by Dee McInnes
“Okay. Fingers crossed. Make sure Aidan knows how urgent this is. We’d better go in. The gallery opens in five minutes,” she said, checking the dial of her watch.
The Courts were inside a modern, green glazed block, constructed of Portland limestone. Crown, County and Magistrates Courts were spread across four floors. There was a café on the ground floor that was, based on previous experience, best avoided.
A queue stretched for the obligatory security check. Viv noticed Mitch, supporting the arm of a woman with a walking stick. She nudged Pete. “That’s Mitch over there, wearing the navy two-piece, with, I assume, his gran - Alice McVeigh.”
Mitch released Alice’s arm and she tottered towards the body scanner. The septuagenarian was wearing a purple overcoat with a bright pink scarf looped around her neck. She had a Dowager’s hump. Her progress was tortoise-like. Painful to observe. Mitch noticed Viv and raised his eyebrows. Alice shuffled through the frame of the body scanner and the alarm went off. A deafening two-tone siren.
Alice froze. “Och. Mitchell?” she said, her voice quavering.
“It’s okay, love.” A security guard hurried forward. “It’s probably just yer stick.” Someone silenced the alarm and Alice’s silver-topped cane was passed through the baggage X Ray. She continued through the barrier and Mitch grabbed her on the other side.
There was no designated press box in court number eleven. The public gallery comprised three rows of theatre-style seats, covered with a pale blue, hessian fabric. Viv and Pete squeezed into the back row, where reporters vied for position. Mitch and Alice took their places in the front, where the Public Prosecutor had seats reserved. They had a clear view of the door leading from the custody suite into the courtroom.
Pete introduced Viv to veteran reporter Paul McLaughlin. “So, you’ve come to see this piece of work get his comeuppance?” McLaughlin growled. His breath stank and his teeth bore witness to years of heavy smoking. “Give my regards to Carruthers, would you?”
“Oh, of course,” Viv said, trying not to breathe in. “I was reading your report, from the original inquest. Very comprehensive.”
“Thanks,” McLaughlin said.
A flurry of activity between the desks of the court clerks signalled that the session was about to begin.
Viv glimpsed the tip of the black-inked skull tattoo on the back of Mitch’s neck and wondered what he was thinking. She would give anything to be in his shoes. Give anything to see her father’s killer brought to justice.
Chapter Three
An official reminded everyone to silence any electronic devices they might have brought in. The Honourable Justice Nolan swept through the door at the back of the courtroom and took his seat on the bench. He wore a black robe with a white neck tab and a scarlet sash over his left shoulder, to show he was hearing a criminal case. Viv watched as the Judge put on a pair of gold rimmed spectacles and fussed over a neat row of red spring-back files laid out in front of him.
A uniformed security officer stepped forward to unlock the door to the custody suite. In court number eleven, defendants did not emerge directly into the dock, but walked a short distance into the wood and glass panelled chamber.
Someone whispered, “He’s coming out.” The gallery fell silent.
The disgraced Doctor had his hands cuffed in front of him. He took several steps across the carpet, closely followed by another security guard. Viv thought that Doctor Haslett moved like someone with a huge weight on his shoulders. He seemed older than his fifty-one years in his smart, charcoal coloured suit, white shirt and sober tie. She searched his face for any sign of the evil within, but there was nothing. The Doctor looked like what he had appeared to be, a well-off, middle-aged medical professional. Evil was a slippery substance, glimpsed only occasionally, whenever the mask was lifted.
The green-tinted glass around the dock added to the sense of drama, of surrealism. The officer followed the Doctor inside, removing the handcuffs with a ratcheting sound that cut the silence. The two of them stopped in front of a short row of hessian covered chairs.
Here we go, Viv thought, her pen poised. Registered journalists were permitted to use computers or other gadgets, providing there were no reporting restrictions. No jury or witnesses to be influenced by social media. She preferred the old-fashioned method. Judge Nolan had a distinct profile. An aquiline nose supported the gold-rimmed reading glasses below his powder-grey wig. Nolan had more than twenty years on the circuit. He was infamous for his no-nonsense approach and his impatience.
A clerk asked Doctor Haslett to confirm his name and date of birth before reading the indictment. “My Lord. In the case of The Queen versus Steven MaCartney Haslett, the defendant is charged that, contrary to Common Law, he did murder Christopher Mitchell McVeigh between the eighteenth and nineteenth of May, nineteen ninety-six.”
“How does the defendant plead?” Nolan asked, staring over the rim of his glasses. The tension was palpable, with everyone waiting to hear if the truth would come out.
Richard Watson QC, Haslett’s defence counsel, was seated at a table to the right-hand side of the courtroom. He was flanked by two junior colleagues and several boxes of paperwork. The Doctor glanced across the courtroom. Viv saw the two wig-tails, at the back of Watson’s head, bob. To grant permission, or reassurance? You could have heard a pin drop.
“Guilty,” Doctor Haslett said. His voice had a deep, reassuring timbre. It was hard to fathom the deceit it concealed.
The gallery stirred. “Long overdue,” she overheard McLaughlin grumble.
“The defendant may be seated. Mr Murphy, please state your case,” the Judge said.
Despite the guilty plea, the prosecution and defence teams would still be presenting summaries. Viv leaned forward her notepad balanced on her knees.
Prosecuting barrister Kieran Murphy rose to his feet. From the back of the court, opposing counsels were almost impossible to distinguish, with their black robes and ancient hair pieces. Murphy was several years younger than Richard Watson and was one of the rising stars of Northern Ireland’s overworked Public Prosecution Service.
“M’Lord. The defendant first revealed details about the offence in question during a conversation at the residence of Pastor Gregory Martin on the thirty-first of December two thousand and eight,” Murphy said. “Mr Martin disclosed details of this conversation to detectives at Antrim Police Station the following day, and his statement was recorded. However, when he was questioned following this alleged confession, the defendant denied the claims, stating he had only meant to suggest that his sinful actions could have led the deceased to take his own life, not that he himself was directly responsible…”
Viv scribbled as fast as she could, simplifying the legal-speak directed at the Judge in his elevated position. From the back of the gallery, there were no non-verbal cues to lighten the load. Pete was making notes on his phone. They could compare them later.
“M’Lord, these actions concerned an alleged extra marital affair between the defendant and the wife of the deceased, Tania Ann McVeigh, over an eighteen-month period. We would ask your leave, to submit Pastor Martin’s written statement and for the Court’s permission to read a short extract from said statement, as a representation of what Detectives now believe to be a true account of the offence to which the accused has pleaded guilty,” Murphy paused.
“Please proceed,” Nolan said.
Doctor Haslett seemed agitated. His shoes were soaking wet, he had walked from the Central Hotel, where the hospital was holding its annual party. I offered him a drink and he accepted a glass of brandy. He was clearly troubled. New Year’s Eve is not universally a time of merriment. He asked me, ‘If you saw an animal in pain would you feel obliged to put it out of its misery? To put an end to its suffering?’ I was unsure if, by this, he was referring to himself, or whether there was a different meaning. A passage of scripture came to me. ‘Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away: and every branch that beareth fruit
, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit.’ We are all imperfect, I said. Unburden yourself. You will find peace.
Judge Nolan looked over the top of his spectacles. “Are you getting to the point, Mr Murphy? We don’t need the whole sermon.”
Viv glanced across the courtroom. She’d noticed Rhona Haslett taking her seat, before the court came into session. Rhona was probably the only person, apart from those being paid for their time, supporting the defendant. Rhona’s eyes were focussed on the glass panelled chamber. She was dressed in an expensive looking suit and her hair was mid-brown with a heavy fringe swept to one side. Her mouth was a thin red line.
Murphy said, “We come to the pertinent point of the statement, M’Lord.”
I asked Doctor Haslett who or what he was talking about? He replied quietly but clearly, ‘Chris McVeigh didn’t take his own life all those years ago. I met him on the night he died, on the pretence of discussing hospital security. I sedated him…dissolving a barbiturate in a glass of vodka… and I have to confess that I was responsible for staging his suicide.’ “Further on the statement concludes.” I called a taxi and sent the Doctor home to pray. During the night I wrestled with my own conscience. I decided I was under no restriction of any confessional bond, so I came in.
“The forensic re-examination of a glass, collected from the industrial unit where Christopher McVeigh’s body was discovered and carefully preserved in evidence by police scientific officers, confirmed traces of the drug Secobarbital, an uncommon sleep-inducing barbiturate which is not available over the counter. No such medication was prescribed to the deceased. This evidence was not available at the time of the original coroner’s enquiry,” Murphy paused, allowing time for the significance of his point to sink in.
“M’Lord, we surmise that Doctor Steven Haslett deployed his considerable ability and medical knowledge in executing the perfect murder, pre-meditated in a manner that might be described as professional. His actions were calculated, manipulative and without mercy for his defenceless victim, a loving husband, son and, at the time, the father of an eight-year-old boy. We urge the court to consider the long-term suffering which the victim’s family has endured, wrongly believing their loved one took his own life. Although the provision is not statutory, we would also like to submit a victim impact statement, document one two five C. For these reasons, the prosecution recommends that you impose a very severe sentence.”
“Thank you,” Judge Nolan said. “Mr Watson?”
Haslett’s lawyer stood up and drew himself up to his full height, his yellow-grey wig askew on the crown of his head. The rolls of horsehair made him look like an old woman in curlers. Watson started off by apologising for the fact that legal issues prevented his client’s guilty plea from being entered until very late.
“I just wanted to place that on record, your Lordship,” he said.
“You have had more than nine months to prepare your client. Please proceed.”
Viv liked the way Nolan commanded his courtroom.
“I’ve been instructed by my client to express his profound regret and sincere remorse,” Watson said. “He entirely accepts how bad this matter is and how monstrous he may seem. But, before you is a man, not a monster. A man who allowed an irrational logic, a loss of reason and an illicit passion to destroy the lives of his victim and his family and ultimately to destroy his own life. He has always been an upstanding, effective and a worthy member of his community, not a monster.”
Viv underlined ‘monster’ and added a question mark. The repetition of the word was not doing Doctor Haslett any favours.
His Counsel went on to recall how the aftermath of his affair with Tania McVeigh, when rumours circulated, left him feeling isolated and traduced within the Church community and how the Doctor became depressed and very unhappy.
“So confused were his emotions, my client believed he was doing something that would relieve his victim from the depression, pain and sorrow that followed the discovery of his wife’s affair. That, he now accepts, was grossly distorted thinking. Thinking that led to an appalling and atrocious crime,” Mr Watson declared.
Viv looked across the courtroom. The doctor’s sister was next to a grey-haired man wearing a black pin-striped suit. Rhona was three years older than her brother. Although she was Chair of the hospital board, Pete had heard from someone on the inside, that her brother made all of the important decisions. Rhona remained stony-faced.
Mr Watson raised a hand to re-adjust his wig before launching into, what Viv hoped would be, his final monologue.
“My client departed from all that was his true self, a decent, upstanding, hardworking member of society. The affair proved a toxin that spawned the murder plan. My client has always accepted his role, and his alone, in planning and conducting this regrettable criminal act. The outcome of this crime was not happiness for the perpetrator, but instead discord and even tragedy.
Before you stands a man whose conscience has not been at peace. When his mother, Rosemary, died unexpectedly in July of the following year, as the result of a severe asthma exacerbation, my client regarded this as God’s punishment for the sins he had committed and conceived. It gave him a little insight into the effect that his action must have had on the family of his victim,” Watson intoned.
It was an insult to compare the doctor’s grief to what he’d inflicted on Mitch and his family.
Watson went on, barely pausing for breath.
“The defendant acknowledges that he is a fraud of the worst type, who has, by his deliberate actions, destroyed a number of lives. It is his sincere hope that, through his admission of guilt, and his expression of remorse, the bereaved McVeigh family may now enjoy some vindication in the knowledge that their loved one did not take his own life. This crime would not have seen the light of day, and been properly prosecuted, if my client’s conscience, and his conscience alone, had not troubled him deeply over the years. Your Lordship, my client is at your mercy.”
Watson bowed his head and returned to the counsel table. According to Viv’s watch, he had been on his feet for fourteen minutes. Nolan consulted the red-backed file in front of him, flipping the pages, his lenses reflecting the artificial light. He nodded to the clerk and the doctor was instructed to stand.
Nolan’s voice resounded across the courtroom. “Steven MaCartney Haslett, you have pleaded guilty to murder. The only sentence which the law allows is one of life imprisonment, to which I now must sentence you. This court will reconvene on Friday the fourteenth of November at ten am, when I will consider the statements of my learned colleagues and set the minimum term of your sentence.”
The clerk called, “All rise.”
The handcuffs were reattached and Doctor Haslett was led out of the dock, towards the custody suite. The condemned man didn’t look back.
Chapter Four
“Yer man over there is John Young, one of the senior partners at the firm who’ve managed the Haslett’s legal affairs for more than seven decades,” Pete said, nodding towards the man in the pin-striped suit who guided Rhona Haslett towards the exit. “He’s making a statement outside.”
Mitch and Alice followed Mr Murphy towards the Court Professionals’ exit, avoiding the wait at the main door as the courtroom emptied. Alice leaned on Mitch’s arm, her back stooped, making slow progress. Viv and Pete took the stairs, trying to get ahead of the crowd, although Rhona and her lawyer would, no doubt, keep them waiting.
On the pavement adjacent to the courthouse, the press-pack swarmed. Some had phones glued to their ears. Others, including McLaughlin, lit cigarettes. The crowd attracted the attention of passing shoppers and city workers, trying to see what the fuss was about. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke mingled with exhaust fumes from nearby Oxford Road.
Viv had glanced through the pages of ‘The Sentinel’ at breakfast, after hitting the gym on Adelaide Street. Despite its luxury, her hotel had no in-house fitness facilities. Most guests seemed to be more than happy sittin
g around, gorging themselves at the bars and restaurants. ‘The Sentinel’ had the story plastered across the first five pages, telegraphing the anticipated change in defence strategy, ‘Will Justice Be Served At Last?’ With time on her hands, she’d scrolled through the comments section on the Sentinel’s website. It was full of sanctimonious opinion and allegations of police incompetence.
Rhona and her lawyer came out through the security barrier. They paused, standing side by side to face the waiting mob. A TV crew and a handful of press photographers had joined the growing band of interested parties. The doctor’s sister was wearing an emerald-green blazer, a matching knee-length skirt and black patent heels. She had a handbag with a gold chain around her left shoulder. The media circled, hungry for any new information.
Court correspondents took up position nearby, Pete towering above the rest, poised to record what was said. Rhona seemed tense and uneasy. Her eyes were raised skywards, perhaps in prayer. Viv was certain Rhona would rather be anywhere else than facing the media.
Mr Young pulled a sheet of paper from a folder and cleared his throat. “Good Morning. Ladies and gentlemen, I have been asked to read this brief statement on behalf of the Lakeside Hospital’s Board of Trustees.” He paused to look directly towards the TV camera. Rhona’s brief had a pink silk handkerchief, folded into a neat triangle, poking out of his chest pocket.
“Doctor Steven Haslett resigned his post as Chief Medical Officer and board member, in February this year. The Board has no comment to make about his present situation. Neither will Miss Rhona Haslett be making any statement as regards to her family circumstances. She would be very much obliged if her privacy could be respected at this time. Thank you. That’s all we have to say.”
The lawyer shepherded Rhona towards the kerb, where a shiny black Mercedes had drawn up, hazards flashing.
Paul McLaughlin called out, “What do you think your mother would have made of your brother’s admission today, Miss Haslett?”