Legitimate Target

by Dee McInnes

  “Well, if I can’t tempt you,” he said. “Let me at least walk you back.”

  They stood side by side in the lift, their bodies almost touching. When it stopped at her floor and the door opened, Mitch slid the toecap of his boot across the gap, preventing the door from closing. His hands circled her waist, pulling her close, and he kissed her on the lips.

  She backed away, ignoring the sirens luring her in. “I’ll do my best to tell your story. See you in the lobby at seven-thirty on Thursday morning,” she said, the heat rising to her face.

  “My Nan’s a big fan of Robert Louis Stevenson, a fellow Scot. He wrote: Life’s not a matter of holding good cards, but of playing a poor hand well. That’s all any of us can hope. Goodnight Viv.”

  She poured two miniatures of whiskey from the mini bar into a glass and slumped into an easy chair by her bedroom window. She turned the TV on and found a twenty-four-hour news channel, muting the volume. The headline tickers scrolled across the bottom of the screen…Meteorologists predict worst winter for thirty years. Toddler dies after dog attack. Evil Northern Irish surgeon admits guilt. She could feel the effect of the whiskey on her empty stomach. Remembered the soft warmth of Mitch’s lips. The rush of hormones. She had his number. To hell with rules?

  She rang room service and placed an order. Kicked off her boots and closed her eyes, savouring the peaty taste of the whiskey.

  Incapable of writing, she thought about what Carmen had said about her ‘classic avoidance tactic.’ Mitch’s anger had also hit a sore spot. She remembered the last time she had seen her father, driving away to work the late shift. She had been fifteen years old.

  A knock at the door made her jump.

  “Room Service.”

  She opened her eyes and dragged herself to her feet.

  Her father had cheated death on foreign soil… the sole survivor of a stray shell that had exploded out of the blue, when his tank unit were camped near the Simento Bridge in Catalina…only to be shot twice and blown to pieces less than five miles from his own home, by his own people.

  Chapter Nine

  Sod the gym, she thought, and grabbed two paracetamol tablets from her toilet bag. The smell of half-eaten chicken tikka made her stomach churn. Viv opened the door, shoved the tray into the corridor with her bare foot and slammed it shut. Resting back against the door, she closed her eyes and let out a slow breath. Her head hurt. How did it all fit together? Could there really be a question mark over Rosemary Haslett’s death and did it all start, as Carmen suggested, when Andrew Haslett had died in the fire, forty years ago? How did Mitch’s memory make sense, given what they had heard in court, and should she have called him last night?

  Viv remembered the first case she’d worked with Jim Carruthers. How body after body was discovered, under floorboards, in that unassuming suburban house. No-one could believe it either, at the time. She lay back on the bed, her laptop propped up against her knees and reviewed her notes so far. Typed, ‘What is secobarbital?’ into the search engine.

  The drug, under its brand name, Quinal Barbitone, or Q.B, was only available in the UK by prescription on a named-patient basis. To habitual users. It was not normally prescribed to new patients; ‘much safer anti-depressants are more readily available.’ Chris McVeigh could have obtained the drug illegally, but it seemed unlikely. Perhaps police had found something linking the supply to Doctor Haslett? A compelling reason for changing his plea, would’ve been to avoid evidence of any prior criminality coming to light.

  She jotted down some of the information from her search. Q.B, supplied as an orange capsule containing a white, odourless powder, was soluble in water and alcohol. The drug induced anesthesia in ten to fifteen minutes, based on a normal two hundred milligram or two capsule dosage. The effect could last for three to five hours. ‘Important information you should know about sedative-hypnotics,’ caught her attention. ‘This drug may give rise to sleep-driving, that is, driving while not fully awake following ingestion, with amnesia for the event. The use of alcohol appears to increase this risk. Other complex behaviours such as sleepwalking, making phone calls or having sex have been reported in patients after taking this medicine. As with sleep-driving, afterwards patients can have no recollection of what took place.’

  No wonder then, that the drug had been banned to all but what was termed, sedative-hypnotic-experienced persons. She was wondering how she was going to condense all of the information into a two thousand word feature, when Pete rang.

  “Mornin’ Are ye well? I’ve got a result, an address for Finnegan. He’s at the seaside town of Portnafeigh, twenty-five miles west of Ballylester. I could be outside in fifteen minutes?”

  By the time Pete arrived, her headache was in retreat. He negotiated the city centre traffic, cursing at a delivery truck that stopped without warning, and followed the motorway out of the city. “Portnafeigh’s a small place, popular with retirees and students from the Agricultural College,” he said. “According to the postcode, that was all Aidan could garner, Finnegan will either be on Seaview Close or Seaview Rise. His wife passed away three years ago.”

  “Okay. I got a lot of detail from Mitch last night, but I’m still trying to make sense of it all. My head is spinning.” She rubbed the scar at the corner of her eye.

  “Did ye stay long, at The Crown?”

  “Just for a couple of drinks, I had to keep him company. He was pretty riled-up, as you can imagine.”

  “I can put on some music if you don’t mind my selection? We should be there in forty minutes,” Pete said.

  When they got to the outskirts of Portnafeigh, she asked Pete to stop outside a parade of shops. Betty’s Bakery had been a favourite port of call on day trips around the coast. Aunt Cassy used to like collecting little glass ornaments from the souvenir shops. Viv’s favourite had been a small black and white cat with one ear missing. She still had it, in her flat, in North London. Viv completed her purchase and carried the square, white cardboard box tied with parcel string, out to the car.

  “What have ye got there?” Pete asked, when she got back inside.

  “The way to a man’s heart.”

  “Something smells good.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, this is bait,” she said.

  Pete’s phone was cradled on the dashboard, and he followed the map directions. It seemed unlikely that any of the houses on either street would have a view of the ocean, except from the rooftop. The properties were single storey with postage-stamp gardens beneath picture-windows. The gardens were cluttered with bird-tables and other paraphernalia. The two streets led into each other. Pete parked at the intersection.

  There was a brush-bristle doormat outside the first house they came to, and a notice pinned beside the doorbell: No Junk Mail. No Cold Callers. No Salespeople. Thank You.

  “Doesn’t say, No Journalists,” Pete said.

  “Why don’t you start at the opposite end of the Close? It’ll be quicker. Text me if you strike it lucky and we can meet back at the car.”

  Viv was wearing her orange, ribbed sweater beneath her leather jacket. Carmen had once told her that psychological studies proved people who wore orange were, from first impressions, perceived to be approachable and helpful. Due to a subconscious association with the emergency services. It had worked in the past.

  Viv had devised her own cover-story, it was up to Pete to work out his own. They were paid up members of the Institute of Journalists. One of the principles of their code of conduct was, ‘Members should obtain material by honest and open means, except where it’s in the public interest and evidence cannot be obtained by straightforward means.’ She had used this contradiction to her advantage, on more than one occasion.

  There was no reply from the first house, with its pinned notice, although she thought she saw the curtain twitching. Next door, a scruffy man wearing a heavy metal T shirt claimed that he didn’t know any of his neighbours. She pressed another doorbell. The ding-dong tone was answered by two P
avlovian high-pitched barks. After a long time, the door opened a fraction and a pair of watery blue eyes peered through the gap.

  “Yes? What d’you want?”

  “Hello, are you Mr Tom Finnegan?” she said, sliding the toe of her boot forward.

  “If this is about the court case, I’ve nothing to say to you. I sent the last people away with their tails between their legs. I don’t answer the door to people I don’t know.”

  The dog voiced its approval with a, ‘yap, yap.’

  Bingo. She decided not to argue with his old persons logic. “Mr Finnegan, my name’s Viv Hunter. I’m writing a story from the perspective of Mitch and Alice McVeigh. We would really appreciate your help,” she said.

  “Mitchell must be in his twenties by now. Where’s he been living?”

  “In Coventry, with his Nan. They’ve asked me to speak to some of the people who were involved, at the time when Chris McVeigh sadly passed away.”

  “Alice McVeigh originally hailed from Scotland, I think,” Finnegan said.

  “Yes, that’s right. Could I come in for a minute, please?”

  Finnegan blinked at her, as if trying to focus. “What’s your name again? You’re not from around here.”

  “I’m Viv. I grew up in Dunross, just around The Point.”

  The door opened a little wider. “What’ve you got there, anyway?” he said, pointing at the cardboard box.

  “Cake. From Betty’s shop.” She followed the old man through a compact hallway into the kitchen, his four-legged companion dancing around their feet, keeping up an excited commentary. The place smelled of the dog and something like cabbage water. A shapeless brown overcoat was draped over the back of an upright chair, in front of a radiator.

  “Put the kettle on would you, anyway,” Finnegan said, lowering himself into an armchair. Yellow foam was escaping from the seat cushion. The former Treasurer was wearing a brown, woollen jumper and a fawn shirt. Grey tendrils of hair were swept back from his face. The kitchen was gloomy, despite the illuminated ceiling bulb. She slid her phone out and sent Pete a text, < Got him! Wait for me in the car.>

  “Tell me how you know young McVeigh,” Finnegan said, blinking. The former Treasurer’s complexion was sallow, his eyes ringed with dark circles, his skin showing his age.

  “I’m writing the story of how the bereavement has impacted the family, with Mitch and Alice’s blessing. We’d like some more information, please. We’re looking for the precise sequence of events, on the Sunday morning, when the body was discovered.”

  The noise of the kettle on the boil prevented further conversation until it clicked off.

  “Tea bags are over there and there’s milk in the fridge. What cake have you got? I take two sugars,” the old man said. The dog had settled at his feet.

  She checked her Breitling and took a deep breath.

  “Where did you say you were from?” Finnegan asked, after she set his cup down.

  “Dunross. I live in London now, but that’s where I grew up.”

  “What school d’you go to?”

  “The one on the corner, near Ball’s Point,” she said.

  His teeth made a clacking sound when she opened the box and handed him a slice of fruit cake. She glanced around the pokey kitchen, where he must spend most of his time. There was a row of framed photos on top of a low bookcase. A portable television and a box of tissues. Hanging on the wall opposite was a photo of a younger looking Finnegan with his arm around a dark-haired woman. Both of them smiling.

  “Can you remember the morning, back in May ninety-six, when Tania McVeigh called to say her husband was missing?” Viv said, trying to focus his attention.

  “Nothing wrong with my memory,” the old man said.

  “I don’t suppose it matters what I say, now the trial’s off. It was Brown, anyway, who took the phone call. We were at Church. It was well before the service was due to start, that’s why I went out with him.”

  “This was Trevor Brown, who was a serving police officer at the time?” Viv asked.

  “Yes, yes that’s right,” Finnegan said. “Are you not writing this down anyway, so you won’t forget? They got this wrong the last time in the papers. Never trust a journalist.”

  Viv suppressed a smile and took out her notebook.

  “I remember that Tania was pretty upset,” Finnegan said, chewing thoughtfully. “She said it wasn’t like Christopher to stay out all night without calling her. She was worried he might have been drinking and had some sort of accident.”

  “Can you remember if she said what time he left home?”

  “Not really, it’s a long time ago now…the papers are saying Doctor Haslett confessed to Pastor Martin, if you believe what’s in them, although I don’t question the good Pastor’s word you understand. Anyway, the place where Christopher had his workshop was only a couple of miles outside of Ballylester, a few minutes’ drive from their house. You could have walked there in ten or fifteen minutes, less if you got a move on.”

  “What happened next?”

  Finnegan told her that he and Trevor Brown had parked outside and gained access through a side-door. Tania had given them the security code. “You know I can still remember the number, because it was exactly the same as the day and month that me and Elsa got married,” he said, looking over Viv’s head at the framed photo. “The thirteenth of April nineteen and fifty-six. We were together fifty years, before she died…”

  Viv jotted the number down.

  “When we went inside, we smelled exhaust fumes, but didn’t think anything of it at first. We went down the steps, into the workshop. I’d been there before, when we had some door and window alarms installed at the church hall, and I went to make the payment. I remember we looked in the storeroom and a small cloakroom out at the back, but they were both empty. I found the light switch nearby. The van was on the loading bay, Lockdown Security written in bright, blue letters on the side. A vacuum-cleaner hose snaked from the driver’s window to the tail pipe. We both guessed from that point onwards what we would find. But it was still an awful shock. Christopher’s body was behind the wheel. His face was white, his lips blue, eyes… wide open. Trevor felt for a pulse… Are you sure Mitchell needs to hear all of this? Maybe you could be selective in what you pass on? That image has stuck with me for years, I wouldn’t want to cause Mitchell, or Alice, any further upset.”

  “Don’t worry,” Viv said.

  Finnegan rubbed his nose and cleared his throat. “Any more tea in that pot?”

  She filled his cup and set it down beside him. “Did you stay inside when the emergency services arrived? Foul play was never suspected?”

  “Yes, but I waited in the workshop. And no, not at all. Trevor used the phone in the office to call the station. For some reason, the industrial park was a network blackspot…maybe it’s better nowadays. Trevor said not to touch anything, I went along with what he and his colleagues made of things after that. An empty vodka bottle was found in the office. The suicide, as we all believed it then, shook and shocked the community to its core. Of course, the truth now is ten times worse. I am so sorry for Mitchell and Alice. Send them my regards… hopefully Christopher’s ghost can be laid to rest.” Finnegan scrabbled for a paper tissue and blew his nose. “That’s about all I can tell you.”

  “Thank you. There’s one more favour we’d like to ask… it would really be great if we had a photograph of you outside the unit, at Woodside Business Park. I see someone is keen on photography,” she said, pointing at the shelf.

  “Those are my grandchildren. I’ve seven of them in total,” he said.

  “We could pay for your time, or make a donation to charity, if you’d agree to help?”

  The dog was licking itself. Finnegan leant down to ruffle the back of its head. “The place is probably all changed now anyway, and how’d we get there?” he asked.

  “The building is more or less the same on the outside as it was back then. I found it on Google...on the Interne
t.”

  “Everything’s on there, these days, apparently. How much money exactly are we talking about?”

  “A hundred pounds. You can keep it for yourself, give it to charity or the church. Whatever you like,” she said, hoping the sum was a big enough incentive.

  “One picture you say, for a hundred notes?”

  “Yes. I’ve a friend outside. He could give us a lift.”

  “I can’t leave the old girl here, for long. She has to be let out regularly,” Finnegan said.

  “Don’t worry, I promise we’ll bring you straight back.”

  Viv took five twenties out of her back pocket and handed them over.

  The pensioner slid the money between the pages of one of the books on the shelf. He pulled on his coat and cap, throwing the dog a biscuit, promising her he’d be home soon.

  Chapter Ten

  They made their way past deserted picnic areas, dotted along the rugged coastline. Beyond the sand dunes, white-crested waves rushed in under a cloud of spray. She sat in the back of the car her legs squashed behind Pete’s seat. The business park wasn’t far outside Ballylester. A billboard at the entrance displayed a list of tenants. There were two rows of five units on either side of a rectangular plot, separated by a strip of cracked tarmac and numbered parking spaces. A white, panel van and a red four-by-four were parked on the opposite side.

  On the same side as Chris McVeigh’s former workshop, was a plumbing supplier and tile shop. A man wearing blue overalls was fastening the tail gate of a pick-up truck outside unit two. Number three and four were unoccupied. Unit five was at the far end, near a chain-link boundary fence. Pete stopped the car and got out. Viv squeezed out and went around to help Tom Finnegan.

  “Where do you want me to stand?” the old man asked, seeming anxious to get it over with.

  Two concrete steps led to a metal side door, its tarnished handle next to a push-button keypad and dial. The office window was dirty. A smaller side panel had been boarded up. She stood on her tiptoes and looked in. It was sparsely furnished with a desk, two chairs and a bottled-gas room-heater. A white card, on the inside of the window, advertised CLOTHES FOR CASH. Viv saved the mobile number that was scrawled underneath, onto her phone.