Legitimate Target

by Dee McInnes

  “I know him well,” Carruthers chuckled. “So, what’s the problem? Sounds like you’ve collected plenty of commentary and Pete’s court report was very comprehensive. You said he was going to speak to a police detective?”

  “Yes, that’s right. As far as the police are concerned, Haslett’s their man, and the case is closed. But there’s been an interesting development – well, maybe more than one. I think we’ve opened a can of worms. There are more questions than answers,” she said.

  “What’s your gut feeling? All we can do is to look at the facts, the things we know for certain, add in what other people think and put forward one or two plausible theories. That’s it. There’s your feature,” he said. “You’ve done it a thousand times before.”

  She told Carruthers how Alice had pointed the finger at her daughter in law, and about the conversation she’d just had with Reggie Scott. She repeated some of the questions that were going around in her head. It felt good to say them out loud.

  “Focus on Doctor Haslett,” Carruthers said. “He’s the one in the dock, for now. You’ll drive yourself mad with too many alternative theories. Send me a piece that deals with him and his motivations and the effect his actions had on the McVeigh family. That’s all we need for Friday. After that, we’ll see. We’re entitled to form an opinion and to plant a few seeds of doubt. But keep it simple, if you can.”

  “You’re right, as usual,” she said. “I’ll make some notes for a possible follow-up. You know, I was thinking about the first case I worked on, and the headline you came up with.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Kipling’s poem.”

  “What if Doctor Haslett isn’t the real villain here?”

  “Then, tread very carefully,” he said. “Use Pete for any of the more risky assignments. By the way, did you know he made the six o’clock bulletin on Monday?”

  “Pete did?”

  “Yes, Kirsty was keeping an eye on local coverage, on the Northern Ireland section of Independent TV’s website. They covered Rhona Haslett’s solicitor making her statement. Pete’s carrot-top was in clear view, head and shoulders above the rest of the pack.”

  “I’ll let him know he’s famous,” Viv laughed. “We’re meeting up shortly,” she said, checking her watch. “I’d better get going. Thanks for the chat.”

  “You’re welcome. Anytime,” Carruthers said.

  She took the lift to the ground floor. The interior was a sheet of mirrored glass. Viv smoothed her damp hair and straightened the collar of the grey, silk shirt she’d unearthed from the bottom of her suitcase. Everything she’d been wearing yesterday had been sent to the hotel laundry. She hoped they could work a miracle with her leather jacket.

  Pete was waiting in the Lobby Bar. His rangy figure and red hair like a beacon. He was wearing a white, unbuttoned shirt over a T shirt, with ‘The Stranglers’ printed across the chest in a red, handwritten-script and black jeans.

  “I didn’t have you down as a punk rocker?” she said. “Wasn’t that a bit before your time?”

  “I grew up listening to my older sister’s stuff. How was yer morning? Feeling better?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It was blowing a gale down at Grianan. It cleared out the cobwebs. Come on, let’s get a drink. Then we can talk. I’ve just come off the phone with The Boss.”

  Clusters of box-shaped lanterns were suspended from the ceiling around the bar, mimicking an Art Deco style. Pete walked underneath with inches to spare. Their warm glow reflected off dark, stained chairs and tables, brass taps and glassware. Viv caught the scent of furniture polish.

  “So, what are you having?” Pete asked.

  They carried their drinks to a table overlooking the street.

  “I was upstairs in the Piano Lounge with Alice McVeigh earlier this afternoon,” Viv said. “I got stung for a very expensive cup of tea, but it was well worth it. She put me in touch with a former employee of the Haslett’s, a Reggie Scott. If you thought we had a conspiracy theory before, just wait until you hear what he had to say. I emailed you the draft feature, but that was before I spoke to the two of them and to The Boss. Your meeting with the detective seemed to go well?”

  “Yes. As I said in my text, the best thing she said was, ‘We have our man and ze case is closed’. Excuse my poor attempt at a Polish accent.”

  “She was from Poland? What was she like? Was she part of the original investigation?”

  “Yer woman was a weird fish. Cold hands. Boggle eyes.”

  “She sounds charming,” Viv said.

  “Detective Kozlowski wasn’t here at the time, but she made some interesting points about people who pervert the course of justice… who are accessories to crime. She seemed to be marking our card. Warning us not to poke the fire, stoke the embers, or however else you’d like to put it,” he said.

  “But we love digging things up, it’s what we do best,” Viv laughed. “Although we prodded a hornet’s nest, the time we visited the Maguire’s place…do you remember Geraldine? As you can imagine, she’s never far from my thoughts.” She rubbed her scar. “Still, it could’ve been a lot worse if she hadn’t been so pissed at the time, and her aim had been better. I should have managed the situation better…and been quicker to react.”

  “She was a firebrand. A right head-case. No-one could’ve reasoned with her.”

  “Did her old man go to prison in the end?”

  “He got ten years. I bet he was happy to get inside. I wouldn’t have lived with yon madwoman… I bet you wish you could’ve got your own back somehow?”

  “Revenge is a dish best served cold. Self-restraint is a virtue, so they say…”

  “Is that bit about revenge from one of the Godfather movies?” Pete asked.

  “I think the origin’s French. What did you think of the story, A Conspiracy of Silence?”

  “We mightn’t be too popular in some quarters, raising suspicions about the death of Haslett’s parents, and questioning whether Doctor Haslett is telling the whole truth. But it’s a grand argument. I especially liked the ending, that people lie to themselves because…”

  “Lies become easier to live with than the truth.”

  “There are a lot of bogey-men, and women, out there. Lying low. Hiding under the radar. I’m not just talking about this case.” Pete looked at her with a serious expression on his face.

  She wondered what he could be getting at. Her father’s murder?

  “Most people will only read the first few paragraphs,” she sighed. “The Boss is happy to leave a couple of questions hanging until after tomorrow’s sentencing. That’s good enough for me.”

  A waiter brought menus, offered suggestions and water, hovered for their order.

  “Shall we order a bottle of wine, or are you sticking to beer?” she asked Pete.

  “I’ve left the car at home,” he said. “Tomorrow should be a cinch. Order away.”

  The waiter brought the bottle of Australian Shiraz and filled their glasses. Viv gave Pete a summary of her conversations with Alice and Reggie.

  “Christ, that’s dynamite,” he said when she had finished. “So, it’s true what we said.”

  “What?”

  “That everybody lies?”

  “Everybody. Even us,” Viv laughed, taking a sip from her glass.

  “We all tell partial truths,” Pete said. “Ye know the classic question, does my bum look big in this? No-one really wants an affirmative.”

  “I know what you mean, but sometimes it’s no laughing matter - I don’t know if you know that my father was killed in a terrorist incident. It happened over twenty years ago now, and I try to kid myself that I’m over it, but it still hurts. Sometimes… it hurts like hell,” she said.

  “The Boss said something about it one time. I’m very sorry.” Pete said. He stretched his right hand across the table. “All these years and years of conflict on this wee small island have brought far too many teardrops. If you ever want to talk about it, I’d be a very good
listener.”

  Viv touched her fingertips to his. “Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  The waiter brought their starters. She pulled her hand back and picked up her knife and fork.

  “There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Pete said, breaking off a piece of bread.

  “Surprise me,” she said, wondering for a moment if he was going to confess his feelings. She wasn’t sure what she would do if he did. Her father’s death was like a millstone around her neck. She was glad he seemed to understand. Glad it was out in the open and no longer the elephant in the room.

  He paused, taking a gulp of wine. “Uh um, well. I Googled the detective’s surname, given it’s so unusual, and guess what I found?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Viv said.

  “There is a Doctor Jan Kozlowski, who’s an Orthopaedic Consultant at the Lakeside. He came here from Poland ten years ago after training at Krakow University Hospital. Apparently, he’s very highly qualified and has an international pedigree. He specialises in knee jobs...perhaps I should give him a call?”

  She smiled, remembering their Mr and Mrs double act, at Eveleen Manor.

  “There’s no way that can be a co-incidence,” Pete said.

  “I wonder if Detective Kozlowski represented the official police view-point? Could she have been doing someone at the hospital a favour? And does whatever-his-name-is, the tenant of unit five, know them?” Viv said, rubbing the scar at the corner of her eye.

  “The Polish community is very tight. As they say, the plot thickens.”

  “There’s enough material in all of this for Conspiracy of Silence, the sequel. I hope we’ll get a follow-up… I saved the telephone number from that card in the window at Unit five. We might be the only ones with the number, if it went up in smoke. It might be worth a call. But it’s up to The Boss where he wants to go from here, if he thinks there’s more to the story and there’s nothing more interesting going on. By the way, Cuds is hosting a party in Derry on Monday night. I was thinking of asking Carruthers for the time off, assuming he wants me to stay around for a few more days. The invite is open if you’d like to come with me?”

  “Monday? That’s a weird night for a do,” Pete said. “But you know me, never been known to refuse a free drink.” He raised his glass and smiled.

  “It’s a civic function, to celebrate the end of the shoot,” she said. “There was an actress I saw up at fort top who would be a good match for you. She had flaming red hair and was tall and very pretty.”

  “Two red-heads together would never work, trust me. Just think of the children we would produce. It’d be a nightmare. Aidan and his girlfriend are starting a family as soon as they’re married, but she’s a brunette, so at least the kids will have a fighting chance,” he laughed.

  “You don’t have anyone special then? Anyone you have your eye on?” she asked.

  “Excuse me, are you finished with these plates?” The waiter was hovering at her elbow. “Would you like some more wine?”

  “You’re lucky you’re over here,” Pete said, after the waiter had left the table. “I heard severe weather is going to hit the South of England in the next forty-eight hours.”

  Viv recognised a subject change when she heard one. Pete’s ears had turned bright red, but it could just as easily have been the wine. She refilled their glasses.

  “The English weather has two extremes,” she said. “In the winter there’s flooding and in summer there’s always the hose-pipe ban.”

  “Do ye never think about coming back home, to stay?”

  “I’ve been away for too long. What would I come back here for?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Northern Ireland is not so bad,” Pete said. “There’s plenty of water, and fresh air.”

  “Especially up in the stratosphere,” Viv laughed.

  “I can’t help being tall.”

  “Oh. I meant to say. Kirsty saw you on TV on Monday night.”

  “What?”

  “Outside court. Carruthers said you were standing right behind Rhona and her solicitor.”

  “Oh. Fuck. Do you think?” Pete rubbed his hand over his chin. “What if I was seen by Gillian Beattie? I was thinking about how easily we got past her. I know I was keen on the theory about Rosemary’s death, but what could Steven or Rhona’s motivation have been for murdering their own mother? By all accounts she was a good person.”

  “You mean a rational explanation?” Viv said. “Don’t forget what we know now. Carmen said psychopaths are a complex blend of more than one behavioural type. If Rhona has a penchant for starting fires, she might suffer from borderline personality disorder or BPD. I did some research, after I talked to Carmen on Monday. People with BPD act impulsively and can struggle to control their anger. Think about the way Rhona flew off the handle when McLaughlin cornered her on Monday. Maybe she and her mother had a row about something. We still don’t know why Rhona didn’t return at the same time as her brother.”

  “Well, right enough. And a lot of our theory hinges on the time Gillian said she found Rosemary’s body and made the phone call. If it was half an hour earlier, at seven thirty rather than eight, then there wouldn’t be as much of an issue.”

  “Reggie Scott did say Gillian was a canny operator and knows how to keep a secret.”

  “There you are,” he said. “Can we get another bottle of wine here.” Pete waved at the waiter.

  Viv ran her fingers through her hair. Her headache was making a comeback. “But why on earth would Gillian make it up?”

  “Take your pick,” Pete said. “Pure devilment, my mother might say. Like those attention seekers who’re always calling the news desk with their crack-pot theories. Some people just love stirring things.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay. Maybe Gillian just wanted to cause trouble. Maybe her brain was muddled by alcohol or maybe her clock was telling the wrong time. Who knows?” Viv groaned. “There’s more than one thing about this entire case, and the Haslett history, that doesn’t quite add up… I can’t help feeling we’re still missing a vital piece of the jigsaw.”

  Later, when their plates had been cleared away, Viv ordered an Americano and Pete poured the last of the Shiraz into his glass.

  “We’ll be over there,” she told the waiter, pointing towards the raised platform, where the rowdy businessmen had been sitting earlier that afternoon. The same place where she had imagined a clandestine meeting of paramilitaries, when she mistook Mitch for a local hoodlum.

  Pete pulled out a U-shaped armchair. “Here ye are, Madam,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You look tired. Are you okay?”

  “I need to get back into the gym tomorrow morning. Work off all this wine, and the cakes I ate earlier. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “We could call it a night, if you don’t want to stay up?”

  “No, it’s okay. I won’t sleep if I go to bed too early. All the information is floating around inside my head, like a snow globe I used to have when I was younger. Do you know what I mean? It had a winter scene inside, surrounded by a liquid with silver flecks.”

  “My sister, Claire, used to have one. It got smashed when we were horsing around one time. She never forgave me. Sometimes it’s good to lay all your pieces out on the table. What do you think happened? The night Chris was murdered.”

  The waiter set her coffee down on a tray. Next to the cup and saucer, there was a ceramic milk-jug and a bowl with brown and white sugar lumps, and a small pair of silver tongs. Viv used the tongs to select a white cube and place it on the table.

  “Item one, evidence for the prosecution,” she said. “He did it. He’s confessed and pleaded guilty.” She picked out a brown cube and placed it adjacent to the first. “Doctor Haslett is a serial liar. We shouldn’t believe anything he says.”

  “Okay,” Pete said. “With you so far.”

  She lifted out another white cube and balanced it on top of the first.r />
  “The glass recovered from in Chris McVeigh’s office, at the industrial park, contained traces of the prescription only barbiturate and Doctor Haslett confessed that he sedated his victim…but,” she dug out a brown cube, “How did he manage it? Chris got there before Doctor Haslett and it was Chris’s bottle of vodka.”

  “Unless he left the Doctor on his own for some reason? It wouldn’t take long to mix something into a glass,” Pete said.

  “Possibly. Okay, third. Mitch said CCTV footage of the roller door into the unit showed his father’s van driving through at eight fifty-seven, in broad daylight. It was mid-May, the height of summer. That corresponds with the time Tania says Chris left home. Tom Finnegan said it was only a few minutes’ drive from the McVeigh’s house to the industrial park and after that the cameras were turned off. So,” Viv stacked up another brown sugar lump.

  “Who did Mitch see driving away from his house after dark? Did his mother go out? If so, to where and why? Or Did Doctor Haslett come to the house, after he had killed Chris? Either way, Tania is lying about something,” Viv said.

  “Or Mitch imagined the whole thing?”

  “You’re supposed to be helping,” she said, studying the sugar towers. Trying to rack her brain. To come up with a logical explanation.

  “Tania knew the security code for the side door. Maybe she was in on it and Alice is right after all? Maybe Haslett went there earlier and spiked the vodka, or Chris was sedated before he left home? How long do you need to wait before the drug takes effect?” Pete asked.

  “Quinal Barbital, the drug found in his glass, treats insomnia or it can be used as relaxant before surgery. It dissolves in water and alcohol. You’d need to administer the correct dose, medical knowledge that of course Haslett has, to render someone unconscious. It would have been risky to sedate Chris before he left home. How would they have timed it, so that he got into his workplace before passing out? That doesn’t seem feasible,” Viv said. “And going there earlier and spiking the bottle? Seems unlikely. How would they know Chris would drink it at the right time? It still worries me that he was drinking vodka with the Doctor at all, given the situation. Although we don’t know for certain whether Doctor Haslett consumed anything. Chris could have been drinking alone when the Doctor turned up?”