Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  Which made Terry rethink his natural take on things and spin them around. Ever the cynic, his intuition and professional training smelt a rat. Sure, Michael had told his version of events…as he had seen them at the time. But the truth of the matter was that he couldn’t be positive, especially as he was on the verge of dying. Yes, he saw Maggie escape. Or so he thought in the confusion. But the rest of the story was pure conjecture…

  Suppose, suppose? Terry’s brain was on overload. Maggie had no means of transport, or had she? Then he thought of something that happened to him just a few days ago, a conversation of sorts, that at first appeared unrelated to what happened at the barn. But this small thread began to connect with the main chain of events, and subsequently offer a different conclusion to Michael’s testimony. Now it seemed pertinent to ask the right questions, talk to all those at the scene (and those on the fringe) and start to look at things slightly differently. There were five people at the barn that day.

  Terry was now convinced there had been six.

  CHAPTER TEN

  On the return trip from Brighton, Michael dropped Agnes off at Gatwick Airport so she could make her early evening flight back home. It was an emotional farewell, but one filled with joy. He promised to clear his desk and get over to see her within a matter of days. He longed to see her again and of course he had the small matter of fulfilling his broken promise to Theo. Now he had a more valid reason to go to Venice. He was perplexed as to why he had not heard from Theo, considering the anger directed at his distressed assistant.

  After taking the M25 back to London, he got onto the hands-free mobile in his car and conferred with Ronald to see if Theo had contacted them again via the gallery. He had not. The first priority was to check his apartment after the damage to his kitchen. He also wanted to shower and change. Before leaving for Brighton, all he had time to do was grab a pair of jeans, T-shirt, a fresh pack of briefs and a sweater which he purchased in haste from the hotel shop in London. He remained unshaven and shared Agnes’s toothbrush before they departed for the south coast. This was love. Big time. Now it was back to reality. He parked up and took the lift to his apartment, relieved to find minimal damage, just an unsightly watermark on the ceiling in the kitchen. He checked each room, satisfied that everything appeared OK, including the balcony. He was becoming jittery. After checking his messages, he showered and then made tea and pondered his next move. Without thinking, he took the stairs and knocked on the door above his. He intended to introduce himself to the elusive occupant, which was the least he could do. No answer.

  He took the lift to the ground floor and found Nick at his desk.

  ‘Hi, Michael,’ he said. ‘Everything all right?’

  Michael noted that normal service had resumed with first name terms. ‘Yeah, thanks for springing into action earlier. The ceiling just needs a spot of paint when it dries out.’

  ‘Shall I get maintenance onto it?’

  ‘Give it a few days…’

  ‘Will do. Had a good couple of days?’

  ‘Pretty good,’ Michael replied. ‘I’ve just tried knocking on Ms Byrne’s door.’

  Nick shook his head. ‘Now there’s a thing. Just after installing a new washing machine, as per the lease agreement, she suddenly departed the flat at lunch-time today.’

  ‘Away for a few days...?’

  ‘No. She’s gone for good. Seemed in a fluster, settled matters, returned the keys and left in a taxi without explanation with just a suitcase…’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Michael shrugged. ‘I was hoping to say hello.’

  ‘Not going to happen, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Have you a forwarding address?’

  ‘No. She settled her rent in cash. I’ve notified the landlord, who is satisfied with the arrangement and will get the cleaners in over the weekend before any new tenants arrive.’

  ‘Quick work.’

  ‘Needs to be, she was paying £2000 per month in rent. The landlord can’t afford to lose that kind of money with an empty flat on his hands.’

  ‘Will the landlord have a forwarding address?’

  ‘You would think so, or the management company. I assume a sizeable deposit was put down.’

  ‘No doubt. Anyway, thanks, Nick. Let me know if she turns up again.’

  ‘No probs.’

  Michael turned toward the lift, then remembered the anxiety he felt from the earlier phone conversation with the Concierge when he was in Brighton.

  He called back: ‘Nick, you said Ms Byrne came down to inspect the damage to my kitchen…’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘How did she appear?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  ‘Well, she appeared upset…but thinking about it, she seemed agitated.’

  ‘Agitated?’

  ‘As if, well, she felt uncomfortable, nervous even.’

  ‘On edge..?’

  ‘I guess so. He was more calm and collected.’

  Michael suddenly felt the unease shoot through his veins.

  ‘That’s the thing, Nick. When you phoned me you said that they had come down to my apartment. Is that not unusual? Why would two people come down? It’s almost an invasion of my privacy. Can you remember who he was and what he wanted?’

  It was Nick who looked agitated now, as if his judgment in the matter was being questioned.

  ‘I didn’t see a problem, Mr Strange.’

  Mr Strange. He was now defensive in his manner. Michael remained silent, allowing his eyes to do the work.

  Nick seemed uncomfortable with this. ‘I don’t actually know who he was…I assumed he was her boyfriend, although I hadn’t met him before. The tenancy was in her sole name.’

  ‘You assumed?’

  ‘I should have checked.’

  ‘Did you leave them alone?’

  ‘No, not under any circumstances.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  ‘With the two of them.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Nick squirmed in his chair.

  ‘I’m sure…’ Then he turned white.

  ‘What is it Nick?’

  ‘Well, he asked to use the bathroom.’

  Michael moved closer, looming over the desk.

  ‘So. The point is you weren’t with them all of the time…that’s right, isn’t it, Nick?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘In truth he could have been anyone…that’s right, isn’t it, Nick?

  ‘I fucked up big time, Mr Strange.’

  ‘You certainly did.’

  ‘Is anything missing?’

  ‘Not that I can tell, but I will look much closer now, especially as they have done an apparent runner…’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Could you recognise him again if I need you to?’

  Nick blew out air and gestured with his hands in a manner of futility. ‘I guess so, although I only saw him briefly, and that was for a matter of seconds. He left before she did. He was a regular guy, stocky, around fifty, I guess, well-dressed, very polite and concerned. I had nothing to be wary of, to be honest. But now you’ve got me thinking.’

  ‘Think some more, Nick. I’m going back to my apartment. I’ll let you know if anything is amiss.’

  Michael retreated, leaving Nick embarrassed. It was probably nothing to worry about, just Michael being ultra-cautious. Then he remembered his concern when he thought he was being spied upon from the balcony above. Where was the evidence? He was tired. Give it a rest. Chill.

  He pushed the button for the lift and waited for the door to open.

  Nick suddenly came up behind him.

  ‘A diamond,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon?’ Michael replied, preoccupied with thoughts alternating between deeds of trickery in his apartment and the utter delights of Agnes’s body. He couldn’t help but con
centrate on the latter.

  ‘You asked if I would recognise him again…’

  Michael turned to face him. ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing.’

  Michael waited. ‘Spit it out, man.’

  ‘He had a diamond in his teeth.’

  Michael was taken aback, trying to grasp what Nick was saying. ‘A single diamond? he asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘A single diamond, right here.’ Nick raised his lip and pointed to his upper row of teeth.

  Theo. Fucking Theo. No wonder he hadn’t phoned. What the hell was his connection to the elusive Ms Byrne? Michael left Nick standing there, shaking somewhat as he closed the door to the lift and hurried to his apartment. He’d been shafted.

  ***

  Terry returned home from International House, exhausted from a heavy workload. His day had largely been occupied by the breaking news from the USA: Sub-prime mortgage lending had crippled the economy over there, and sent the dollar crashing. The repercussions were heading across the Atlantic at breakneck speed. He’d had enough at work, grabbed a McDonald’s takeaway and got in to be confronted by a ghastly sight. His flat was a pigsty, all of his own making, he had to admit. For the past two weeks he had neglected his cleaning duties, much to his disgust. Since the cancer scare, he didn’t much care for anything. Normally house proud, he was still angered and punch drunk from the news of his illness. He had lost his wife to the same fucker. Looking around, he was ashamed at the state of his home, and knew that she too would have been appalled to see him living like this. He ate the quarter pounder and French fries and drank the tepid Coke with little enthusiasm. It was just fuel. Hell. He gathered the post from the mat, opened a black refuse bag and started the cleaning up operation. It took the whole evening to wash the pots and fill four black bags that he lugged to the communal bin area before he could relax, grab a beer and sit down on an uncluttered sofa at last.

  That’s better, he thought. A degree of pride returned. Whatever surprises the future had in store for him, he knew that his beloved wife would always insist on dealing with things with dignity and decency. All things considered, that’s how she faced adversity and that’s how he was going to remember her until his final days. Their home had always been kept immaculate. This was how he intended to keep it. In memory of her.

  He opened the mail, one letter catching his eye. It was from the hospital, with an appointment to attend the MRI unit for a urinary scan on his tumour.

  He sat for a moment, and downed his beer. Then another. He slept on the sofa, tears rolling down his cheeks. In his fitful dream, he saw an image of his wife, the same as the one in the photograph that sat atop the sideboard. She smiled reassuringly, offering hope and dignity and decency in what lay ahead. Dark days, he was sure. He hoped he had the same courage that she possessed, but he doubted it. He was exhausted, beaten and, if the truth was known, no longer able or willing to fight the ills of the world any longer.

  He awoke in the early hours of the morning and suddenly thought of Michael, and the injustice that was about to befall him in the name of journalism. Terry was determined that this would not happen. This would be his last fight.

  ***

  Michael had one singular thought. What was Theo up to? He spent the entire evening scrupulously going through drawers, jacket pockets, his briefcase, the mail, accounts and old files…convinced that his personal belongings had been tampered with. Everything, thankfully, seemed intact. Strangely, this made him even more uncomfortable. Theo had invaded his home. There had to be a reason for it: Had to be. The question had to be addressed: Was the leak from the washing machine simply a ruse to gain access to his apartment? If it was, then they also knew he was away.

  How did they know this? And just who was Ms Byrne? Her name began to chill him to the bone. He phoned down to Nick. No answer. He’d get him in the morning and make a request: He had to get access to her apartment. Check her out. Find out if there were any clues to her identity…Nick described her as somewhat reclusive. Who was she? Was it Maggie?

  He’d have to wait to find out. He opened a bottle of cheap Merlot, and raided the fridge for sustenance. All he mustered up was some French Brie, a slice of ham and a crusty loaf from the bread bin. It would do.

  Then he turned his attention to Agnes. Wow, where did that sudden lust come from? He was absolutely stunned as to what happened with her…simply unbelievable. He was uplifted to have her in his life on an entirely different level to their past relationship. It was inspiring. The wine was pretty good too. Not everything had to come in expensive wrappings.

  He switched on the TV to catch the late news. The usual crap appeared: the US dollar collapse, the Northern Rock fiasco, murmurings in the city that other banks were now under threat of monetary starvation…Michael ranted at the screen. Impossible, was his initial reaction to such hysteria. There was then a startling piece about the foreclosure of an Icelandic bank that was in trouble too. They were attempting to raise funds to stay afloat. Christ. Terry’s dire warnings were rapidly coming home to roost.

  Fiona Bruce, the newsreader, moved on to more mundane domestic matters. The price of petrol was set to increase, the Government was under pressure to stall on a VAT hike to ease the burden on the besieged motorist. Michael swore again. It was all doom and gloom. His eyes closed. He started to nod…

  A story broke of an unidentified body recovered earlier in the evening from the Thames at Bermondsey. Michael stirred. The newscaster confirmed that the victim was a Caucasian male, aged in his mid-thirties and of muscular build. Michael opened his eyes and stared at the screen. What was she saying..? The police stated that the body had only been in the water for a short time, washed up on the tide. The male, shaven-headed, had been killed by a severe head wound, and DS Keene, in charge of investigations, appealed to local inhabitants to come forward if they had seen anything suspicious or were aware of a missing person fitting this description. Michael was now wide awake. He took in every word: The site of the discovery was now a crime scene. Police were appealing for witnesses to come forward if they were aware of an altercation in the area. What got Michael out of his chair was the announcement that this may have a military connection, as the body could have been that of a soldier or former soldier. The DS, on screen, added that he had evidence which he would not reveal to the public at this stage that confirmed this suspicion as to the profession of the deceased.

  Michael’s blood ran cold. Surely this was just a coincidence… but Martin had disappeared off the radar, currently working undercover and therefore operating incommunicado… now a dead body fitting his description was being highlighted on the national news. Fuck. He dialled Martin’s office number and then his mobile. No response.

  Calm down. He paced the room. This was difficult to comprehend…it couldn’t be him surely? Martin had promised to contact him shortly. He had to hang on to that assurance. This guy was an experienced war veteran, ex-SAS, a man who had served in Bosnia and Afghanistan. A man like this doesn’t suddenly turn up in the Thames mud with his skull smashed in, he reasoned. But still Michael felt nauseous. He rang Marcus and checked to see if Martin had been in touch with him. The answer was negative. Was there a problem? Marcus asked. Michael didn’t want to raise any false alarm bells. No problem, he answered flatly.

  He poured himself a brandy. There was nothing he could do at this late hour, except sleep and start again in the morning. Everything would be fine in the morning, wouldn’t it? He continued this futile argument until his brain was numb, his confidence now washed down the drain.

  ***

  He slept badly. At just after eight, he phoned Terry and informed him of the news item highlighting the suspected killing, and asked his friend to dig up what he could on the story. It was vital to eliminate the possibility that Martin was the victim. However, this was going to be hard to do. He knew the police would be tight-lipped at this stage of the investigation, and he also knew that if Martin was still undercover then
nothing would make him jeopardise his precarious position. Certainly not to reassure his client that he was indeed alive.

  He was stuffed, Terry concurred after listening to him, but he gave an assurance that he would do what he could in the circumstances. At this stage he suggested that Michael remained calm and focused until he had a chance to establish the facts.

  Michael reluctantly agreed, although he was not convinced that he could achieve this. He was a bag of nerves. After all, he had Theo to deal with as well as finding Maggie, who had weirdly gone to ground as well. This really spooked him, he confided to Terry.

  Then Terry dropped an extraordinary bombshell into the equation.

  ‘Michael, cast your mind back to the day of the fire.’

  ‘What do you need to know?’ More fucking questions…

  Terry pushed: ‘There were five people at Laburnum Farm, I don’t need to list them.’

  ‘Yes, five of us plus the devil dog of course.’

  ‘Bruno.’

  ‘The family pet,’ Michael said sarcastically.

  ‘Think carefully. Did you see anyone else at the house that day?’

  No. Who could you possibly be referring to..?’

  ‘When you arrived on the scene, were you aware of a strange car parked up, or evidence that someone else was living at the house?’

  Michael was stunned. ‘No! Where is this leading, Terry?’

  ‘A line of enquiry, that’s all.’

  ‘Jesus. Lauren is history…I bitterly regret ever meeting the woman.’ He sighed, and whispered: ‘What line of enquiry?’

  ‘A hunch…’

  ‘There was no one, I’m positive of that. What kind of fucking hunch is this?’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that there was no other person on or around the premises on that particular day…especially during the confrontation between Lauren and Maggie?’