by Dee McInnes
There were only two other customers inside the cafe, a woman and a baby who was fast asleep in a foldable push chair. It was warm and the windows were steamed up. They took their cups to a corner table. Pete hadn’t been able to resist a huge slab of carrot cake.
“We could try and get a copy of the death certificate,” he said, taking a bite.
“It’s a waste of time. Copies have to be requested by relatives or someone with power of attorney and, anyway, the certificate gives dates, not times. I’ve seen them before,” she said. “What about the GP? Look him up, would you? He’s unlikely to give away any medical info, even although Rosemary’s dead. But he might remember what time he was called out. I haven’t got a mobile signal, my network’s patchy.”
Pete brushed the crumbs away, his thumbs tapping the screen. “Doctor Stewart isn’t listed at the main practice,” he said. “But there is a handful of other surgeries within a twenty-mile radius that she could easily have been registered with.”
Viv took a sip of coffee. “We’re wasting time. It’s impossible to reach Alice McVeigh on her phone, and Mitch said he’d get in touch after the hearing…but that was twenty-four hours ago.”
“Hold up. Here’s a photo of Stewart winning the Veterans Two-Ball at Ballylester Golf Club last year. It’s captioned, Alwyn Stewart, now a regular fixture following his retirement,” Pete held up his screen. “We could swing by, pun intended… someone at the club might tell us where we could find him. It’d be better than twiddling our thumbs here?”
Pete got back behind the wheel, following the coast road out of Ballylester. The sun had come out and he put his sunglasses on. Viv looked out over the familiar seascape. To the west, beyond the headland was Lough Foyle. She used to love playing on the shore, skimming stones with her father. Competing to see whose stone would jump farthest. After her mother died the fascination had turned sour and Viv was warned to keep away from the water.
She never knew for sure whether her mother had intended to walk out into the Lough, dressed only in her nightdress, or whether her mind was clouded by the morphine, medically prescribed to numb the pain of her cancer.
The clubhouse came into view. It was a two-storey brown brick building, circa nineteen seventy. An enormous rectangular window overlooked the eighteenth green. Inside the entrance they were faced by a row of glass-fronted trophy cabinets and a reception desk. The man behind the desk was wearing a diamond-patterned pullover from the same era.
“Leave this to me,” Pete said. He strode over, his shades perched on his forehead. “Hello. I was wondering if you’ve seen Alwyn Stewart today, or know where we might find him?”
The man in the pullover gave Pete a cursory look. “Alwyn’s probably in the restaurant, seeing as it’s almost lunchtime.” The man pointed towards a staircase which reminded Viv of her secondary school. The same moulded, blue plastic banister and tiled treads. The smell of roast dinner wafted downstairs. “You can’t miss it, it’s right at the top,” the man added.
“Ask outright if he can remember that morning and what time he was called out, or when he got to Eveleen Manor. I’ll wait here,” she said, pointing to the Lounge Bar next door. “Remember to introduce yourself properly. Say we’re exploring what’s behind Doctor Haslett’s confession and the bearing his mother’s death had on his confession.”
“Should I say we’ve spoken to Haslett’s housekeeper?”
“We weren’t there officially. Just say we’ve been given to understand he was there between eight thirty and nine am and see what he says.”
Viv ordered a mineral water and took her glass to a table overlooking the bay. Seagulls were using the air currents to dip and soar, making the most of the rare November sunshine. Near the horizon, she noticed the stretched outline of a container ship and remembered how, after her mother’s death, she used to wish she could sail away, and never come back. Her father’s sister, Aunt Cassy, had done her best to help, but it had never been the same.
She scrolled through the headlines, taking advantage of a surprisingly strong network signal.
“Mine’s a half of lager,” Pete said, appearing at her elbow.
“Well? Anything?”
“It was just after nine o’clock in the morning when Dr Stewart got there. He says he’d just arrived for the start of morning surgery when he got the call. He remembers going straight out again. He also confirmed he spoke to Steven Haslett, who said his mother had been dead for several hours when he got there. Stewart concurred with Haslett’s professional opinion. Gillian Beattie was apparently in a terrible state.”
“How did you find all of this out so easily?”
“The trial that never was has brought back a lot of memories. It’s all anyone’s got to talk about around here at the minute. In a place like this, the Haslett family are big news and people love to gossip… mind you, these small communities can also be very good at staying quiet, if they need to and the threat is big enough.”
“Okay, so there’s a financial motive and opportunity. We don’t have to prove anything, just the usual stuff, ‘sources close to the family suggested.’ Buy yourself a drink. I’m going to the Ladies for real this time. I’m assuming you’ve not heard anything from Aidan?”
“I’ll send him a reminder.”
They had left the golf course and were heading towards the motorway when her phone rang.
‘Viv Hunter...Oh, hello, thanks for getting in touch.’ She gave Pete a thumbs up sign. ‘Dinner? I’m not sure, we’ve a lot of work still to do, but… the pub across the street?... I could be there in, say an hour?’ She looked at her Breitling, her fingers brushing the bezel. ‘I look forward to it. See you then.’
“That was Mitch. We’re meeting in The Crown,” she said, making sure she saved the contact number onto her phone.
“I was hoping we could go there ourselves, later in the week. You goin’ solo?” Pete said.
“You’re welcome to come along for a quick one - if you want to. But I think he’ll talk better if it’s just me and him.”
Chapter Eight
They crossed a black and white mosaic of tiles inside the entrance. Mitch leant against the counter, nursing a bottle of beer. It reminded Viv of their meeting forty-eight hours earlier. Mitch had a dark blue T shirt tucked into his jeans. There was another tattoo inked on his right bicep. A grey, army dog tag on a beaded chain, DAD had been imprinted onto the tab.
“Hello again, good to see you. Can I introduce my colleague, Pete Breen,” she said.
Mitch took Pete’s outstretched hand. “Irish whiskey all round?”
“Um, sorry, not for me. I’ll just have a half of Tennents lager, thanks. I can’t stay long,” Pete said. “We could get these in?”
“No, it’s okay, I insist.” Mitch tried to attract the barman’s attention. “This is impressive. Is the décor original?” he asked
“It’s one of yer must-see landmarks in Belfast. The city’s oldest pub,” Pete told him.
Mahogany booths bordered two sides of the bar. Only a few of them were occupied. The compartments had glass-panelled doors, framed on either side by carvings of lions and dragons in a rich, red wood. The table inside the booth was a rough-cut wooden slab on a black iron frame. The seats were brown leather, button-upholstered benches on opposite sides. Bronze-etched windows created a warm, sepia tone, as if time stood still. Mitch selected one at random, setting the tray of drinks in the centre of the table.
“These windows had to be replaced dozens of times during the Troubles, whenever the Europa was bombed, which was often. They worked painstakingly to maintain the architectural integrity,” Pete said. “Although that trouble is all behind us now. Belfast’s a great place for a night out. In different circumstances of course.”
“Sorry I wasn’t in touch with you sooner,” Mitch said, looking at Viv. “My mother called unexpectedly, and we had to go out to meet her.”
“Where’s she living these days? Is she coming to the sentencing on Frid
ay?” Pete asked.
“Mum can’t face it. She’s not been well. She still feels responsible for getting involved with someone like Steven Haslett, the fucker. A monster who….” Mitch stopped. He picked up the whiskey glass and swirled the amber liquid around. Took a long drink.
Viv wished Pete would ask one question at a time. The men were sitting opposite each other. She compared the chiselled, clean-shaven jaw of one to the other’s oval chin and its sprinkling of stubble. The squat, muscular frame to the tall and angular. Mitch seemed to be waiting for her to say something. He was staring at her with the same intense gaze that she’d noticed when they first met. She touched the steel circumference of the Breitling with her fingertips.
“Now Doctor Haslett has pleaded guilty, we’re running to a very tight deadline. It’s very good of you, and your gran, to agree to speak to us. We’re keen to ensure that your side of the story is put front and centre,” she paused. “Pete. Please don’t forget we still need to find out that address, if we’re going back to Ballylester tomorrow morning.”
“Right.” Pete gulped his beer. “Point taken. It was good to meet ye. All the best for Friday. There’s no way he’ll be wriggling his way out of a very long sentence.”
After Pete left, Mitch leant across the table. “That’s a beautiful time piece you have there. It’s classy, just like its owner.”
“It was my father’s. He died too. A long time ago,” she said.
Mitch reached out and rested his hand gently on top of hers. “Do we have to do this interview? Could it wait?”
The red-tipped, second-hand passed ten marks on the dial before she forced herself to slide her hand away. “Let me get you another drink. Same again?”
At the counter she berated herself. Keep it simple. Think with your head. Never cross the line between business and pleasure. Carruthers’ words echoed inside her head. She walked back between the carved, mahogany figures and set the glasses down. “Listen. I’ve got to be honest. I’m not supposed to get involved with anyone who’s part of an ongoing investigation.... maybe once the case is closed, when we’re back across the water, we could meet up?”
Mitch agitated the whiskey glass, watching the ice melt. “Okay,” he said, dragging the word out. “What do you need to know?”
“Tell me what you think about Doctor Haslett and, if you can, what you remember about the night your father died? Tell me whatever you want people to know about how your father’s death has affected you. I’d like to record your answer, if that’s okay. It’ll be for my own use. I promise the recording won’t find its way elsewhere.”
The words came tumbling out. “Try and put yourself in my shoes,” Mitch said. “Growing up without a father. Living with the stigma, the disgrace. Trying to understand why someone would take their own life; why my father left me. Questions with no answer. People looked at me weirdly in school, on the streets. It was far better for me to move away, to live with my Nan, to get away from Northern Ireland. I can barely explain how I felt or how I feel now. When we found out what really happened…. Anger doesn’t begin to describe it.” His jaw tightened and his fingers gripped the glass.
“Beyond anger?” Viv said.
“It’s a fucking outrage! A violation of my father’s honour. His good name. No matter what justice the courts might serve up, it will never be enough. That’s probably hard for you to understand?” Mitch looked at her with a pained expression, fighting his emotions.
“I have some idea,” she said, barely trusting herself to say anything.
“You know,” he went on, taking a deep breath. “As a child I remember the Sunday sermons. Sitting in church between my parents. Haslett, his sister and mother across the aisle, that pompous Pastor spouting scripture, fire and brimstone: Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Retribution must follow sin and all that crap.”
“I’m sorry, I know this is difficult.” She tried not to think about the empty words intoned at her father’s funeral.
“No. It’s good to tell someone how I feel. To be honest, for once, rather than pretending.”
“Steven Haslett will go to jail for a long time. He’ll be an old man by the time he’s released.”
“That fucker doesn’t deserve to have a life. All those years when I blamed my father for what I thought he’d done. Nothing can change that. Nothing can take that hurt away.” Mitch pulled down the neck of his T shirt, revealing the black-inked human skull. Two crossbones were clenched between the skeleton’s teeth, below hollow eye and nose holes. “My father was a brave man. A soldier, decent and honest, this was his regimental emblem. Death or Glory. Haslett will get what’s coming to him, one way or another.” Mitch spat the words out, his voice rising.
The bartender poked his head through the door of the booth.
“Excuse me, are there any empties?”
“We’ll bring them up,” Viv said, laying her hand on Mitch’s arm. “Are you happy to go on? We can take a break if you want to?”
“No, it’s fine, let’s keep going.”
“What about when your father was still alive. Do you remember anything about the day of the murder, or the last time you saw him?”
“I’m told he came home from work as usual, the day before his body was found. Then he went for a lie down. Mum said he had a migraine. Things had been difficult at home, after the relationship between Haslett and my mother came to light and my father’s business got into financial trouble. My mother explained all of this to me later, when I was older and more able to understand, before I went to live with Alice.
My mother said her head had been turned by the attention of someone older and more well-off than we were. She never intended to cheat on my father and called it a terrible error of judgement. As you heard in court, Doctor Haslett and my father had arranged to meet on the night he died, supposedly to discuss security for the hospital extension.” Mitch drained his glass.
“I guess he needed the work,” Viv said. “But it must have been awkward for him to swallow his pride, and accept the hospital’s business, after what happened?”
“My mother had claimed the affair was a one-off. We had no idea, until recently, that it had been going on for so long. Or maybe that was just Haslett’s perception? Another Lie?
Mr Murphy told us that the police preserved video evidence from Woodside Business Park. My father had cameras inside his unit, covering the doors and windows. His van was driven into the loading bay at eight fifty-seven, the roller-door was electronically controlled. That’s the last time my father was seen. His face wasn’t visible on the CCTV, but police assume it was him. My mother said he left home shortly before nine, which corresponds with the time stamp recorded. The cameras were switched off afterwards. They were mainly a deterrent against break-ins. You know, I remember waking up the night it happened…. it was pitch black. There was an owl screeching in the woods, behind our house. I thought afterwards that perhaps it had been a sign, an omen, that something bad had happened. Then the car drove away.”
“What car? Was someone parked outside your house?” she asked.
“No, it had reversed down the drive-way. I could see red, tail lights from my bedroom window. I used to have this big toybox that I had to drag underneath, so I could stand on it and see out.”
“Who was driving?”
“I’m not sure. It’s just come back to me.”
“What time was this?”
“I was eight years old. I can’t remember… but it was the start of the summer. It would have been daylight until, I guess, at least ten o’clock, so it was probably later. I often woke up in the middle of the night…in the early hours of the morning.”
“Who’d have come to the house, after your father had gone out?”
“Do you mean, apart from Steven Haslett? But Mum told police she hadn’t seen him in the weeks leading up to the murder. She said she’d ended the affair…quit her job at the hospital. I could ask her?”
“No, don’t worry.” Viv didn’t
want Tania McVeigh being asked any questions, unless she was the one asking them. “Let’s leave it there for now,” she said. “As long as you’re happy for us to publish your story?”
“Like I said last time, I’ve nothing to lose…and there will be a financial payment? I’m asking for my Nan more than myself. She relies on me to supplement her income.”
Viv stopped the voice recorder and put her phone away. “I’ll check with my boss and let you know. There’s usually a standard fee. What else do you get up to in your spare time, when you’re not playing match-stick poker?”
Mitch said he wished there was a gym at the hotel, and she told him about the place on Adelaide Street. She offered to sign him in as her guest. He seemed keen and they arranged to meet on Thursday morning.
“I’ll need to buy some trainers, I haven’t anything with me. It’d be good to have something to pass the time,” he said. “I’m going stir crazy hanging around the hotel. Maybe we could have breakfast afterwards, or perhaps dinner this evening if you’re free?”
“We’ll see…maybe breakfast. I’ll also need to meet your Nan and get her side of the story.”
“She and my Mum never saw eye to eye. Since everything has happened, their relationship is even more strained. Don’t think too badly of my Mum. The guilt has eaten her up.”
“Okay. I guess you do a lot of fitness training in the army?”
“I’ve spent the past six months at a camp in the Yorkshire Dales,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t join me for dinner? We both need to eat, after all. Rest is just as important as training. My Nan says the Europa is too expensive and she likes to be tucked up in bed by nine thirty. We had lunch at a place down the street. I’m all on my own…”
Viv didn’t need any distraction. The Code of Conduct said nothing specifically about relationships between journalists and their sources. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to get the feature written up, and I’ve an early start tomorrow.” She was already thinking about how she would incorporate Mitch’s memories and the possible contradictions to existing evidence.