Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  ‘There is no joint necessity, I live alone.’

  ‘Oh, I understood that you were married…’

  ‘I am, but we are separated.’

  ‘Divorced?’

  ‘I said separated…do you have a hearing problem?’

  Terry sensed the hostility right from the start. He wasn’t winning the man over. Ian had warned him to tread carefully. He opted for the sympathy card.

  ‘Actually, I do. I was involved in an accident several years ago, lost my hearing temporarily and my job permanently and got into serious debt. I learnt my lesson the hard way. Anyway, I’ll be on my way…thanks for the time. Good food by the way.’ He spotted the team photograph behind the bar.

  ‘Hope the season goes well. We’re in trouble, my bloody lot.’

  He stood to go, and Dougie stopped him.

  ‘Who do you support?’

  ‘The Orient.’

  ‘Thought from your accent you were from London. What brings you all the way up here?’

  ‘Visiting my sister, but I always look for a business opportunity.’

  ‘You need to…have you seen the news? The world’s fucked.’

  ‘Tell me about it: All the more reason to look after number one, Mr Cox.’

  ‘It’s Dougie. Can I take out a single insurance policy?’

  ‘Sure can.’

  ‘Can you leave me a pamphlet or something?’

  ‘I’ll arrange to have one sent in the post, Dougie.’

  ‘It’s just…well…being on my own, I can see where you are coming from.’

  Terry had hooked him at last. He laid it on thick. ‘I lost my wife.’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He left the sentence to dangle in the air, and put on his best hound-dog expression. ‘Left me for some slick smooth-talking bastard who promised her the earth.’

  ‘Did she get it?’

  Terry waited, and shook his head. ‘Nah, she slums it up in a two million pound house in Hampstead and drives a SLK Mercedes convertible. So you see, these things always come home to roost.’

  Dougie was slow on the uptake. Then he saw the ironic joke and burst out laughing. ‘Fuck me,’ he said, shaking his head in merriment, ‘fuck me!’

  Terry moved in with subtle grace. ‘So what happened with you?’

  Dougie narrowed his eyes, took the measure of the man and grabbed two glasses down from the shelf. ‘It’s a long story, do you want to hear it?’

  ‘I’ve got the time if you have…’

  ‘Pull up a stool, mister. What’s your poison?’

  ***

  ‘How long have you been awake?’

  Michael turned from the window at his hotel, and smiled. Agnes was lying naked on the bed, staring at him.

  ‘Since dawn, I guess,’ he said.

  ‘What’s been troubling you?’

  ‘I’ve been set up, and I feel a complete prick.’

  She stood, gathered a sheet around her, and held him in a tight embrace as they looked out over the lagoon. A sudden shaft of light broke through the clouds and bathed them in lemon sunshine.

  ‘Not by me, I hope,’ she countered.

  He kissed her lightly.

  ‘Not by you, Agnes.’

  ‘You need to tell me what’s going on, Michael.’

  He had thought long and hard, and knew the reason for the hoax painting. It was to get him to Venice, away from London. The photo on the reverse was a piss take, to demonstrate who had the upper hand. Maggie had played on his greed, knowing he would follow his instincts. He was a soldier of fortune. Actually, he was led like a lamb to the slaughter. And now he had implicated Agnes as well. But why was it so vital to draw him over here? He had to warn Kara…

  ‘Agnes, do you know this man by the name of Theo Britton?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I spoke with him yesterday. He suggested that you had met…’

  She stroked his hair. ‘Other than you telling me about him on the phone, and the deal with the proposed inventory at his deceased father’s house, the answer is no.’

  ‘He has a diamond in his teeth.’

  She laughed, ‘Now that I would remember.’

  ‘I need to go back to the house to retrieve my phone.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, not on your own. I’m coming too…’

  That’s what he was afraid of, but he knew he couldn’t persuade her otherwise. They were now a team, and not to be messed with.

  ***

  Marcus got to work late, making sure Kara was emotionally settled in her head. The immense shock of Ronald’s death messed everyone up, but Kara took it very badly. It was as if she took the blame for what happened. He needed a little space and elected to go to the gallery for a couple of hours, as he had arranged to meet a client who wanted to purchase a painting for his private collection. And not just any painting. Hopefully, after several weeks of negotiation, he was about to close the deal at a considerable profit. His biggest sale to date. No mean feat. It would set him up, and his family. He wasn’t going to blow this sale. Eat your heart out, Michael.

  He opened the gallery, settled down and made coffee. He arranged the painting, a sizeable oil, on the main easel which took centre stage in the gallery, with good overhead lighting ensuring maximum effect to the appeal of the subject. It was a nude. He covered the front of the canvas with a white dust sheet which concealed it from prying eyes. Perfect. He checked the time and put a couple of red dots on other expensive paintings to add weight to the desirability of the work he carried and for the client to notice that he was a successful operator. A good trick to have up his sleeve.

  He put Radio Five on to catch up on the news and sport and busied himself with bringing the weekly invoicing up to date. Nerves were getting the better of him, his concentration lapsing. Much depended on this deal. He thought of phoning Kara but decided against it. He knew what the topic of conversation would be. He grimaced. No matter. Tonight he would cook the meal in celebration of his success and make a fuss over Kara, as she had done previously for him with a dinner made in heaven. For the first time in ages, they had found the energy and desire to make love. Maybe, just maybe, he could get lucky tonight as well. A bottle of Champagne would be the order of the day as well.

  He was feeling smug, then disaster struck. His client phoned, cancelling his appointment due to unforeseen circumstances. Marcus was crushed, although the client did rearrange another appointment for the following week. He had to keep cool. These things happen. If the truth was known, Marcus needed to off-load the painting ASAP. It was too hot to handle.

  At closing time, he balanced the credit card machine totals, switched off the lights and washed his coffee cup, which was unusual for him. Normally, he allowed them to gather in the sink, dirty, until he got sick of the sight of the clutter which built up over a period of time. In the background, a news item on the radio caught his attention.

  He dashed over and increased the volume.

  ‘…it has just been confirmed that police have released the name of the man recovered from the River Thames, after close relatives had been informed of his identity earlier in the day. His name is Mitch Hill, who was formerly a private in the army stationed at Aldershot. He was killed by a brutal assault to the head. The murder weapon has not been found. Police are now seeking help from the public in the hunt for the killer or killers…’

  Marcus’s heart jumped. Who was Mitch Hill? He continued to listen:

  ‘…it was first thought that the unidentified body was that of a former SAS member, and a terrorist link was strongly suspected. This theory has now been eliminated from official enquiries and the anonymous call to this effect has now been discounted as a hoax. Police are appealing…’

  Marcus switched off, stunned. Mitch Hill? What was all that about? He paced the floor and tried to make sense of what he had just heard…the body had been identified…and it wasn’t that of Mar
tin Penny, as Michael had indicated earlier. What the hell was going on?

  ***

  ‘Is this the piazza?’ Agnes asked.

  Her eyes searched slowly over the grand façade of the terraced house, admiring its mixture of fine balconies, green wooden shutters and decaying yellow paint wash. In the past, this would have been the home of a local merchant in the area, and was today worth a great deal of money.

  She waited while Michael fumbled for the key.

  He climbed the steps and entered, followed gingerly by Agnes, who checked the street before crossing the threshold. She shivered as the stale air invaded her nostrils.

  Michael turned, and said quietly: ‘Have a quick look around. We’re not stopping. I’ll get the phone and then we leave. There’s nothing here for us, except a house of deception.’

  Agnes took his arm. ‘Michael…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why are we whispering?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said guardedly.

  It was that kind of place.

  ***

  Terry had heard enough about the marital fall-out between Dougie and Sheila Cox. It was worse than a soap opera on TV. Now back in London, he sat rooted to his seat at work, trying to decipher the complex financial news that was erupting across his screen. This was a serious fall-out.

  Alistair Darling had just announced the collapse of Northern Rock, after rejecting overtures from Richard Branson, who wanted to buy it at a discount. As a result of this collapse, the private shareholders had lost all the value of their shares. The taxpayer was now left carrying the can.

  Terry was perplexed. This was all bollocks, in fact, financial suicide fuelled by global panic. He would lay a wager that one day in the future Branson would come back and claim his prize, and pay a much smaller premium for his troubles. Watch this space, Terry concluded with a wry smile.

  Later, he pondered on what he had learned about Sheila Cox, the errant wife. It was the oldest story in the book. She had simply upped sticks and left for a better life…but where had she gone?

  Her husband was hurt, but not baffled, by another walk out. They had been together, on and off, for over twenty-five years Terry learnt. She had several affairs (“a good looking woman,” Dougie had said with pride) over the years, and had walked out on him on two previous occasions. In the past, she had gone to live with her sister in Sevenoaks when things had imploded.

  An obvious choice, Terry thought. Sevenoaks was just down the road from Old Hampton. An easy refuge for a troubled mind. Is that where she had fled this time as well?

  It was a resounding no, according to Dougie during their chat. He had spoken to the sister, Suzy, who confirmed that she had not heard from her on this occasion. They had argued previously, and hadn’t spoken since: Sisters at war. Dougie looked for her elsewhere, but to no avail. Eventually, frustrated and desperate for a new start, he relocated to Wellington. Good riddance to her, was his final say on the matter.

  Terry could see his point of view: Enough was enough. However, it was difficult to hide anywhere even in the best of circumstances…but to disappear entirely? Now that was a clever trick. Terry was far from convinced by this, unless…and the idea that swam around his head was beginning to gain momentum. Six, not five.

  ***

  Michael discovered his phone on the windowsill. He checked for calls. There was one from Marcus. Marcus? That was unexpected. He logged it in his brain to return the call. More to the point: What was Theo playing at?

  He found Agnes in the dining room, shaking dust from her shoulders.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Decent artwork, good bronze figurines, wonderful Asian ceramics,’ she remarked, picking up a small Chinese cup of dull colour and then placing it down again. ‘Whoever lived here had expensive tastes.’

  ‘Oh…?’

  ‘Look at this,’ she continued, taking his hand and leading him into the small library. The aroma of old leather and parchment clung in the gloomy air. On a small side table stood a small, pale green vessel, unremarkable to Michael’s eye.

  ‘Jade?’ he asked, picking it up.

  ‘Careful,’ she said, ‘It’s from the Qianlong dynasty.’

  It was barely six inches tall, plain, with loose ring handles.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘By the curled dragon finial on the domed cover and taotie-style motifs, a really beautiful and rare piece.’

  ‘Japanese?’

  ‘Chinese.’

  ‘Valuable?’

  Agnes shrugged. ‘To the right collector, yes. I’d say £40,000 at auction…’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Indeed. Put in down, Michael.’

  Nervously, he did as instructed.

  ‘I think we should go,’ they both echoed in unison.

  ***

  Kara answered the door, perplexed to see a young woman standing on the doorstep, a stranger to her. But she looked harmless enough, even a little pathetic.

  ‘Yes?’ Kara said, pulling a strand of hair from her face. Harvey was whimpering behind her in his cot.

  ‘We haven’t met, but I feel we should have done. My name is Gemma, your replacement…’

  ‘Oh. This is somewhat of a surprise…’

  ‘I wasn’t sure…of what to do.’

  ‘About the death of Ronald?’

  ‘Just about everything.’ She had a tear in her eye. ‘May I come in, please?’

  Kara settled Harvey and made a pot of tea, accompanied by a plate of biscuits.

  ‘I’m sorry to burden you, Kara, but I feel I need to talk to someone. Michael is away…’

  Kara had always imagined that she would hate Gemma, but she recognised the frailty in her and saw the bewilderment behind her eyes.

  ‘It’s been tough for everyone, Gemma,’ she responded, ‘but especially for you, having been thrown in the deep end. Why don’t you tell me what the problem is, OK? I’m a good listener, but Harvey may not have the same patience…’

  They laughed, and then Gemma talked non-stop.

  At the end, Kara was sickened by what she had learned. Since resigning from the gallery she was definitely out of the loop. Who was this Theo Britton? Who was responsible for the killing of Ronald? Why was Michael so evasive, and at odds with Marcus? More importantly, was Maggie alive and seeking revenge, or was she a figment of their imagination? Who was pulling the strings that made them all dance the tune of the devil?

  Then gentle Gemma dropped a bigger bombshell.

  ‘I don’t like being threatened…’ she announced. ‘We have a family tradition of fighting our own battles.’

  Kara’s ears pricked.

  ‘I’ve been doing some research,’ Gemma said, ‘with a little help from my brothers…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Theo Britton is in fact a petty crook. He masquerades behind a façade of being Mr Bigshot, which is a sham. His father, who is now dead, was the real brains. He ran a criminal fraternity for over thirty years which stretched from London to Glasgow. Theo inherited millions, stolen millions it has to be said. But he’s spent most of it.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Kara, open-mouthed. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘My family history,’ Gemma said, biting her lip, ‘my family has certain connections…’

  ‘What kind of…connections?’

  ‘My uncle worked with Reginald and Ronnie.’

  Kara was aghast. Not so gentle Gemma. ‘Fuck, you mean the Kray twins?’

  ‘My Dad worked with them in the sixties too, and my brother has written a book on them. Bizarrely, he has gone on to become a criminal barrister-in-law in the city.’

  ‘That is bizarre…I bet you never said any of that in your interview with Michael?’

  ‘He never asked,’ Gemma said, smiling cutely. ‘Besides, it’s not something you brag about, but it has its uses.’

  ‘You need to tell Michael what you know. That little shit Theo has to be brought down a peg or two. Knowing Michael,
he’ll be relieved to know this information. It’s a big breakthrough. You’ll get a kiss from him, I bet.’

  ‘Then he needs to be careful, I could take him to a tribunal if he tries that on.’

  Kara suddenly liked this girl. She had balls.

  ***

  Michael waited patiently, knowing he was under surveillance. He didn’t like being watched from afar but he was determined to get the last laugh.

  He sat in a coffee shop overlooking the Grand Canal. The call came within two hours of vacating the house. His mobile bleeped and he quickly answered.

  ‘How did you like my little joke?’ Theo asked.

  ‘I’m ecstatic,’ Michael replied. ‘I thought you said the so-called hidden treasure was priceless.’

  ‘It is, to those who treasure it, as you once did.’

  ‘Are you and Maggie old acquaintances? Or do you do all the running around for her, like a good little boy?’

  ‘All will be answered in the fullness of time, my friend.’

  ‘I’m not your friend, Theo. Perhaps you can now explain what all this is about?’ He kept his calm, knowing there was a further price to be paid somewhere down the line. He had also been remunerated considerably for little return so far. What was the trade-off?

  ‘I would like you and Agnes to be my guest at a little dinner party I have especially organised in your honour. Would you humour me?’

  ‘A dinner party…who are the other guests?’

  ‘That will remain a surprise, Mr Strange.’

  Michael looked to Agnes, who was sitting beside him and had been listening closely. She nodded.

  ‘When and where?’ he asked.

  ‘Pier 14. Your girlfriend will be aware of its location. I have a motor launch, called Zebra One. Shall we say tomorrow night, around eight?’

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow, first thing.’

  ‘Unwise.’

  ‘Because..?’

  ‘Because we have much to discuss. There is the small matter of what to do with young Marcus.’

  ‘Marcus?’

  ‘We believe he has been a very naughty boy…but we can discuss that over dinner, agreed?’