Legitimate Target

by Dee McInnes

  “Do you know that guy, wearing the black sports jacket?” she asked Carmen.

  “Who? The good looking one with the designer stubble? That’s Dermott Donnelly. He brought his youth team. Cuds needed a bunch of athletic types who wouldn’t mind running around in the mud for half the day. Someone from the Council suggested him. He’ll probably be at the party on Monday night. You should definitely come, take time to let your hair down.”

  “Would you stop matchmaking,” Viv laughed. “My hair’s cropped short, in case you haven’t noticed, and I have a job to do. I might ask Pete, if that’s okay and I can get the day off. He’d be a good match for the king’s daughter. What’s she called?”

  “Nuala O’Keefe plays Princess Aiobhell. But he’d be barking up the wrong tree. Anyway, he only has eyes for a certain platinum-haired journalist. You know, for someone who’s so perceptive, you’re totally blinkered where love is concerned. Maybe you’re holding out for soldier boy, McVeigh’s son?”

  “Oh. Crap. I was supposed to meet him.”

  Viv checked her watch and took her phone out. The signal had died. “Could we grab something to eat and make tracks? I need to get back to civilisation,” she said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pete dialled Ballylester Station, selecting option four, ‘for anything else’ and ran the gauntlet of the switchboard operator, explaining why he needed to speak to Sergeant McKeown.

  “I’m sorry. He’s not at his desk. Canna take your number and I’ll ask him to gae you a ring back?” the Operator said.

  While Pete waited for his call to be returned he sent Viv a text, to check if she was okay and got a reply minutes later.

  < I’m fine. Spending the morning with Carmen, down in Donegal. Mobile signal touch and go. Catch up after lunch.>

  Pete was spooning coffee into the bottom of a mug when his phone rang. “Breen? You’re in luck,” McKeown’s voice boomed down the line. “There’s a detective at Antrim Station wants to speak to you and your lady-friend. I hope she is feeling better this morning?”

  “Yes, she’s fine thanks. She’s taking the morning off. I can handle this,” Pete said. It made a nice change, not to get the usual brush-off. He jotted the name and phone number that McKeown recited onto the front cover of ‘Hot Cars’. “Thanks very much.”

  Pete didn’t make it past the second switchboard-keeper, a female with a strong, west Belfast accent. A Detective Kozlowski had left instructions for the journalists to drop in, as soon as it was convenient. Pete rubbed the bristle on his chin and sighed. They had driven past Antrim station less than twenty-four hours earlier, on the way to Carmen’s house. A journalist’s life often meant going around in circles. As his mother would say, “Ye can often meet yerself coming back.”

  There was a film of dirt on his low profiles. He reversed out of his parking space at the Quay and joined the motorway. There was no point getting the car washed when he was going back on the road, much as the dirt bothered him. Cruising in the outside lane, he stretched his arm along the door-ledge and drummed his fingers to a song on the stereo. “Too many teardrops for one heart to be cryin’, too many teardrops, for one heart to carry on, oh yeah…”

  Viv had looked so vulnerable on the hospital trolley, her eyes closed under the oxygen mask. Pete had lost count of the number of times he had tried to pluck up the courage to talk to her. Really talk to her. To tell her how he felt. He’d come close last night when they were sitting with their knees almost touching in Carmen’s study.

  His mother would be delighted if he brought a proper girlfriend home. Not just one of the party girls in their short skirts and high heels, easily picked up after closing time, but a stunner like Viv Hunter. Viv didn’t talk very much about her own family, but Pete had carried out some research, after Carruthers had let it slip one time that Viv’s father had been killed by terrorists. The murder record was online.

  Sean Hunter, a Roman Catholic by birth, had been targeted because of his prison officer’s uniform, because he was siding with the authorities and because he’d committed the ultimate sin, some would say, of marrying a Protestant - a descendant of English settlers.

  No-one ever thought they were murdering someone’s father, husband, brother. Far easier to pull the trigger on some faceless stranger. Knowing how the death had affected Viv, still affected her, even though it was never mentioned, made Pete question the rights and wrongs of all the years of conflict. Past and present.

  Pete had been brought up as a Catholic moderate. His mother was civil to her Protestant neighbours, invitin’ them round for drinks at Christmas and calling them to bring their washin’ in, whenever the rain came on. But in the late eighties, when Pete was in his early teens, you had to watch out for the hardliners. The boys you didn’t cross unless you wanted a dark knock at your front door. Unless ye wanted to face twin-barrels that’d seriously restrict your moves on the dancefloor. Unless ye wanted to spend yer whole life lookin’ over your shoulder.

  Aidan’s father ran an agricultural supply and machinery repair business in Ardstraw, near the River Derg in Tyrone, not far from the South Derry border. Uncle Padraig’s place was a clutch of corrugated sheds that stored spare parts and animal feedstuff. Padraig lived in his blue boiler suit and a John Deere baseball cap. He liked to tell the story about a night, at the height of the Troubles, when a car had pulled into his yard and two strangers had climbed out. Thickset, ‘city boyos’ Padriag called them. Black boots and vinyl jackets. They were looking for somewhere to stash illegal firearms, on orders of The Sheriff, who ran the Derry brigade. Uncle Padraig had sent them away with a flea in their ear. From that night on, they had all been at risk. Potential targets, even the womenfolk. Thankfully, it had all come to nothing, but the fear had stayed with Pete for a long time.

  He pulled up at the red and white security barrier outside the police station. The threat of mortar attacks had reduced over the past ten years, since the peace agreement, but the high wire security fence along the brown-brick perimeter of the police station hadn’t been dismantled. He told the guard at the barrier that Detective Kozlowski was expecting him and was directed towards a parking space.

  Inside the foyer, behind a glass-screened reception window, a female civilian pushed out a clipboard, securing a wad of curl-edged pages. “Sign in here, please,” she said and clawed the board back with rakish fingernails. She tapped a switch on the intercom. “Mr Breen’s here to see you,” she said into her headset. He was sure it was the same woman who’d answered the telephone earlier. The receptionist was wearing a thick slash of pink lipstick and a thin blouse over her heavy breasts. No chance, not even on a drunk night out, he thought.

  Kozlowski, in contrast, was dressed in a pin-sharp, no nonsense jacket and skirt. Her face was devoid of make-up. “I’m Detective Lucille Kozlowski. Thanks for coming in,” she said.

  “No problem,” he said, grasping her outstretched hand. The detective had cold, fish-like fingers. Tortoise-shell glasses with thick lenses magnified her eyeballs. She reminded Pete of a girl in his class at school who always ended up with top marks in the end of year exams. Kozlowski led the way into a meeting room off the foyer.

  “This isn’t a formal interview,” she said when they were seated on opposite sides of a Formica table. She placed a buff coloured folder on the tabletop. “I just wanted to have a friendly chat. I’m interested in what you and your colleague,” she consulted her notes, “Vivien Hunter, have been investigating, vis-a-vis the trial slash non-trial of Dr Steven Haslett?”

  He tried to place her accent. “Are ye from…Germany?” he said.

  “Not a bad guess. It beats what I usually get…yer not froom roond here.” Kozlowski had the North Antrim accent down to a T.

  He reckoned the detective was close to his own age, in her mid-thirties. She had no wedding ring on her finger, but that didn’t mean anything these days. It made the dating scene all the more difficult, but he had yet to resort to dating apps. Online, it was all ab
out yer user profile. You couldn’t get to know someone until you met them face to face, spent time with them, shared a laugh. Kozlowski had her head tilted to one side, waiting for him to say something. She had brown, collar length hair tucked behind her ears.

  “We’re just completin’ a bit of routine background research,” he said. “Following the court case…. kicking over a few stones to see what we can turn up. The usual stuff.”

  “You never considered that your questions could be, inflammatory?”

  “I’m assuming yer talking about yesterday’s fire?”

  “Yes. I was sorry to hear that your colleague was hurt. I assume she’s recovering, but I’d really like to speak to her as well, if possible.”

  “I heard from her this morning. She’s a lot better, thank you. But, once Haslett is sentenced, she’ll be heading back to London.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s checked into the Europa,” Pete said.

  “I’ll be perfectly frank with you. Put my cards on the table,” the detective said, her eyes over-large behind her frames. “Justice is not about simply finding the person who, let’s say, pulled the trigger, but also the person who supplied the weapon. The person who knew something but said nothing. Perverting the course of justice is taken very seriously. Anyone who prevents justice being served is equally guilty, but proving it is sometimes a lot more difficult. In Northern Ireland, as you’re probably aware, people are sometimes too scared to talk, because of the potential repercussions. Because of threats or intimidation.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” he said. “You don’t need to tell your granny how to suck eggs. We’ve all come across the wall of silence. It’s pretty standard in most places.”

  “I’m sure, and I concede that the investigation into Mr McVeigh’s death, in nineteen ninety-six, was not as rigorous as it would have been today. Two and two, as you would say, was put together and the investigators came up with the most obvious answer, death by suicide. But, since the case was re-opened, we’ve revisited all the evidence. Checked and double checked. There’s really nothing more to find out. We’re confident that we have our man. The case is closed.”

  “So, you don’t think there’s more to it than Doctor Haslett’s admitting?”

  “No, not at all. What else do you think happened?”

  Pete didn’t say anything about what Mitch had told Viv. The first rule of journalism was to always protect your sources. The second was to give nothing away, without something in return. But he couldn’t resist gauging her reaction to his pet theory.

  “What about the death of Rosemary Haslett, the year after Chris McVeigh? The cause of her death was, in effect, the same as his. Asphyxiation.”

  “I thought she died as the result of an asthma attack?” The detective’s eyes widened behind her lenses.

  “Well, yes. That’s the popular theory. But it seems too much of a co-incidence, doesn’t it?”

  “Good luck with that,” Detective Kozlowski gave a short laugh. “Listen. I’m simply sounding a note of caution. Doctor Haslett’s crime, and the deception around it, has incensed the community. The trial has brought all the resentment back to the surface. People don’t like outsiders coming in and asking questions, no matter how well intentioned. I should know.”

  “So. This is what? The gypsy warning?” Pete said.

  “That’s an interesting concept. If you find evidence of any other criminal activity, of course, please get in touch. My door is always open.” Kozlowski got up and extended her hand.

  When Pete got back behind the steering wheel, he shook his head and tried to work out what had just happened.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Viv sent Mitch a text as soon as her signal was strong enough. When there was no reply after thirty minutes, she called him. It went straight to voicemail. “Damn.”

  “You’ve enough men on the go, don’t worry,” Carmen said.

  “I hate to let anyone down.”

  “So. Are we counting you in for Monday?”

  “Possibly, although I’ve brought nothing to wear for a posh night out.”

  “We could go shopping on Saturday?”

  “I’ll let you know. I’m going to invite Pete.”

  “The more the merrier. Take care in the meantime,” Carmen said.

  She dropped Viv off outside the hotel.

  Viv had emailed herself a draft two thousand word feature the night before. She fired up her laptop, hoping Carruthers would be happy with what they’d managed to achieve in such a short space of time. She remembered one of her first assignments. The trial of a notorious female multiple murderess, and her husband, at Winchester Crown Court in ninety-eight. Carruthers had used the title of a Kipling poem as their headline, ‘For The Female of the Species is More Deadly Than The Male.’ The husband never faced a jury, preferring to hang himself in his prison cell in the early hours of the first of January. His wife continued to deny any involvement in the heinous crimes from the luxury of her cell at HMP Long Eaton.

  Pete rang to tell her he was on his way back from Antrim and was sending his summary. “Detectives are certain they have their man,” he said. “As far as the police are concerned, the case is closed.” She inserted this as a key point in the opening column. The fact that authorities had swallowed the Doctor’s version of events for the second time could be significant.

  She had arranged to meet Pete for dinner. Until then, she was looking forward to a few hours to herself. Maybe she would have time to read the paperback she’d bought at the airport.

  Their report couldn’t be released until after sentencing. Even though a guilty plea had been entered, most Judges didn’t like investigative pieces to be released whilst a case was ‘sub judice’. She had headlined the story, “A Conspiracy of Silence.” Carruthers wouldn’t want them to be on the wrong side of a Press Standards investigation, but she was confident that the feature more than satisfied the Code of Practice, clearly distinguishing between comment, conjecture and fact. Some of the implications ran close to the bone and Rhona Haslett didn’t seem like someone to cross swords with.

  Viv was rooting through her suitcase for something clean to wear to dinner, when her phone rang. Alice McVeigh’s name popping up on the screen.

  “Hello? Miss Hunter. It’s Alice McVeigh here, Mitch’s Nan.”

  “Oh, hello, Mrs McVeigh,” Viv said. “Good to hear from you. Is Mitch okay?”

  “Och aye, he is. He says to say sorry he did nae reply to your message earlier.”

  “It’s no problem. I am sure you’ll both be very glad when this is all over?”

  “Aye. We will, we will.” There was a pause. Then silence.

  “Are you still there?” Viv said.

  “What? Och. Yes, sorry dear. I called to ask if ye’d like to buy me a cup of tea, and to have our wee chat?” Alice said. “Mitch says he has a terrible headache.”

  Viv checked her watch. She hadn’t had anything to eat since a bacon roll at the fort top and wasn’t meeting Pete until seven. “Yes, of course. I’d be happy to. I’d wanted to talk to you myself.”

  “They serve afternoon tea in the Piano Lounge. There’s a leaflet in the bedrooms. It looks really lovely,” Alice said.

  “I could see you downstairs at four o’clock?”

  They were shown to a table at the window, overlooking the street. The table was covered with a crisp, white linen cloth. Alice wasn’t able to pull out the heavy chair by herself. Viv and the waitress had to help her to sit down and stow her walking stick.

  “This is nice,” Alice said. “We’ve a great view.”

  Alice unwrapped a blue and white scarf from around her neck and smoothed down the front of her thick, patterned cardigan.

  “Have either of you any special dietary requirements?” the wait
ress asked when she took their order for two Teatime Special’s.

  They shook their heads.

  “How have you been coping, so far?” Viv asked Alice as the waitress retreated.

  “I’m alright,” Alice said. “Mitch is doing his best to look after me. But he’s more worried about his mother. Since his father died, it’s been very hard for him.”

  “That’s understandable. He said you visited Tania earlier this week?”

  “Yes, that’s right. She lives in a fancy house, away in the back end of nowhere. The best place for her I’d say.” Alice stared out of the window. Double decker buses and delivery vans competed with cars and taxis at the traffic lights on the street below. Cutlery clinked above the rattle of cups and saucers, and the hearty laughter of a group of businessmen on the raised platform, near the bar.

  “They’re taking their time,” Alice said.

  The waitress came back, placing a cake rack, laden with mini pastries, scones, finger-sandwiches, cakes and chocolate creations in the centre of the table. She poured their tea.

  “You were saying, about Mitch and his mum?” Viv said, when the waitress left the table.

  “He seems very taken with you. He went shopping for sports shoes yesterday.”

  “I know, I’m very sorry. I was in hospital about this time yesterday afternoon,” she said, looking at her Breitling. “I would have met him this morning, if I could.”

  “Och, well. I’m sorry to hear that. You see, me and Tania never really saw eye to eye, if you get what I mean. She was the reason why my Chris stayed over here in the first place. He was only supposed to be helping a pal for a few months, but then he met her, and everything changed. It was fine, I suppose, until she started working at that hospital, and met… him.” Alice paused, lifting her cup to her lips. When she set it down her hand shook, sloshing the tea over the rim and into the saucer.