Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  ‘Perfect,’ Michael said, bewildered by this new development.

  ‘Gracious of you to cooperate,’ Theo said, ‘or wise may be a better term.’

  ‘Pier 14,’ Michael confirmed. He nodded to Agnes, who began texting on her mobile. He added, ‘Are we expected to bring anything?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘I didn’t pack a formal dinner suit.’

  ‘Not required. Come casual, the both of you.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  Michael clicked off and took Agnes by the hand. Marcus? What the fuck had he been up to? Was it just another of Theo’s little games?

  ‘All done,’ he said.

  Then Agnes made a call to Adriano’s brother.

  Michael vaguely recalled him as the police officer who originally helped in tracking down Antonia Forlani on his last visit to Venice.

  She spoke at length, and signed off : ‘Ciao’.

  ‘Theo might be equally surprised by the welcome party we have planned for him,’ she said with a smirk.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Terry attended the MRI unit for the second time. He still hated it and was shitting himself, if the truth was known. He loathed the idea of being injected in the arm – he had a big phobia about this – then spending thirty minutes trapped in a narrow plastic tube with weird noises resounding around his head. The nurse reassured him that everything would be fine, then stuck a needle into him and strapped him to the bed, ready for the machine. This was going to be just great.

  The scan lasted half an hour as promised, but felt like a lifetime. The magnitude of the whole damn cancer thing hit home, big time. He felt very much alone.

  The next day he attended the hospital for an appointment with a consultant urologist, Fraser Smith, to find out the extent of the prostate problem.

  ‘The good news,’ Mr Smith said, removing his glasses after carefully reading through Terry’s file, ‘is that your PSA reading has increased only marginally, now up to 9.8. The scan reveals that the malignant tumour, a 3.3 carcinoma on the Gleason scale, is central to the gland, meaning, I am happy to say, that it is localised…and surgery at this stage is not required. We can therefore monitor the tumour by way of future MRI scans and regular PSA readings.’

  Terry was struggling with this. He’d thought he was dying.

  ‘Come again?’ he said.

  ‘I would recommend a watch-and-wait policy, as the cancer is not evasive to other vital organs or to your bones at this stage. This could take ten years perhaps…or even longer. Of course, you can elect to have surgery to remove the growth, or we can do a course of radiotherapy, which you can also consider, but there are side-effects with every treatment that you undertake.’

  ‘Consider?’

  ‘Mr Miles, if you have no other related problems, say, being unable to urinate for instance, then you actually need do nothing, except undergo regular check-ups. You’ll probably live to be ninety.’

  ‘What if the cancer suddenly grows and affects my bones?’

  ‘Not likely for many years to come, as it is slow growing and we can watch it and measure it by means of the MRI scan. It is not aggressive…’

  ‘Jesus…’

  ‘He won’t help you, I’m afraid. You’re stuck with me, unless you wish for a second opinion, and Jesus can’t help you there either. Be happy with the prognosis.’

  Terry was dumbfounded, and vowed to get pissed at the nearest pub in celebration. Was this a celebration? He frowned.

  ‘The good news, you said. What is the bad news?’

  Fraser Smith gave a wry smile. ‘I’m joining the club. I too have a malignant tumour. We are the same age, Mr Miles, and I thought I should practise what I preach, so I underwent tests as well. I had a biopsy.’ Then he added, ‘Mine is a worse prognosis, and I will be undergoing surgery within two weeks…’

  Christ. This was like a sketch from a black comedy on TV, Terry thought. For the first time he was speechless.

  ‘…So naturally I will refer you to a colleague of mine until I return to work, which hopefully will be in six to eight weeks’ time.’

  Terry too offered a wry smile. You couldn’t make it up if you tried.

  ***

  He had got a Get Out of Jail card free, and wasn’t exactly complaining. He had a limited reprieve before a decision had to be made concerning the surgical removal of the prostate gland. The side-effects he didn’t actually give a hoot about, because he wasn’t in a relationship and wasn’t likely to be either. He could live without an erection.

  Back at the office, a vast open-plan modern complex displaying what looked like a thousand computer screens, numerous overhead TV monitors relaying world breaking news every second of the day and the incessant noisy gaggle of journalists interacting with each other, Terry reflected on the joy such atmosphere and intensity in this place brought to his life. He simply loved it. It was where his heart beat the fastest.

  He needed to call in a favour, and spoke quietly to an informant at the local police headquarters, who had assisted him down the years with inside information whenever a news story was floundering. A wad of cash usually exchanged hands. You scratch my back…

  Terry now considered Sheila Cox a missing person. She wasn’t working, having not taken possession of her P45 from her previous employers. Her sister hadn’t heard from her, and they had a close relationship, normally. Was Sheila living the life of luxury, fuelled by a rich sugar daddy somewhere in these shores? He doubted it, but it was an outside bet. According to the sister, the marriage between Dougie and Sheila was always going to be doomed: Her sister was simply bored and longed for adventure. She always talked of moving to Tenerife in the Canary Islands, having met a Spanish businessman at the Royal Oak one year, who tried to entice her away. Sheila had taken a holiday there on two occasions, without her husband.

  That, thought Terry, sounded more likely…she had done a runner abroad in search of a romantic idyll. He could check that out as well, over time. But he didn’t have time, as the news spread fast concerning the terrible killing of a member of staff at Churchill Fine Arts. The papers were having a field day. This put the spotlight firmly upon Michael Strange again and his deadline for the magazine piece was fast approaching. Hence, the required favour. Time was a luxury he didn’t have.

  He thought hard. If Sheila Cox was a peripheral figure to the main story: why this obsession in finding her? Terry now knew that, by an extraordinary coincidence, she had decided to walk out on her marriage, suitcase packed, a reserve of cash saved from money taken from the bar sales, passport in hand, on the very day the fire started at the farm. Where was she going, and with whom? Perhaps she was alone and meeting up with her lover at a secret destination. Very plausible, it happened every day in every corner of the land. But something else happened on that fateful day, something which distracted her as she drove away for the last time…what was it? He now thought he knew.

  Her car, a Vauxhall Astra, had never been found. Like her, it too had simply vanished. He needed a big favour from his contact. He therefore needed a big wad of cash.

  And another thing: He could no longer pussyfoot around with other people’s fragile egos. A chat with Marcus Heath was next on the agenda.

  He was convinced this young man had something to hide.

  ***

  Michael could hardly enjoy this enforced stay in Venice. The only good thing was Agnes. He felt imprisoned in a deadly game of sorts, with Theo pulling the strings. He didn’t like losing control and felt vulnerable. But he had Agnes, and she was exhilaratingly wonderful, if not a little distant with him. Had she got cold feet in their new relationship? He too wondered if there was a future for them. Life was too damn complicated.

  He decided to phone Marcus to get to the bottom of things, but was distracted by an incoming call. It was Nick.

  ‘What is it, Nick?’

  ‘Thought you should know, Michael: I was cleaning the CCTV tape, which operates on a rewind sy
stem, when it suddenly occurred to me that I have a reasonably decent image of Ms Byrne coming through reception. However, it’s only a back view. Any use to you?’

  ‘Definitely! Can you keep it for me…I’ll be back within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Thanks, Nick. Great work.’

  Unexpected good news, and at last a potential sighting of Maggie. He was on to her. The net was slowly tightening. In his excitement, he forgot to ring Marcus.

  ***

  Kara and Gemma decided to join forces, eager to find out everything they could about Theo Britton. They were a potent duo, and Kara was thrilled to be of some use in the real world again. They were, she decided with a giggle, the formidable Special Forces ‘A’ team: Although all this undercover skulduggery was hardly the real world, it was terrifying. Where was Mr T when you needed him?

  But still, it made her feel valued, and needed. She liked Gemma, and hoped the feeling was mutual. While the gallery still remained closed to the public, pending police enquiries, Gemma called over again for a couple of hours and used Kara’s apartment as a base for their secret operation, which they codenamed “The Crazy One” in reference to you know who…

  Kara filled Gemma in with all the scandal from the past eighteen months. Well, nearly all the scandal. There were some things she simply couldn’t reveal. But after filling her in with the exploits of Lauren O’Neill and her sister, Maggie, Gemma’s face was a picture. Gape-mouthed, she couldn’t think of anything to say. Her mouth just twitched stupidly.

  ‘Still think this art lark is for you?’ Kara asked.

  ‘Any chance of a drink?’ Gemma said eventually. ‘Neat Bourbon would be good…’

  Kara searched the drinks cabinet, found a bottle of Jack Daniels and happily obliged.

  ‘You not joining me?’

  Harvey started to cry. Great timing.

  ‘Just water for me, I’m afraid,’ Kara said sadly.

  Later, she relented and had a small glass of red wine and noticed that her new best buddy was somewhat merry.

  Kara laughed: They were useless detectives, it had to be said.

  ***

  Marcus was seriously hacked off. Michael had ignored him, business on this day was non-existent and to top it all off, Kara had just informed him over the phone that her mum was on the way over to help for a few days. His silence spoke volumes. Kara picked up on his dread and reminded him that it was his idea originally to invite her over. Some ideas are just not thought through properly, he reflected quietly to himself. He was at odds with the world. Why was he the only sane voice on the planet?

  And then he thought of Martin Penny, this elusive figure who for one minute was presumed dead, now assumed alive and kicking. If that was the case, and he was on their side, why had he not made contact with him or Michael, as he was expected to do? After all, wasn’t he their saviour? Fuck that.

  Something was wrong, very wrong.

  ***

  It was getting dark, the light fading fast, day turning to night. Kara’s mother arrived by taxi, flustered by the stop/start journey and was immediately put out by the fact her daughter had a friend over, a slightly tipsy friend at that. She didn’t need the hassle.

  Kara saw the disapproving frown and bundled Gemma out of the apartment, using the same taxi her mother arrived in. She made Earl Grey tea (nothing else would please her mum) and waited for the lecture on the chaotic state of her home. She tried to tidy up, but gave in without a fight, as her mother took over the task with a tut-tut here and a tut-tut there. Happy days.

  The phone rang. She answered, expecting Marcus.

  ‘It’s Terry.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I said I’d be in touch. Short notice, but can I come over? It’s to do with Michael. He’s in Venice and needs you to do something for him…’

  ‘Not a good time…Why didn’t Michael phone me?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’

  Kara checked the time, and rolled her eyes as she witnessed her mother attacking the almighty mess in the kitchen. She was ready to explode.

  ‘OK, but you need to be quick.’

  ‘I need ten minutes, that’s all.’

  ‘Ten minutes…?’

  ‘See you shortly.’

  She stood with the phone still stuck to her ear, the buzzing tone doing weird things to her brain. She seriously wanted to murder the woman at the sink.

  ***

  Marcus made a late sale. It didn’t change his general mood of foreboding. Minutes earlier, Kara phoned and asked when he would be expected home. Never, he joked, much to her annoyance. He had a legitimate reason for his remark: The fearsome dragon had taken up residence.

  That wasn’t all. Kara explained that Terry Miles, the journalist, had called and wanted her to help with the forthcoming story he was writing which concentrated on the fire at the farm. Michael had forewarned her of his approach. She held her breath and waited: Was he all right with this?

  He was weary of such intrusions. What choice did he have? His opinion didn’t seem to count these days. The story was going to be written come what may. At least Kara could put her perspective on it, but in his view all journalists were wankers anyway. He was fed up fighting the system. Kara should make her own decisions. She just had to be wary of his questions.

  ‘Be careful,’ he concluded, ‘he’ll be out to trick you. Think before you speak…’

  He ended the call and vowed to phone Michael again and give him hell. Interfering bastard.

  Then a stranger came in, a scruffy jerk in a duffle coat and corduroy slacks, carrying a holdall over his shoulder which looked like a computer bag. He instantly didn’t like the look of him.

  ***

  Michael took a call.

  ‘Good evening, is all well with you?’

  ‘Theo,’ he hissed, ‘what a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Is this a social call or another attempt at playing havoc at our expense with these idiotic mind games of yours?’

  ‘Be more cordial, Michael. A speedboat will be landing at Pier 14 at seven-thirty, which according to my watch is half an hour from now. Will you be on time?’

  ‘We will.’

  ‘Vladimir will meet you and escort you to Zebra One. I can promise you a memorable evening.’

  I can promise you a memorable evening as well, Michael said under his breath. Vladimir too.

  ‘It will be good to reacquaint ourselves…’ Michael remarked.

  ‘Alas, that will not be possible on this occasion.’

  ‘Oh?’ Michael smelt a rat, but was reassured by Agnes’s insistence that police surveillance was on red alert.

  ‘I cannot join you, but my esteemed host will extend a warm welcome and provide lavish entertainment for you and your fine lady friend.’

  ‘And who exactly is my esteemed host, Theo?’

  ‘A mutual friend of ours and his exquisite girlfriend: Julius Gray and Antonia. They eagerly await this reunion, a chance for old friends to get together and talk over old times…’

  Michael was shocked. He didn’t see this one coming. Julius and Antonia? Surely not…

  He then caught the fear rising in his chest.

  ‘How are you acquainted with Julius and Antonia, Theo?’

  ‘I’m not, but I know a person who is.’

  This made the situation worse. His mouth was dry, his heart racing. ‘Where are you, Theo?’

  He knew the answer.

  Theo laughed. ‘Why, London of course.’

  Another game, but the stakes were now far deadlier than he imagined.

  He clicked off and immediately punched in familiar numbers with a London prefix.

  ***

  Kara heard the doorbell and opened the door.

  ‘Come in, Terry.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Kara.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk.’

  ‘I do, but I would prefer to discuss things in my car. It’s a
delicate matter. I don’t want anyone overhearing our conversation and I can see you have company.’

  Kara almost giggled. ‘It’s only my mother…’ She could tell he wasn’t buying into it.

  He impatiently looked over his shoulder. ‘My car is just parked at the front entrance…Can you spare a few seconds?’

  Kara moved to the communal window and looked down.

  ‘A red Corolla,’ he said.

  Sure enough, she noticed that he had parked at the head of a line of cars on the street. Three back was an unmarked police vehicle, thankfully manned by two officers on 24-hour patrol who she knew were there for her protection. Earlier in the day she had taken them coffee and cakes. She felt safe enough.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she said.

  Terry smiled and shuffled his feet.

  Kara looked in on her mother and Harvey, who were joyfully playing on the floor in the lounge. She grabbed a cardigan, pulled the door behind her and followed Terry to his car. She nodded to the police officers and waited while her companion politely opened her door. Ever the gentleman. She settled in and waited for a barrage of questions. Terry got in and set the heater on high, and started the engine.

  ‘Are we going somewhere?’ she asked, confused.

  The beam of an oncoming car’s headlamps suddenly lit up the interior where Kara sat beside the driver. Terry turned to her, engaged gear, and grinned. In the sudden flash of light, she saw an odd glint in his teeth.

  ‘No need to panic,’ the driver said calmly, and then sped away and quickly joined the flow of rush hour traffic. They were gone and out of sight in under ten seconds. Kara began to panic.

  Unbeknown to her, in the kitchen of the apartment, her mobile phone bleeped, unanswered.

  ***

  The veins on Marcus’s neck bulged. His eyes widened.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  The stranger confronted him, equally transfixed by the widening eyes, aware that he had just somehow startled the young man. ‘I said my name is Terry. Terry Miles. I’m a friend of Michael…’