by Dee McInnes
“What about at the bottom of the steps?” she suggested, holding up her screen. Mr Finnegan looked straight ahead, under the peak of his cap. His nose red and raw, his eyes watering.
She had the caption in her head; Tom Finnegan, former Treasurer at the Spirit of Hope Pentecostal Church, where Doctor Steven Haslett and Chris McVeigh were members, is pictured outside the former premises of Lockdown Security, in Ballylester, North Antrim. He spoke exclusively to our reporter, providing an account of that Sunday morning thirteen years ago, when he accompanied Trevor Brown, a serving RUC officer, and they made their grim discovery. Mr Finnegan said, ‘At the time, the so-called suicide shook and shocked our community to its core. The recent truth is ten times worse.’
The pensioner fished a paper tissue from his coat pocket and wiped his nose. “I should be getting back now,” he said.
She zipped her phone into her pocket, took out a pen and a slip of paper, for a moment feeling a twinge of guilt. “Would you sign this form please, to give us permission to use your photo for our publication?”
Finnegan wrote his name with an unsteady hand.
Pete was hovering near the Astra, huddled into his green, padded jacket. “Come on Viv, it’s Baltic out here… I’m getting caffeine withdrawal.”
“Hang on a minute,” she said.
“What now?” He jammed his fingers back into the pockets.
She climbed the steps to the side-door and keyed in the numbers Finnegan had remembered, tugging the handle. The door wouldn’t budge. “Worth a try,” she said.
“You need to turn that wee silver knob, after you enter the code. Then pull the handle at the same time,” Finnegan said. “Assuming the number is still the same.”
She keyed in one, three, zero, four. The door swung open, taking her by surprise.
“Why don’t you take Mr Finnegan back home?” she said to Pete. “I can have a quick look around and see you back here in, say, half an hour? You could pick up coffee from somewhere on your way back.” She turned to Finnegan. “Thank you very much for all your help.”
The car doors slammed, and Pete started the engine.
The light switch inside the office wasn’t working but daylight filtered through the dirty window. The workshop beyond was in semi-darkness. The office floor was rough concrete, save for a rectangle of brown shagpile behind a veneered-wood desk, supporting a dusty computer. Black bin-bags, stuffed with old clothes, she assumed, were lined up below the window and along one side of the office. The place smelled of things that no-one wanted any more.
Viv used the torch on her phone to guide her feet down steps. It was freezing. She found the two doors Finnegan described. The first was locked and the next was a small washroom. She pulled a hang-cord. A naked bulb cast a beam of yellow into the workspace. She searched around until she found the control-panel and flicked the switches. Breathed a sigh of relief when strip lights blinked into life.
She saw a tall shelving unit. Flat-packed boxes lined the lower shelves. Higher up, she noticed something stamped with, what looked like, the logo for Lockdown Security. There was a stepladder propped up against the side. She cursed her height and wished Pete was there. She imagined him stocking up on coffee and cake. No matter how much he ate, his rangy build never varied. Dragging the ladder out she climbed up, grateful that her boots had rubber soles. She stepped onto the fourth shelf and stretched out her fingertips.
The object had a corrugated edge. She had to wrestle to get it free. It jerked out and the ladder wobbled. She almost fell but managed to cling on, sliding an old advertising hoarding to the floor. Breathing faster, feeling the adrenaline spike. You’re okay, she told herself.
Inside the main door was a loading bay, where Chris McVeigh’s van had been parked on the night of the murder. Cardboard boxes, overflowing with clothes, were stacked against the back wall. She crossed an ink-blot shaped oil stain, where the front axle of a vehicle had come to rest. Steven Haslett would have had to work hard to drag Chris McVeigh all the way out of the office, down the steps, and into the driver’s seat. She wondered if there had been scuff marks on the heels of the work-boots Chris had been wearing? The floor was painted with a grey paint that was peeling away to reveal a red layer below. She reminded herself to check the report from the inquest. It was something the police should have taken note of, but they seemed to have taken everything at face value.
She looked at the stain on the concrete, thinking about what Mitch had said, about the vehicle he’d remembered outside his house, in the dead of night. She remembered the kiss they shared in the hotel elevator. Could she open her feelings to someone like him? Her father had been behind the wheel of his car when he died. He had been murdered in cold blood, when two bullets shattered the windscreen. Afterwards, his body was blown to smithereens by a booby-trap that also killed two policemen. The three of them targeted. Murdered. “Bastards,” she said into the silence. She remembered hoisting her father’s coffin onto her shoulder, taking the male role beside his friends and prison colleagues. Walking in the rain, standing at the graveside, watching what remained of him being lowered into the ground. No-one had been held accountable.
She carried the advertising banner across to the loading bay and propped it up against the wall. Framing the picture, the caption forming in her head. She heard a noise from the front of the building and hesitated, hurried to the switch panel, turned the lights off and waited.
Had she imagined it? Something falling? The sound of breaking glass? Maybe a bird had flown into the office window. Seagulls had been screeching overhead when they drove along the coast. But it seemed unlikely they’d have flown to a semi-deserted industrial park, with no prospect of food. She pulled out her phone. No signal. It could be ten minutes or more before Pete was back, especially if he’d stopped for coffee. She poked her head around the corner. There was a yellow light flickering at the side window, from inside the office.
There was a loud pop and the light flared. Glass tinkled on concrete. Had the ancient gas heater somehow sprung into life? She thought she could smell something burning and imagined the bags of clothes igniting, and the toxic smoke they would create. She couldn’t remember a fire exit behind her. She ran up the steps, hoping she could get out.
Orange flames streamed across the office ceiling, fuelled by oxygen from the shattered front window. Something exploded, perhaps the computer screen? Smoke billowed out into the workshop and the loading bay. There was a green-domed release-button at the side of the door. She jabbed the button and kicked the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The flames were taking hold, spreading into the warehouse, scorching her face. She slammed the button with her palm. Shoved the door with her shoulder, trying to force it open. Thick, acrid smoke forced her back… descending like a storm cloud.
She crouched using her phone light to pierce the gloom, running to the opposite side of the warehouse, pulling a length of fabric from one of the boxes. She wet the material under the washroom tap and wrapped it twice around her nose and mouth. In the distance she thought she heard sirens. Black smoke was filling her airways. She struggled to catch a breath.
The office was a fireball. Someone was banging on the roller-shutter of the loading bay. She crawled across the floor on her hands and knees.
“Viv. Are ye in there? Viv,” Pete shouted. “Hold on, we’re trying to get this fuckin’ thing open.”
There were other men’s voices. The sound of an engine motor. Frantic hammering.
She opened her mouth to shout back, but all she could taste was smoke. She sat on the floor, feeling light-headed, trying to take small breaths, to stay calm. She felt as if she was wading out against the incoming tide, the cold, black water catching her ankles, the current drawing her in, the waves pulling her under. Viv could hear her father’s voice inside her head, urging her to never give up. She could see his face, through a green luminescent haze.
Rain began to fall, thick and heavy, like the winter squalls that rolled in over the Lo
ugh near Aunt Cassy’s house. Waves crashed, knocking Viv over.
Chapter Eleven
“Viv. Viv, can you hear me?” someone shouted. She forced her eyes open and caught sight of Pete, in his green, padded sports-coat, flanked by a man in overalls and a police officer. What had happened? Pete’s face was chalk white. Doors slammed. A siren blared. She drifted back into the deep, black water.
She woke up lying in bed, surrounded by a blue curtain. A woman was reassuring someone that ‘she’ would be fine. A deeper male voice asked Mr Breen if he could have a quick word. The flimsy curtain was an ineffective sound barrier.
“I’m Sergeant McKeown,” the voice said. “The fire seems to have been started deliberately. The place was badly damaged. The Chief’s pretty sure it was an incendiary device, probably yer old-fashioned petrol bomb, lobbed through the window. The tenant is a Polish chap, we’re trying to contact him. The plumbers’ merchant, from unit two, said they’d all had trouble with rough sleepers. Maybe one of them took objection to being turfed out? What was yer woman doing in there anyway?”
She heard Pete say that they were journalists, investigating a story.
“Doctor Haslett’s?” the sergeant asked.
“Yes. Right. We found out that the door code hadn’t been changed since the time of the murder-suicide.”
Viv was pleased that Pete didn’t mention Tom Finnegan.
“I see. Aye, I heard on the grapevine that an English woman and a big Tyrone lad were nosing around,” the sergeant said.
“News travels fast.”
“Especially from the golf club. We’ll need a statement from the both of you, although it’s unlikely we’ll get anyone. You’d be amazed how many people deliberately set fire to things for no apparent reason. Drugs and alcohol are big problems these days. Tramps and street people off their heads most of the time. Look after yer friend. The hospital will see you right.”
“I will,” Pete said.
Viv propped herself up, running her fingers through her hair. Her hands and fingernails were dirty and she smelled of the fire. Pete peered around the curtain. “Come in,” she said.
“Hello. How’re ye feeling?”
“Never mind about me. I’m perfectly fine.”
“I was just talking to a sergeant, from Ballylester station. The plumber called the fire brigade. We were lucky he came back when he did. Do you remember what happened?”
“Someone fire-bombed the place, I assume, from what I overheard,” she said.
“You shouldn’t stay on your own tonight, the nurse said, in case of breathing difficulties. You could stay at my flat if you want… you could have my room. I can sleep on the couch.”
“I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want to put you out,” Viv said. “And they think all of this happened coincidentally, when I was in there?”
“You think it was connected to Haslett’s case?”
“You don’t?”
“It could’ve been a dispute between the tenant and someone he knew. We might never know for sure. Sergeant McKeown said it was common knowledge that we were making enquiries. Apparently, we’re a very memorable couple. But I can’t imagine anyone we’ve met so far getting their hands dirty.”
“That’s the problem. People can never imagine anyone doing anything, until they do. Remember what Carruthers used to tell us? Try and get me out of here. Please,” she said. Her mind was racing. Getting to the bottom of the story and finding out the truth had never seemed more important.
“I still think you shouldn’t be on your own,” he said.
“I’ll call Carmen and see if I can stay with her, if it makes you happy. We need to think through everything we know so far.” She touched her index finger to the scar above her right eye. “There are too many wrinkles. It’s like the proverbial… rabbit hole,” she said, the words catching in her throat. “Have you seen my leather jacket? My phone, my father’s watch….” She started to cough. Pete handed her a glass of water and she tried to breathe evenly. Tried to stay calm. “…Sorry, I’m not a very good patient.”
“Here, your phone was zipped in your jacket pocket and,” he held up the Breitling, “there’s not a scratch on this.”
“Thank you.” She fastened the bracelet around her wrist, fumbling with the clasp.
“No problem. I’m really sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. They wouldn’t let me try to get in and I didn’t know the door code. The firemen said the metal would probably have buckled in the heat. The office was well ablaze by the time I got there. You were lucky there was a row of sprinklers over the loading bay. They had to prise the shutters with a crowbar in the end, to pull you out.”
“I thought I’d imagined the rain,” she said.
It took a long time to find the right people to discharge her. The accident and emergency department seemed swamped under a constant onslaught. Viv unlocked her phone and checked the images. “At least I still have Finnegan’s photo, and the ones I took at Eveleen Manor. It’s a pity I never had time to take any inside the unit, before it went up.”
“And at least ye still have yer life…never mind anything else,” Pete said.
Before they left the hospital, he insisted she wore his jacket. The sleeves hung over her fingertips, but it was dry and warm. Pete strode ahead, carrying her leather jacket screwed up in a plastic bag. She struggled to keep up with his pace, her jeans clinging to her legs. She must look a sight. “I’ll ring to make sure Carmen’s in. How long will it take to get there?” she asked, catching him up.
“Ten or fifteen minutes.”
She managed to deflect Carmen’s questions and said they’d explain whenever they got there. It was getting dark. She leaned back in the passenger seat as Pete negotiated the traffic, his profile silhouetted against the window.
“Who knew we’d be out at the industrial estate?” she said.
“It could’ve been a lucky guess. If someone heard we were in Ballylester on Tuesday, they might have assumed we’d be back. It was, maybe, an obvious place for us to go? Although Paul McLaughlin said that most local reporters have tired of the story and the nationals are holed up in Belfast, draining their expense accounts.”
“We must have upset someone. I can’t imagine Tom Finnegan alerting anybody. You didn’t see him using a mobile, did you?”
“That old guy? He wouldn’t know one end from the other. The smoke must be affecting yer head. McKeown said, after we spoke to Dr Stewart, there was talk at the Golf Club. Somebody might have taken exception to our questions about Rosemary’s death. Although I like the idea, it could be a bit of a stretch to think that Haslett, or his sister, could have topped their own mother.” Pete paused as he tried to join a busy roundabout. “Hopefully the PSNI can make some enquiries. I remember seeing two or three other vehicles at the industrial estate when we got there…apart from the plumber’s truck, there was a white van and a spanking new four by four parked on the opposite side.”
“You know, last night Mitch remembered something that could be important about the night his father died. Before you picked me up this morning, I was trying to piece everything together. All the things we know so far…”
“Uh huh.”
“Mitch told me he saw a car driving away from his house. He thought it was in the middle of the night, although he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, and he heard an owl screeching. Are they nocturnal?”
“What’s that about owls?”
“Do owls only come out at night? After dark?”
“May depend on which variety yer talking about. But I’m no expert.”
“And there’s another thing that’s been bothering me, about the Doctor’s story,” she said. “How did he manage to spike Chris McVeigh’s drink? It was a very small office. I can’t imagine Chris McVeigh sharing a glass of vodka with the man who’d recently seduced his wife, business contract or not.”
“You’d think the doctor would have been more of a brandy and cigars type,” Pete said.
She lay back against the headrest, closing her eyes. Her head was aching.
Carmen was standing at the front door, her hair tied back. “Viv, thank God you’re okay.” Carmen sent Pete into the kitchen, to either put the kettle on, or to get a beer from the fridge. She steered Viv towards the bathroom, fussing over clean towels and a change of clothes.
Viv showered and got dressed.
Carmen and Pete were seated at the kitchen table. They stopped talking when she came in.
“How are you feeling now?” Carmen asked.
“Would you please stop worrying.”
“I do worry, and with good reason,” Carmen said. “I was just asking Pete, how come someone petrol bombed an out of town industrial park, in broad daylight, at the exact moment you happened to be inside?”
“That’s a very good question. One we hope to answer,” Viv said.
“Be careful who you trust. Anyone can pretend to be something they’re not. The last time you were here, we talked about Doctor Haslett’s psychopathic personality traits. But it’s a very complex subject. Schneiders defined his ten types in terms of a deviation from an accepted range of averages. He said, ‘the saint and the poet are equally abnormal as the criminal.’ Another well-known clinician wrote a book called, ‘The Mask of Sanity.’
“Most of the saints I know have been dead for a good while,” Pete laughed.
Carmen smiled. “You’ve had a long day. When’s the last time either or you had anything to eat?”
“At breakfast time,” Pete said. “I don’t mind saying I’m hungry.”
Viv took a bottle of beer out of the fridge. “We’ll be fine.”
“I could make something. Pasta, or an omelette? Take your drinks into the den for twenty minutes. You need to eat something,” Carmen said.