Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  She smiled broadly as he reached her, flinging her arms around his shoulders. He hugged her tightly, kissing her on the cheek. They didn’t talk for a few moments, just prolonging the embrace. Then they walked on, Michael tossing bread to the gathering wildlife. There was a chill in the air, matched by their conversation.

  ‘You all right?’ Kara asked.

  ‘Better for seeing you.’

  ‘Who was that you were talking to at the funeral?’

  ‘At the end of the service?’

  ‘Yes. He looked intimidating.’

  ‘He was your protector, actually. His name is Martin.’

  ‘He looked familiar…thought I saw him outside the apartment at night. Is he still protecting me?’

  ‘Not any longer. It isn’t necessary.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘As sure as can be…’

  ‘You know, I’ve always had trust in you but this stretches credibility to the limit, Michael. I want to believe but I’m frankly fearful…’

  ‘Maggie is dead.’

  ‘And this man named Theo?’

  ‘Taken care of.’

  ‘Michael, stop talking in riddles! He took me prisoner, I have a right to know if we are safe. I have my family to protect.’

  ‘Martin is ex-SAS. We can rely on his judgment, Kara. Theo will not be troubling us again.’

  ‘Then why am I still scared?’

  Michael was taken aback by this. ‘Because…because it is still all so raw and numbing. You went to hell and back.’

  ‘So did you. Aren’t you still scared?’

  ‘Only from what the Press can do to us, Kara,’ Michael said, a tone of defeat in his voice. ‘Now that does terrify me.’

  They ambled further toward Marble Arch. A string of thoroughbred horses cantered past, their straight-backed riders resplendent in military uniform. A gaggle of geese took flight across the grey, calm water, which rippled in their foaming wake.

  ‘Marcus hates you.,’ Kara announced.

  Michael wasn’t surprised by this. ‘He’ll get over it,’ he said.

  ‘He blames you for everything.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Give it time, I’m confident he’ll come round…eventually.’

  ‘Better make that sooner rather than later. The international art gala is on in three weeks’ time. I’ve booked a table for ten and you are both invited. I want you to be there, Kara. It’s our chance to unwind and celebrate a new beginning. I’ve had a surprise email from Julius. He and Antonia have decided to attend as my guests. It’s a big gesture from them. I think they are coming over anyway to sort out the legalities with the farm. We can draw a line under all the shit that has happened.’

  ‘Sounds OK to me…let me work on Marcus, but I doubt he’ll come. I need to get organised. I feel a shopping spree coming on. What’s the theme this year?’

  He hardly dared mention it: ‘A Venetian mystery night, masks and all.’ He caught the expression on her face.

  ‘Oh, boy, you certainly know how to pick them,’ she remarked, shaking her head in bewilderment.

  ***

  ‘Is that finally the end of it?’ Toby demanded.

  Michael faced his son across the desk in his office at the gallery. He was stone-faced and tired by this continued barrage of questioning. What could he offer in terms of further reassurance? More futile words?

  ‘Don’t bullshit me, Dad. The gallery can’t survive on bad publicity, especially in the midst of a recession. I’ve put considerable money into the business and I cannot afford to lose my investment. If I had known the truth…’

  ‘…You’d have stayed in New York. I get where you are coming from.’

  ‘I’m not sure you understand the gravity of the situation.’

  ‘Michael stood. ‘Don’t try to lecture me, son.’

  ‘Well, don’t try and patronise me. We were just beginning to turn the corner financially. I saved the gallery, remember? I paid off mum and settled the tax demand, remember? I carried the business while you recovered from your injuries in hospital, remember? So please give me a degree of credit, OK? The shit really hit the fan with the death of Ronald, a highly suspicious death at that and one that is not solved as yet. The publicity and untimely closure lost us massive turnover. Even old clients are avoiding us. We need to regroup, and fast. I’ll ask again: Is that the end of the matter?’

  Michael paced the floor. ‘Yes, it appears so,’ he said unconvincingly.

  ‘Christ, Dad! I need a better answer than that…’

  ‘There’s naturally going to be an inquest into Ronald’s murder. I may have to go back to Venice to give evidence into the death of Maggie and her henchman. Then…’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘…Then there is a news story that is coming out in a national magazine shortly.’

  ‘What news story?’

  ‘A six-page all singing, all dancing exposé into my torrid affair with Lauren O’Neill. And the small matter of the fire at Laburnum Farm, which took her life. But you know all this, it’s public knowledge.’

  ‘Why is it being dragged up again?’

  ‘Because someone smells a rat, and recent events have put us back on the front page.’

  ‘This will kill us, Dad.’

  ‘I know. You mentioned it before.’

  ‘Don’t you care? We’re fucking finished. The bank will call in the loan if we don’t meet the covenants. I can’t put any more cash in. The gallery is losing money since the murder of Ronald. The bad publicity is relentless.’

  ‘There’s always a way out…I need time to think.’

  ‘That’s a luxury we don’t have. I have people willing to invest…’

  ‘There’s a but coming I feel.’

  ‘There is, as always.’

  Michael read the script, and lowered his eyes. ‘Then there is a way out.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I resign, and distance myself from the gallery. You can appoint a new board of directors with money to burn. Damage limitation, yes? Bring in someone squeaky clean to wow the punters back. The gallery can then survive. Is that your proposal?’

  ‘Are you prepared to do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a brittle undertone.

  ‘When?’

  When?

  Michael was stunned by the suddenness of Toby’s question. His son was now steely-eyed and deadly serious in his request. He was cornered.

  ‘As of this minute,’ he volunteered solemnly.

  ‘Accepted,’ Toby said.

  ***

  Later, he drowned his sorrows in the Duke of Wessex. How many times had Ronald sat here with him over the years? It was the end of a chapter. It had been agreed with his son that the forthcoming Gala would be his final hurrah, his crowning glory. Some glory. It was now after work hours, and his defences were down. He was glum and seriously pissed off with Toby, but he knew it was for the best. It was the only way for the business to survive and his son had too much to lose if it failed. There was no choice in the matter. He was the architect of his own downfall.

  He sat glumly in the company of his drinking pal Terry, whom he had phoned earlier to help prop up his failing ego.

  ‘What will you do?’ Terry asked, sipping his Guinness with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. This was no party.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ Michael said. ‘I’ll probably sell the house in the country and remain in Chelsea, possibly downsize and set up an art consultancy in the city.’

  ‘You could do journalistic work.’

  ‘Funnily enough, I’ve been approached by two publishing companies with a view to writing my side of the story, but I’m not sure if it appeals at this stage.’

  ‘Good money, I bet.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Do you want a ghost writer?’

  Michael laughed for the first time. ‘I’ll know where to come, Terry.’

  ‘Bad news...My story breaks in a week’s time.’


  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Put your tin hat on.’

  ‘I’ll find a hole to crawl into.’

  ‘My piece centres mainly on the fire at the farm and your relationship with Lauren. I need to do a postscript. Can you bring me up to date so I can rebalance the story for the readers? This is more explosive than the fall of Lehman Brothers, to be honest. Even I can’t keep up with it.’

  Michael refreshed the drinks and ordered two of the day’s Specials: Grimsby fish and chips with mushy peas. His treat. It was the least he could do. Slowly, he recounted the story from the moment of the first act of vandalism at his gallery to to seeing Maggie obliterated in a speeding boat as it careered headlong into a dredger. Theo was gone too, but he kept Martin’s name out of this one. That was one saga that could be put to bed. The death of Ronald was unresolved. Adele was still on his mind. All that mattered was that Kara had been miraculously rescued and now each of them had to find a way to deal with the aftermath, the wreckage that remained in their heads. Could Terry somehow fathom that one out? He doubted it.

  ‘That’s my job, Michael. I’m an investigative journalist…I deal in facts and figures and human frailty. It’s called an emotional rollercoaster. That just adds to the futility and complexity of human greed and the need for revenge, as in the case of Maggie Conlon. I’m not a psychiatrist, nor do I want to be. I have enough on my plate without analysing the reasons behind someone’s extreme reactions which often manifests itself in their own self-destruction.’

  ‘Are you pointing a finger?’

  ‘To be blunt, yes.’

  ‘Don’t worry about kicking a man when he’s down, will you?’

  ‘Sorry, pal, but you brought the whole sorry house down on yourself. You used a sledgehammer to crack a walnut and that’s exactly what happened. The walnut is now just dust in your hand.’

  ‘Who needs enemies…’

  ‘I’m just telling you how it is.’

  ‘Christ, Terry, I’ll just go home and take the overdose of tablets, shall I?’

  ‘Many have done just that, but not you. Ronald should not die in vain, and think of Kara and her family. Not forgetting your son. They need you, even though it may not seem that way. Yes, go home but brush yourself down and come out fighting as you always do. Tomorrow is another day.’

  ‘Tomorrow is another day. Got it.’

  ‘Stop wallowing in self-pity. You are alive, Ronald isn’t, got it?’

  Terry then handed over an envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’ Michael asked quietly.

  ‘A cheque for twelve thousand pounds, returned to sender.’ Terry grinned and raised his glass. ‘According to my consultant I do not require surgery at this stage, nor laser treatment.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I am under supervision as the cancer has remained localised to the prostate gland. While this stays constant I do not need to go under the knife, yet.’

  ‘A kind of remission?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. But drastic measures are unnecessary…a bit like your choices in life.’

  Michael thought long and hard and realised just how lucky they had all been. He was too harsh on himself, even though he had been a complete prick. He waved the envelope away but Terry forced it into his top pocket in defiance. Michael wasn’t going to argue. He needed the money. He was out of work.

  He asked, ‘How is the world of finance…are we fucked?’

  ‘Absolutely. The Euro is screwed.’

  ‘Will we survive the apocalypse?

  ‘Probably. We always find a way, but it will take ten years to recover.’

  Michael raised his glass.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said.

  ***

  Outside the pub, they parted company with a prolonged drunken hug. Terry stood on the pavement as his friend clambered into a taxi and headed for home, and a new beginning. He still cradled a half-filled glass of the black stuff. It tasted good. He downed it with gusto and slowly made his way to the tube station. It was close to midnight, the sky sprinkled with a million jewels of light. The city throbbed with the intensity of a healthy beating heart, in spite of the catastrophic downturn in the economy. Somehow, there was always a way through a crisis, as Michael was now learning to his cost. There was always a price to pay. His mobile bleeped.

  He listened intently, thanked the caller and felt a deep frown crease his forehead. His optimism for the survival of humanity began to falter. The heat was back on. Sheila Cox’s car had been found. Somehow, he didn’t think this would bring good news to anyone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The thing that bothered Terry most was the odd location of the abandoned Astra. It was discovered in a lock-up garage in Liverpool, the last place he would have expected, especially as Sheila was supposedly driving south at the time of her disappearance…wasn’t that the original plan? Or was it so strange to find the car here? A complex picture was beginning to emerge. He knew this discovery meant trouble, but in what context? He just needed to fit in the last pieces of the jigsaw. This much he did know: During his earlier investigation into her disappearance, after talking to various kitchen staff at the pub, then village friends and finally her sister, he found out that Sheila had left home on the day of the fire for a new life in Jersey, in the Channel Isles. Her husband had been callously dumped for the promise of a better life. It turns out that she had met a businessman in The Royal Oak, struck up an immediate friendship with him and conducted their affair over many secretive months. They had planned their escape on this very day, the tragic consequences of which no one could possibly have foretold. Certainly not by her. Sheila packed, left home without fanfare and planned to head for Poole harbour to catch the ferry.

  Why then had her car ended up in Liverpool? Had she driven there…or had the car been stolen? He had to examine the evidence.

  Terry took the train out of London to the north west, met his police contact, handed over a wad of cash and was given brief unauthorised access to the vehicle. At this point, it was just a parked-up, dusty, nondescript car, with no one coming forward to claim it. It could have stayed hidden for years. Just so happened that a bunch of kids had broken into the garage, found the car, ransacked the CDs and then left the up-and-over door open for anyone to look inside and take pot luck. The tyres were taken next. Then the police got a tip-off. Terry was the next to get the nod. That’s how it worked.

  Sniffing around, he noted the road tax had elapsed. The owner of the lock-up was unknown at this stage, which was unhelpful, but the police were on to it. But the registration number of the car showed that it belonged to one Sheila Sarah Cox, licensee of The Royal Oak, Old Hampton, Surrey.

  The driver’s door had been opened by force, the side window smashed, the keys missing. Inside, there was dried blood on the steering wheel and door handles and strange black smears across the front seats. This baffled Terry at first. Then the smell of the interior hit his nostrils: Soot. The evidence of a fire...This car had been at Laburnum Farm on the day the barn burnt to the ground. There was no other explanation. The fire coincided with the exact time she left her husband. He tried to imagine the scenario. She would have been in a hurry to leave the area, quickly and without fuss. Why would she go to the farm?

  Terry tried to figure out what could have happened that fateful day. Then his inquisitive mind kicked in. He knew the answer instinctively. This changed everything…He needed to get back to London – and fast.

  ***

  In spite of his professional embarrassment – he knew people would snigger behind his back – Michael decided to throw caution to the wind and attend the Gala dance on board the Star Cruiser moored at Excel. It would have been too easy to crawl under a table and hide, as many colleagues in his industry might expect him to do. News of his resignation had soon got around and he had heard the disapproving murmurings out on the street.

  Well, he argued: Fuck them! Besides, he wanted to celebrate the important things in his life
and show solidarity with his son and work employees. He wasn’t out to pasture yet. The invitations had gone out for his selected table guests with only one refusal: Marcus. What a surprise. He was still playing hardball. The table comprised himself, Toby and his latest squeeze, Gemma and her boyfriend (whom he looked forward to meeting), Kara, two from the framing workshop and, as always, an invited client (plus one) who had loyally supported the gallery down the years. They extended the guest list by two: Julius and Antonia. The Gala was an annual ritual, a chance to unwind and get drunk, and a way to say thank you to those who best deserved it. More importantly, this year the Chairman would make a special citation to celebrate the life of Ronald Wilson, who would have sat at Michael’s table and been the life and soul of the party. He would be sadly missed, and was the main reason Michael had decided to attend. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, let dear Ronald down again; and it was vitally important that he got some kind of recognition from an industry he served so well. Michael feared he had unwittingly failed his colleague already. His death would haunt him to his own grave.

  The dinner and dance event was in the grand theme of a Venetian Ball, and fancy dress was compulsory. As was usual, Champagne and nibbles would be served on arrival, to the accompaniment of a string quartet playing Puccini, followed by a feast of five extravagant Italian courses. Later, the dance music would be more up-tempo, performed by a ten-piece jazz band. Each year the gala surpassed itself in refinement and splendour, and the evening was topped off with an award ceremony to give recognition to those in the Fine Art Society across the capital. Photographers from Tatler would also be in attendance. The patron this year was Princess Anne. It was that kind of a glittering occasion.

  Was Michael ready for this ridiculous exposure? The days had quickly passed. Tomorrow night would tell. He was in the spotlight once again.