by Dee McInnes
Mr Young put his arm around Rhona’s shoulders and tried to keep moving forward.
“Excuse us, please. No comment, no comment,” he said.
“Miss Haslett. The scriptures say ‘Thou shalt not kill, nor covet your neighbour’s wife.’ Miss Haslett?”
Rhona looked straight ahead, as if she hadn’t heard McLaughlin’s loud growl. Her lips remained pinched together. The veteran reporter followed, repeating his questions. The TV cameraman was close behind him. Viv stayed next to Pete, jostling for position. The driver of the Mercedes, decked in a peaked cap and a pair of mirrored sunglasses, was out of the vehicle. He stood at the back of the car, gripping the rear-door handle.
The cameraman was doing his best to capture every step, circling the trio to get the best shot as they made their way through the crowd of reporters. McLaughlin carried on barking questions. He managed to get in between Rhona Haslett and her lawyer as they neared the kerb, leaving her stranded like a stray sheep. Rhona whipped around to face her harasser, her face contorting into an ugly grimace. “How dare you!” John Young bundled Rhona into the leather interior and the door was slammed behind them. Smoked privacy glass prevented Viv from seeing their expressions.
“Ah well,” Pete said, as the car glided away. “That was a bundle of laughs. Would we have time for a quick coffee, something to eat? There’s a place I know not far from here.”
“Okay, a quick one. We can use the time to compare our notes.”
He strode towards the city centre and she matched his pace. Pete had a bachelor flat ten minutes away, in the newly built Clarendon Quay, across the river from where a Titanic visitor centre was under construction. He was familiar with most of the eating and drinking places in Belfast. Last time she’d visited, she had joked that he must never do any cooking at home. His kitchen was show-room standard.
She checked her watch. The Breitling was one of the few things she had that belonged to her father. He’d never worn the timepiece at work, for obvious reasons. Pete and Carruthers knew her parents were no longer alive, but they never pried into her private life unless she offered any information, which was hardly ever. She liked the heavy reassurance of the Breitling’s satin-steel case and bracelet. The constant weight around her wrist. The memory.
Jim Carruthers would be expecting their court summary to land in his ‘Inbox’ by lunchtime. They would only have until Friday to try to dig up some new material for the main feature.
“An hour max,” she added.
Viv was kicking herself for asking Mitch to get in touch with her after the hearing. Alice’s mobile number seemed to be permanently unavailable. Pete seemed to read her mind.
“It’ll be powerful to get Mitch and Alice McVeigh on the record. I can’t imagine what they must have gone through over the past nine months, since the suicide verdict was called into question.”
“Leave it to me.” She envisaged hanging around the Piano Bar hoping to bump into Mitch or his Gran. “Could you handle this morning’s summary and get it sent across to London? Carmen said she would be free later. I could catch the train to her place this afternoon, if you’re happy working on your own?”
“No problem. Here we are,” he said, opening the door into a warm interior. They were shown to a table. Pete wasted no time, ordering an Ulster Fry, sausages, egg, bacon, beans, fried bread, soda bread and toast straight off.
“I can eat fast,” he said when Viv raised her eyebrows. “What would ye like?”
“Just another Americano for me please.” She took her phone out and checked the screen.
“So, what’s the plan? I mean after today,” Pete said, taking his jacket off and placing it over the back of his chair.
“No news from your cousin?”
“Not yet, sorry.”
“What about a trip to Ballylester?” Viv said. “I wonder if Rhona is going to be at work tomorrow. You could get in touch with the hospital. They mightn’t be willing to disclose her whereabouts, but you could work your charm. See what you can find out. There’s something about her. She didn’t look very comfortable just now. It might be an interesting angle on the story.”
“She looked like she’d a pole stuck up her arse alright.”
“You always put things so delicately.”
“Ye know, I attempted to interview hospital staff, at the time of the preliminary hearing,” Pete said. “I came up against a wall of silence or the standard, no comment. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth,’ was the only thing I got.”
Viv’s phone vibrated. For a moment, her spirits lifted - hoping it might be Mitch. But, it was only a text from her mobile network about data roaming. “Are you okay to drive tomorrow morning?” she asked Pete. “Pick me up at nine and I’ll message you if I find out anything interesting before then. You can do likewise.”
“Sure. No problem.” A huge plate of food was set in front of him.
“We’ll double check everything that we know from around the time Chris McVeigh died. If we can get Mitch and Alice’s story alongside Finnegan’s that should cover the human interest,” she said. “We can’t be expected to work miracles in three days. I guess I’ll be back in London by this time next week.” Viv touched the pink scar at the corner of her eye. “Have I missed anything since the last time I saw you? Saved any damsels in distress recently?”
“Well, ye know,” Pete said, swallowing a mouthful of food. “That was a tight spot we got into last time. The agency’s insurance would have paid for you to have that mark fixed, although, you know, it probably isn’t as noticeable as you think.”
“It’s okay, you don’t need to start digging. It’s a reminder to be on my guard. Anyone can lash out if they’re cornered.” Viv was still annoyed with herself for not having anticipated the attack that narrowly missed her eye.
“Life’s never dull whenever you’re about,” Pete said. “It’s great to have ye back in Belfast.”
Chapter Five
Viv changed out of her court suit, into jeans and a crew-neck sweater. Carmen was meeting her at Mossley West station, twenty-two minutes north. She bought a bottle of water and a copy of the Evening Sentinel from a newsagent on the corner, where a small shopping mall connected Great Victoria Street to the tiled station concourse. A homeless man and a skinny, white dog were camped outside. Viv tossed her change into a round, metal tin at the man’s feet.
“God bless ye,” the man mumbled, looking up from underneath a filthy baseball cap.
She waited inside the stale and airless carriage for several minutes before the guard’s whistle sounded. The track criss-crossed the River Lagan and ran parallel with the motorway, carrying traffic towards Carrickfergus and Antrim. Through streak-stained windows, she watched the outside world speeding past… graffiti-spattered brickwork…neglected gardens… ivy choked branches. Before the track turned inland, she caught a glimpse of a Stena Line ferry making its slow progress into Belfast Lough. Life went on as normal, oblivious to the pain that people carried with them on their journeys.
Carmen was four years older than her sister, Adele, who had been in Viv’s year at secondary school. Relations between Viv and Carmen’s long-term fiancé, Cuds, had been strained since Adele’s wedding when he had made a clumsy pass at Viv. At the time she had put it down to excess alcohol consumption, but it was said that drunken words were sober thoughts. She sometimes wondered if there was a side to Cuds that Carmen knew nothing about.
The train pulled in. Carmen was outside, leaning on the bonnet of her silver hatchback, wearing a bright red jacket and matching lipstick, her hair an untidy mass of brown curls. Carmen always seemed so self-assured, so in control of everything. Viv had never mentioned the wedding incident, although it was always at the back of her mind.
“Hey, great to see you,” Carmen said, giving her a hug.
“You too.”
As she negotiated the traffic, Carmen told her about Cuds’ latest project, a narrative film about the combatant Clans of Inishowen, set in Ire
land during the seventh century.
“He’s down in County Donegal this week, on location, at a stone ring fort outside Derry. You know Grianan?” Carmen said. “If you’ve time we could visit. It’s the final stages of the shoot. Might be fun? Will you have any time off, or is that a stupid question?”
“It depends on how much progress we can make over the next few days. So far, you’re the only person we have pinned down.”
“Hopefully that’ll change. You know, when you do have someone in your sights, the best way to get people to talk is not to pressurise them. Say nothing. Let them make the first move, fill the silence. Oh, and of course, reflective questioning, as I’ve told you before.”
“I think you mean you’ve told me on numerous occasions?”
Carmen laughed. “And how’s our red-headed reporter? Still carrying a torch?”
Viv didn’t say anything, although she could feel the heat rise to her face.
Carmen stopped outside her house and they went inside. They took their coats off and Viv pulled out one of the wooden spindle-backed chairs at the kitchen table.
“What about a cup of tea or a glass of wine?” Carmen said.
“I can’t relax until we’ve a decent story to keep Jim Carruthers happy,” Viv said, sitting down.
Carmen switched on the kettle. “How have you been? Still chasing deadlines, I guess?”
“Of course, it’s always good to keep busy.”
“The classic avoidance tactic.”
“I’m not sure what you mean?”
“I worry about you, you know. There are other people you could talk to.”
“Don’t fret. Really, I’m doing fine,” she said.
“Well, okay.” Carmen didn’t sound convinced. “So, what is it you’re after?”
“You mean as regards this story, or for life in general?” Viv asked.
“Well, let’s confine ourselves to Doctor Haslett’s case initially,” Carmen said with a laugh.
“We need to know, A. What would motivate a man like Steven Haslett, who had money and a successful career, to do what he did? That’s where you come in. And B, anything about him, his family, or about the McVeigh family, of interest to the paying public, or C. Anything else that looks dodgy and might warrant further investigation.”
“Okay. Understood,” Carmen said. “Give me a recap of what was said in court this morning, and anything else that you think is relevant.” She brewed the tea and set a mug in front of Viv. “Would you like a biscuit?”
“No. Thank you. So, we heard that Doctor Haslett made a confession at the end of last year, although he later denied it. His church pastor, Gregory Martin, spoke to the police, and this led to the case being reopened. A re-examination of evidence retained from the scene, namely a glass used by Chris McVeigh on the night he died, discovered traces of a sleep-inducing drug that had been missed in the original enquiry. An allegation about an extra-marital affair between the Doctor and Tania McVeigh was cited as the reason the crime was committed. Something about the doctor wanting to put Chris McVeigh out of his misery. I’d say that was a smokescreen, wouldn’t you? Lust and envy, pure and simple,” she paused. “By all accounts, Doctor Haslett was someone determined to get his own way. There have been whispers about impropriety involving female members of staff at the hospital, prior to the time he was involved with Tania, but these are unsubstantiated. His sister, Rhona, as you probably know, is Chair of the Board. Her lawyer made a statement after the hearing that told us nothing. It’s a massive scandal for the hospital.
Richard Watson, Haslett’s brief, claimed the Doctor regarded his mother’s death as God’s punishment and that it gave him an insight into the loss the McVeigh family suffered. As if the two things could be in any way comparable. I forgot to say, I met Mitch McVeigh, Chris’s son, at the hotel yesterday evening. His grandmother wants them to sell their story. I’m not sure, now the trial is a non-event, whether Carruthers will be willing to pay them very much.”
“What’s Mitch like? It must be terrible for the family,” Carmen said.
“He’s your typical army type. Attractive, in a rugged sort of way… but I’m here on business,” she added, noting Carmen’s expression.
“It never stopped you before,” Carmen said, alluding to Viv’s previous boyfriend, ex-marine Harris Clarke. “A bit of time off never did anyone any harm. In your case, I’d strongly recommend it. You work too hard.”
“So you say…we’re not sure if Mitch’s mother, Tania, will agree to an interview,” Viv went on. “She seems keen to stay out of the limelight, for the moment.”
“Did I read somewhere that Doctor Haslett’s mother died, the year after the murder-suicide?” Carmen asked.
“Yes, that’s right. Rosemary Haslett suffered from ‘late onset asthma’, and she’d a viral infection, making her condition all the more risky. Steven and Rhona Haslett were attending a medical conference at the time. They lived under the same roof, in a huge Victorian manor house. Me and Pete are going to drive up there tomorrow… Rhona was quoted as saying that her mother was worried about the long-term effects of using steroids and was reticent in using her inhaler. Back then, Northern Ireland had one of the highest asthma-related death rates in Europe. After their mother’s death, the family funded a publicity campaign to raise awareness of the dangers.” Viv paused to sip her tea.
“I read something about that,” Carmen said. “Rosemary Haslett was well regarded. She bankrolled a lot of charities and good causes in North Antrim. I’m not sure that Steven and Rhona were quite as generous when they took over her estate.”
“Right. So, Doctor Haslett was the subject of a police psychological report, but, as he pleaded guilty, the contents won’t be disclosed, well, not for a long time. Could you tell me something about the sort of personality type that would fit his behaviour? We just need some general psycho-blurb, no offence intended, and could I record your answer please? I spent all of the morning making notes. We’re not allowed to make recordings in court,” she said.
“No offence taken, and yes, of course,” Carmen smiled. “Some of what you’ve said I knew already. The media has been full of speculation, but I am going to ignore that. In nineteen twenty-three psychologist Kurt Schneiders classified ten psychopathic personalities. That’s SCHNEIDERS. Google him, if you want to know more.
I’d say Doctor Haslett exhibits the traits of two common Cluster B disorders. Psychopaths have beliefs and attitudes that differ from most people. The narcissistic personality is more common in men and is classically exhibited by a callous unconcern for other people’s feelings. The narcissist will disregard social rules and obligations, acting impulsively to satisfy his own needs. They can be ruthless and aggressive. This type is often known as ‘The Charming Psychopath.”
Viv thought about how the Doctor had deceived his community and the authorities. She remembered his unassuming and respectable physical appearance but knew that looks could be deceptive. As Carruthers would often say, ‘Evil bastards don’t have the words tattooed across their foreheads.’ “Go on,” she said. “Charming psychopath… I like it.”
“The other personality type that fits, one that you have probably come across before, is the Antisocial Personality. Again, this affects far more men than women. Many personalities blur into one, so these are generalizations. Bear in mind that disorders occur on a spectrum from occasional bad behavior to severe forms. The most extreme cases result in your very serious crimes by persons who often exhibit ruthless, immoral behavior and appalling cruelty.
People with an antisocial personality disorder won’t hesitate to exploit, manipulate or violate the rights of others. This would fit with the rumour about improper sexual behavior. It’s a tell-tale sign. Often, people with psychological disorders have experienced some sort of childhood trauma. Deviant personalities are formed over a long period. There’s the great debate, that I’m sure you’ve heard before, about whether evil is in-born, the result of circumstance or a combi
nation of both? And, can we trust him? Psychopathic traits are like letters in a stick of sea-side rock, going all the way through the centre. Anything someone with a chronic mental illness says, should be taken with a pinch of salt. Is that enough to go on?”
“Perfect.” Viv paused the phone’s voice recorder and drained her mug. “When would be a good time to go out for dinner? All expenses paid.”
“The restaurant I was thinking of going to doesn’t start serving until five. We could have another cup of tea and take it in the conservatory. It’s more comfortable.”
“What happened Steven and Rhona’s father?” Carmen asked, when they were seated at the window, overlooking the garden. The afternoon sun was setting over a rectangular shaped paved patio, bordered with dormant pot plants. “A person’s relationship with their parents can be very significant…as you know.”
“Dead, I assume,” Viv said, settling into a wicker armchair. “He must have died, a long time before Rosemary, but I’m not one hundred percent sure. It’s a good question.”
“There was something about a family accident, I seem to remember,” Carmen said, wrinkling her brow. “A clinical psychologist, from Queens’ University I think, did a TV interview earlier this year, around the time the Doctor was arrested. It happened when Steven was very young, maybe six or seven years old. It might have been broadcast on Ulster Television and not shown across the water?”
“I could text Pete, ask if he remembers anything?”
“I’m sure we discussed it at work. Natalie, at the Wellbeing Centre, specialises in trauma. She might remember more,” Carmen said.
Carmen was still on the phone when Viv came back. Carmen held up her index finger. “I was right,” she said, setting her phone down. “Apparently there was a devasting fire at a stable block, beside the Haslett’s house, in the late nineteen sixties. Andrew Haslett died, trying to save the horses. Thoroughbred hunters, worth thousands of pounds each.”