All the Rage (27 page)

It was her only possible way to communicate. He had to believe it. Delores was a determined old lady. She had made her last defiant signal. It was a call to witness.

 

***

 

Outside, Michael brushed off his escort, dusted himself down and gulped clean air. His taxi driver had nodded off. He checked his watch. It was time to make the airport, get home, and coordinate with Kara and Lauren. He had deliberately switched off his mobile during his short stay at the care home. He didn't want interruptions. Now the bloody battery was almost dead. It was vital to make sure that his plans were proceeding as normal, and that Kara knew exactly what she was doing.
God, the very thought turned his stomach. Did she know what she was doing? Had he gone too far with this?
With regard to Lauren, he was confident that she was not aware of his journey to Dublin. What concerned him now was whether Miss Brogan would contact one of the two sisters and spill the beans of his visit to their mother. He had made one mistake, now an even bigger mistake, causing a ruckus in the nursing home. It brought unwarranted attention.

Maggie scared him. She had already warned him not to mess in family affairs. He had now. Big time. He now knew a family secret that had been kept silent for over thirty years. If it could be seriously believed, that is. Maggie was the elder sister, and held a firm stranglehold over both her sister and her ailing mother. Secrets are best kept
secret
. Maggie, he felt, would go to any lengths to protect her own guilt. What wasn't known, of course, was how much of this did Lauren have knowledge of?

Michael found a payphone in the street, just a hundred yards from his stationary taxi. He dialled Maggie's number. No response. Just where was she? It bothered him. He dialled Lauren's number. It was disconnected. He tried Kara. No connection. It was past ten o'clock. By now, Kara should be on her way to the farm. Shit. He had to reach her, to warn her of the danger she was in. It was only now that he could see this clearly. It was inconceivable that she should be left alone with Lauren, and that's precisely what he had stupidly organised. He hoped that she had the sense to take Marcus. What had he been thinking, putting Kara right into the lion's den?

He roused the driver from his slumber. ‘To the airport! Fast! '

 

***

 

Ronald was not happy. After the weird episode with Kara yesterday, he had decided to contact his boss and make an official complaint about her. He considered the whole affair a direct attack on his integrity. He would also now consider his position in the business; such was his humiliation at being challenged by a mere secretary. It was the last straw. He came into the gallery this morning as a sense of duty to Michael. That was all. Where Kara was, he could not care less. What worried him, though, was not being able to contact Michael by phone. What was going on?

As instructed, he had spent considerable time over the past couple of days digging up information on the artist, Patrick Porter. But that was the trouble. He had spent time and energy
not
finding out information. There simply wasn't any. Not of any great substance, anyway
.

He considered the facts. Like a lot of artists, whether local or international, information is usually forthcoming from sketchy biographical records, either through the artist themselves, the artist's agent, the internet, the auction houses or official art publications, such as Who's Who in Art. Of course, many artists introduce themselves to the galleries with a personal appearance, or present their work on CD. However, in the vast number of cases, the gallery and artist never meet. The actual identity or description is taken on face value, without cross checking the credentials. It was the way it was, unless the gallery had direct contact with the artist, as was the situation with Marcus Heath.

Ronald was aware of many, many artists who had found great success with Churchill Fine Art. Michael had discovered their early talent, represented them, or promoted them to the wider buying public. But here was the rub. The artist, in many cases, was never personally known to the gallery, very rarely to the public. Why? Because there were thousands and thousands of successful artists from all over the world, who either employed agents or simply crated up their work and posted it straight to the gallery concerned. It was impossible to have a relationship with all but a handful. In reality, the bottom line was supply and demand. The artist himself – unlike his name – was often inconsequential to a commercial gallery. He or she was just the vehicle to a potential sale. It was the actual painting that was the essential asset, a tangible tool to turn a profit.

The work of Patrick Porter was one such case. Internationally renowned, but who had actually met the artist? Certainly not Michael, nor Ronald. The two most noticeable things about Patrick Porter were his sublime artistic abilities and his untimely, mysterious disappearance: the perfect ingredients to create intrigue and romance to promote keen sales. If the quality of a canvas was of the highest calibre, and reflected in a high price tag to match, then the profit was the guiding force in the mercenary art world. It was a multi-billion dollar franchise. Art was now the hotly traded commodity of the super-rich. As far as Ronald was concerned, it didn't require much analysis that in order to publicise the “next best thing”, a group of shrewd art dealers would willingly join forces to reinforce this line of thinking. He chuckled to himself. There were several prominent public figures that did this to brilliant effect. In a nutshell, these people created a manufactured market overnight by simply lending their names and reputations to these unknown artists, underpinning the perceived success of the next “big thing” by sustainable investment. First, the speculation and then the manipulation. As a result of the publicity and hysteria, the wheels would begin to turn, with lucrative returns coming in. The monster was born.

Ronald understood this. He had been in the business a long time. There was always somebody ready to create an opportunity to dispose someone else of his or her money. It was called salesmanship, and all you needed was product and chance. It was the way of the world.

Patrick Porter was a product. The rest was immaterial. It did not surprise Ronald that he had very little to report to Michael. One thing he did have though - a poor monochrome photograph of the artist, taken from an exhibition brochure for a one-man show in Miami, Florida, in 1991. He looked gay, Ronald observed, with a smirk.

 

***

 

Kara and Marcus got out of London early and travelled mostly in silence, down the A3 toward the little village of Old Hampton, where Laburnum Farm was located. Marcus knew the way and drove at a steady pace. He was nervous. The memory of the farm and the bad vibes he had encountered were not something he wished to relive. However, he was with Kara and this made him feel reassured. Although he was dead set against the reasoning behind the trip, he was immensely proud of her professionalism and guts. On the flip side, Michael was, in his opinion, a fucking arse for allowing her to enter the lion's den. He would make his opinion known at a later date.

 

***

 

Kara sat quietly beside Marcus. She fiddled distractedly with a camera, trying to occupy her muddled brain with thoughts other than dealing with Lauren O'Neill. Their meeting would not be a joyous occasion, she was certain of that. She had decided that if she encountered any kind of hostility or lack of cooperation, then she would down tools, so to speak, and retreat in a manner as dignified as was possible. Michael had his viewpoint. So did she. In her view, this woman was a complete and utter “off her head nutter”. It didn't need further qualifying.

‘Are you going to be all right? ' Marcus asked, glancing her way.

‘Yes,' she lied. ‘It's going to be a blast. '

 

***

 

At the airport check-in, Michael was suddenly aware of someone standing close to his left, and staring at him. He was unnerved, expecting a security check. Glimpsing from the corner of his eye, he was somewhat startled to find Joseph O'Connor just two feet away from him.

‘I'm glad I found you before your flight, Mr Strange. '

They shook hands warmly, in stark contrast to their icy farewell at the restaurant.

‘This is a surprise, Dr O'Connor. '

‘Please, it's Joe. Call me Joe. '

‘Michael, then. What can I do for you, Joe? '

‘I slept rather badly last night, thinking of what you had to say to me. I spent the entire early hours of the morning reacquainting myself with the Laura Porter case. '

‘Oh? '

‘Reading her case notes, I discovered many things about her that I had forgotten. I am disturbed by the way in which she was manipulated at the time of the crime. It made me feel uneasy. '

‘Manipulated? '

‘Yes, by the police, her family and the press. Laura was deeply traumatised when I first met her. She was suicidal, in fact. It took six years of constant therapy and hypnosis to restore her to a young woman who could at last begin the adjustment to the normal world. She had many complex and dark personalities, all of which vied separately to take control of her identity. It was a huge task to re-establish a level of sanity to her existence. '

‘What are you trying to tell me, Joe? '

‘That you are a kind and sincere man, and I underestimated your intentions. This is highly irregular, but I would like you to have this. '

The doctor handed over a thick brown folder. ‘I believe you will find everything you are looking for is in there. '

Stunned, Michael took the folder eagerly, holding it tightly to his chest.

‘I am an old man, Michael. The past is the past. We can only look to the future. Holding back these files is like holding back the future. '

‘Thank you, Joe. I am indebted to you. '

Joe chuckled. ‘It is I who am indebted to you. However, just remember, Michael, if I have to be accountable for that file, I will crumble easily under interrogation. I will say you stole it from me and I fought defiantly to the bitter end to keep it from your grasp! '

Giving Joe O'Connor a parting hug, Michael moved on to the departure lounge and finally boarded his aircraft at just after midday. He was flying home. On his lap, he tapped the precious folder nervously before opening it. Slowly, with great apprehension, he began to read the story of the life of a young girl named Laura Porter. It proved to be a turbulent journey. Like the thunderous weather outside the aircraft, he had no choice but to endure it. There was no going back on this one.

 

***

 

Marcus and Kara arrived at the entrance to Laburnum Farm one hour ahead of schedule. The temperate climate had changed dramatically, with a strong weather front of cold gusting wind sweeping in from the south. The sky turned slate grey. It matched Kara's mood.

‘Wait,' she suddenly announced. Marcus braked on the gravel drive, out of sight from the house.

She took out her mobile and dialled Michael once more. No response. ‘He must be on a flight. Sod it. ' Her mood darkened still further.

‘What now? ' Marcus demanded tetchily.

Kara took a deep breath. ‘Onward, my fine soldier. '

With the farm coming into view, it was as bad as Kara had imagined: dismal, windswept, inhospitable. To the right of the house, a great structure in black loomed like a menacing dragon, crouched and ever watchful. It gave her the creeps. All around, the overgrown foliage and skeletal trees seemed to suffocate all light and air from the immediate vicinity. Everything clung together, like spider webbing, under a thick blanket of drizzle and swirling mist.

‘Christ,' Kara said, catching her breath.

As if by some unexplainable trickery, an encircling mass of crows exploded from an adjoining field and descended upon them as they alighted from their vehicle. The noise was tumultuous, filling their ears with a high-pitched screeching sound. The sky was liquid black.

Marcus ducked and dived and lost sight of Kara. Then, mercifully, the shrill abated. Within seconds, the hundreds of birds had departed, as if by order of a hidden command. Marcus whistled in mock relief and caught sight of Kara, cowering down beside the car in search of protection from the frenzy above. It was like a scene from a Hitchcock movie. Now, mercifully, it was over.
Shit
, thought Marcus.

In vain, he tried to lighten a bad situation. ‘Times change,' he grinned, unconvincingly. ‘When I was last here, we threw a crazy non- stop alcohol fuelled party which lasted for three days. '

Kara lifted her head and stared at him, incredulously. 'Who with…

The fucking Munsters? '

Chapter Seventeen

 

Michael was enraged. During the flight, he hastily read and re-read numerous official files, transcripts, hypnosis analysis, profile charts, drug reports, professional diagnosis and Home Office recommendations. It was a heavy load to digest. It turned his stomach queasy, although he couldn't decide which was responsible for the discomfort he felt: the gruelling paperwork or the dramatic air pockets the aircraft encountered on its return to Gatwick. On board, all the passengers suffered from the turbulence. Not Michael, however. He had other more pressing matters to contend with right now, and somehow fought off the nausea which threatened to creep up on him.

Reading still further, what greatly surprised him was Laura's/Lauren's capacity, under the supervision of Dr Joseph O'Connor, to confront her heinous deeds, and somehow embrace a form of recovery. This kind doctor very slowly reintroduced the building blocks. Ultimately, this gave her the opportunity and the will to survive. During their time together, he and his team educated her, restored her self-esteem and introduced a return to a kind of normality; one which she could depend upon, in spite of the enormous conflict which still infiltrated her troubled mind.

Without his unstinting support, moral guidance and professional integrity, Laura would not have survived her time in prison. It was testament to him that she pulled through, intact but scarred. This was the truth of the matter. Her father was a savage brute, who had terrorised the entire family. Without a shadow of doubt, Laura was the victim. Her childhood had been removed from her, systematically and remorselessly, until she could no longer tolerate further punishment from his hands. She had snapped, and in an instant, become the aggressor, killing the man who was her father in name alone. It not only changed her life forever, but also that of those dearest to her as well: her mother and sister.

What also further surprised him was Laura's love of art, which she developed whilst in the hospital jail. She completed an Open University degree course, obtaining top honours. She read avidly, becoming an expert on the life and works of the Dutch masters, notably Vermeer. She learnt their skill in glazing techniques and became an accomplished artist. Michael thought suddenly of the grotesque portraits which now adorned her bedroom walls, so different from what she was truly capable of.

His deliberations were interrupted by the “Please fasten your safety belt” sign illuminated above his head. He closed the bulky file on his lap and fastened the fold-back tray securely to the seat in front. Closing his eyes, Michael thought of Maggie. He felt that she was a far more dangerous proposition than Lauren. He recalled the episode of the discarded bottle at the care home. What if Delores had truly sent him a signal? Could he really believe that Maggie was responsible for her tiny brother's death? Was this possible? Why would she do such a thing? Was it an accident or an act of malice? Was Maggie capable of uncontrolled rage? If so, did she have a secret history of violence?

More important, was this a violence that had gone on, unabated and unchecked? Michael had felt it first-hand, both at the farm and on the telephone. Was this a rage too frightening to be challenged
?
She was not to be messed with, and her frequent warnings to him could no longer be ignored. Michael winced as his gut tightened.

He was deeply perturbed. Searching back through his conversation with both Paddy and Joe, something nagged at him. What had he missed? The unthinkable…maybe? Looking out through the tiny window, green and brown patchwork fields came into focus as the aircraft descended over the Surrey countryside, breaking through the last of the groundcover cloud. If only his mind could clear as easily.

What if?

He reopened the folder, and sifted through the ream of paperwork. Running his finger down each page, he found a recurring theme within several of the files: a confession of simplicity. As Paddy had explained, it was as clear a case as was possible – a suspect, a motive, a confession.

And there lay the problem.

Michael had seen reference to the missing link on several occasions during his study, but the significance of what it implied had evaded him and everyone else at the time of the crime. Going back to 1978 Laura was, undoubtedly, a tragic figure and her confession was as clear as you could wish for, especially if you were from the prosecution team. Guilty, as charged. No one looked further, not even the defence, who reluctantly recognised the futility of the situation and went for a plea bargain of manslaughter, on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Speaking imploringly on behalf of their client, they got what they wished for: Job done.

The problem was in her testimony. On every reference point, Laura, although heavily traumatised, always insisted, and repeated, that she had killed her father with two heavy blows to the head, using a poker from the fireplace. Michael found this point unerringly consistent. He checked and rechecked to make sure this was correct. The hypnosis reports also confirmed this version of events, which meant that she never, ever wavered in her confession.

But what if?

To all intent and purposes, Laura had killed her father. She had struck him, and violently. But was the intention to kill him, or simply to render him incapable of further harm to her? In a moment of panic and fear, she had struck out in self-defence. Laura was a tiny fragile girl. He was a giant of a man. What happened then in those mad, insane moments when she instinctively knew her life was in mortal danger?

Michael knew the answer. She panicked,
and got lucky.

It was as basic as that. The killing was not planned. How could it be? It wasn't possible for him to be overpowered in such a manner and to be bludgeoned to death by a weakling of a girl who was in fear of her life.

Bludgeoned to death? These words stuck in his throat. Paddy had told him earlier: “He (the father) was unrecognisable. He was bludgeoned beyond all recognition. ”

Jesus Christ. What had he stumbled on?

The aircraft suddenly lurched, dipped and bounced on the runway, screeching to a halt to the collective sigh from the passengers. It was a bad landing, provoking a ripple of ironic applause. Michael ignored the commotion, closed the file, and felt the impending cold sweat of realisation engulf him. He could hardly comprehend what he now knew to be the unpalatable truth.

Little Laura was guilty, for sure; guilty of striking her assailant, twice.

Frank Porter wasn't dead. He was dying.

But who was the last person to witness this carnage? Who was the person whom Laura called when she needed help? Who was it in fact who had the opportunity to finish off Frank as he lay dying, and defenceless, on the floor?

‘Are you all right, sir? ' the stewardess asked, shaking his shoulder. ‘Do you need assistance? '

Michael glanced up, disconnecting from his trance-like state. He cleared his throat. ‘God help us all,' he murmured finally.

The girl in the uniform appeared startled. ‘Pardon me, sir? '

Slowly, Michael composed himself, gathered his things, and made his way to the far exit of the aircraft. He stumbled slightly, preoccupied by the realisation that a serious miscarriage of justice had occurred all those years ago. A terrible dread surfaced in his head.

Laura. Laura. He couldn't erase the image of this young girl – a vulnerable child – serving a prison sentence for a crime she did not actually commit. If his theory proved to be true, she would also serve a life sentence of another kind. The doctor was right. Laura was truly cursed, trapped in a complex web of conflicting “worlds” from which there was no escape.

This knowledge brought great sorrow. It was a sad conclusion knowing that if Maggie chose to serve her own selfish interests, her younger sibling would go to her grave never able to resolve her own inner turmoil. Incensed, he vowed to restore this imbalance of justice. Maggie's whole life was a lie, he had now discovered. She had betrayed her one and only sister. Blood was not thicker than water.

 

***

 

Outside, on the tarmac, it was cold and blustery and wet. Michael buttoned his raincoat, switched on his mobile phone and followed the queue to the arrivals desk, then through passport control. His BMW was in the underground car park. He tried to contact Kara but the signal was poor on his flip top, and the battery useless. He plugged it into the recharger socket, but still no signal appeared. He drove steadily, deep in thought. Beyond Gatwick, he headed for Reigate, through Dorking, around Guildford and onto to the A3. He had a decision to make: either turn left, toward the farm or right, up to London and home. He dialled the gallery, and got through to a familiar voice at last.

‘Ronald, everything OK? '

‘Just bearable. '

‘Have you seen or spoken to Kara?

‘Briefly. '

‘I'm worried about her. I can't get her on the phone. Do you know if she made her appointment with Lauren O'Neill? '

‘When was that? '

His impatience grew thin. ‘Today,' he snapped.

‘I'll check the diary. ' After what seemed an eternity, Ronald replied, ‘The entry is there, and she isn't in the gallery. I suppose that makes the answer “yes” then. '

‘When did you last see her? '

‘Yesterday lunchtime; she was with Marcus. '

‘Marcus? Did they appear to be OK together? I've been concerned about the two of them. '

‘Difficult to tell,' Ronald said. ‘I've been rather concerned about a lot of things myself recently. Certainly, those two have issues to sort out, Kara in particular. Then there's the lack of business which is worrying. You, of course, have your own problems. Then there is the matter of trust. I feel neglected. To be honest, Michael, I need to review my position in the company. '

‘It will have to wait. ' Michael was tetchy and hardly in the mood for this kind of conversation. Ronald's problems were way down the line of priorities at this moment. ‘Listen. Did you get the information I asked for on Patrick Porter? '

Ronald sighed wearily. ‘Of a sort,' he said grudgingly. ‘Not much to report. But I do have a photograph. '

‘
Really
? Can you send it to my mobile?

‘Will do. '

Michael clicked off, found a lay-by and pondered his next move. It was all too damn quiet. Instinctively, he dialled Maggie's number in Ireland. No answer. Then he tried Lauren's house line. No answer. This didn't add up, especially as Kara was supposed to be at the house. Then a text message came through. It was sure to be Ronald.

But it wasn't. It was a message that was both short and shocking:

 

THE CUNT WILL DIE

 

Michael gasped, and felt the tiny hairs lift on the back of his neck. He checked the dial number and found it blocked. But the crude inference was crystal clear. Kara was in a perilous position. Her life was being threatened. The message
had
to come from Lauren's mobile. Fear leapt into his every pumping vein.

He checked his watch. He calculated that he could make the farm in under twenty-five minutes. He redialled Ronald.

‘Churchill Fine…'

‘Ronald. It's Michael. Listen very carefully. I'm going to the farm; I'll be there shortly. If you do not hear from me within the next two hours, I want you to call the police. It will be an emergency situation. Is that understood? '

‘Yes, but what's going on? '

‘No time to explain, Ronald. Just do it. Two hours. Then get the police to Laburnum Farm. '

Clicking off, his heart was pounding, his mind racing way beyond him. He could hardly grip the steering wheel. From somewhere, courage returned. Without a second thought, he selected “drive” on the automatic gearshift, floored the accelerator and weaved recklessly in front of the traffic coming up from behind. A blast of car horns fractured the air. Michael didn't glance in his rear view mirror. He didn't need to. He could taste the dust in his throat from the cloud thrown up by his tyres.

 

***

 

Kara wasn't happy that she had lost communication with Michael. It was bloody inconsiderate of him, she decided. It made her anxious. Still, she consoled herself that Marcus was with her. It made a difference. After the episode with the Hitchcock crows, it was a case of getting on with the job and getting away. Fast.

Lauren met them at the main entrance, and Kara was surprised by the way they were greeted with both charm and graciousness. Not what she had expected at all. Somehow, in her head Kara had built up a compelling picture of the character Glenn Close portrayed in
Fatal Attraction
. As in the movie though, appearances can be deceptive. For now, she would reserve judgment. Oh, sod it; Lauren was still a complete
bitch.
Case closed.

She introduced Marcus as her assistant, and Lauren was equally warm and welcoming with him, too. From somewhere in the house, a dog barked and growled. For the next twenty minutes, she and Marcus unloaded the jeep and methodically set up the equipment in the huge dining room, where Lauren had directed them.