‘What do you propose we do?’ Marcus asked finally.
Michael was taken aback by his conciliatory manner. The aggression had gone from his voice. ‘We watch our backs, for a start,’ Michael began, returning to the small kitchen at the rear. He suddenly noticed something – a canvas, maybe? – wrapped tightly in a grey blanket. This struck him as odd, as everything else propped against the wall was protected by bubble wrap. His mind moved on. ‘I’m going to Venice, as you know. I intend to speak with Julius, to see if he too has experienced any problems. I suggest that you keep an eye on Kara. Bring her into the gallery, with Harvey. Don’t allow for them to be left alone. Maybe her mother can stay over? I know a private detective. Seems a bit extreme, but I’m willing to pay him to dig around and also watch over you all. When I get back, we can sit down and plan a course of action. Do you remember Terry Miles? He is a journalist friend of mine. I’ll get him on board too.’
‘What about the police?’
‘They will only act upon hard evidence, not our paranoia as you put it. Besides, after dropping the case against us in regard to Lauren’s death, the last thing we want is to have them fishing into the case again. I propose we get them involved when we have a fix on Maggie.’ He elected at this stage to refrain from telling him about his forthcoming interview with the police, in order to quell any further panic.
‘Agreed. Who is this detective?’
‘His name is Martin Penny, ex-army. Served in Bosnia. I’ve used him before. With your permission I’ll pass on your address details to him. He will then contact you direct. Best Kara is not aware of this, although I had mentioned the idea to her. What do you think?’
‘Yeah, keep it quiet. Kara doesn’t need the hassle of a minder on her shoulder. It’ll spook her.’
‘Be aware, Marcus. This is for real. If you become suspicious of anything, then be assured that you need to be suspicious, OK?
‘OK.’
Michael moved to the door. ‘Have you called the glaziers?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I like this bronze,’ he said. ‘How much to me?’
‘Three thousand pounds’
‘Best price for the trade?’
‘Three thousand.’
Michael laughed at the arrogance, raising an eyebrow. ‘You make a crap businessman. We need to look after each other…’
‘I just won’t be taken advantage of.’ Then Marcus offered for the first time a broad grin, adding: ‘I know you want to protect us. Thanks, Michael.’
As he walked along the boardwalk beside the dock, Michael felt a begrudging degree of solidarity at last, although it was a flimsy stand-off. But he would take it. He would negotiate the price of the bronze at a later date. His stride quickened.
***
Back at his apartment, Michael poured himself a glass of Chilean Merlot, adjusted the lighting to a more ambient mood and turned on a CD of Mozart’s Symphony No 21. He kicked off his shoes, checked the mail and decided on something to eat. For the first time in ages, he had a ferocious appetite.
He was suddenly agitated by a dull thumping on the ceiling from the flat above. It had happened before, as if a heavy object was being dragged across the floor. He vowed to leave a note on the door asking Ms Byrne to quiet things down a bit. His thoughts then returned to his meeting with Marcus which had gone well, against all expectations of obstinacy and ego causing friction between them. However, he couldn’t decide who was obstinate and who had the bigger ego. Then he thought of the mysterious item wrapped in the blanket. What was Marcus hiding?
He extracted a ribeye steak from the fridge, prepared a mixed green salad and microwaved a jacket potato, settling into an evening of quiet reflection. Having Marcus on his team was a whole lot better than having him sniping from the sidelines. He fried the steak medium rare, refilled his glass, ate well, and caught the six o’clock news on the TV. All the talk was on sub-prime chaos over the pond. An economic advisor suggested that the tide of woes would wash up on the coast of Britain soon. He was loudly put in his place by an opposing politician, who refuted such panic-mongering. An argument ensued. Michael was convinced that there was a case for caution. After all, there was no smoke without a fire. He knew everything there was to know on that subject. Further news brought bad trading figures on the stock exchange and doubtful murmurings from the banking quarter.
This was getting serious, Michael concluded. He finished the wine, washed up and caught the end of Have I Got News For You. At last, he had something to amuse him: cheap laughs at the expense of the Government. Ian Hislop from Private Eye was in his element, as usual, satirising everyone in his beady sights. It made him smile. He then made coffee, dug out the telephone number he was looking for from a drawer in the hallway, grabbed his phone and dialled. There was an automated messaging service.
Michael spoke. ‘Hi Martin, Michael Strange here. Remember me? I’d appreciate a call to discuss a job that you might be interested in. It’s urgent.’ He then left his phone number at home and work. He drank more coffee and scanned The Times. Later, he penned the outline for an article that he intended to publish for his art magazine All The Rage. It was a profile on the rise of Cuban painters, most notably from Havana. Michael could see the potential in investment opportunities, and hoped the market could be stimulated by his remarks. Toby and he had planned to travel over and discover new talent within the year. Provided the economy held.
The phone rang, and he answered quickly, turning the music down as he did so.
The metallic voice was north-east heavy, probably from Middlesbrough: ‘Martin Penny, returning your call. Is that Michael?’’
‘It is, thanks for getting back so quickly. We’ve worked together before, many years ago. Do you recall?’
‘I do, Michael. How can I help?’
‘I’m looking for two things. Firstly, personal protection for a former colleague of mine, a woman and her new baby. Secondly, to investigate the whereabouts of a fugitive who I believe is stalking us.’
‘I charge one hundred and fifty pounds per hour, plus expenses.’
No small talk, Michael observed.
‘Fine,’ he gulped. He did the mental arithmetic. Not such a good idea perhaps.
‘The fugitive: man or woman?’
‘Woman.’
‘Is she known to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is the job home or overseas?’
‘London.’
‘Prepare a full dossier on her. I want everything you know written in a file. And I mean everything. A photograph of her would be helpful.’
‘Done.’
‘Shall we meet at your office or at your home? Maybe you prefer neutral ground.’
‘Neutral ground it is.’
‘When and where?’
‘Tomorrow night, say eight, in the bar at the Tower Thistle Hotel. Does that suit you?’
‘See you at eight.’
Then the line went dead.
Immediately after, Michael gathered a pile of loose leaf A4 writing paper from his desk, headlined the top copy MAGGIE CONLON and then started scribbling. It was going to be a long, arduous night. He reached for the whisky bottle.
His scrambled brain tried to recall an image of Mr Penny. Not exactly the most talkative person, thought Michael. But then again, he wanted action, not words from his new sidekick. Words never killed anyone. Maggie didn’t understand words or reasoning. Martin Penny was just the kind to sort her out, once and for all. It was just going to cost a tidy packet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Terry Miles had to do two things, both of which he hated. The first was to undertake a blood test at his local clinic and then, secondly, arrange an appointment with his consultant, who would give him an update on the condition of his cancer. The last MRI scan revealed a group of tumours central to the prostate gland, which indicated a T3 reading, meaning that the disease was non-evasive at present.
It was a case of wait-and-see, according to Mr Callow, the urology specialist. According to Terry, it was a toss-up being caught between a short and long fuse. Both led to the same thing.
Michael had generously provided the funds to seek private alternative remedies, one being HIFU laser treatment, which was largely untested, but a viable cure for some. All in all, it was an unnerving experience going through this uncharted territory, trying desperately to understand the right course of action to take. It was that ‘C’ word. It terrified him. It terrified everyone. He suddenly felt lonely and vulnerable. The biopsy procedure was bad enough, intrusive and degrading. Then there was his morbid fear of needles. For the nurse at the clinic, it was routine stuff: A quick jab. For Terry, it represented his darkest irrational nightmare.
When it rained…
Something else jabbed at him too, this time at his subconscious. On his recent trip to the farm, he saw for the first time the momentous calamity that befell his friend, Michael Strange, and the home of the mysterious woman that he had loved and lost. What really happened to drag all these people to the barn on that fateful day? What secrets did each of them hold? How did the inferno start? Why did they need to fight each other with such venom? What became of Maggie, the sister to the dead woman? Much more damning: why did someone need to perish in such horrible circumstances…Was it simply a terrible accident? Terry began to see the bigger picture, murky as it was. This was a story of betrayal and greed and jealousy. At the heart of the conflict was Lauren O’Neill. Who was this alluring female? Why did she have such power over Michael and Kara? She too was like a cancer insidiously eating away at their flesh, all consuming…This suddenly made him feel squeamish, and utterly dispensable in the great scheme of things. Each of them was small beer, given that the world was fucked anyway. So was he.
Oddly, against this weird backcloth, he thought of Sheila Cox, the publican at The Royal Oak. It was after his impromptu visit to the pub that first set his mind wandering in her direction. She had gone missing, if you could seriously believe the teenage zombie called Lilly and her gossip. A far-fetched scenario: Someone so well-known to the community simply vanishing into thin air. Terry resolved to investigate this further. Something didn’t add up. First things first, he vowed to take Michael back to the farm to confront his demons, which he knew his friend had locked away but couldn’t quite discard the key. He was a haunted man. It was here that they could piece together the tragic events that unfolded that day. He knew Michael would be reluctant to do this, but Terry was determined that his friend would need to exorcise the loss of someone so close. After all, Michael and Lauren were intense lovers. He knew that Michael still carried her image like a beacon in his head. How did he know this? He knew Michael, knew how his mind worked. As an investigative journalist, it was his job to dig beneath the surface, and Michael, despite his serene manner, was a tortured human being: ready to explode. He kept his anger and frustration hidden, that was for sure. And here was the clue. Michael simply never spoke of her, to anyone, as far as he was aware. If the pain was locked away so deep, well, it was time to find the key to release it.
Terry underwent the jab the next day and arranged an appointment with the consultant in two weeks’ time. Now he had to return to the job in hand. He had a deadline to meet. Normally, he would enlist the help of researchers for the story, but this was too risky if he wanted to protect his friend. He would do all the work himself, interview all those involved, aided by his internal source in the police department, happy that he could meet the deadline in six weeks’ time. He opened a file on his laptop at home, rather than at work, and created a new password. He codenamed the article with the provisional working title:
The dealer and the devil:
The story of Michael Strange.
No one would see this file until it was absolutely finished and necessary for his editor to give it the green light for publication. Then the public would be hit with it, and the shit would hit the fan. He decided to write two versions, one for his editor which he would submit for her approval, and the alternative one which he would keep hidden from view. That is, until he learned the truth. The whole truth. Then he would decide on the course of action to take: publish and be damned? Yes, he had a loyalty to Michael, and yes, he had a professional duty to his newspaper readership but, more importantly, he had to look himself in the mirror each morning without hating the puppet that stared back.
Ultimately, he searched for the heart of the matter in a story and no one should be spared. Not even the author…Was he trying to protect Michael, or the integrity of the writer? Would their friendship be compromised, ruined beyond repair? Was he prepared to take that gamble? After all, he was an investigative journalist: he was in the business of uncovering the crap and nothing but the crap. He had done it all his life without suffering a bad conscience. Now it was personal, his friend about to be hung out to dry.
He silently groaned, and thought of cancer and his friend’s unreserved offer of financial help. He was being compromised. This fucking story. He closed his eyes, and contemplated resigning from the commission. It was the easy option. But he knew that this would be like throwing Michael to the wolves. He had to write it. Where it led eventually was another matter entirely. Life was ugly, at the best of times.
***
The plush bar, a haven of slick black leather armchairs and dark oak-panelled walls was largely empty, save for two late-night female shoppers, surrounded by expensive-looking shopping bags. As they sipped exotic cocktails, a man on his own, hugging a small lager, gazed forlornly out of the window, unaware of their high spirited giggling nearby. A tall, lean stranger entered, checked his surroundings carefully before approaching the seated man, and spoke above the din. ‘I wasn’t sure if I would recognise you.’
Michael was jolted from his malaise and lifted his head. He was cloaked under the menacing shadow cast from this large hulk of a man who suddenly loomed over him: the singular tough figure of Martin Penny. Slowly, he stood and shook hands firmly. They then sat opposite each other in the panoramic window bay, overlooking the churning black and silver waters of the Thames. The tide was high. The mighty towers of the bridge which spanned to the south bank at Butler’s Wharf soared skyward, lit by powerful beams of light which added to their majesty. Michael diverted his attention back to his visitor. The light from the moon reflected on top of the private investigator’s smooth-shaven skull. There was something odd about him: hard head, soft face, killer eyes. Michael was aware of his highly decorated army record. He was a baby- faced assassin. It was a little unnerving being in his company. Both the women at the nearby table threw sidelong admiring glances in the ex-soldier’s direction, he noticed, aware suddenly of the intoxicating effect this man had over the opposite sex. He declined alcohol and settled on bottled water, which Michael ordered from the waiter.
Michael got down to business, mindful of Mr Penny’s costs per hour, and passed over two sealed unmarked A4 brown envelopes. He cleared his throat.
‘One file contains information on the woman I want protected, my former secretary, Kara. She has a live-in boyfriend, and they have a child, just weeks old. She’s vulnerable, and I want to keep her and her baby safe. The other file contains as much as I know of a woman, Maggie Conlon, who I believe is a danger to Kara. In fact, she is a danger to me. We have history, and recently she has made her presence known to the both of us with implied threats of a sort…’
‘What type of threats?’
‘Principally, windows smashed at two galleries, which I and Marcus own independently of each other. He is Kara’s boyfriend, by the way. We have each received numerous heavy breathing phone calls, which we believe come from Maggie. Kara is convinced she is being followed as well. Our movements are definitely being monitored. At the moment, our stalker is keeping her distance, but she is a force to be reckoned with. She blames me, in particular, for the death of her sister, Lauren.’
‘Does she have a case?’
&nbs
p; ‘She would argue an emphatic yes.’
‘And what does she blame Kara for?’
‘Nothing, but to harm her is to harm me. Maggie’s sister wrongly thought that Kara and I had a thing going on. Not so. But Maggie would still hold this notion perhaps. She’s a mad one, I should warn you’
Martin smiled coldly. ‘Like an everyday plot from an episode of EastEnders.’
Michael nodded, and added: ‘More deadly than that. This isn’t fiction.’
‘Have you informed the police that you feel threatened?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Although the case has been closed with regard to Lauren’s untimely death, we are implicated, and remain under suspicion, if you get my meaning. I do not want to have the investigation reopened. It is finished, and Kara in particular needs closure. Besides, I know how you operate. Your skills at hunting prey and keeping a low profile will reassure me that Kara can bring up her baby without forever looking over her shoulder…I know you will be discreet, and professional. Also, a police presence will only alert this woman to the danger of capture, which in turn will make her operate from deeper underground. I want her to feel secure in her superiority.’ He then raised his eyebrows, and added: ‘For the time being.’
‘Do you want Kara to know I am her bodyguard?’
‘No. She will think I’m overreacting. Keep close but invisible, if that is possible.’
‘Everything is possible. And the boyfriend?’
‘I have mentioned your name. Yes, keep him in the loop. He’s a bit headstrong though. Watch him, he has a temperamental side.’
‘Are you engaging me to solely protect Kara or find this woman?’
‘Both. She will surface very soon. I just want you to be ready…’
‘To do what precisely? I only operate to specific orders.’
Michael thought long and hard. The truth was that he didn’t know what the order was. ‘Do what is necessary. Serve and protect and…eliminate.’ He couldn’t quite believe his last word. Sweat seeped into his shirt. Where did that come from? Then he knew. It was fear.
Call to Witness Page 12
