Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  ***

  Kara had argued with Marcus to the point of disgust. She was determined to go to the Gala and support Michael. Marcus, on the other hand, was as stubborn as a mule. He nobly elected to babysit instead, making her feel even worse about her emphatic decision to attend. She wanted him there, beside her at the table. What was the problem? It wasn’t a big ask, in her view. To make matters worse, she ordered a beautiful sequined dress and short cape with a diamond encrusted emerald green mask from the designated fancy dress shop in Knightsbridge which every self-respecting person used for these special occasions. The upshot to all this? The outfit was costly to hire. Marcus was by now even more peeved. Well, sod him, she argued.

  ***

  Gemma felt awkward returning to work, and kept herself apart from both Michael and Toby. She was unsure of her future.

  Tomorrow night at the Gala was going to be a great occasion, a first for her, but in her pocket was a resignation letter. She couldn’t hack it any longer, working in the gallery and constantly stepping over the exact spot where Ronald was killed. Although now removed from sight, the white outline of his stricken body was imprinted forever on her brain. Frankly, it spooked her to the point of keeping her awake at night. The simple answer was to leave. Things could never be the same again. The job was difficult enough, but having to deal with murder and kidnapping was beyond the job description. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. Instead, she felt numb from head to toe. At closing time, she quietly placed her letter on Michael’s desk and left for home. Tomorrow would be her last official day. The Gala would be a fitting conclusion, and she hoped Michael and Toby would understand her reasons for jumping ship so early in her career. A job at Tesco’s was suddenly appealing.

  ***

  Martin Penny was not a man to dwell on past cases, but this one had got to him. Michael Strange had paid him a lot of money to ensure the safety of Kara and Marcus, and he accomplished this goal. But something nagged at his subconscious. In the beginning, his task was also to find Maggie. She and her sidekick Theo had been eliminated messily, but the operation was finally closed. Now he should

  move on. But he couldn’t. It was the unexpected killing of Ronald Wilson that bothered him, as he had tried to explain at the funeral when he discussed matters with Michael. But he also picked up that Michael wanted to draw a neat line over everything. So he did. Until now…

  He couldn’t let it go, baffled as to why Michael was lured to Venice when it was easier to kill him in London, baffled by his kidnapping alongside Julius and Antonia when Maggie didn’t have an obvious gripe with them, especially as she had obtained most of the paintings and sold them for a profit. Was she that desperate? He could understand her thirst for exacting revenge on Michael for the death of her sister, but why complicate matters by including the young lovers? This was like a ritual killing, a mass murder.

  Then it dawned on him. As Michael and he had discussed earlier, Michael was drawn to Venice to be separated from Kara. She was kidnapped at the same time and held prisoner, but for whom? Maggie was in Venice. It was almost as if she was one part of an equation. Certainly Theo was not the other part. He was just the go-between. The shapeshifter. Perhaps Maggie intended to massacre those held in Venice and then return to finish Kara. Highly unlikely and far too risky. Martin knew from army experience that an intended target should be removed quickly and efficiently for fear of being detected before the operation could be carried out. Which was exactly what happened: Kara was lucky to be alive.

  He was convinced that Maggie had an accomplice other than Theo and whoever it was, he or she had murdered Roland. He was an innocent victim, chosen randomly at the gallery to send a signal to Michael that his predator was close and capable of inflicting damage. It could just as easily have been Michael’s son or the new girl at the gallery, whose name he couldn’t recall. Lucky girl though. It could have been her who died that fateful day.

  Who then was the killer? Lauren was dead. He had tabs on Maggie and Theo, and his henchman was in Venice. Police had checked the CCTV cameras outside the gallery but they were not operational. Did Ronald know the identity of the killer, a killer who went about their business in brazen fashion in a public place on a busy street? This callous act was from the hands of someone either supremely confident or plain mad. What statement was the killer making? He pondered this point: To prove they could do anything, of course. To show they had the upper hand and to put the fear of God into Michael and Kara. The murder of Ronald would certainly bring home the message.

  He returned to the pub in Bermondsey. The landlord allowed him access to the bedsit, as it was still paid up to the end of the month. It cost him a twenty. The room was a shambles, now vacant. However, in a black bin bag he found hundreds of discarded photos of Michael and a young woman, who he recognised as Kara Scott. Who had really lived here until recently? Certainly not Maggie. She was gone. The landlord mentioned another woman, but he was vague and unhelpful. In Martin’s opinion it had to be someone off their rocker…a maniac. Someone with vengeance in their heart. And he was equally convinced that Mitch, like Ronald, had crossed their path too. And suffered the consequences.

  He was back on the case.

  ***

  Terry returned from Liverpool and went back to work, perplexed and overworked. His brain was ready to explode, such was the overload. As soon as time permitted he headed straight to Old Hampton, to The Royal Oak. From the car park he could just detect the chimneys of Laburnum Farm poking above the trees in the distance. He reasoned, therefore, that any smoke from the burning barn would have been easily spotted from here, especially an inferno of dense smoke blackening the sky. And if Sheila Cox was indeed in the car park at that precise moment, then she would have been aware of trouble on the horizon. Just supposing…

  He continued his car journey to the farm. It took four minutes to arrive at the gates. The fire would have been raging by now. Did Sheila try to help, knowing that her friend Lauren was living there and possibly trapped and in need of help? That seemed logical.

  It was inconceivable to imagine that she simply drove on. Terry tried to re-enact Sheila’s response. He drove down the gravel drive and pulled up at the side of the house. No, the intensity of the flames meant she would have either turned round or parked behind the main house, perhaps even in the open fronted garaging space where Lauren kept her 4 x 4. It was likely that at this point Sheila called the fire brigade. Confused, and wanting to help, it is possible she investigated the house and then entered the barn. Was it possible to do this with the intensity of flames leaping all around? The jury was out.

  What Terry did know from Michael’s account was that Maggie somehow escaped, and there was no mention in the police files of another car parked up at the house. Was this Maggie’s escape route? It began to appear so. This gave her mobility and anonymity. Proximity and chance. If this proved to be the case: Then what happened to Sheila Cox?

  Terry’s blood ran cold.

  ***

  When he first undertook the task of helping Michael uncover the whereabouts of Maggie, Martin employed a team to work undercover to flush her out into the open. They concentrated on a ‘golden square’, which they had mapped out as an area she probably worked within. Then they slowly narrowed that area, squeezing her ability to move effectively without being detected. Working beneath the radar, Martin concentrated on how quickly she operated, on the assumption that she mainly walked between destinations, rather than being picked up on CCTV at train stations in particular. Although probably in disguise, she would also avoid taxis for fear of being remembered. Walking gave her the freedom to move largely unrecognised, surrounded by millions of people. Therefore, she had to be close to Michael’s gallery and the one Marcus ran on the Docks. This was how she was able to break the windows and quickly vanish. Was she in disguise…or had she surgically changed her appearance? Doubtful. She had two children back in Ireland and the last thing she would want to do is freak them out. Besides, s
he was arrogant enough to make her presence known to Michael. She wanted to confront him, show him who was the Boss. So she strutted her stuff – brazen enough to even move in above him – and began planning his demise on her terms.

  Before this discovery, Martin was convinced she was living locally and put word out in his search for a single Irish woman in the area of the golden square. It was like finding a needle in a haystack, but people in general follow natural habits, even killers. She would find cover in her own comfort zone, where she could mingle easily. Through his network of contacts, he found eleven women of her apparent description, eight of them employed full-time in the city. They were eliminated. Another was partially blind and relied on a walking stick. Another was in a wheelchair. One, without a P45, fitted the bill perfectly and lived in a bedsit above an Irish pub in Bermondsey. Her name was Annie Byrne and investigations showed she had been staying in London for just five weeks. According to staff, she had a regular visitor, a man with a diamond in his teeth.

  His team was triumphant at first: They had got the bitch! But Martin and his team got too close. They made their first error. Another member of his gang, affectionately known as Havoc, introduced himself and befriended her as he had distant Irish connections. Initially, it seemed to work. He, in turn, introduced Martin as his brother. Martin should have known better: Never get too close to the enemy. She sussed them out, the clever cow. His cover was blown, without him knowing it. She arranged a meeting with Martin and enticed him to the spot beside the Thames, a little private jetty, and he agreed, to find out what she was capable of. It was midnight. He was nervous.

  Just before the meeting, and even more disturbing, Maggie was then spotted elsewhere, and was clearly setting a trap for him. Was Theo lying in wait for him, with a bunch of psychotic hooligans? He couldn’t back out of the meeting.

  A new plan was devised. As they were of similar build, Mitch and he swapped clothing and assumed each other’s identity (they could have been brothers, they were so alike), with Martin undertaking the task of tracking Maggie and finding out what she was up to. It was vital that she was kept under surveillance and he felt this was his direct responsibility. Mitch could look after himself if cornered. Sadly, he apparently couldn’t. His body was later found bludgeoned to death, floating in the Thames.

  Clearly, someone wanted Martin Penny dead but luckily the killer was duped convincingly by the late identity swap. Perhaps it was the darkness of the night …

  Like Ronald, Mitch’s death wasn’t at the hands of Maggie because on both occasions she was under tight surveillance. So who killed his colleague? Theo, as he first guessed? He was doubtful. It was someone who was either easily fooled or an assassin just doing their job cold-heartedly, without emotion. They killed whoever stood in front of them. It was someone that neither Mitch, Havoc or Martin had ever met: A rogue element of the worst kind.

  The battle perameters had just been shifted.

  He turned his thoughts to the Birthday badge displayed on the window, which Michael discovered. It was a trophy for sure. Why would Maggie dare to do such a thing? It wasn’t her style. She had no emotional attachment to Michael. Who did? Was it someone else sending a message, someone with a clear need for personal vengeance? Who was this rogue element? Who was the real Ms Byrne?

  ***

  Before leaving the death site, Terry tried to gain access to the house. The doors were locked, the windows boarded up. It was a sorrowful reminder of better days: now all that remained was grimy paintwork and cobwebs hanging under the dark eaves, whispers on the wind. He snapped the door handle at the rear and shoulder-charged it open. Inside, it was dark and dank. The remains of the furniture was covered in white sheets. No one appeared to live here…

  He was perturbed to find smouldering embers in a fireplace. He wasn’t expecting this…it was probably a tramp finding shelter, he figured. He was more perturbed when he found a woman’s silver bracelet seemingly discarded on the mantel. It looked expensive. Odd. Who had been visiting here temporarily? It was now abandoned for sure, just like the spirit of Lauren. Even her estranged husband, Julius, hadn’t the heart to return and claim what was rightfully his, which was, in truth, an impressive estate standing on prime land. Worth a packet. He guessed that the property would have been part of an ongoing legal battle between Maggie and Julius to gain eventual ownership. Although rightfully his, Terry was sure that over time she would have tried to get her claws into it. Now there was no dispute. Maggie was dead. She could no longer claim anything. Julius was the rightful legal claimant to the estate. No will could contest this. With Maggie exposed and later identified, Lauren’s death was at last conclusive. Julius no longer needed to wait the seven years’ time lapse to formally declare his wife dead. It would have been a long wait.

  In the meantime, the house stood empty. Terry turned his attention to the question of what happened to the paintings by Patrick Porter, which were the subject of a tug of war between the warring couple. These paintings were worth nearly a million pounds. The walls were empty. Someone had removed the paintings. Michael had indicated that they were in storage, pending any legal claim. Terry wanted to verify this.

  He had seen enough. He headed straight for Michael’s home, anxious to discuss his findings. He had serious questions to ask. Just then, his mobile bleeped. He listened intently. The caller informed him that the lock-up in Liverpool belonged to a man of Greek origin called Theo Lakis.

  ***

  Michael collected his hired costume for the Gala and dumped the items in the gallery. There was a letter waiting for him but he set it to one side. He arranged for a private limousine to arrive at the gallery at closing time tomorrow to pick him up, then pick up all the guests up en route. He wanted to do it in style.

  He decided to stay in the West End and have some fun and let his hair down. He ended up at Annabel’s for cocktails, followed by a feast at Momo’s, the Moroccan restaurant just off Regent Street. He didn’t want to be alone in the apartment, morose and jobless. Toby was right of course, the business would only survive if new blood was introduced, and quickly. His continued presence was rather like Terry’s cancer…a black spot that wouldn’t go away without it being removed. He was being removed.

  There was only one thing to do. He picked up one of the waitresses and moved on to a nightclub. The rest of the night was a blur, but he remembered spending a lot of money and he got to keep the girl. He didn’t go home. He went to her place.

  ***

  Terry arrived at around seven in the evening to Michael’s block of flats, just as the concierge was going home. They exchanged pleasantries as Terry headed for the lift.

  ‘Could you give this to Mr Strange?’ the elderly man asked.

  Terry turned and was handed a slim package. It meant nothing to him, he’d just do the errand. Moments later he alighted from the lift and rang the doorbell. No answer. He waited, then phoned Michael’s mobile. It was switched off. Damn. A wasted journey. Where the hell was he? He’d try again in the morning. He left the building in search of a burger bar, the package temporarily forgotten and shoved in his coat pocket. His mind was a whirl. He couldn’t switch off. Where was Michael?

  He got home, had a beer and watched TV. It took him three hours to finally get to sleep.

  ***

  The next morning Michael awoke in a stranger’s bed, a king-sized four poster covered by crumpled black satin sheets and pink cushions. A pair of French silk knickers and stockings were entwined around his arm. Christ, now he remembered...

  The smell of cigarettes lingered in the air. His head felt like a crushed melon. An empty bottle of Champagne and two glass flutes stood on the carpeted floor beside him. He heard the shower from an adjoining room and guessed he wasn’t alone…if only he could remember her name. What was he thinking of?

  He climbed from the bed and steadied himself.

  ‘Coffee?’

  He turned and caught sight of a young woman standing by the bathroom door, he
r lissom naked body dripping wet. Slowly and unabashed, she towelled herself down in front of him as she repeated the question.

  ‘That would be good…’

  ‘Double espresso?’

  He nodded as he watched her glide into the next room. He recovered his trousers, slipped them on and followed. He felt like shit, too old for this game. Under the harshness of the kitchen down-lights, he ruffled his hair, drank water and tried to avoid eye contact as best he could. She was perhaps twenty odd, for heaven’s sake. He was old enough to be her father.

  This auburn-haired beauty turned and laughed, handing him a small coffee cup.

  ‘You don’t even recall my name, do you?’

  ‘I’m struggling,’ he said.

  ‘Snap.’

  They both grinned and downed their coffee.

  ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

  She dropped the towel.

  ‘Do it all again,’ she said, ‘only this time we should perhaps formally introduce ourselves first.’ Her smile was infectious. ‘Leah,’ she volunteered.

  ‘James.’ He kissed her lightly and studied her deep set amber eyes, catching the devilment within them.

  ‘Liar!’ they both exclaimed simultaneously, wild laughter filling the room. This relationship wasn’t going anywhere, and neither of them cared one jot.

  She kissed his mouth, deeper this time and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the kitchen and then led him to the bedroom, slowly closing the door behind them.

  ***

  Terry downed a chilled orange juice from the fridge, ate a packet of crisps and slumped on the sofa. He had slept right through, which was unusual for him. It was now mid-morning. He flicked through the TV channels and decided to take a soak in the bath. He removed his coat and tossed it across the back rest. The package fell from the pocket. He’d forgotten about it. On inspection, it was a CCTV disc. Idly, he read the scrawled writing on one side: For the attention of Michael Strange. It didn’t mean anything to him. He grabbed a lager this time, discarded the disc and went upstairs to run the water. An hour later he came down in his dressing gown, made tea and sandwiches and studied the package again. It was not sealed so he removed the disc. His investigative urge took over and he inserted the disc in his laptop and sat back on the sofa to watch. He immediately recognised the entrance door and communal area where Michael lived.