Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  Michael was incensed. ‘I searched the house. There was no one else, absol…no, for Christ’s sake!’ He shook his head in bewilderment, his mind in a whirl. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Nothing that I can elaborate on at this moment: Just a wild stab in the dark…’

  ‘Not the most appropriate comment.’ Michael moaned, recoiling at the flashback of what happened at the barn and the raging vision of Maggie brandishing the scissors at him.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Terry was contrite. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m having difficulty with this conjecture, Terry. What evidence is there to support this and what bearing does it have on Lauren’s death?’

  ‘No evidence. I just asked the question, that’s all.’

  Michael lost it.

  ‘Well, I’ll ask you to piss off then, that’s all. I can’t take much more of this shit.’

  With that, he cut the connection dead.

  ***

  Checking his watch, Michael turned his attention to Nick, who would be behind his desk by now. He met him at reception within ten minutes of shouting down Terry. A sixth person? Where was Terry going with this? It was insane.

  ‘You want me to do what?’ Nick asked.

  ‘I want to gain access to the flat above mine.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Mr Strange.’

  Here we go again. ‘You can, and you will.’

  Nick raised his eyebrows and shuffled his feet. ‘On what pretext? We can’t just enter into private property.’

  ‘You took total strangers into my apartment…’

  ‘There was a legitimate reason, as you know. I viewed it as an emergency.’

  ‘This is an emergency. You have keys, I assume.’

  ‘Well, yes. I have duplicate keys to all the apartments. What is the emergency?’

  ‘Ordinarily, the water damage from upstairs wouldn’t have caused me anxiety, Nick. These things happen. However, you let a man into my home and he was allowed to roam around freely…’

  ‘Hell, Mr Strange, he just asked to use the bathroom. He wasn’t allowed to just roam around at will.’

  ‘Nick, he had his own bathroom. I know this man. His name is Theo Britton, and he isn’t someone on my Christmas list. I can identify him from the diamond in his teeth. He’s not someone who would be welcome into my home either.’

  ‘I can only apologise once again,’ Nick stressed.

  Michael moved closer, their eyes locked. ‘I need to find out what they were up to. I think the washing machine problem was an excuse to gain entry into my apartment.’

  ‘Is anything missing?’

  ‘Not that I can establish at the moment. But something isn’t right. The keys, Nick?’

  Nick retreated from the discussion and folded his arms. Michael sensed his loyalties being torn over this dilemma so he had to be firm.

  ‘I need the keys,’ Michael repeated.

  The young man audibly blew out the wind from his chest. Sweat formed on his brow. He hesitated, and then said, ‘I need my job, Mr Strange. Not a word to anyone.’

  Michael nodded his agreement.

  ‘I’ll get the keys from the safe.’ Then Nick disappeared quietly into another room.

  Michael stood his ground. His bullying tactic had worked.

  ***

  They stood outside the door like two bungling burglars, nervously scanning the corridor as Nick fumbled with the key. He was the first to enter. Michael checked the corridor once more (he was half-expecting to see Maggie charging toward him with a machete in her hand, such was his unease) and quietly followed in behind him.

  The curtains in all the rooms were pulled tight, dulling natural daylight into the interior. Nick flicked the light switch. On first inspection, nothing seemed untoward. Just an abandoned nest.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Nick instructed.

  The apartment was stylishly furnished: Marble floors, white leather sofas and silver framed decorative mirrors. A theme of black and white prevailed. The apartment consisted of an open plan lounge and kitchen, plus two bedrooms, one double with en-suite and one single. Michael was surprised to find the double untouched, the bed immaculately made.

  The single bed was unkempt. The lady in question clearly lived alone. He checked under the bed, searched the bedside drawers. Nothing. Within the fitted wardrobe was a collection of empty hangers. He moved to the main bathroom. Beside the sink was a cheap hair clip and a discarded tube of toothpaste. In the kitchen, he opened each cupboard, looking…looking for what?

  ‘Well?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he admitted with a shrug.

  ‘Time to go...’

  Michael gave a last glance and then followed Nick to the door. He felt rather foolish. Then he remembered the balcony. It was a long shot, his eagerness borne from desperation rather than any hopeful gain.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Nick asked with a twitch of his mouth.

  Michael threw back the silk thread curtains, instantly blinded by the sunlight.

  ‘Fuck,’ he heard Nick shout.

  Michael stood back, aghast. His eyes refocused.

  They stared at each other and then reaffixed their eyes on the sliding doors.

  ‘Fuck,’ Michael repeated.

  Scrawled across the glass, in what appeared to be white shaving foam, was the weirdest message imaginable:

  Byrne in Hell

  Nick regained his composure and spoke first.

  ‘Not the normal parting gift that I’ve had to sort out,’ he said. ‘Usually I find a blocked loo or rotting food thrown in the sink…’

  Michael barely registered his words. Maggie was living here. Right above him! Surely this message was a direct signal from this wicked bitch. His skin crawled with the vision of her stalking him, unseen, just feet away from where he lived. She was that close. She hadn’t gone to ground…she had moved in right under his nose, as Martin had predicted. The fucking arrogance of the woman. What had she been planning?

  He then thought of Theo. They were partners in crime. They had to be. The evil bastards…

  Who was this Ms Byrne, if it wasn’t Maggie? Who else would leave such a hideous message? They must have suspected that their lair of sorts had been uncovered, and escaped when they had a chance to do so…when he was in Brighton. How did they know all this information? How could they be aware of precisely what was going on? It was as if…

  He opened the sliding door and stepped onto the balcony. Sure enough, if he leaned over, and at the right angle, he could peer down and see into his apartment below. Then he saw a tiny cable extending across the wooden floor slats. A portable camera lead…Oh, bollocks. A much worse proposition crossed his mind: Had Theo bugged his apartment?

  Michael retraced his steps and closed the glass door, locking it. Something suddenly caught his eye. It was a small circular disc of some kind, sellotaped to the window.

  He and Nick moved closer, examining it.

  Michael then understood. His heart pounded. He could have died on the spot, the air punched from his lungs. He had been rumbled. Kara and Marcus had been rumbled. They were in grave danger, beyond what he could have imagined.

  ‘What is that?’ Nick said, unaware of how Michael was piecing all the facts together, and painting a picture in his head of what Hell surely looked like.

  Michael then thought of Martin Penny, and the body in the Thames.

  ‘It’s a badge,’ Michael said simply. He unpeeled it from the glass, the shiny surface sticky from the adhesive.

  ‘How odd…’ Nick said. He took it from Michael, and slowly read the inscription:

  ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY.’

  Michael stood frozen to the floor, a tear forming in his eye: This was Maggie’s lair. No doubt about it. And this cheery badge was Martin’s sad epitaph.

  It was all the proof he needed as to the fate of a good man.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was Friday. Ronald manned the gallery on his own. This was usually a quiet day, as
he knew the office workers in the locality just wanted to clear their desks and get away for the weekend. Hence, his day alone, and it suited him perfectly. Toby was somewhere, Michael was God knows where and Gemma, well, she was still spooked from the abusive client…and if the truth was known, he couldn’t deal with her sob story anyway. He preferred it this way. Nice and peaceful. A gradual chance to unwind from the stress of the week he had just had.

  He dusted down display shelves, printed off a couple of bio details to be posted on to clients on the coming Monday, and took two minor phone calls in the morning shift. For lunch he ate a sandwich that he had put together in the morning at home: bacon and chicken on rye bread with mayo. He also indulged in a packet of Kettle crisps and a chocolate éclair, bought from the bakery just round the corner. Normally he hid this indulgence from the others. Alone, with no one to judge him, it was his sin day.

  Just after lunch, a woman entered the gallery, looked around, and engaged in convivial conversation. She was interested in a particular painting, and noted politely that he was very knowledgeable about the artist in question. He thanked her, and suggested that on another day he could deliver it to her house if she lived locally. He explained that today was not possible, as he was working on his own. The woman raised her delicate eyebrows, declined his offer and asked when the gallery closed.

  At five, he replied. He walked her to the door and held it open for her. She smiled and indicated that she would mull things over and be back before closing time.

  He smiled too, and suggested that he could reserve the painting for her. She declined and departed. He noticed her statuesque poise, the large sunglasses and silk headscarf which hid her hair and forehead. Her make-up though was rather… weird: Far too heavy for her pale skin.

  Then he forgot about her.

  ***

  Kara went for a stroll in the park, pushing her son in the pram. Harvey slept, blissfully unaware of his mother’s misgivings about the world in which they lived. It was a fearful place as far as she was concerned. Michael had warned her to get away for a holiday because an exposé was about to impact on their lives. Marcus was adamant that they would not run from the flak. He had a business to operate. She was thankful that the persistent phantom phone calls had ceased. Things were too quiet, though. At least she was back on speaking terms with her mother, after the debacle with the inadvertently abusive phone call.

  During her walk, she was forever conscious of prying eyes. She scanned the park, which contained the usual suspects: joggers, cyclists and other young mums out with their babies. In particular, she looked for the man she had spotted loitering outside her flat. It was odd. He was nowhere to be seen these past two nights. Who was he? What did he want? Was he friend or foe?

  Exhausted from too little sleep, she slowly ambled across the common, perused the shops for an hour, bought a little blue dungaree outfit for her son, and decided on a spot of self-indulgence. She had earned the right: All this riveting conversation of gurgle-gurgle (“who’s a pretty boy then!”) was dispiriting to say the least. She needed stimulation. Her brain had diminished since the birth. This then would be a treat to savour. The shop beckoned. Fuck the world and its hang-ups, she had enough of her own. She crossed the street and entered her favourite French patisserie (a little bit of paradise) and stuffed her face with chocolate gateau and cream. That always worked.

  ***

  Marcus was pissed off. First he had the broken window to contend with, then the crap from Michael about the need for protection. All this unnecessary SAS hokum! Then, out of the blue, Michael wanted to know if he had been approached by this mysterious Martin Penny (did he really exist?), who he himself couldn’t get in touch with! He had tried but the line appeared to be disconnected. It was all very frustrating. Was everything and everyone going totally bonkers?

  He and only he would look after his family. He was the only one of them with his feet firmly grounded in reality. Michael deluded himself, Kara was just plain scared. He could handle it, whatever it was that needed sorting. Here was the challenge: If Maggie was around, let her show her face. He was ready, armed and equally dangerous. He kept a claw hammer beside his desk and a baseball bat under the bed at home. Ready and waiting, bitch. It suddenly occurred to him…perhaps his feet weren’t so grounded after all.

  The point was this: He was also running scared, despite his outwardly hard-man image. He had to face facts. The net was closing in, and fast. He had done a bad thing. Not even Kara knew of his secret. But it was bad. If Maggie was snooping around, he figured that revenge for Lauren’s death was not the only motive…she was after something else, a certain something that only he knew about. He thought he was being clever, now he was not so sure. How long could he keep this Mr Cool “I can handle anything” demeanour up before he finally panicked? He was getting closer to it.

  Then he saw the news story about the unidentified body washed up in the river. It was suggested that the man had a military background, but as yet he had not been identified. A young and muscular man, found dead, bludgeoned to death. It was the emphasis on the word bludgeoned which had caught his attention. He had heard that story before… somewhere from the past…a violent father was bludgeoned to death by his abused daughter. A picture of the two deranged sisters came into his head. His throat cramped tight. It was Maggie’s preferred choice of attack. He decided to get himself a bigger hammer.

  ***

  Michael phoned Terry and arranged an urgent meeting. Over a pint at the Wig and Mitre, he told Terry everything he had discovered over the preceding twenty-four hours. It was the stuff of fiction straight from the pages of the latest Michael Connelly novel. Only this time it was so close to home that they could smell the hot breath of the dragon breathing down their necks.

  Terry listened, downed another pint of Guinness and then gave his considered opinion.

  ‘Call the cops.’

  ***

  Ronald plodded through the afternoon, entertaining mostly dumb Americans who wanted mementos of London to take home. No, he had nothing for around 50 dollars, at the fifth time of asking, and directed them to the little gift shop on the corner of Piccadilly. He wearily suggested that they purchased a lovely ‘bronze’ model of Big Ben, which would undoubtedly become a fine collectible in the future. Just the thing. Jesus.

  Later, he struck gold. A loyal client, absent for a year, wandered in and bought a small oil of a coastal scene, priced at £1000. He let it go for £900, as a gesture of goodwill, which clinched the sale.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for several months,’ Ronald remarked. ‘Where have you been?’

  The client was a rough sort with an East End drawl. Expensive suit, mind. Ronald admired fine tailoring. He guessed Savile Row. He couldn’t have guessed the reply even if he had tried:

  ‘In the nick… out in nine months for good behaviour.’

  He wished he hadn’t asked.

  The man – known locally as Mildred – then sidled up to him and whispered: ‘What’s a Patrick Porter original making these days?’

  Ronald was taken aback. ‘Are you buying or selling?’

  ‘I’ve been offered one.’

  ‘Really? Who’s selling?’

  Mildred tapped his nose.

  Ronald persisted. ‘What are they asking for it?’

  ‘Forty K.’

  ‘Hmm. Depends on the size and subject matter, and provenance of course but, in the wise old words of Mark Twain, they aren’t making any more.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely.’

  ‘Is it a private sale?’ Ronald was fishing. He knew that none had been offered around the London galleries. The work was like gold dust.

  ‘Sort of, but I need to check it out to make sure it’s genuine…’

  ‘Tell you what, if you decline the offer let Michael know. He would be interested in buying. A commission, I’m sure, could come your way.’

  ‘I know a bit about the artist. What’s the big deal, anyway?’

  Rona
ld smiled. ‘The demand for such work is sky high. With what we now know, it’s the notoriety of the artist and the tragic background of his demise that intrigues collectors…and the rarity value, of course. This ensures the price keeps rising…’

  ‘I plead ignorance.’

  Like hell you do, thought Ronald.

  ‘Humour me.’

  Ronald cleared his throat. ‘Any painting by Patrick Porter was and is worth purchasing, particularly the nudes. They are sumptuous, grand and desirable. In the beginning a mystery surrounded the artist though. It was only later, quite recently actually, that his real identity became known to the outside world. His name was used as a pseudonym by his sister, Lauren O’Neill. She was an artist who painted secretly in homage to her dead brother. She suffered from a multiple split-personality disorder from shock she suffered in childhood and took on the persona of him… bringing him back to life, if you like. When she painted in his name, she seriously believed she was Patrick.’

  ‘Fucking weird.’

  ‘You could say that. She was deluded. Patrick died as a young child at the hands of his father, who was a thug and brutalised all the family, including Lauren. She was traumatised by the abuse and as a minor took her revenge by killing him. Even though it was in self-defence, she spent several years in a psychiatric ward before being released with a new identity. She moved to England eventually.’

  ‘And this was the wacko who died in the fire, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Mildred laughed. ‘And she really believed she was Patrick Porter?’

  ‘Only when she was painting, yes. It truly inspired her. It was her way of hiding from the harshness of the world, the pain she was subjected to as a child. A split-personality takes many guises. She could never truly trust anyone but over the years it got worse. Later, of course, she discovered that her sister had actually killed the father and never confessed, leaving her to take the punishment. An injustice if ever there was one. She felt very much alone in her mind. No wonder she was twisted.’’