Call to Witness Page 8

  His mocking tone worked. They were back from the brink of killing each other.

  She dug him in the ribs. ‘Such an ego!’

  He was indignant. ‘Who would you choose to portray me?’

  Kara walked on ahead of him. ‘Dale Winton,’ she muttered.

  At the junction with the Royal Mint, Michael hailed a cab. ‘Speak with Marcus. Explain to him my concerns. We can meet up if he so wishes. We need a plan of action. Are you OK with this, Kara?’

  ‘Yes, providing he will listen to reason.’

  ‘He has to. You need to convince him that none of us are safe. I’m seriously thinking of hiring a private detective to help uncover the whereabouts of Maggie. If she’s in London, we need to find her and fast. I don’t have the resources but I know a man who does. We also need round-the-clock protection. The police can’t provide that.’

  ‘Seems extreme, Michael, but I like the idea.’

  They kissed and hugged. Click.

  ‘You all right to get home alone?’ he asked.

  ‘No problem, a five minute walk. Speak to me soon.’

  ‘I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.’

  Michael took one last look at the sea of faces surrounding them, searching for her in the crowd. Warily, he closed the cab door behind him and settled into his seat. Within seconds, he disappeared into the heavy traffic heading down the embankment towards Westminster. Tiredness overtook him.

  His mobile rang. When he answered, the line went dead. He checked missed calls and noted the caller withheld their number. He shrugged, then felt uneasy. This was the third such call in the past 24 hours.

  ***

  Kara watched the cab vanish and then crossed the road toward The Highway, the road which separated Tower Hamlets from Wapping. She entered Leman Street, bought milk from a corner shop and made her way home. The baby kicked. At the first junction, she waited at the crossing lights as the flow of cars intensified. Her phone went. She fumbled into her handbag, caught the signal and shouted above the din as the lorries passed by.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  ‘I can’t hear you…’

  Someone was listening. Kara was seriously pissed off as the bastard clicked off. This was becoming a regular occurrence. Then the lights changed, allowing her to cross the road. On the far side, she mingled with the late afternoon crowds.

  Behind her, just twenty metres away, a figure in a dark-hooded raincoat had moments earlier followed her path undetected. Under the railway arches on Dock Street the figure stopped; withdrew a phone and dialled a number. Hidden by the shadows, the observer scanned the crowd on the pavement ahead and watched as a young, pregnant woman seemed to halt, listen, shake her mobile and curse aloud. People stared and dispersed around her, startled by the inappropriate language from an expectant mother.

  The mysterious figure reappeared and mingled anonymously with the onlookers, before vanishing quietly into the impending darkness of night: Like a phantom. As if never existing in the first place.

  Unaware of this, Kara hurried home. She was acutely embarrassed by her pathetic outburst in public. It was a further sign of her distress. This and the mysterious photographer magnified the nervousness she felt from even the slightest intrusion into her life. The rant was so undignified, she had to admit. It made her cringe. She unlocked the main door to her apartment block, turned, and surveyed the street. For what? She was terrified of ghosts. They were everywhere in her mind.

  Inside, she took the lift and managed to calm down at last. Had time to catch her breath. Grow up, for chrissakes! She screamed inwardly, admonishing herself like a child. Her brain raced. Only one thing for it at a time of crisis: Have a mug of tea and a muffin.

  She stood by the window, munching. Click.

  Then the phone rang.

  This time she was ready. She took the call.

  ‘Fuck off, whoever you are!’ she shouted. ‘If you’ve got something to fucking say, then say it to my face, you fucking piece of shit, you cowardly cunt, you pathetic loser, what kind of asshole hides behind a withheld number, eh? Speak god damn it…say it now, fuck face, or never bother me again!’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, dickhead?’

  Faint breathing.

  ‘I can’t hear you, wanker. Well…?’

  A familiar voice cut in. ‘It’s just your mother, dear. Just checking to make sure you are OK. I can always ring back if it’s a bad time to call…

  Kara recoiled in horror. That really did it. She was in serious need of therapy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘You said what?’

  Kara was mortified. ‘I know, I know.’

  Michael suppressed a giggle on the phone as Kara relayed the story of the abusive rant at her mother. He could barely contain his devilment as he imagined the crazy scenario that took place between the two of them. Bloody hell, what a comedy duo they made. He had to ask rather mischievously: ‘Are you two still talking?’

  ‘Haha!’ Then she realised that they hadn’t indeed spoken for a few hours, but she was in no mood for his mickey-taking ‘There is a serious side to this, funny man.’

  Michael hesitated, and then remarked: ‘And what would that be? Marcus will be delighted that he doesn’t have to tolerate a visit from your mother quite so often…’

  ‘Jesus, Michael. Do you have to be so facetious? Get focused. I’ll ask again: Have you had a similar experience to me?’

  ‘What, swearing insanely at my mother? Or your mother to be exact? Not recently, no.’

  ‘That’s it, smart ass. I thought I could depend on you for a shoulder to cry on. Marcus too thought it was hilarious. Why are men so childish?’

  Michael smiled to himself. ‘Perhaps you should question your own bizarre actions before throwing accusations in our direction. After all…’

  ‘All right! Point taken. I was the fucking idiot, the fool who flipped. Now talk to me seriously for once. You’ve had your fun at my expense. Have you had the same type of calls?’

  Michael hesitated, and got focused. He owed her that. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Six, seven…maybe ten.’

  ‘This is scary.’

  ‘We shouldn’t read too much into them. I quite like a bit of heavy breathing…’

  Kara drew breath. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Okay, we should take them seriously. I was just trying to calm the situation down as I explained yesterday. Yes, it appears that you and I are being targeted.’

  ‘Stalked by a weirdo more like.’

  Again, he hesitated. ‘It looks that way. Either that or your mother is a secret psychopathic mass murderer and she’s been finally caught out…’

  ‘My God, Michael. Listen to yourself. Piss off.’

  Then she slammed the phone down on him. Christ, when it rained it poured. He was trying to lighten the mood. Now they were at war again.

  ***

  Michael bitterly regretted his crass comments. He phoned back to no avail. She obviously had the hump with him. He would try later when she had a chance to calm down. He was acutely aware that the anonymous calls to the both of them did appear sinister, he now knew to his cost. She was so bloody hypo though. He took stock. The jokes had to be put aside. He had clearly offended her. Everyone was so touchy…Toby, Ronald, Kara, Marcus…which wasn’t surprising taking into account what they had been through over the past months. On top of that, he had to contend with the impending soap story and Terry’s despicable illness…well, bad things were piling up like a gathering storm. The best course of action he decided, from past experience, was usually to sit it out, ignore the crap or steel himself for the onslaught. In this case, he was beginning to fear the worst. They were being watched. He could sense the smell of fear in the air. Kara, in her heightened emotional state, was handling things poorly, he concluded. Marcus needed to know the true picture, especially as the baby’s birth was getting very close. She was on a knife-edge and had to be p
rotected at all costs.

  From his office drawer, he extracted his address book and flipped through the pages. He found the name he was looking for: Martin Penny, private detective. Penny for your thoughts was how he advertised himself. This always struck a chord with Michael. He had used him a couple of years ago during a time of several unaccountable thefts from the gallery. Mr Penny ‘joined’ the staff and soon apprehended the culprit: a part-time cleaner on nightshift. She stole small, less valuable works from the overstocked storeroom, not so easily detected as missing due to lazy accounting on their part. It was a case of being out of sight, out of mind. Eventually, Michael recovered some items on eBay. The woman was dismissed, but never charged. Since then, the stockroom was under constant camera surveillance. The database of listings was regularly updated too, so that it would never happen again. Martin had done his job well.

  Michael thought long and hard and tried to weigh up the necessity of bringing an expert on board once again. He thought of Kara… and the frightening scenario of trying to protect her newborn from harm’s way. He jotted down Martin’s number and vowed to take action.

  Slowly, he sifted through the mail: Usual bills and circulars. Only one caught his attention. An invitation to the Annual International Art Gala, held this year on Star Cruiser, a new floating five-storey restaurant/hotel ship moored at Excel, the exhibition site based near City airport.

  Michael always attended and took the staff for an evening jolly as reward for their efforts in the gallery. It was usually a glittering affair, held at a different venue each year, with much merriment and a chance to gain national recognition in the industry by way of the award ceremony. In the past twenty years Churchill Fine Art had only ever won one award, for Best Exhibition in 1999. He always lived in hope of a further prize but he wasn’t holding his breath. Each year he would always take a special guest too. He vowed to take Kara and Marcus as part of the gang on this occasion. Why not invite Julius and Antonia too? The Night of the Survivors. He chuckled. Then he raised his eyebrows as he noticed the theme of the Ball: A Venetian Extravaganza.

  Inexplicably, he felt a little uneasy and remembered Kara and her recurring dream. What had she said to him? Was his mind playing tricks? Did she imply that someone in her dream was attacking her, their identity hidden behind a Venetian mask? He wanted to dismiss such a fanciful notion as silly paranoia on her behalf, a state of play which only she took seriously. It had no bearing on the realities of life. Then he studied the invitation again. It was full fancy dress, in festival attire to mark the special night: Masks and all. The smile was wiped from his face. He hated masks.

  ***

  Terry Miles had a plan. For it to work properly, he would turn detective: fancying himself as some kind of Columbo, his favourite gumshoe. Looking back to the start of his career, investigative work was the reason for being attracted to journalism in the first place. He had an eye for skulduggery as a means of extracting the truth, and his story (any story) had to be authentic. Integrity was the keyword for him. Many in his profession would not agree with this statement, but it was how he tried to operate. And turning detective was part of the process. His late beloved wife had instilled this need for integrity in him after they first hooked up. He couldn’t let her down. She was always looking over his shoulder from above, protecting him. It gave him comfort in a hard, brutal world of cynicism and now illness. And he wanted to join her, and wished for God’s consent when the time came. In the meantime, he bent the rules of his profession just enough so that He didn’t notice. Integrity was one thing, discovering the truth by other means was also permitted… if the bigger injustice was uncovered for the good of all. This was called Terry’s World.

  His primary task, therefore, was to stake out the territory that he was going to write about, and in this instance the one which had been under surveillance by the police (and insurance companies) for several months, and discover the brutal reality of what happened there: And this location was the farm. He wanted to keep this visit a secret initially, even from his editor-in-chief…who would be looking to sensationalise the story with as many dark deeds as possible. And, Terry had to admit, there were plenty of those on offer. He was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, but he would be damned if he would bow to pressure from above until he had got a grip on what really happened that fateful day and in the days leading up to it. He was the observer. Later, he would be the judge. The central players were a bunch of liars and thieves. And Michael was supposed to be a friend. God would love this one, for what it was worth.

  At this juncture, some things were best kept quiet and at arm’s length until he had formed his own opinion of people and events. Liars and thieves was just the gossip on the grapevine. No one had been arrested. Not yet. First, he had to see first-hand the stage on which they played. Besides, he didn’t know how he would react to the infamous farm or what he anticipated on his arrival. It was that kind of road trip: maybe even leading to a dead end.

  He drove out of central London in silence, hitting the A3 without the customary snarl up at Roehampton. Forty odd miles later he found the village of Old Hampton, due south of Guildford. Although it first struck him as a sleepy hamlet, he knew only too well that the close-knit inhabitants had tried to hide their shame from the national press when it put the spotlight firmly on them. They retreated behind closed doors: quickly closing ranks to discourage the public from visiting and gawping at the calamity that had befallen the village just months before, when its previously uneventful history was altered forever in just one gory day of carnage. Now it was a place of notoriety. He sensed that no one here would want to speak of it voluntarily.

  Just beyond the pretty village of affluent clapboard houses, set amid rolling hills, lay the ruins of Laburnum Farm, formerly the home of Lauren O’Neill and her estranged husband, the artist Julius Gray. As Terry approached the long gravelled drive, he noticed the KEEP OUT sign attached limply to the five bar gate, which hung precariously upon its hinges. According to the local estate agents that he had spoken with, there was no one enquiring to buy the property. He wasn’t remotely surprised. The smell of death still lingered in the air.

  Parking his Rav4 on the verge, he grabbed his camera and ambled toward the forsaken house, partially obscured by dense, overgrown shrubbery and tall, spidery black trees, almost turned to charcoal from the intensity of the fire. The gardens were unkempt, the half-timbered house silent, dark and sickly: The house of ghosts. There was no love here. The decorative bay trees, now brown and brittle from lack of water, stood pathetically to attention in matching terracotta urns either side of the main door. It was a sad reminder of former glories. Terry stood transfixed by the prevailing sense of evil and, turning slowly, surveyed the wreckage. Beyond, his eyes spotted the great tithe barn. Or, to be accurate, what was left of it after the ravages of the inferno. On first impression, he likened it to a mammoth whale, now stricken and skeletal, seemingly beached and slowly rotting in the sunlight. Great blackened beams protruded from the ground like an exposed ribcage thrusting skyward. The stench of burnt wood still reached deep into his nostrils. He hardly dared to look inside the remains. It was a tomb.

  This was where Lauren perished. This was at the point where they all had so nearly died. He approached cautiously. Across the now defunct entrance, where huge oak doors once hung proudly, police tape flapped in the breeze. A placard stated boldly:

  POLICE. CONDEMNED. NO ADMITTANCE.

  Terry took stock and felt a chill run through his bones. Christ, he could only imagine such an inferno from Hell. This had once been a vast building, now reduced to rubble and sacrifice. In one corner, close to where he stood, he could make out the carcass of a burnt-out car. Beyond, a scorched gable wall remained upright and defiant, propped up by a mass of tangled heavy roof beams which had piled up and fused together from the explosion and subsequent intense heat. He looked around and saw only sadness and neglect. Would anyone dare to buy this property now? The entire estat
e carried the weight of despair upon its broad fallen shoulders. The soul of this house, he reasoned, died when the first sparks ignited. It was a horrible place, a bad place…lonely and beyond spiritual repair. On the undamaged roofline of the main house, ugly black crows perched and fidgeted and stared down on him, as if he was an unwanted intruder. Which he was, of course. From the undergrowth, a hare bolted across his path, disappearing fast into the cover of the thicket. A shaft of sunlight broke the heavy cloud, causing him to squint unexpectedly. For a split second, Terry was sure he detected a faint shadow move across an upstairs window at the front of the house. He looked again, deciding it was a simple trick of the light. Just then a crow swooped and stood close, his talons scratching at the scorched earth. Its beady eyes gawped at him with relish.

  Bollocks to this, Terry decided. He removed the lens cap from the camera. Get the job done. Get the fuck out. Doom House was now his private codename for Laburnum Farm. It was apt.

  Hurriedly, he took a series of photos with an unsteady hand, and ventured gingerly into what remained of the barn, treading carefully wherever he could get a firm footing. He didn’t get far. In the ruins, he somehow envisaged the utter chaos and imagined he heard the screams of a woman dying at this infernal spot. It turned his stomach. This was Lauren’s resting place. Her graveyard. Apparently, she was burnt to cinders, emulsified. There was no hope here either. Let the departed rest in peace, he concluded. He retreated as fast as he could, with the bitter taste of soot lingering on his tongue. He didn’t take a last look.

  Glad to get away, he drove speedily to the village pub. It was called The Royal Oak. Michael had mentioned it. Above the entrance, a banner swung in the breeze. It read: UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. He entered, washed his hands and face in the Men’s Room, and settled at the bar for a very welcome beer. His lips were parched. Looking around, he was the only customer. A young punkish girl, dressed all in black with a tattoo on her neck, slowly approached from behind the bar and took his order. She possessed all the enthusiasm of someone who had better things to do with their life. Terry knew how she felt. He didn’t want to be here either. She returned to her stool at the far end of the bar. He searched around tentatively: the place was unkempt and devoid of atmosphere. He wasn’t surprised. Perhaps the villagers had abandoned their local too, fed up with being the victims of answering so many intrusive questions from the media. He drank greedily.