Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  He wandered at will, and realised for the first time of looking that the house was also damaged in the fire. The thatch roof had obviously ignited from the flames carrying on the wind. The west wing (nearest to the barn) was largely destroyed, the windows boarded up. The east side survived. He peeped through cobwebbed windows and strained his eyes to see into the murk…searching, for what he did not truly know. The house appeared empty of furniture. Moving to the rear, he noticed that the kitchen door had been broken into and subsequently repaired. Vandals perhaps? Recalling Michael’s confession, he understood that the paintings by Patrick Porter (or should he say Lauren O’Neill?) were worth considerable money: More so now, given their notoriety as the truth of the provenance became known to the wider public. What happened to them? According to Michael, they were in storage. Beyond what Michael had told him, which was a confession of sorts while they holed up at the safe house, Terry felt that there was a missing element to the story, and to understand the monstrous events of that day, the day a woman was burnt to death, he strongly felt the desire to grasp the events from a different perspective. It was here that the truth would be found. It was here that the sixth person would be unveiled. He looked at it this way: Those that were so closely involved, Michael, Kara, Marcus and the two sisters, could not in any way be aware of what actually happened, to themselves or to each other amid such terror, being overwhelmed so completely by the inferno that engulfed them. No way. They only knew what they thought they knew.

  And now, standing here amid the blackened debris, the remnants of the stricken barn, this house, he saw that different perspective. He played out the scene as best he could. He knew that it was Kara who alerted the police, and she at the time was in the house, away from the fire. Marcus had escaped, regained his senses and returned to help Michael, dragging him unconscious to safety. Maggie had managed to escape as well, before Marcus had reached Michael. This was all documented in the police files. Also, Michael was adamant that it was Lauren who perished in the fire, and the police had bought into this version of events, even though they could not identify the body through forensics.

  Terry looked around, standing on the very spot that Maggie would have stood on, having made her getaway. For a few brief seconds she would have been alone. She could not have entered the house to retrieve the cash and passports as Kara would have seen her, or at the very least, heard her clattering around. Therefore, it was reasonable to assume that she had these items with her, retrieved earlier.

  How then did she get away? It was a difficult terrain. She was injured. The cars belonging to Michael and Marcus were later recovered on the drive. Lauren’s old truck, used to collect her sister from the airport, was still in the garage. Maggie then had no transport. So, how did she simply vanish into thin air?

  The police had no knowledge of the missing cash and passports (which were originally seen by Michael in the bedroom) as they arrived on the scene after Maggie’s escape. At the time, they were only concerned with saving lives. From the information they gathered from the witnesses, they were soon searching for one woman, on foot. How hard would that be? But they failed to apprehend her. What if…? Something else puzzled Terry. The fire brigade were alerted by an anonymous phone call. Who was the good Samaritan?

  Retracing his footsteps, Terry quickly concluded that Maggie, hurt and bewildered, could not have escaped over the fields, through dense overgrown foliage, over slippery and steep fields. Could she have found refuge in one of the neighbouring properties? The police search found no evidence. She simply disappeared. Terry concluded that her only route to freedom was to drive away. And for that, she needed a car.

  Whose car?

  ***

  Kara had awoken late, after a fretful night of tears and sadness. The morning brought no respite. What had happened to Ronald was just unbelievable. She now genuinely feared for her life, and that of her family. It was time to bolt for cover. She discussed the possibility with Marcus, who felt it was better if she and Harvey went to stay with her mother. He would remain and run the gallery – after all, they had to make a living. He refused to retreat from the enemy forever. This bravado was bordering on the reckless, she reckoned. Why was he acting like this?

  Michael had explained, in the meantime, that he was making the trip to Venice and would be away for just a couple of days. Another reckless act. Why the urgency to go there? She had forgotten, after all the horror of the previous night, to tell Michael that Terry had been in contact. He had always assured her that she could rely on his friend’s help and loyalty. This she would do willingly when he made contact again.

  She nibbled at the breakfast that Marcus had prepared, her appetite dwindling. She could only think of Ronald, a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Who could do such a vile act? She knew the answer and asked the question:

  Why the fuck should this bitch control all their lives to the point of such hysteria?

  She too vowed to stay put and fight fire with fire. From somewhere, a huge surge of strength enveloped her. She suddenly felt invincible. No one was going to mess with her. Marcus was right. They would refuse point-blank to be intimidated by this criminal. Now they needed a battle plan. But it would need to be a bloody good one.

  ***

  The flight from Gatwick to Italy was smooth and uneventful, the journey on the water taxi to Venice choppy and cloaked in mist. This was how his mind felt as he approached his destination, a mystical place of crumbling façades, shrouded alleyways and echoing footsteps. As the horizon slowly loomed into view, the taxi engine throttled back and the peal of church bells lifted high into the leaden skies. He alighted from the dockside and as he made his way across St Mark’s Square, suitcase in hand, a flock of gulls exploded into the air with their familiar screeching sound. Rain fell in cold, heavy droplets, forcing him to shelter under the wide arches that ran the length of the concourse. Finally, he quick-stepped over the Rialto Bridge and arrived at his hotel soaked through, a bedraggled figure on the brooding landscape.

  Taking shelter in his room, he immediately discarded wet clothes. Never had a blistering hot shower felt so good to cold and aching limbs. On reflection, he knew that his marathon confession to Terry, the scary message on the balcony window, an unfortunate episode with Vlad in the alleyway and the murder of a dear work colleague had sucked out all the inner strength he possessed and left him feeling emotionally and physically drained. He was spent. Standing naked and feeling utterly exposed, he allowed the force of the water to cascade over him and drown his sorrows until the intense heat turned to a comfortable warmth and then to a temperature bordering on freezing. But still he stood there, unaware of how or why he began to shiver. It took him a while to discover that during this enforced respite he had been silently crying.

  Later, he unpacked, took a light afternoon tea in his room and tried on his mobile to contact Agnes for an update. Silence. He left a message that he had arrived at his hotel, and suggested they meet up at seven. Damn, this silence made him nervous.

  At reception he was handed an envelope which contained the directions to the house he was going to explore. This package wasn’t a surprise, but how did Theo know he had arrived, and at this hotel? He was clearly being watched secretly. This proposed house search made him more than apprehensive, but he had a job to do. He couldn’t do anything which threatened Agnes’s life. She too, according to Vlad, was under observation, only she didn’t necessarily know it. He had to warn her.

  His immediate thoughts now turned to the Theo’s house. What he was about to discover there just heightened the trepidation that crept into his bones. Was this a trap? He checked the time and decided to walk to his destination, which was in the locality, and get the damned search over and done with, giving him a little over two hours to uncover the masterpiece before meeting up with Agnes, assuming she got back to him.

  Please phone, Agnes.

  The weather was kinder now, with a diffused sunlight breaking cover through the thinning clouds. Foldi
ng a raincoat over his arm, he grabbed a notebook and small digital camera from his case and stepped out into the amber light that shrouded this wondrous city of interlocking canals.

  He walked briskly, following the instructions that Theo had given him. In his pocket, the keys jangled. So did his heart.

  The three-storey house stood at the centre of a terrace of fifteen, each a different shade of faded ochre and green. The avenue was tight, with a narrow waterway separating the terrace from the church opposite, which cast a giant shadow over their past grandeur. These were fine houses which had not succumbed to conversion into cramped apartments. Old money lived here, Michael was sure.

  On entering through the handsome oak door, he was initially hit by the aroma of stale air and damp. The light switch failed and in the gloom of abandonment he could just make out a horde of exquisite, dusty objets d’art adorning the mahogany sideboards in the hallway, from bronze animals to Chinese ceramic figurines, he guessed. His eyes gradually adjusted. Each floor was overcrowded with individual antique chairs, sofas and a huge walnut dining table on the middle level. On the walls, an array of modern and old paintings stared back at him as he explored a labyrinth of corridors. To gain light, he cranked open the tall shutters as he went from room to room. Several times he caught his breath and coughed as the dust rose and clogged his dry throat. He vowed to bring bottled water on his next visit, if he dared to ever return.

  He searched high and low, but the mysterious treasure eluded him, hidden among the many beautiful and desirable collectables contained within these walls. In the cellar he found the wine stock, perhaps four thousand bottles in total. On the top floor, a library of maybe ten thousand titles. Theo’s father was obviously a man of refinement and intelligence. The contents of the house were worth over a million pounds on a conservative estimate. Strangely, on his search he found no family photos or personal knick-knacks, just an ebony cane and top hat. He refrained from poking his nose into drawers and wardrobes as a sign of respect to someone else’s possessions. But the more he explored, the more he became wholly frustrated.

  He retraced his steps to get a better perspective of the layout. Eventually he climbed the stairs again and came to an attic room. The door was locked. He scrambled around in a display of old bronze lidded pots on a hallway table.

  Nothing. Then he rubbed his hand atop a cobwebbed Cabinet and found what he wanted: the key. Inserting it, the door opened reluctantly on its rusty hinges. A shaft of yellow light penetrated the darkness from a roof skylight. Michael adjusted his vision and wished he’d had the foresight to bring a torch with him. In the corner stood an ornate easel, displaying a heavy but empty gold leaf Dutch frame.

  Where was the painting? He moved furniture, looked under the floor rug, opened cupboards – but to no avail. There was nothing of any value in the room, nor a discarded canvas that would fit into the frame size required. He swore.

  Where had Theo hidden the canvas? What game was he playing? Michael was irritated. And thirsty. He had but thirty minutes before he had arranged to meet with Agnes at her favourite trattoria. He moved swiftly from room to room, floor to floor, checking above and behind tall sideboards, under beds, behind sofas. Eventually, he re-entered the main hallway which led to the front door and stood silently, thinking that he had failed spectacularly.

  His phone rang. He jumped.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Michael cursed the name under his breath. Theo.

  ‘Are you monitoring my every move?’ Michael retorted.

  ‘I know you are in the house…’

  ‘Well, I can’t find what you want me to fucking find.’

  ‘You need to calm down, Mr Strange. Your health will suffer with all this stress…’

  ‘My health is suffering from the attack by your henchman. I have the bruises to prove it.’

  ‘A minor altercation…’

  ‘And your health will suffer if you as much as lay a hand on Agnes, do you understand?’

  ‘She’s perfectly safe…for now. Just do your job, and we can all go home.’

  ‘What am I searching for?’

  ‘Look more closely.’

  ‘Why are you playing a game with me?’

  ‘Because I can, and the anticipation of your find is worth waiting for.’

  Michael hesitated, and then said wearily: ‘Help me out, Theo.’

  Theo laughed. ‘Why don’t you enjoy a little hospitality on my behalf…may I suggest a fine bottle of vintage Champagne from my father’s collection?’

  Then he clicked off. Michael mouthed the word bollocks and then descended the narrow concrete stairs to the cellar. It was musty and dimly lit from a single air shaft which extended to the street above, covered by a metal grille. Huge drooping cobwebs spanned the vaulted ceiling like suspended shredded parachutes. His footsteps echoed across the tiled terracotta floor. He peered behind the rows of wine racks, struggling to see into the murky depths. He was seriously pissed off by now. There was no Champagne down here…then he remembered something.

  He dashed upstairs and entered the kitchen. In the corner, beside the oven range, stood a pallet containing crates of the bubbly stuff. He peered behind. Again, nothing. He moved each heavy crate, until the wooden floor was exposed. There was a hidden latch. He pulled eagerly and lifted a trap-door, which in turn revealed a shallow recess. Inside, a flat rectangular object was tightly wrapped in sack-cloth. His heart pulsated.

  With great care, he removed the object and settled by the open window, sitting down to calm his nerves. Unpicking the string, he peeled back the protective covering and at last examined the linen canvas, one which he knew instinctively would fit exactly the bulky frame in the attic.

  For a second, he couldn’t really make out what he was witnessing. He tilted the canvas toward the light and suddenly the image came into focus. At first he could hardly believe his eyes. What in Hell’s name was this? He could hardly draw breath. He took a few moments to reflect on what he was looking at. It was a painting that he was familiar with. It depicted a naked young girl lying upon a silk bedspread. The model was unmistakably Antonia. He searched for the signature, one he already knew: Patrick Porter. Then it dawned on him. This was one of the paintings that hung on the wall in Laburnum Farm. It was one of the twelve that Lauren had so desperately implored him to sell when she was broke and needed the money. He tried to make sense of it. They were all supposed to be in storage. What had happened here?

  His stomach churned, and his instinct told him he was indeed the victim of an elaborate ploy. Was he holding something so rare, so priceless that people would kill to possess it, cherish it…To own it? Was it was worth untold millions? Was it the treasure of a lifetime, as Theo had indicated?

  Not a chance. It was another message from the joker in the pack. On the reverse was an enlarged black and white photograph of Michael and Kara hugging in the park in London: A snapshot taken by telescopic lens. There was a scrawled message in red lipstick written across the image.

  He read the inscription again, this time aloud:

  ‘Are we getting close enough, Michael?’

  With trembling hands, he threw the offending canvas against the floor, creating an explosion of dust. He didn’t care for its true value. He had to get out, and quickly. He reached the hallway and locked the door behind him, swiftly disappearing into the darkness of the alleyways, checking behind him as he went. Out onto the busy promenade, he found a bar and ordered a double brandy and Americano coffee. He was in Venice, Kara was in London. They had been separated. Why? Fear crept up on him. Everyone was in danger. He felt utterly helpless, like a puppet on a string. He needed to think things through. First things first: He checked his watch, downed both drinks and decided to go to the restaurant in the hope Agnes was waiting for him. She was, much to his relief. They kissed, and then kissed again.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer your mobile?’ he asked.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer yours?’

&nbs
p; He checked his pockets and realised, to his horror, that he had somehow dropped his phone in the house in a rush to get out.

  Fuck, he said under his breath. ‘I left it behind in the house. I’ll need to go back and get it…’

  He felt a shiver of absolute dread course through his veins.

  Agnes smiled, kissed him longingly, and unaware of his fears, said: ‘Not tonight, Michael. We have better things to do tonight.’

  Then she grabbed his hand and led him away, breathless. Dinner and the missing phone could wait until later.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Terry decided to drive to Shropshire and talk directly to Dougie, rather than scare him off with a random phone call. He arrived in Wellington just after midday, and found The Cricketers pub on the fringe of the town, near the local landmark The Wrekin. The mountain stood bold and dark against the slate sky.

  He made small talk with the barmaid, and was aware that the man who periodically came out from the kitchen with the food orders was probably Dougie, a slim man in his late fifties, with receding grey hair and a tattoo on his bare arm.

  Later, Terry engaged him in conversation and took a different tack to the one he sold to Ian Banks.

  ‘Basically,’ he said, ‘I’m selling life assurance, and wondered if you and your wife had adequate cover for loss of profits in the event of illness?’ He handed Dougie a card, another with gold edging.

  Dougie barely glanced at it.

  ‘Talk to the brewery,’ he snapped, ‘they usually deal with that aspect of things.’

  ‘I’m talking about joint personal cover, Mr Cox. How would you make the rent on this place if either of you were involved in, say, a car accident and weren’t able to work? Suppose you were both unable to work?’