Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  A CALL TO WITNESS

  The second novel in the

  Michael Strange series

  Spencer Coleman

  Fiction aimed at the heart

  and the head...

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2014

  Copyright © Spencer Coleman 2014

  Spencer Coleman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

  www.caffeine-nights.com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907565-83-0

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  Spencer Coleman

  Martin Spencer Coleman was born in 1952, Leicester, England. He has been a professional artist and gallerist for over thirty years handling the work of artists from all around the world. A keen sportsman he is an avid follower of Portsmouth football club. Over the years, he has written several magazine articles and been regularly interviewed on BBC radio in connection to his artistic endeavours. His paintings are collected worldwide and one of his fine art prints "Bottoms Up" was an international best seller. He currently lives in Lincolnshire and has one son, Jordan. This is his second novel.

  www.spencercolemanfineart.com

  Email: martinspencercoleman@gmail.com

  To both my parents, who taught me to always face adversity head on

  Acknowledgements:

  Eternal gratitude to Darren Laws from Caffeine Nights for helping to bring this book to publication. This process is always a long road to undertake. I would also like to thank my family for their support and belief and to those who offered unflagging encouragement over the years. You know who you are. I'll need you all again in the future, I'm sure!

  The Poisoned Carnival

  There is more to light in the morning

  When demons have been playing at night

  In that cage of broken doubts

  And death comes but at a price

  Too late for a call to witness

  Where uncertainly is the winner

  Where dark lies, crawl and bell

  As red tears drop and crush under foot

  Revenge is sweet but twice bitter

  When your life is on the line

  You do not betray your shadows

  Echoing Hell and past devotions

  When others collected vengeance

  Even flames were far too dark

  Whatever the dreamer said

  It's too soon to drop our mask

  Jorge Aguilar-Agon, B.Agr., AEA, AAPB, FRSA.

  PROLOGUE

  AUTUMN, MAYFAIR, LONDON, 2007

  A million deadly shards of glass lay sprinkled like jewelled confetti outside the vandalised grand façade of the gallery. A fine drizzle fell from the midnight sky. From afar, the distant rumblings indicated an approaching storm.

  The glazier trod carefully, crunching glass under foot, as he expertly removed the last of the razor-sharp fragments lodged precariously in the window frame. It was hazardous and noisy work, hampered by the slippery pavement as the rain intensified, the droplets illuminated by the artificial light from the row of elegant Georgian street lamps. With the remainder of the splinters cleared away, the man and his colleague worked methodically on the boarding-up process. It was a laborious task, one they had undertaken perhaps a thousand times before. Between them, they heaved several enormous sheets of heavy MDF into position, covering up the gaping hole which had, hours before, been part of the most impressive shop-front on the street. It was now a repaired wreck, a sorrowful sight set among some of London’s finest shops.

  The loud retort of the nail gun fractured the air, repeatedly. Those who lived in the apartments opposite peeped through curtains to express their displeasure at the continued disturbance to their sleep. One or two late night revellers gathered on the pavement, watching the activity as the alarm continued to shrill. The flickering strobe lighting danced off the walls of the wet buildings.

  Within the gallery (made up of four interconnecting high-ceilinged rooms), a man, standing forlorn, looked on at the surrounding chaos, his eyes as dark as the night that engulfed him. For a fleeting moment, he was content to remain anonymous in the unlit gloom, alone with his puzzled thoughts. In the choking dust and debris, he saw a parallel scene of his own making: a fading picture of ruin.

  He managed to clear his head of such a mundane judgment and dragged his weary limbs to the pavement, a mobile stuck to his ear as he tried to contact his absent colleagues.

  The workmen, meanwhile, had momentarily downed tools and one of them busied himself with documentation. The other lit a cigarette, his beer belly protruding flabbily over his trouser belt. Thankfully for all concerned, the alarm automatically ceased, and in the relative calm, the man with the phone took the opportunity to punch in fresh numbers on his keypad. He waited, agitated. He buttoned his jacket against the invasive cold as the wind swirled in from the west. The first clap of thunder reached them high above.

  ‘It’s Michael. I’m here now,’ he explained. On the surface he remained unruffled but his voice wavered and betrayed his thin pretence of control. ‘No, no. The paintings are fine. No damage, but it’s a miracle, I can tell you.’ He waited, listening to the response; then added, ‘I need you to come in early in the morning to help with the cleaning-up operation.’ Pacing back and forth, he listened again, then said, ‘Thanks.’

  With that, he clicked off, pondering the next move. Under the lamp light, his silver hair glistened. Rain settled on his jacketed shoulders. Punching the keypad once more, he spoke quickly. ‘Toby, it’s me. I hope you get this message. Just an update from our earlier conversation… everything is under control. I’ve just spoken to Ronald. He’s coming in early tomorrow to help. The alarm company is on the way now. I’ll stay until the premises are secure and the police have done their report. No need for you to come out. Luckily, there is no damage to the artwork. It appears that someone threw a brick at the window, probably some drunken yob ejected from the nightclub down the road. It’s happened before.’ He yawned, aware that a police car was parking up opposite, and continued: ‘The glaziers are here, and should be finished shortly. I’ll speak to the insurers first thing tomorrow.’ He fell silent again, checked his watch and then said, ‘Should be wrapped up within the hour. Hope the concert was good. Perhaps I’ll grab a cup of tea but, in the circumstances, a double whisky would be preferable. Anyway, get here when you can in the morning. I’ll open as normal. OK. Bye for now.’

  Michael clicked off and suddenly felt the unseasonal chill of the August night clatter his bones. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky. Retreating once more into the gallery, he offered tea to the w
orkers and moved to the kitchen, switching on the interior lights as he went. This incident with the broken window spooked him more than previous occasions, however seldom they occurred. The shock never diminished. You just have to deal with it, he reminded himself. Usually, it was an empty beer bottle that did the damage, never a brick as the glazier suspected. This was a deliberate act of destruction, he sensed, not just an impulsive booze-induced prank. He recalled that many years ago someone even pissed through the letterbox on New Year’s Eve. This was more sinister, however. It implied a personal statement of attack. You don’t just find a brick lying in the road.

  In his increased anxiety, Michael dropped a mug of tea onto the floor, smashing it. Scalding water splashed his trousers, instantly saturating his legs. He cursed as his skin reacted to the burning. Fuck. He towelled down as best he could and tried again, refilling another cup with trembling hands. For Christ’s sake, get a proper grip this time.

  Out on the street, he encountered the workmen and offered the hot beverage. One of them (the one with the gut), handed him a piece of blackened rock.

  ‘That’s what did the damage, Boss. Found it at the back of the window.’

  Michael took the offending missile, turning it in his hand. ‘What is it?’

  A policeman approached, nodded to them all and reached out and inspected the evidence.

  ‘Flint,’ he muttered, then pondered: ‘Unusual… especially in this neighbourhood. This is the kind of thing more suited to a country barn, hardly a Mayfair mansion.’

  Michael’s heart pounded, his mind racing. What did he just say?

  The officer, peering at a notepad, said matter-of-factly: ‘Our station had a call-out from Red Care. I’m looking for a Michael Strange, the principal key holder…is that you sir?’

  Ashen-faced, Michael stared at him, preoccupied suddenly by a ghost from the past. He nodded his reply but it wasn’t picked up. He felt the jagged edges of the piece of flint as he took hold of it again. His world almost somersaulted in that second. Christ: a barn. That’s what the officer implied. His brain shifted gear, shuddering at the memory – and acrid smell – of flames and burning flesh from the inferno at the barn over a year ago. Terrible images flashed before him: He was still haunted by his lucky escape from the fire at Laburnum Farm. This incident brought it back so vividly, with the reference to the chunk of flint. Was there a connection between the two incidents? Surely, surely not…he closed his eyes for a moment and thought first of Lauren O’Neill, and then Maggie Conlon: the two psychotic sisters who, not so long ago, had almost destroyed him and those he was closest to, Kara and Marcus.

  Lauren was dead, killed by a falling roof beam. Was this the work of her mad sister hell-bent on revenge? It didn’t bear thinking about, but the possibility was strong: compelling, in fact. He opened his eyes, felt dizzy and in the same instant nervously scanned the road in either direction. Maggie was a very dangerous fugitive with murder in her heart. She had tried to kill him once before. She would try again, given the opportunity. All she needed was proximity and chance.

  ‘Sir..?’ the policeman repeated. ‘Are you the key holder?’

  Michael caught his breath and thought of the double whisky again. No amount of firewater would calm his unease on this night. He nodded his reply again and stood aside as the policeman inspected the damage to the property and made notes as he went. Michael was more concerned by the whereabouts of the perpetrator to this criminal act.

  It had to be her, her with the poisonous eyes of the devil. He scanned the street once more, nervous of any simple movement that would spook him still further. A light faded from the window opposite, the curtains yanking tight. He twitched. A taxi pulled into the street further down, forcing him to take a step back. Maggie had that affect on him. Two lovers alighted and disappeared into a building, a frenzy of sexually-charged laughter following their unsteady footsteps. Relief washed over him. Then the street was deserted once more, but still he wanted to be sure…of what? He stared intently, startled by another thunder roar and a fork of lighting too close for comfort. He stood his ground though, determined to show his mettle. She was out there somewhere, watching his every move from the shadows. He was sure of it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Michael Strange caught the central line train to Piccadilly, and then hurriedly walked the short distance to the Churchill Fine Art gallery on Cork Street, his business address for the past twenty odd years. It was a sticky morning, the storm failing to shift the humidity of the past few days. The first of the falling reddish leaves dotted the wet pavements around Berkeley Square. Michael wore his customary cream raincoat, unbuttoned, the waist belt dangling in his wake. Although his stride was purposeful, he was mindful of the slippery surface underfoot. However, he knew the sorry image of the smashed window would shortly take the spring from his step, bringing an air of despondency crashing down around him. Something had to spoil his misguided optimism on this morning: Another day, another problem. And the thought of Maggie, which had disturbed his shallow dreams during a fitful night, was definitely a big problem. However, once he got to the premises he knew it would be a case of heads down and “work as usual”. There wouldn’t be time to wallow in self-pity. Hopefully, Ronald would have arrived early, as he had promised when they spoke on the mobile the night before. Ronald was dependable. Michael missed having Kara around though, his old sidekick. She was always a rock in a crisis. That she hastily left the gallery in difficult circumstances, pushed out by his then estranged wife during his recovery in hospital from the injuries he sustained in the fire, was a big regret to him. Adele, his ex-wife. The very name turned his stomach: Now the ex-business partner too. That had a good ring to it. Many long months had now passed since Kara had departed. Christmas had come and gone and big changes had occurred: He underwent two more operations, the divorce settlement all but wiped him out, Toby, his son, saved the business with renewed investment and Kara, well, she was heavily pregnant and no doubt preoccupied by all things maternal. He felt like old news and debated the obvious question: Would she ever return to work? He hoped so, but here was the rub. Although Adele was gone, he and Kara had drifted apart. They hadn’t spoken in nearly nine months, since she announced her good news. This saddened him, but he knew he had to let go. Marcus had made this point forcibly. They were now the team. He was excluded. He shrugged. All things were possible though. Life staggers on, he muttered solemnly under his breath.

  As he’d predicted, he was suddenly stopped in his tracks. The boarded-up façade of the gallery was indeed a dreadful sight, more of a shock now in broad daylight. The new replacement window hadn’t arrived, and a few tiny shards of glass remained scattered in the gutter, a sharp reminder of the carnage from last night. The entrance door was ajar, and the overhead spotlights ablaze. As he entered, Ronald spotted him approaching with a frown and, eyes averted, scurried around with bin liner and broom, oblivious to the dust that still seeped into the display area where he had just cleaned diligently. Michael shook off his raincoat and closed the door behind him. Catching sight of the fragment of flint, discarded upon a desk, he once again felt threatened by this brutish act. What he didn’t want to do was force his paranoia onto the shoulders of others…notably his trusted colleague. The less he knew about the sisters of doom, the better.

  The implication that Maggie had thrown the missile was, at this stage, unfounded, and possibly far-fetched. It gave him the creeps though. The last thing Michael needed was unnecessary hysteria from the staff. For the time being, he would keep counsel…and wait. Anything else just fuelled gossip, and he had enough of that to last a lifetime. He just knew though that he, Kara and Marcus would spent the rest of their lives haunted by their past deeds.

  He exchanged pleasantries with Ronald as if every woe that befell them could be taken in their stride. Ronald, though, was having none of it on this morning, mumbling aloud as to who he thought was responsible for the vandalism. He suggested a late night boozer. Michael just nodded
at the conjecture, keeping everything as low-key as possible. Ronald then swore aloud, venting his frustration as a splinter of glass lodged in his finger. It was going to be one of those days.

  Michael made coffee, switched up the air conditioning and largely confined himself to the job in hand: It was important to get the gallery presentable to the public as soon as possible. He retreated to his office and spoke with the insurance company to submit a claim for damage to the shop front. The conversation proved predictably dull and time-consuming. He then phoned the police to check the film footage from the CCTV camera in the street, only to discover that it was out of order. More expletives followed.

  The new office girl arrived at midday, excused the morning off to attend a dental appointment for a nagging toothache. She appeared dazed at first, but Michael had difficulty working out if this was a reaction to the mess in the gallery or from the injection into her gums, and no doubt the overzealous drill that followed. If the truth be known, Michael also found it difficult forging a close friendship with Gemma after so many years working alongside Kara. It was an odd situation, but one he had to get used to. He missed Kara desperately, and wished for her to breeze into the gallery just like the good old days. She would have taken everything in her stride. Just like the old days.

  Nostalgia was a fine thing, he reflected, but the past was the past. It was a new regime now, with Toby taking the reins which, in turn, allowed Michael to find his feet again after many weeks in hospital, slowly recovering from the burns and smoke inhalation that so nearly killed him. Of course, the new girl knew nothing of how this enforced change had altered lives so drastically and affected the status quo. How could she know? She was the outsider, taken on by Adele after she unceremoniously dumped Kara. He sighed. People come and go. No one was indispensable… but he hated the change. He missed Kara. Get on with it, his ex-wife Adele would have said bitingly. He certainly didn’t miss her.