the starkness of the day merely magnified the sheer horror of the equation. An equation that had two possible outcomes: kill or be killed.

  He showered, dressed on automatic pilot and drank a carton of cold milk from the fridge. He was ready for action, although his aching bones told him otherwise. His ribs were still sore. Fuck Maggie. Fuck Theo. Fuck Vladimir. Which one of them had killed Ronald in cold blood?

  He needed a bullet-proof strategy.

  His first thought was to go the gallery, check everything out, search for clues, but that was out of bounds for the present. Toby could deal with the police instead. Besides, he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to have to stare at the patch of crimson floor, which couldn’t be avoided if he went back.

  Next on the agenda was organising police protection for his son and Kara and her baby. He couldn’t care less for himself and Marcus, the idiot. He phoned Toby, who agreed to try to arrange this, if Keene would cooperate.

  Then he phoned Kara. Bad idea. Marcus had taken the day off to comfort her, and suggested politely for Michael to take a running jump. Par for the course.

  Agnes! Oh, God…That bastard Theo was supposedly over there, which was an implied threat to her safety if he was to believe in what Vlad had said. And he believed him.

  He had a plan, of sorts: Meet the fucker’s fire with fire. The funeral would not be for several days. Just enough time. He went online and booked a flight to Venice for that afternoon. No time like the present.

  Over the next thirty minutes, he packed a holdall and grabbed a fistful of euros from the wall safe, together with his passport and credit cards. He ordered a taxi for 11.30am, and warned the driver to park up at the back of the apartment block. Michael could take the lift to the garage and use the rear exit, thus avoiding the hungry mob at the front. He felt like a spy on the run. A spy? Fanciful, or fact? Then he turned his attention to what Theo had been up to…

  He swiftly moved into the lounge and took hold of the wall-mounted telephone, his suspicions aroused by Theo’s intrusion. He listened to the dialling tone. Then he made a call to the taxi firm again, on the pretext of bringing the time o
f his pick-up forward by fifteen minutes. He listened carefully. There it was again. A click of some kind. A faint electronic click. He retrieved a tiny screwdriver from the kitchen drawer and removed the cover mounting from the wall. What was he looking for? Then he saw it, a small disc adhered to the inner lining, with a wire attached to the main fuse board. He was being electronically bugged. That’s what Theo’s ruse was about. He ripped out the offending disc and stamped it underfoot.

  So that’s how they knew of his movements. That’s how they planned ahead, with a listening device on his phone and an upstairs mini-camera which monitored his movements from the balcony above. Clever sods.

  No longer. Now the lines of battle were drawn from a level playing field. A conquering grin formed on his lips. He was getting used to this desperate game of espionage. He was even beginning to enjoy it.

  Then he noticed that the incoming messaging light on the answering machine was flashing. This had to be a call received in the early hours, as the light was dormant when he went to bed. He listened to the single message.

  His grin was soon wiped from his face. It was Maggie’s voice. Cold, vile, insidious. This is what he heard:

  “Was that close enough for you, Michael?”

  His head swam. He knew instinctively that something was missing when they found Ronald’s stricken body: Her calling card of triumph.

  Now he had it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Impressive, thought Terry.

  He stood in the car park of the Royal Oak at Old Hampton, and admired the slick revamp to the property. Outside, a new fascia board, highlighted by funky down lights and modern colour scheme, greeted the visitor. And by the number of cars parked up, there were a lot of patrons ready to sample the hospitality within the pub. He eagerly took refuge to enjoy the beer. He was more than impressed by the set-up. At least a quarter of a million had been lavished on the interior alone, he reckoned.

  It was now cool and hip, with all the old fixtures and fittings ripped out, replaced by distressed panelling, modern abstract prints and French style upholstered chairs and scrubbed chic maple tables. Soft fusion music filtered down from hidden speakers in the ceiling. Too flash for me, Terry decided, after counting the number of Mercs and Beemers in the overflowing car park. The money spent was well invested though: the place was buzzing.

  He was here now, so he had to make the best of it. He largely felt like a fossil found on the beach: A thing of curiosity. He sat at the bar, ordered a pint of Ruddles and checked the Daily Specials on the board propped against the wall. There was no scampi and chips.

  A woman approached, a shiny thing who looked like she had polished herself in oil. She was trim, tall and elegantly dressed, with a hint of cleavage showing through the unbuttoned black silk blouse. Her hair too was black and fashionably cut into a slick bob. Some girl.

  ‘Can I take your order, sir?’ she asked, her teeth gleaming like pearls behind expertly applied red lipstick. He was almost lost for words.

  ‘Soup,’ he said. ‘French onion.’

  ‘With croutons?’

  ‘With croutons.’

  She flashed a smile.

  ‘I’m afraid there will be a little delay. As you can see, we’re a touch busy.’

  ‘When did you reopen?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘An encouraging start…’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Are you the owner?’

  ‘The tenant.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Pippa.’

  ‘Terry,’ he said, returning her delicate caress.

  ‘I’ll place your order, Terry.’

  The soup was delicious, although a little heavy for his taste. He amused himself with a newspaper crossword. It was forty minutes before he engaged her in conversation again. She looked a little flustered now, her workload unrelenting.

  ‘I was here a few weeks back, before the renovation. There was a young girl behind the bar…’

  ‘She was a stand-in, long gone now.’

  ‘Before that I understand the tenants were Sheila Cox and her husband, Dougie.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have that information…’

  ‘I’m trying to locate them. How do I go about that, Pippa?’

  ‘I suppose through the brewery, they’d know.’

  ‘Do you have a number?’

  She flashed that smile again.

  ‘I can do better than that. I can introduce you to one of the directors. He’s overseeing things until I get my feet under the table.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said.

  Pippa hobbled off again on five inch heels. The girl had a lot to learn, Terry observed. She’ll be in flats within a week. In the meantime, he was happy to admire her pins while it lasted. They went on forever.

  A man in rolled-up shirt sleeves and sweaty brow approached. He looked distinctly frazzled, unlike the resplendent head girl.

  ‘The kitchen needed extra hands,’ he said, with a jovial smile. ‘My name is Ian Banks. The new tenant said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Well, not you in particular, Mr Banks…’

  ‘Ian.’

  ‘Terry.’ They shook hands.

  ‘What can I do for you, Terry?’

  Terry was always prepared. He extracted a bogus business card from his pocket, one of hundreds he kept at home. They always fooled the foolish.

  Ian read: Terry Wilson/ Probate/ Wilson & Finch, London. The gold edging always added weight to the illusion. Who would go to that much trouble if they were a petty crook?

  Terry smiled. ‘I am required to contact the previous tenants, as a death in the family has resulted in a small legacy coming their way. Their last known address was this pub. Obviously, they have moved on. Could you provide the forwarding address to help locate them?’

  ‘Dougie, yes. Sheila, sadly no.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They split up, but Dougie still works with us. After his wife left he couldn’t cope here alone and didn’t want the responsibility of the new plans we had, plus the hike in rent. He took on a new tenancy nearer to his original home.’

  ‘Which is where exactly?’

  ‘He took over a smaller pub, The Cricketers at Wellington.’

  ‘Wellington, Shropshire?’ It was like trying to get blood from a stone.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I trouble you for the details so I can make contact?’

  ‘I’ll bring them up on the computer. Give me ten minutes, but first I just need to check on the kitchen. It’s a bit of a panic back there.’

  ‘Of course.’ Terry held out his hand, indicating he wanted his card returned. He got it.

  It was another half an hour before Ian came back. He slipped Terry a folded piece of paper.

  ‘Telephone number, address and email. All that you need, but perhaps I can suggest you go a little easy as any mention of his wife will cause further distress. Dougie has been fantastically loyal over the years and has only recently got back on his feet. The split with his wife hit him hard.’

  ‘Any chance of a reconciliation?’

  Ian shook his head. ‘Not likely, I feel. They had a history of marital difficulties. It’s what often happens in the pub trade: long stressful hours and the pressure of combating falling profits from deserting punters which inevitably happens in a recession. Sheila moving out was not unexpected, as she had packed her bags on several occasions in the past.’

  ‘But she had always returned?’

  ‘Yes, but not this time. There was rumour that she had fallen in with a travelling salesman she had met at this very bar.’

  ‘So you have no idea of her whereabouts?’

  ‘None at all. The strange thing is we still have her P45.’

  ‘I’ll make enquiries, and see where it leads…’

  ‘Dougie might know, but as I said…’

  ‘Go easy.’

  ‘It would make my job a lot easier. I don’t want my tenants distracted, or complaining to me. The job’s hard enough as i
t is.’

  Terry had what he had come for and they shook hands again. He paid his bill, caught Pippa’s eye and waved nonchalantly. She responded with a winning smile. The girl would go far. But not in those killer shoes.

  Of a more pressing matter, how far would he go to find Sheila Cox?

  ***

  Michael checked Sky News before departing for the airport.

  It was the fifth item on the agenda:

  ‘Police have received an anonymous tip-off as to the identity of the body found in the river Thames at Bermondsey. However, they are not releasing the dead man’s name at this stage.. It is believed the victim was connected to the military, and his identity will remain a secret for now.’ Then the announcer said, ‘This story will grow and grow…now over to the sport.’

  Michael switched off, concerned that he had done more damage than good by making his call to the police. Nick buzzed up. His taxi was in position at the rear of the building. He grabbed his bag and made for the elevator. He was on his way.

  He had no idea what was in store for him in Venice, he just knew he had to be with Agnes and deal with Theo once and for all. His ribs still hurt: Time to give a little pain back in sweet retaliation.

  ***

  Laburnum Farm. It still gave Terry the spooks. It was a place of death, a macabre house that seemed to defy natural welcome and homeliness. Instead the very fabric of the imposing walls seemed to repel the intruder. The Devil once lived here, Michael had hinted on several occasions. Terry didn’t doubt it.

  On his previous visit he had concentrated on examining the barn. Now he turned his attention to the main house. Its low-slung roof hung heavy over the ochre timber-clad exterior. It sat hunched and brooding, silent and abandoned. Green damp seeped up the walls from the ancient foundations, like long, groping fingers. He shuddered. Although it was quiet, save for the circling crows, Terry thought he could hear the distant screams of the dead. But it was a trick of the mind, just the timbers slowly creaking under the weight of history. A wretched history.