Martin Penny didn’t move a muscle. His steel blue eyes penetrated through Michael’s rising panic, and calculated what had just been put on the table. It took a few seconds to digest. Then he leaned forward, and whispered, ‘This isn’t Belfast, Michael. Nor Baghdad. This is London, and this is where I work and the line between what I can do and cannot do is, how shall I say, a little more defined. In other words, I can’t get away with murder.’
Michael shook when he heard this part. Their eyes never wavered in the intensity of the stare. They were locked together in complicity. The world stopped, as Martin emphasised his point still further.
‘To protect is one thing, and I get paid accordingly. I report back to you. I monitor. To protect at all costs is another thing altogether. I do not monitor, I act. Point blank. No questions asked. The risk is to me. For that, I get paid a different rate.’
‘And that rate is?’ Michael surprised himself with his new-found confidence. Fear had no price.
‘Fifty thousand pounds, in advance.’
‘What do I get for that kind of money?’
Penny punched the words out, ‘A soldier’s promise: An allegiance that will never let you down. You have my word. This woman will not trouble you again.’
For some reason, Michael diverted his attention from the killer eyes and caught sight of a circular metal badge of a smiley face on Penny’s jacket. It read:
Happy Birthday, Daddy.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, such was the paradox of this improbable situation he found himself in. A child only sees innocence in all things, especially in the unerring bond with their parents. Mummy and Daddy: The two greatest words in the world. At what point does life betray these children, and take away this purity? Mr Penny, the Daddy. Mr Penny the assassin.
Michael recovered his composure. Unnerved, he said, ‘You’ll have the money within the week.’
In turn, Martin stood, gathering the envelopes. ‘I’ll read these this evening, and get to work tomorrow. Do you have a decent photograph of this woman?
‘Maggie?’
‘Maggie.’
‘No. But the police will. Besides, I believe she could have disguised her identity. She has money. In the envelope you will find the address where she last lived in Limerick. I believe her husband knows of her whereabouts, and is protecting her movements. They have children. It would be inconceivable for her to not want to see them. He and the kids have made two trips to the UK in the past three months. Draw your own conclusions, but I think she has been here all along. She did not attend her sister’s funeral, or that of her dear mother in Ireland. She was never going to be caught, even though she would have been desperate to attend. She’s too clever. Find her, Mr Penny, and quickly, but don’t underestimate the woman. She is a murderer.’
‘I never underestimate anyone, Mr Strange. That’s why I’m still alive.’
Michael stared at him. ‘You served in Bosnia, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So you’ve seen and done everything, yes?’
‘Enough for anyone to…’ He picked the next word carefully: ‘…endure.’
‘Why do this then?’
‘It’s all I know.’
Michael examined his ruddy cheeks, soft mouth, domed head and glacial eyes and tried to imagine the horrors of warfare contained within. He couldn’t even put an age to him. He was a seemingly regular guy, with memories still buried deep, like his victims still hidden in the burnt soil of distant foreign lands. His child would never know of the haunting. The child just wanted that dependable person named Daddy. ‘Watch out for this woman,’ Michael said. ‘If she had been in combat, she would be your worst enemy on the front line.’
‘I’m used to working undercover behind the line, Mr Strange, but I take your words seriously.’
Michael watched as the man departed. He then knocked back his lager, buttoned his jacket and ambled down the arced staircase of the hotel and made his way into the clear night. If only his mind could be so clear. The moon glistened on the dark waters of the dock. All he saw was turbulent waters. Music blasted from a nearby bar. From afar, a police siren wailed. Michael felt good having Martin Penny on board, a way of doing his bit for Kara and Marcus. His stride lengthened as he moved speedily into the bowels of the NCP car park nearby. He withdrew his key fob and bleeped the door release of his BMW coupé as he approached.
His echoing footsteps suddenly stopped beneath him. His eyes widened, and his breath shortened. What the fuck was that?
Daubed across the bonnet, it what appeared to be whitewash paint was the stark message:
THE TIME HAS COME…
SAY GOODBYE TO KARA
Jesus. His first reaction was to turn abruptly and search for hidden eyes. Where was she, the bitch? She was following his every move. She had to be. Always so close but…Suddenly, bile reached into his mouth, and the petrol fumes in the confined space made him spin. His secondary reaction was to search the car park, but that was madness. She would be long gone. He managed to get inside the car and re-lock the doors, sweat pouring down his face. He checked the interior mirror and saw his grotesque features, ghostly pale and etched with dread. Igniting the engine, he drove from the car park recklessly fast, screeching the tyre tread as he went. Burnt rubber lingered in the air.
The invisible enemy was here, right now, directing from the front line.
***
Michael showered rigorously, as if attempting to scrub away this evil woman from his skin. He felt she was that close. He wanted rid of her. He wanted her dead. Now.
There. He said it. It didn’t seem bad. She was bad.
Earlier, after getting back to his apartment, he took a photograph of the offending message before washing it clean from his bonnet. Then he cleaned himself. Now, slightly more relaxed, he took stock of the situation. Maybe he should call the police. Instead, he rang Martin, got a recorded voice and left a message relaying what had just happened. Then he ate. Rather, he finished off the leftover beef stew from the night before, washed down with copious amounts of red wine. He inspected his hands: they were still shaking. He moved to the window, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the streets below. Where are you hiding, you bitch? Give me a sign and I’ll bury you…
A pathetic response, he knew. She was far too smart to reveal herself so soon. She was playing a waiting game, based on her rules of engagement: Slow torture. He rechecked the front door again, making sure it was locked. He sneaked a glance through the peep hole: Nothing. Was this overreaction… paranoia…or drunkenness? He could live with the latter, and uncorked another fine Saint Emilion. His brain whizzed. How did she know of his meeting at the Tower Hotel? How did she know it was his vehicle in the car park unless…she was following him. In that case, was she aware of where he lived? It gave him the creeps. Was she that close, all of the time? From now on, he would need eyes in the back of his head. And a gun in his hand.
He moved to the bedroom, searched the bottom of the wardrobe and extracted a box. Inside, he felt the heavy oily metal of a Walther CP 88 air pistol: lethal enough to put a pellet through a rabbit’s head. The good news? You didn’t need a licence for one of these things. He loaded the 8 piece chamber and inserted the gas cartridge which would propel the 4.5mm calibre pellets at awesome velocity. He was ready. Was she?
It was time for action. He rang Kara, nervously.
‘How’s my gorgeous god-child?’ he asked.
‘Funny time to call,’ came the response. She seemed half-asleep.
‘Just checking…’
‘Harvey is wonderful. You should try having him, I’m dead on my feet.’
‘Where is Marcus?’
‘Playing squash at the gym.’
Michael was aware of the need to bring Marcus up to speed with Martin Penny’s plans, and mention the evil message scrawled on his car. He’d have to ring him at the gallery tomorrow with the latest developments. He couldn’t risk bringing Kara into the lo
op, so kept silent on the matter, fearful of her reaction.
‘Everything fine with you two?’
‘What is this: twenty questions?’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘You seem agitated, Michael.’
‘Just concerned. Making sure you are OK.’
She yawned, which made him do the same.
‘Harvey is to be baptised soon,’ she said. ‘When I get the date I’ll let you know. Then you can truly call yourself a godfather.’
‘I’ll be there, although I’m fitting in the trip to Venice in the next two weeks. I’ll be away two or three days. That shouldn’t be a problem, I hope?’
‘No, Michael. The service will be towards the end of next month. Is this trip necessary, or even wise?’
‘Wise?’
‘It’s just that…well, isn’t it a case of stirring up bitter memories?’
‘It’s a business trip.’
‘So you said.’
Michael hesitated, catching the chill in her voice.
‘Are you doubting me?’ he asked.
‘I think you are holding something back from me. After what’s happened just recently, Venice seems a little too convenient, what with them living over there as well.’
Julius and Antonia. It seemed to him that it was impossible to escape the past.
He tried. ‘It’s a simple valuation job, but it pays well. If the painting in question goes to market, I also stand to make a decent commission.’
‘I’m tired, Michael, and it’s late. We’ll talk again. Hold on.’ There was a silence, and Michael heard a commotion in the background. Then she spoke again. ‘It’s Marcus, he’s home.’
‘Good night Kara. Say hi to everyone.’
‘Will do. Michael?’
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful, please. I have a bad feeling about this trip.’
He put the phone down. He had a bad feeling as well, but there was the small matter of finding fifty thousand pounds fast, so the proposition from Theo intrigued him more than before…now it was a matter of extreme urgency. He could beg, steal or borrow the money to pay Martin, but any private income from the Venice connection was welcome and could provide the necessary means to redress his losses.
He checked the time: Nearly midnight. He phoned Terry, unconcerned by the fragility of his friend. If he was asleep, then he would wake him. He should have been more sympathetic with Kara, although he was wishing that Marcus had answered his call. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Kara was picking up on everything and nothing, forever paranoid, and it made sense therefore to always phone Marcus at work from now on. They had a pact.
‘How you doin’?’ Terry asked.
‘Enjoying a fine bottle of wine. What’s your poison?’
‘Jack Daniels.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yep, the escort girl has just done a runner. What’s up?’
‘Developments.’
‘Property?’
‘Very funny.’ Michael could tell Terry was worse for wear. ‘I’ve had another calling card: A message on the bonnet of my car, from Maggie I reckon. I’ve also taken on the services of a private detective, just so you know. His name is Martin Penny. Ex-SAS.’
‘Not his real name then.’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘Are you paying for protection, or eradication?’
He heard Terry slurp. He bit his lip.
‘Both.’
‘Expensive.’
‘But necessary.’
There was a silence.
Eventually, Terry said, ‘I’m dying, Michael.’
‘That’s the drink talking…’
‘No, my friend, that’s the cancer talking.’
‘I have the money for the laser treatment, so use it. See the surgeon, Terry, now. How much have you had to drink?’
‘Enough…to drop a horse.’
‘Get to bed. We’ll speak tomorrow.’
‘What did you want…?’
‘It can wait.’
‘What did you want?’ His tone was harsh and argumentative, as drunks usually tend to be, especially at this late hour.
‘There is a man I need investigating.’
‘Name?’
‘Theo Britton. He has Russian connections.’
Terry laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ It was Michael’s turn to be short-tempered.
He was left wide-eyed long into the night with Terry’s last words reverberating around his frazzled brain:
‘Not his real name then.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The flight to Venice was booked for the Friday. Michael didn’t want to hang around…He was now in the business of chasing any serious dosh on offer. Toby agreed to cover for his absence, which Michael explained away as a short break to recharge his batteries. At this stage, he elected to conceal the real motive for the trip from his son for fear of ridicule. After all, it could be a wasted journey of sorts. Equally, it could open up a whole new can of worms. Potentially, a substantial financial reward was on offer, one he couldn’t turn down in the current economic climate. He’d bring Toby into the picture when needs must. Firstly, he’d survey the scene and give Theo the benefit of the doubt. In the meantime, Michael had three days to kill. It was game on.
After speaking to Terry again to catch up on things (more notably to find out what exactly his sidekick was digging up on him behind the scenes), Michael emailed Martin Penny and explained once more about the graffiti on his car bonnet, attaching a photo of the chilling message which he had taken on his mobile. He then arranged a temporary loan of thirty-five thousand pounds from his bank, and made up the difference from savings and shares, bringing the total to fifty thousand pounds: Martin Penny’s fee. He transferred the funds into the account specified by Martin from an earlier email between the two of them. He then rang Marcus and filled him in with the relevant details of his meeting with Martin, and passed on a contact number to be used if necessary while he was away. Marcus was not impressed with his diversion abroad, particularly to La Serenissima, which conjured up negative vibes in his head, and he expressed these sentiments forcibly during their conversation. Michael listened, held counsel, and knew his defence was weak. He always found trouble, wherever he went or whoever he met. After Marcus’s lengthy tirade, Michael shrewdly remained passive and then assured him that he and Kara were safe from harm’s way, but needed to be vigilant at the same time. Martin, he explained carefully, was an expert marksman and a former SAS member, and they should trust in his cold, hard professionalism. Marcus didn’t buy into this. In retort he flippantly mentioned James Bond under his breath but Michael let it go this time. Anger boiling within him, he refrained from screaming obscenities down the phone in retort… with the added bonus that it was he and only he who was shelling out the extortionate fee for Martin’s services…although sorely tempted. A little guilt on Marcus’s pious conscience would be no bad thing.
Dear Marcus: Fucking amateur.
There was one final call to Venice. He spoke to Agnes, who was surprised and delighted to hear from him, and arranged to meet her for lunch on the Saturday, in the hope that she might help him with the valuation of the Italian paintings to be disposed of. He would visit the house on his own in the morning to see what all the fuss was about regarding the so called masterpiece. A great painting, Theo had stated. He was excited by the prospect. Agnes needn’t know of this intriguing find, unless he required her considerable expertise. Then and only then would he involve her further: The masterpiece could turn out to be a dud.
There was another reason for his mounting excitement, and it was only now, after speaking to her, that he finally confronted his mixed emotions. He warmed to the thought of seeing her again. He hadn’t thought of a woman in that sense since Lauren, his libido somewhat stunted. This then was a shock. Why did he suddenly think in these terms… with a married woman, to boot? He was merely meeting up with an old friend and colleague for
a simple bite to eat, surely? Cut it out.
He banished such thoughts. While in the office, he dug up the new address for Julius and Antonio, who had moved to a different district in Venice to start life afresh. The past for them conjured up terrible images which they needed to vanquish from their heads. Michael knew he would be a stark reminder of those dark days, but it was they who had wanted to keep in touch. Only the distance between them prevented it, until now. The three of them had not met up since the inquest into Lauren’s death. Was this then a good time to reacquaint old memories, as Kara had warned? Were the wounds still too raw? He pondered. The decision could come later, when he had a little more time on his hands.
In spite of the misgivings, he instinctively threw caution to the wind and rattled off an email to them with an invitation to the Venetian Ball as his guests. It was a long-shot. He pressed ‘send’ and then stuffed the handwritten paper containing their new address in his jacket pocket and returned to more mundane matters. The gallery still needed his attention. He worked on the brochure for the forthcoming exhibition by the Peruvian artist, Mora. This would be their big Christmas showstopper. Later, after coffee, he and Roland changed all the window displays with new stock, mainly expressive colourful floral work by a new artist from Budapest. These paintings, executed by the use of broad knife strokes, certainly caught the eye of the passers-by on the street.
Within an hour, they had sold a small delightful one of lavender in a terracotta pot for £1250. A promising start. In the meantime, Gemma concentrated on the VAT returns, a job Michael knew she hated but someone had to do it. Hours passed slowly. A large framing order arrived, which Roland took charge of. They were a good team, Michael acknowledged. Efficient, energetic, quiet. And there was the problem. Where was the spark? The old crack. Michael stopped what he was doing and looked around. Something was missing, something big in their lives. He wanted noise and colour and gaiety in the gallery, just like the flower paintings which they had just put on display. He wanted. He needed… No, he yearned for Kara to come back.
Call to Witness Page 13
