Legitimate Target

by Dee McInnes

“That’s interesting,” Viv said. “I wonder why this hasn’t been mentioned before?”

  “Maybe his defence team thought it was too far back to be connected? You’re talking over forty years ago. But, as I said earlier, childhood trauma can often be part of a psychopath’s make-up. As children antisocial personalities can often display disruptive behaviour, such as cruelty to animals, petty crime or starting fires. The blaze at the stables could have been a so called, red flag event.”

  Viv rubbed at the scar above her eye. Steven Haslett would have been old enough to strike a match.

  Chapter Six

  They travelled north, passing the concrete chimneys and corrugated steel of the agri-food mill at Yorkgate, leaving Belfast in the rear-view mirror. Pete was behind the wheel of his two-door Astra coupe, the seat pushed all the way back. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he steered one-handed, his right elbow resting on the window ledge. During the night she’d mulled over the things Carmen had said about his feelings for her. He was a colleague. A friend. More like a younger brother than… The notion was ridiculous.

  Carmen had been in no fit state to drive her home. She had persuaded Viv to share an expensive bottle of Shiraz. Viv congratulated herself that she had stopped short of consuming the glass of Limoncello that Carmen had insisted on ordering and had worked it all off at the Adelaide Street gym before breakfast. The gym was part of a national chain where she was a member. The South Harrow branch was where she’d met her ex, Harris Clarke. Their intense relationship had lasted twelve months, before the inevitable break-up.

  “The good news,” Pete said, interrupting her daydream, “is that The Boss was happy with my piece from yesterday’s arraignment, but I couldn’t get past the hospital switchboard. Rhona Haslett’s attending to hospital business and won’t be available for comment or interview. As far as Tom Finnegan goes, Aidan found out that Finnegan’s living in a seaside town somewhere along the North Coast. He needs more time to get the address. Finnegan’s phone number is unlisted. Hopefully we’ll have a result within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Anyone we can get at this stage is better than nothing,” she said. “You know, Carmen had some very interesting things to say last night about Doctor Haslett and his psychological make-up. There could be a lot more to him than meets the eye. I emailed you my notes. You’ve probably not had time to read them, unless you were awake in the early hours?”

  “Uh, no, I was out like a light,” he said, cutting into a lane of slow-moving traffic on the slip road. “I haven’t looked at any email this morning. I met McLaughlin and a few of the others for a couple of drinks last night.”

  “Did you know that Doctor Haslett’s father died in a fire, more than forty years ago?”

  Viv gave Pete a summary of Carmen’s ‘red flag’ theory.

  “What? And I’m the one who’s hauled over the coals for my far-fetched ideas,” he said.

  Viv laughed. “Well, I know…but it’s a possibility, you’ve got to concede?”

  “It’s from our expert, who also happens to be your best friend. You won’t find any arguments here,” he smiled.

  “I dug up some information about Chris McVeigh’s premises, the business unit at Woodside Industrial Estate, outside Ballylester,” Viv went on. “The current tenant is a second-hand clothing recycler. Since the murder-suicide, it’s been listed on commercial rental sites on and off. I’d like to persuade Tom Finnegan, assuming we find him, to have his picture taken outside. Until then let’s just drive out past Haslett’s house. Have a quick look at the place.”

  “Rhona’s at the hospital. She won’t be at home.”

  “We could try and get a few photographs, ’The imposing residence of the renowned Doctor and his sister.’ What do you think? Then, if we drive into Ballylester afterwards, we could ask around…we might come across someone who knows the family… a shop-owner, or someone who might tell us something we could use.”

  Research said the Haslett family had a six-thousand-acre estate encompassing woodland, a lake and a fishing river two miles east of Ballylester. The Lakeside Hospital had been built on the site of a former sanatorium that was used for the recuperation of soldiers during the first and second World Wars. Despite Steven Haslett’s fall from grace, the hospital, according to their latest filed accounts, was still highly profitable. The company brochure claimed that thousands of patients came from ‘the four corners of Ireland’ for hip and knee replacements and for minor foot and ankle reconstruction.

  “The hospital is all mod cons, gated security and CCTV that Chris McVeigh’s company installed,” she said. “The manor house is on the opposite side of the estate. It was built in 1861 and is Grade B listed. Apparently, it’s named after Rosemary Haslett’s aunt. I found it on Google Maps, it’s along the Ballymacarron Road…if that’s how you pronounce it? Does everyplace around here start with Bally?” she said.

  “It’s just from the Irish, meaning place of,” Pete said.

  They found the house easily enough. The grounds were surrounded by a low wall, topped with black, wrought-iron railings. Beyond the railings, a tangle of trees, moss-covered branches and abandoned birds’ nests screened the house from the road, as if the house itself had something to hide. On the other side was a fenced paddock where cattle were grazing.

  Pete slowed the car to a crawl.

  Viv caught a glimpse of terracotta chimney pots, imposing windows and a columned portico supporting a first-floor balcony and balustrade. There was nowhere for Pete to stop along the narrow road. She was unable to get a clear view whilst the car was moving. Further along, at a bend in the road, the railings curved towards the entrance. Modern gates, with tell-tale electronic arms, were sandwiched between scrolled posts, topped with Fleur-de-lis. ‘Eveleen Manor’ was stamped in gold letters on a metal plaque affixed to the right-hand post.

  A sleek Mercedes, like the one they had seen parked outside the courthouse, was nosing out of the entrance. The driver’s face was hidden behind the peak of his cap and a pair of metal-framed sunglasses. The car pulled away in the opposite direction, the gates standing open.

  “Quick, drive in,” she said.

  Pete stopped inside the entrance. “What now?”

  “I’ve an idea…Do you think I could drive?”

  He got out and came around to the passenger side. She clambered over the gearstick and adjusted the seat forwards. “If we see anyone, say something like you’ve a knee injury that needs specialist surgery and that we’ve lost our way.”

  “Right, whatever you like,” he said.

  The driveway veered to the right and climbed in a gentle slope. She spotted a goat with a long, ginger beard, ruminating on the other side of the fence.

  “A distant relative?” she said with a grin.

  “Very funny. Ha ha.”

  The road forked and she kept to the right. They found themselves in a semi-circular space, in front of the house. There were two tall windows on the ground and first floors of the building, on either side of four Ionic columns topped with scrolled capitals supporting the balcony, framing the entrance. Five steps led up to a panelled, wooden door, the ornate columns resting between the steps on square plinths. The windows were highlighted by carved, stone surrounds. Behind the glass, the curtains were closed.

  “I wonder if anyone’s in?” she said. “There’s not much sign of life.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  She got out and snapped a couple of photos. Pete played his part by limping up the steps, on the off chance that anyone was watching them. Viv pressed the old-fashioned doorbell. They waited, the ringing sound echoing on the other side. The house stood silent. As she was wondering whether to ring again, the door swung inwards. A petite woman aged sixty plus, stood on the threshold. The woman had pale straw-coloured hair and bird-like eyes set close together. Red spider veins coursed across her nose and cheeks.

  “Can I help ye? What’re you doing in here?” The woman had a strong
Ballylester accent.

  “Hello, sorry to bother you,” Viv said. “We’re looking for the Lakeside Hospital. We’ve an appointment this morning. We must have taken the wrong turning and your gate was open…”

  “You should’ve followed the road right around the estate,” the woman said. “The hospital is directly opposite where you’re standing now. When you cross the bridge, take the next right.”

  “That’s great, thank you very much. I wonder, could I use your bathroom please?” Viv asked. “We’ve driven a long way.”

  The straw-haired woman hesitated. Pete shuffled forward, favouring his right leg.

  “We’d really appreciate it. My wife here is pregnant and it’s really playing havoc.”

  Dressed in her belted trench-coat, it was difficult to appear anything but trim. “I’m still in my first trimester, it’s our first,” Viv improvised.

  The woman tilted her head to the side and seemed to weigh them up. “Alright. Come in.”

  They followed her across a tiled hallway and down a passageway, lined with paintings. “There is a bathroom just along here,” she said. “Where’ve you come from?”

  “Newtownstewart,” Pete said. His hometown was sixty miles south.

  “That’s a long drive.” The woman pointed out a door, “We’ll be at the end of the corridor, whenever you’re finished.”

  The bathroom had a small, frosted windowpane. Viv sat on the closed toilet-seat watching the second hand of her watch complete five circuits. She followed the passageway into a country-style kitchen. An oak table and six chairs were at the centre. There was a vast window, between a latched door and a cooker, with four hinged compartments. The tabletop was strewn with dried flowers, pink and purple blooms, twisted on wire into bunches. Wire remnants had spilled onto the floor.

  “Was everything alright?” the woman asked. “As I was telling your husband, I’m the housekeeper. My name’s Gillian, Gillian Beattie. Please excuse the mess, I was making up some bouquets for church.” Viv noticed the woman nudge a glass tumbler, containing a clear liquid, behind one of the flower arrangements.

  “Would ye mind if I rest for a minute, my knee is really painful,” Pete said.

  “Oh, of course,” Gillian said, her eyes shifting to a wall-clock, its face encased in dark wood above a brass pendulum.

  Pete stretched his legs out. “Have ye worked here for a long time?”

  “I’ve been here for the best part of forty-two years.”

  “I bet you’ve seen a lot of changes?” he said.

  “Some for the better, some for the worse…”

  The housekeeper wore a purple turtleneck below a cream wool sweater. The colours matched her necklace of aubergine and creamy-white pearls. Viv thought that the necklace could be worth a lot of money, assuming the gemstones were real. Pearls weren’t really her thing. The housekeeper twisted one of the dark, purple pearls between her thumb and forefinger, like a religious worry bead.

  “What happened to your knee?” Gillian asked Pete.

  “Oh um… I was playing football… tripped myself up.”

  “I don’t want to keep you back from your appointment.”

  In the bathroom, Viv had wondered how to turn the situation to their advantage. Whether to come right out with a question or to try and work things from a different angle? If they mentioned Doctor Haslett or the murder trial, she was sure the housekeeper would clam up or show them the door. The woman already seemed anxious for them to leave.

  “We’re quite early. Since my pregnancy my fingers have already swollen so much, I’ve had to take off my wedding ring. Isn’t that right darling?

  “Oh, err. Yes. Right enough,” Pete was slow to take his cue.

  “This is a magnificent house,” Viv went on, remembering the gold lettered plaque on the gatepost. “We noticed the name, when we drove in. It’s very unusual?”

  “The gentleman who built this house, James MaCartney, named it after his wife, Eveleen. They never had any children themselves, so it was inherited by their niece, Rosemary.” The housekeeper’s demeanour changed, breaking into a smile for the first time.

  “Does Rosemary still live here?” Viv asked.

  “No. The mistress passed away thirteen years ago this summer. She was a great, great lady.”

  Gillian’s fingers found the pearl, tracing its fine, smooth surface.

  Viv caught Pete’s eye, willing him not to say anything. The silence stretched. She could hear the ‘tick’ of the wall clock and the soft click of the pendulum. “You say Rosemary passed away? I’m sorry to hear that. You speak very fondly of her.”

  “Thank you. It was me who discovered her body, you see. I used to go in to her every morning at the same time, at eight o’clock. That morning, I found the mistress cold as stone… the life had gone completely from her. She suffered from asthma. They said she must have had a severe attack sometime during the night.” Gillian paused. “Of course, I telephoned her son, a Doctor, straight away. He was here within the hour, but there was really nothing anyone could do. I’ll remember that morning until the day I die,” she placed her hand on her chest, and closed her eyes as if in prayer.

  “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Pete said.

  “Thank you. Here is me, rattling on. You’d better not miss your appointment. In fact, that’s where the mistress’s daughter works, and her son…” Gillian’s voice trailed off as if suddenly remembering she’d been told not to say anything to anyone.

  “We appreciate your hospitality. Come on then, darling, we’d better not be late,” Viv said. They had probably stayed longer than they should. They retraced their steps.

  Viv climbed back behind the wheel and watched in the rear-view mirror until Gillian Beattie was out of sight. At the bottom of the driveway, she stopped the car and burst out laughing. “Well, that was fun, although I’m not sure we found out anything we didn’t know already.”

  Pete had his head down, staring at his phone. His ears were bright pink.

  “Is everything okay?” Viv said, wondering if she’d overstepped the mark.

  “Just a minute. There’s something that sounded a bit off, about what she told us. I made some notes yesterday…if only I could find them.”

  Chapter Seven

  The gates swung magically open as they approached the bottom of the driveway.

  “At least the old bat is letting us out again,” Viv said. “Although she never offered us a drink. She was strange, don’t you think? Forty years in this place must have taken its toll. Did you smell booze on her breath?”

  Pete swiped his phone-screen. “Um, I didn’t really notice.”

  “Shall I keep driving? We could go into Ballylester and find a coffee shop. Better keep your caffeine and sugar levels up, darling. It’s too early in the day to be hitting the hard stuff. Maybe we’ll find someone else, willing to talk.”

  Pete looked up, his colour returning to normal. “Do you remember, the housekeeper said that the morning she discovered Rosemary’s body, she called Doctor Haslett straight away, and that he arrived within the hour. Those were her exact words. Right?”

  “Yes. I heard her.”

  “You know, the night Rosemary died, both Steven and Rhona were away from home… at a medical conference, at the Slieve Donard Hotel in Newcastle, County Down. It was one of the things I checked yesterday.”

  “I read something about that too. So what?”

  “The Slieve Donard is about eighty-five miles from here, right on the south east coast of the province. There’s no way anyone could have made that journey in less than an hour and a half, even if they floored it. Certainly not first thing in the morning…during the rush hour.”

  “Well, maybe she just mixed her times up? Or the booze has clouded her memory?”

  “She seemed to have a very clear memory of the morning she found Rosemary.”

  “Was anything reported in the local press?”

  “Still looking. Hang on. Turn right here,” he
added. “If you go down the main street, there are half a dozen places where we could stop for coffee. There’s this from the Ballylester Guardian, the twenty-second of July ‘97.

  The community was shocked to learn about the sudden death of Rosemary Haslett, nee MaCartney. She died during the night at Eveleen Manor. Family GP, Alwyn Stewart, was called out to the property, but Rosemary had already been dead for several hours. Dr Stewart said he strongly suspected his patient had died from a severe asthma attack in the early hours of the morning. Our sympathy is extended to the Haslett family…blah blah blah.”

  “Gillian Beattie called Steven Haslett straight away she said, let’s say around five or ten past eight. But that doesn’t tell us what time he arrived back, or what time they rang Doctor Stewart,” she said.

  “I know. But maybe Haslett wasn’t at the Slieve Donard when he answered the phone call. Maybe yer man was a lot closer to home?” Pete said.

  “That’s a lot of maybes. We know Steven and Rhona were at the conference together. But we don’t know if Rhona spoke to her brother, before he drove home, and I wonder why she didn’t come back as well. The housekeeper only mentioned Master Haslett.”

  “They could have been in it together. They stood to gain a lot, financially, with their mother out of the way.”

  “That’s a wild theory,” she said, thinking of Carruthers’ caution. “Would you have Steven Haslett up for double murder?”

  “If the cap fits,” Pete said, raising his hands, palms up. “You know… Aidan’s sister has asthma. Sufferers can’t get enough oxygen into their lungs whenever their airways constrict. One time I was over there, I witnessed an attack. It was frightening. Death’s due to asphyxiation, exactly the same as what happened to Chris McVeigh.”

  Viv switched off the engine and rubbed her index finger over the scar at the corner of her eye. Doctor Steven Haslett had been living a lie for the past fourteen years. Carmen said she wouldn’t put anything past him. Maybe Pete had a point?

  “I really need a cup of coffee. Come on,” she said.