by Dee McInnes
“When you say him, you mean, Doctor Haslett?” Viv asked.
“The devil incarnate,” Alice said, her cheeks growing red. “They say it takes two to tango. I never believed her when she claimed it had all been his idea, and that she was frightened of losing her job if she said anything.”
“Do you think Tania would talk to me?” Viv asked. “I’d love to get her side of the story.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” Alice said, clicking her gums together. “Apparently she’s too unwell to come to court to see that monster put away. She’s supposed to have had some sort of breakdown, after his confession. I would nae be at all surprised if she knew something more about what really went on.”
“Has Mitch said anything to you, about the night his father died?” Viv wondered if he had shared his memory about the red, tail-lights.
“Mitch? No. I’m just saying, I never believed all of it was down to Doctor Haslett.”
Viv drained her cup and wondered if it would be impolite to order a glass of wine from the bar. Alice was probably just a prejudiced old woman. But what Alice said chimed with what she had thought after the fire at the industrial unit. The murder-suicide seemed far too easy. Why had Chris McVeigh agreed to meet a man who’d seduced his wife, at nine o’clock on a Saturday night to discuss a business contract? Money had been tight, but it seemed highly unusual.
“Would you like some more tea, or perhaps something to drink from the bar?” Viv asked.
“A top-up would be lovely,” Alice said.
Viv signalled the waitress. “Some more tea, please, and a large glass of Shiraz.”
Viv studied Alice closely. “Did you ever meet Rosemary Haslett, whenever she was alive, or her daughter Rhona?”
“Well, Rhona was at court on Monday, you know, but I would nae gae her the time of day. She’s far too high and mighty for her own good. I met her mother a few times, when my Chris and Tania were married and after Mitch was born. I used to visit them quite often, before my back got so bad. Rosemary was a nice woman. She was very active in the church and seemed to do a lot of good. I was sorry when she died.”
“Anything else I can get you?” the waitress asked, setting their drinks on the table.
“No, thank you,” Alice said.
“We’ve spoken to one of the detectives,” Viv said. “They’re not looking for anyone else in connection with your son’s death. Do you have anything specifically to support your theory that someone else could have been involved in his murder?”
“Well, nae thing that would stand up in court,” Alice said, clearing her throat. “But I’ve always had my suspicions about Rhona. I don’t like the look of her.”
“Sadly, that’s not a crime in itself,” Viv laughed. “Otherwise prisons would be even more overcrowded than they are already. You can’t seriously think that Rhona could have helped her brother to murder your son?” Viv couldn’t wait to tell Pete. This almost made his notion about Rosemary’s death seem plausible.
“Well, perhaps not directly. But there are things that went on, a long time back,” Alice said, her chin set at a defiant angle. “I’ve kept in touch with Reggie Scott, who used to work as a handyman at the Haslett’s place when Rosemary was alive. You should speak to him. I’ve his number on my phone, somewhere.” She dug her hand into the pocket of her complexly patterned cardigan, pulled out an ancient Nokia, pushed a button and waited for it to turn on.
Viv looked at her watch and took a slug of wine. She knew she should cut down on her drinking, but it was never easy. There wouldn’t be enough time or space to put Alice’s material into Friday’s feature, but there was always the possibility of a follow-up. Especially if Alice was on the payroll. She was surprised Alice hadn’t asked about that already, although the afternoon tea alone would set them back fifty quid.
“Can you have a look?” Alice said, passing her phone across the table. “I think that’s Reggie’s number. I should have brought my reading glasses.”
“Thank you,” Viv said, forwarding the contact to her own phone. “I’m not sure I’ll have time to meet Reggie before our story goes out, but it could be useful if we need any more background information. We did have a brief chat with the Doctor’s housekeeper, Gillian Beattie.”
“Aye. Gillian’s a very religious woman. She and Rosemary Haslett were very close,” Alice said. “Reggie could tell you a lot more about what went on. He worked there a long time, until Rosemary died, and then he lost his job. He was very bitter about it. Still is. Gillian got some bequests from Rosemary’s will. She got her apartment at the big house, to live in for as long as she wanted. Why don’t you give Reggie a call? He has a daughter in Australia. They’ve him set up with a video calling connection, or some such thing. I’ve no mind for technology. One time, he let it slip that he knew something about Rhona Haslett that would blow people’s socks off.”
Chapter Fifteen
Viv helped Alice into the elevator and along the corridor to the door to her room. “Thank you, dear,” Alice said. “If you’re after Mitch, he’s two doors along, room two hundred and twenty-four.”
The second hand of the Breitling slid past ten marks on the dial. Viv took a deep breath, the kiss in the elevator at the back of her mind. Carruthers always said, never mix business with pleasure, but sometimes rules were meant to be broken. She knocked twice, below the gold-rimmed spy hole. Was he avoiding her, holding his breath on the other side? She rapped again. “Mitch? Are you there?”
There was only silence.
Viv threw the paperback to one side and fired up her computer, typing Reggie Scott’s mobile number into Skype’s search bar. It returned a single contact, Papa Reg, live:reggiescott1938. His profile picture was a red motorbike. Next to it was a green dot. He was online. She typed a message as fast as her fingers would go.
Viv pressed the enter key and waited. Thirty seconds later she got an incoming video call. She adjusted the lid of her laptop, so her head and shoulders were centre screen.
Assuming Reggie’s year of birth was the same as the date in his email, he would be seventy-two years old. He appeared to be sitting in a dining room or office. There was a tall, wooden bookshelf in the background. Books were jammed sideways in between the shelves. Reggie had white hair, a florid face and a nose that looked like it might have been broken more than once. He stared unblinking into his web cam. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mr Scott,” she said. “Thanks for calling me.”
“Plain Reggie will do,” he said. “What is it you’re after?”
She liked someone who got straight to the point.
“Alice suggested you might know something of interest to our investigation. We’re looking into how Rosemary and Andrew Haslett met their deaths, and what effect these might have had on their son, Steven.”
“Is this for Alice’s benefit then? Rosemary died twelve years ago. I don’t understand what it has to do with the crime he committed. That happened the year before. Rosemary was a kind woman, but after she died, they let me go. There wasn’t enough work, they said. I was fifty-nine. No-one would give me another job after that.” Reggie glowered into the camera.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Yes, we’re assisting Alice with her… travel and accommodation expenses, in return for an exclusive story, from the family viewpoint. How the death of her son has affected her. It’s something that’s of particular interest to me. At the plea hearing on Monday, the doctor’s solicitor said his mother’s death was one of the reasons his client confessed. It’s also been suggested to us that Rosemary Haslett’s death might not have been an accident.”
“What?” Reggie’s eyebrows shot up. “Where did you get that idea from?”
“Sorry, w
e can’t divulge our sources,” Viv said.
“Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it,” he said, giving a loud sniff. “Now, if you were talking about what happened forty odd years ago, that might be a different matter.” Reggie paused.
“You’re talking about the fire in sixty-six? What age were you then?”
“Yes. I was in my late twenties… I’d already worked there for five years. When Master Andrew was alive, he had a stable full of horses and there was plenty of work to do. Before the hospital went up, there was a lot more woodland. He and his friends went shooting for grouse and there was good fishing in the river. I was there when the stable block was built.”
“I visited Eveleen Manor earlier this week,” she said. “It has a magnificent setting.”
“Yes, it used to be very grand. It’ll have changed a lot, I’m sure, since it’s heyday… I suppose Alice told you that I’ve access to what you might call insider information? Neither me nor Susan have any ties to Ballylester and neither of us are getting any younger. Maybe, for Alice’s sake, it’s time someone wiped the smile off those pious faces?”
“Susan? Who are you talking about? We met Gillian Beattie, Haslett’s housekeeper.”
“Gillian. Now, there’s a woman knows how to keep a secret. A very canny operator.”
Viv tried to keep her face straight, remembering how she and Pete had blagged their way past Gillian into the house. “Well, if you say so. But I’m confused, this is the first time I’ve heard about anyone called Susan.”
“Sorry. I thought you knew. Gillian had a woman that helped out in the kitchen. When Andrew was alive, and they entertained a lot more. Her name was Susan Brown. We’ve been married for the past twenty-five years.” Reggie held up his ring finger. “She made an honest man of me. It was the one good thing that came out of it all. Gillian did alright. Rosemary left her some jewellery, her job, a flat in the annex for as long as she wanted. I got nothing. I was blamed for what happened.”
“The fire that killed Andrew Haslett?”
“Hold on.” Reggie’s face disappeared from the screen and she heard the sound of a door opening and closing. The call was still live. The timer in the corner of the screen told her they’d been connected for seventeen minutes. Viv wanted to shower before dinner, but it could wait. She pulled her reporter’s notebook across the desk. Scribbled, whose face does Reggie want to wipe a smile off? Does Gillian know more than she’s letting on? How, if at all, is this connected to Chris McVeigh’s murder?
There was a noise at the other end of the connection and Reggie came back into view, the picture shaking as he sat down. “Sorry about that, I just wanted to check where Susan was. Look. I’ll tell you what I know, on the condition none of this gets back to me. Can you guarantee that?” he said.
“Certainly. As I said earlier, one of the rules of journalism is that we must protect the identity of sources who supply information in confidence. I’ll be taking notes, but they won’t be seen by anyone but me,” she said.
“There’s one thing you need to know first, then I’ll tell you what happened after the fire,” he said. “Susan helped in the kitchen at weekends. You probably know, the Haslett family were heavily involved in the Spirit of Hope church. They went morning and evening.
Sunday dinner was a grand occasion at the big house. There were two silver candlesticks that always sat on the mahogany dining table. The candlesticks had fluted shafts, like the porticos outside the entrance. There were flowers, vines maybe, around a square base. You’ll find out later why I know so much detail. Andrew and Rhona had a candle lighting ceremony every Sunday. A ritual, Susan used to call it. Rhona always had to be the centre of attention. She was obsessed with a children’s hymn called, Jesus Bids Us Shine. Rhona used to sing it all around the place, well, until the fire… Jesus bids us shine…Like a little candle, burning in the night. In this world is darkness, so we must shine, You in your small corner, and I in mine. I’ve often thought about the strangeness of those words and the way she sang it. All innocent like,” Reggie scratched the side of his nose with his index finger. “Are you writing all of this down?”
He reminded her of Tom Finnegan. What was it with older people and their obsession? “Yes, don’t worry. Please go on,” she said. “This is fascinating.”
“The stable-block was a sprawling affair. There were eight stables, a tack-room, office and a ride through archway as well as the two-storey hay barn. The bitumen-rolled shingle roof was certified as fire retardant, but not when a blaze was started right beneath the trusses. The whole block was built from aged Cedarwood. It went up like a match,” Reggie said, then stopped. “Sorry I don’t mean that like the way it sounded.”
“Don’t worry,” Viv said. “No-one’s going to find out where this came from.” Although, she thought, there must be a limited number of people who would know the details.
“At the time, I was a heavy smoker. I had a forty a day habit. Everybody smoked in those days. Rhona was ten years old, Steven a few years younger. She had a den up in the hay loft. You can probably guess what happened?
Naturally, I was involved in the clean-up,” Reggie went on. “The Fire Chief had put the fire down to an electrical fault. Andrew had a battery charger in the office that he sometimes left switched on overnight. It was blamed. Two days later I found a silver candlestick among the ashes. I couldn’t work out what it was doing there, until I put two and two together. I confronted Gillian and asked her what she thought I should do. Do you know what she said?”
“Go on,” Viv said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.
“I’ll never forget her words,” he said, lowering his voice. “Bury it in a deep hole, she told me, somewhere where it will never see the light of day. Gillian accused me of leaving a box of matches somewhere that Rhona could find them. Andrew wasn’t a smoker. They had a special taper in the dining room and a box of matches, kept in a high cupboard. I was always careful down at the stables, although I sometimes smoked in the kitchen, with a cup of tea.”
“So, you suspect Rhona of starting the fire in the hay barn, that led to her father’s death?”
“Well, I’d say it was ninety-nine percent certain, wouldn’t you?” Reggie said.
“It couldn’t have been her brother, Steven Haslett? He’s the one on trial,” Viv said, thinking about Carmen’s red flag theory.
“Rhona was always the one playing in the hay-loft, and she had the candle fixation.”
Viv ran her fingers through her hair and studied Reggie’s face. He appeared to be convinced. This would add a whole new dimension to their conspiracy theory. But without any evidence, it would be pure speculation.
“Where’d you bury the candlestick?” she asked.
“Well, that’s the big problem,” Reggie said. “I dug a hole, near the old sanatorium. The place was demolished whenever the hospital was built, after Steven came back from medical school and qualified as a surgeon. It’s probably under a million tons of concrete.”
Oh. Crap.
“There is one more thing you should know,” Reggie went on. “The candlesticks were never mentioned. Susan always assumed that Gillian, or Rosemary, took them away, because Andrew was no longer there to light them. I never heard Rhona sing that hymn again.”
Chapter Sixteen
Shutting her eyes under the water jets, Viv thought about the people who had conspired to keep the cause of the stable fire a secret. It must have broken Rosemary Haslett’s heart to have told such a massive lie. If the candle ritual had stopped after his father died, would Steven have made the connection? Little boys could be cruel. Perhaps he had taunted Rhona about the accident. Maybe the knowledge made him feel superior.
Viv stepped out of the shower, towelling her hair. Tried to imagine what ten-year old Rhona would have felt, and how she would have coped, living with the guilt. Did Rhona see what happened. Did she run away when the fire started, or stay to watch, fascinated by the flames? Could Rhona suffer from a
n antisocial personality disorder? Carmen said psychologists simply measured people who deviated from the norm, whatever that was. What had she said about the saint and the poet? And Alice seemed convinced that Tania McVeigh knew more than she was admitting. But Alice’s opinion was hardly impartial. Chris would still be alive if Tania hadn’t got involved with Doctor Haslett. But had she pressed the Doctor to get rid of her husband so that they could be together? Viv had to admit, it was possible. Mitch’s memory, albeit blunted by time, suggested that something strange had been going at his family home on the night his father died.
Viv’s father had died twenty-four years ago, but she still had a vivid recollection of events around the time he died. The day she had found out. His funeral. The inquest. Why would Mitch be different?
So far, their investigation had raised more questions than answers. The same questions she had been asking herself thirty-six hours earlier, and more. How did it all fit together? The fire at the industrial park could have been caused by someone trying to stop them poking their noses into the deaths of Rosemary and Andrew Haslett, someone who didn’t want them asking questions about the night Chris McVeigh was murdered, or, as police seemed to think, a drug addled homeless person who held a grudge. Viv had time on her hands before she was due to meet Pete. She pulled on her clothes and called Carruthers.
“Viv,” he said. “Glad to hear from you. Is everything okay? Pete told me you’d suffered no serious side-effects. I thought things were supposed to be quiet these days?”
It was good to hear Carruthers’ voice. “Yes. I’m fine, thanks,” she said. “I’ve just got a slight headache. Do you have a minute?”
“What’s up?”
She tried to imagine the expression on his face. The way Carruthers flattened down the edges of his moustache with his thumb and forefinger whenever he was thinking.
“Things are going well,” she said. “I’ve spoken to Alice and Mitch McVeigh and Pete got us in contact with Tom Finnegan, one of the churchgoers who discovered the murder-suicide. I spoke to Mr Finnegan, before the fire. And we’ve an interesting psychological profile for the Doctor. To quote, ‘a charming psychopath who shouldn’t be trusted’. Someone who wore, and may still wear, the ‘Mask of Sanity’- that’s a book by the American psychiatrist Hervey Cleckley for your information.”