Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  He waited and watched. The concierge, a young man, took the mail from the postman, and could be seen making a phone call. A couple ambled through, followed a minute later by a businessman taking the lift, carrying a briefcase. Two minutes later a van pulled up and a uniformed maintenance man came to the desk. There was a brief exchange of silent words, a form passed between them and then the man disappeared into the lift. Nothing unusual. Then the disc finished. Terry was perplexed. Why did Michael need to see this?

  He checked again and concentrated on the couple: A man and a woman with their backs to him. They moved fast, with no acknowledgment toward the concierge. The man’s arm was around the woman’s waist but not lovingly, more in a manner of protection, as if he was guiding her…Was this Maggie and Theo?

  He tried Michael again on his mobile. Silence. Then he thought of a someone who could give him an answer to this question. The rumours had been flying about, now he wanted to face this man…The thief.

  ***

  Michael got back to his apartment at noon. He stripped off in the bathroom and inspected the scratch marks on his back and shoulders. Leah, or whatever her name was, was red-hot and a serious risk to his pulsating heart. She was too much to handle, and he vowed to avoid Momo’s for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t keep up with the pace.

  He showered and dressed and made a cup of tea. That was more like it. Now he was on safer ground. All he needed was the slippers to complete the picture of middle-aged contentment. Still, it was reassuring to his fragile ego that he had what it takes…he just needed longer to recover from the exertions. Months, in fact.

  He checked the time, had a word with Toby at the gallery and arranged the pick-up times to make the evening gala in the limo. Toby informed him of Gemma’s resignation letter: Just brilliant. He made another brew.

  His mobile rang. It was Terry.

  ‘Michael, what happened to the paintings?’

  ‘Paintings?’

  ‘The Patrick Porters, the ones at the farm.’

  ‘They were put into storage.’ He remained defensive.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I can’t answer that exactly. I suppose Julius or his solicitor arranged it. The house was smoke damaged and some of the paintings were badly affected.’

  ‘How many were displayed there?’

  ‘Twelve. What’s this about, Terry?’

  ‘Do you have an inventory of the titles and sizes…’

  ‘The police will. Kara compiled a list at the time, so I presume they kept it for their records. The paintings were worth a huge sum of money.’

  ‘Who else helped with this list?’

  ‘Just Kara…oh, Marcus was there at the time of course.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Yours truly…Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve been to the farm. There are signs of a break-in.’

  ‘Vandals, I reckon. It’s a remote spot.’

  Terry didn’t buy this argument. ‘Apart from you, Kara and Marcus, who else knew the total?’

  ‘Lauren, of course. That’s how many she asked me to sell when she first made contact.’

  ‘Was Julius aware of this number?’

  ‘Possibly, but he hadn’t lived at the house for several years. Is there a problem?’

  ‘I’m not convinced by many aspects of this case, Michael. Things don’t add up.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I’ll check it out further and get back to you later tonight.’

  ‘We’re all at the gala from about eight.’

  ‘We’ll speak in the morning then. Is Marcus going?’

  Michael laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not on speaking terms.’

  ‘By the way, I have a CCTV disc for you to view…I called last night to your flat but you were out. The concierge asked me to pass it on.’

  ‘I’m shattered. Shall we look at it tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Come by the gallery, I’ll be in around lunchtime…provided I don’t have a hangover.’

  ‘OK, see you then. Have a great night.’

  Michael clicked off, baffled by Terry’s odd line of enquiry. What trouble was he trying to rake up?

  ***

  Terry immediately contacted the police. A word here and there, a favour promised, a favour forfeited and he had the information he required. His name still carried weight. He had a copy of the painting inventory emailed to his office within minutes. He checked the titles from this list which was originally compiled by Kara, all twelve of them. Spot on.

  The police source also confirmed the name and address of the storage facility in Midhurst which held the household contents from the fire, including the paintings. Because of the complexity of the case (which was ongoing due to the suspicious death of an unidentified body), the dispute of ownership of assets was also unresolved between Lauren’s sister and her estranged husband. Terry knew all this by now, of course, but still needed to clear his head and get a better take on things. Maggie at the time was on the run. Hence, the necessity to keep the contents secure until the identity of the victim (supposedly Lauren) could be officially named. Seemed reasonable: only then could the rightful heir take possession of the contested goods. This was now finally established with both sisters dead and at long last certified as such. The case should now be officially closed, but nothing was ever that easy.

  There was another complication on the horizon, according to his informant. Ordinarily, Terry understood that Julius could now take possession of the remaining paintings finally. Except…and here was the rub…this was still proving impossible as the police lab could not match the DNA samples from Maggie’s remains to the dead women in the barn because there wasn’t any remains. Maggie had been blown to bits. There was nothing left of her. The body in the barn therefore remained defiantly unidentified. This latest development had only just come to light. Even Terry had a headache just trying to get his head around it. A seven year legal precedent to prove such matters was a long period to remain both patient and cool for those awaiting a definitive outcome. …

  Terry couldn’t wait that long. He didn’t have the patience either. But he did have the expertise to hack into the storage computer system of a certain company in Surrey. Which he did. Within the hour, he knew precisely the list of contents belonging to Laburnum Farm. Among the items were twenty six assorted paintings and prints. Of particular interest was the eleven Patrick Porters. Michael had said there was twelve. He scanned the titles. Bingo.

  The one missing was called Venetian interlude by moonlight: The very same painting that he had seen in a certain gallery just a few weeks ago when he was left alone to lock up when the owner did a runner. The connection made sense now. Marcus had in his possession an original Patrick Porter kept under wraps, gained by illegal means.

  Terry made a phone call to DS Keene, and told him his wacky theory surrounding the death of Lauren O’Neill and urged him to carry out an immediate sample test to help verify his beliefs. Keene protested at first, then agreed to comply and checked the DNA database. Minutes later he confirmed he already had the sample in question and would see if there was a match. Terry then closed down his computer, buttoned up his jacket and walked briskly in the direction of the docks. It was late afternoon, the sky threatening rain. The impending darkness matched his sombre mood.

  His next step wasn’t going to be easy. A confession was always difficult to extract, especially if the thief had already sold the painting, thus hiding the evidence.

  ***

  It was six o’clock. Michael finished dressing, shrugged on his black cape, adjusted his sequinned mask and cradled his ebony walking stick in his right hand and then strode purposefully from the gallery in all his splendid finery.

  The stretched limousine purred as it glided out into the traffic and headed east. Michael relaxed. He felt good. The Champagne on ice certainly helped. Soft music nullified the slight ache rumbling behind his temples. As the limo
eased along, a thousand flickering images tormented his frazzled brain. Tonight, he would banish such demons and cast them aside. He was upset with Gemma though. He would try to get her to stay. Still, tonight was a night for fun and celebration. The past was consigned to damnation.

  Nothing was going to spoil his party.

  ***

  The Marcus Heath Gallery was closed, the lights out. A handwritten sign on the door signified that the doors had been shut early at four-thirty. It concluded ‘Sorry for any inconvenience.’

  Terry Miles swore. He checked his watch, and then marched across the dock toward Tower Hamlets. He wasn’t going to be deterred.

  ***

  The party was in full swing before the limo had even arrived at its destination at Excel. Michael sat hunched beside Kara as they toasted the evening’s forthcoming frivolities. She looked stunning in a white full- length ball gown, split from the thigh, revealing a glimpse of her long legs. She wore a peacock feather hat atop her pinned-up hair and an emerald green diamond encrusted mask which contrasted with her red glossy lipstick and pale foundation. Her eyes shone brightly, a sense of wickedness prevailing over the other guests. Toby grinned, as if in another world, sharing a joke with his latest girlfriend… Michael could never keep up with the names. He was sure it was… Veronica? Or was it Veronique? He shrugged. He didn’t care. Kara raised her glass.

  She shouted, ‘To Marcus…and his stupid stubborn streak!’

  ‘I’ll drink to that!’ Michael echoed. At the back of his mind though, he knew that Marcus had every right to be pissed off with him. He was thankful therefore that the babysitter (baby was just about right!) had declined his invitation…the atmosphere would have been dulled. Let him stew in his anger. The rumbling in his head intensified.

  The Star Cruiser loomed into view as they parked up on the dock, a sleek monster of a ship that sparkled from the onboard lights and twinkling decorative illuminations along the multi-decks. Clusters of giant red balloons swayed in the night breeze as the string quartet greeted their arrival. A long line of distinguished guests, resplendent in outrageous costumes, slowly climbed the gangway to the top deck, their idle chatter and laughter punctuating the sound of the music.

  Michael alighted from the limo, the fabulous Kara on his arm. It didn’t get any better than this.

  ***

  ‘What do you want?’

  Terry stood on the doorstep, eyeing up the young man who peered back at him suspiciously from behind a half-closed door. Terry said nothing until the request was repeated, this time in a much harsher tone.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Terry replied.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Can I come in, Marcus?’

  ‘No. You can talk from there. My son is sleeping…’

  ‘Is Kara with you?’

  ‘I’m alone, she’s gone out for the evening.’

  Terry edged forward. ‘You need to listen to what I have to say,’ he whispered.

  ‘Why is that? I’m sick of the sight of all of you…’

  ‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Marcus.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  Terry was losing patience with the young man’s brattish remarks. He put his foot into the gap and grabbed Marcus’s hand and twisted, happy to hear the squeal from behind the door. Then he pushed his way in.

  ‘Where is the painting you stole?’ he asked. They stood face to face in the hallway. ‘I saw it at the gallery that day when you charged off and asked me to lock up, remember?’

  ‘You’re off your rocker, granddad…’

  ‘It was hidden under a dust sheet, on an easel. Were you attempting to sell it? How much did you expect to get for it…a painting by Patrick Porter, nicked from Laburnum Farm, eh? A tidy sum, I bet. Cash, no doubt. But it was proving tricky to sell, wasn’t it? The truth of the matter was that you’re just an amateur in a professional’s game, and Maggie was on to you. She knew you, Kara or Michael had the painting…that’s why she was after you all. You all believed that she was after revenge for Lauren’s murder…but you would be wrong, Marcus. She wanted what she thought was rightfully hers…she couldn’t easily get her hands on those held in storage, but she could claim back the one you had…and she was prepared to kill for it. What was it worth, fifty grand on a good day?’

  Marcus recoiled, his defiance crumbling.

  ‘You were hoping to make a killing yourself, correct? Do you want me to call the police and have you arrested?’

  Marcus sneered: ‘Where’s your proof?’

  Terry took out his mobile and scrolled down his camera shots. He pointed to an image. He didn’t have to say anything else.

  ‘Fuck!’ Marcus turned white.

  ‘Where is the painting?’

  ‘In the gallery, locked in the loo.’

  ‘Wow…slick. Does Kara know you have it?’

  ‘No, I was trying to make some serious money… impress her…show her how good I was…I thought I knew what I was doing.’

  ‘How did you acquire it?’

  Marcus led Terry into the living room and removed a pile of toys from an armchair, inviting Terry to sit down. He did so and listened to the boy’s confession.

  ‘I took the opportunity to steal the picture on the day of the fire,’ Marcus said, shaking his head. ‘After dragging Michael clear, the ambulance and police arrived just after the fire brigade. It was chaotic and we initially took refuge to the side of the house, where the heat was less intense. Michael was the first to leave the scene. The police took Kara and me later.’ Marcus hesitated and put the kettle on. ‘I recovered my camera and Kara’s phone from the house …I had time to lock them in the boot of my jeep. I was told to move my car to help gain access to the site because it was blocking the drive. I did this and then, while alone, wandered through the house again in a daze, shocked by what had happened…’

  ‘Go on.’

  Marcus filled the teapot with hot water and grabbed two cups from the cupboard. ‘I saw the mess and the paintings lying scattered on the floor. I knew they were valuable. I knew that they would be in demand…who would miss one in the confusion? The flames had finally spread to the main house, where I was and I figured that everything was in danger of burning to the ground…so it was an easy decision to remove one.’

  He filled the cups, brought one to Terry and sat opposite, his eyes affixed to the floor. ‘I shoved the smallest one under my arm and put it in the rear of the jeep. No one noticed, no one cared. All around it was just madness…the smoke was intense, choking. We were lucky to get out alive. No one would miss a stupid picture, I figured.’

  ‘Someone did,’ Terry commented, ‘you figured wrong.’

  ‘Christ, what a fuck-up. Did Maggie really come back for that?’

  ‘Not entirely…but had Maggie lived you would have paid with your life eventually. Whatever her true motives, she was a relentless machine and I believe that she was hell-bent on destroying everyone and everything that represented a threat to her and how she perceived the wrong-doing of others. Along with her sister, she was psychotic and vengeful. You picked the wrong artist to steal …Both Lauren and Maggie were possessive to the point of madness in regard to the work in the name of their dead brother. The reasoning behind their actions was impossible to fathom to us. Not surprising to them, mind you, when you consider the past horrors they had to endure.’

  Marcus looked up: ‘The beatings at the hands of their drunken father?’

  Terry slowly breathed in. ‘Worse than that: He was a rapist, and both daughters became his victims…’

  Marcus buried his head in his hands. ‘I was aware of the story…but not all of the details.’

  ‘You need to return the painting to Julius, he will understand.’

  ‘He’s an old friend, so I doubt he will appreciate my treachery.’

  ‘He’ll see your point of view. The matter needs to go no further as far as I’m concerned. Get on with your life and look after those dearest to
you…namely, your family.’

  Terry finished the tea and rose from his chair, weary but gladdened that a serious wrong could be put right in this whole sorry saga.

  ‘Oh, one last thing,’ he said. ‘You knew the sisters. Take a look at this and make of it what you will…it beats me.’ He handed over the disc and watched as Marcus inserted it in his desktop Apple and examined the images.

  ‘Stop just there,’ Terry instructed. ‘That couple…is that Maggie on the arm of that guy?’

  Marcus leaned closer. ‘No,’ he muttered.

  ‘No?’ he asked, bewildered.

  Marcus stood back and raised a hand to his mouth.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck…’

  ‘What is it, Marcus?’ He just knew the fucking answer.

  Suddenly his mobile bleeped and he took a text message from Keene as Marcus examined the image once again. Preoccupied with the message, he barely noticed Marcus, ashen-faced, retreat from the room to look in on his crying son in another room.

  Terry stood transfixed, his eyes alternating between the screen on the Apple and the text on his phone. He had to read the message again and again:

  SON OF A BITCH…THE DNA SAMPLE

  MATCHED…JUST AS YOU SUGGESTED.