by Dee McInnes
To her left, in the middle row, Viv noticed a man in a brown suit, the material straining across his shoulders. He was sitting beside a grey-haired woman, who was looking around anxiously. A bearded man in a blue raincoat, then two unfolded chairs, separated the man in the tight suit and his mother, as Viv imagined her, from another man in a dark anorak and a woman with bleached blonde hair. Rhona Haslett and her solicitor, John Young, were not yet present.
The empty dock reminded Viv of the inquest into her father’s murder at Londonderry Courthouse. She had been thinking about his death a lot since the fire at the industrial park. The inquest had been opened and adjourned six days after her father died, in order to allow the Coroner to release what remained of his body for burial. Ten months later, when the Constabulary had failed to find anyone to charge, the inquest had been rescheduled. Aunt Cassy was told that the purpose of the inquiry was to establish the facts about what had happened, but that it would not determine criminal liability, apportion guilt or attribute blame. Her Aunt had suggested that Viv should carry on with her exams and not put herself through any further distress, but she felt she owed it to her father to be there. She had been sixteen years old by then, old enough to work, to get married, to leave home.
They were represented by William Agnew, one of the partners at the Hunter’s family solicitors. A Coroner’s Assistant had provided them, as close relatives of the deceased, with advance copies of the reports and witness statements. The Prison Service also had a family liaison officer attending the hearing.
One of her father’s colleagues, Alan Sterling, who had left the pub half an hour before the incident, gave a witness statement. He explained that The Blackthorn Inn was deemed to be a ‘safe place’ for prison staff to drink. The local Constabulary turned a blind eye to the irregular opening hours. Only a handful of people had been inside when he left, just before midnight. Outside there was a gravel car park, lit by a row of orange streetlights. Sterling hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious.
A police detective said that they had discovered tyre tracks behind a tall, wheeled waste-bin at the rear of the car park. The treads indicated a Kawasaki GPZ900R road bike, one of the first so called ‘muscle bikes’ with a maximum speed of one hundred and fifty-five miles per hour. The detective said they believed there had been two men on the bike, the driver and the pillion passenger, with an accomplice hiding in a deserted farm building across the road, connected by two-way radio.
Another customer, who had been in the toilet at the back of the building, reported hearing the growl of an engine, shortly followed by the sound of two gunshots. The landlord had dialled 999 and they stood at the front window, waiting for the police to turn up. The first vehicle to arrive was a grey Land Rover with its flashing blue light. They watched two officers get out and approach Sean Hunter’s car in the centre of the car park, the officers shining their flashlights on the ground, looking for wires. They hadn’t anticipated the advances in remote controlled detonation. The landlord and the customer were blown backwards when the bomb exploded.
Nothing could prepare Viv for the graphic evidence presented by the police Forensic Scientist. He had pieced together enough of the two nine-millimetre shells lodged in her father’s skull, which had been blown clear by the blast, to link the murder weapon to at least two other terrorist incidents. There were colour slides projected on a white screen to illustrate the extent of her father’s injuries. Viv remembered Aunt Cassy squeezing her hand and the grief that wedged like a stone at the back of her throat.
On the second day of the inquest, an Army intelligence officer, identified only as J2, gave evidence from behind a screen. This officer attributed the atrocity of her father’s murder, alongside the two responding police officers, to the South Derry Republican Action Force, believed to be a cover name for the Provisional IRA. One of the prime suspects, referred to as T.P, was said to be connected to a number of other crimes, including the death of a forty-four year old off-duty soldier, shot at his family farm, and the murder of a thirty-year old Catholic man found shot (after a punishment beating) in an abandoned van near the Irish border, ten days after her father was killed. The Catholic man was said to be an alleged informer.
The explosives used to blow up her father’s Ford Cortina were similar to those used to murder a seventy-four-year old Chief Justice and his wife by a remote-control. A bomb had been hidden under a parked car and detonated, without mercy, as they drove past.
J2 concluded that all the evidence pointed to a terrorist cell, that had most likely crossed the Irish border and lain low to avoid detection following their spate of well-planned attacks. Another intelligence report said T.P was a leading member of the ruthless South Derry brigade, fronted by an individual known in IRA circles, as The Sherriff. T.P was believed to be operating with one or two younger males, but there was no concrete evidence to enable the Public Prosecutor to bring charges.
Viv and her Aunt had turned down the opportunity to put questions to those who gave evidence on the advice of their solicitor. “The Coroner’s role is a sinecure. It’s a complete waste of time and unnecessarily upsetting for you both,” Agnew had said.
In the years that followed, Viv wished they had ignored his advice and often wondered if she could find out more about the Army intelligence. She had studied the transcript of the hearing, but there was little other information in the public domain concerning the police investigation.
When she joined The Agency, she had confided in Carruthers. He had contacts in the Metropolitan Police force and one of them knew a high-ranking officer in the British Army. They concluded that there were so many other unsolved crimes on both sides of the Northern Irish conflict, it would be “pure luck” if the perpetrators were ever brought to justice. Another of Carruthers’ cronies cautioned that Army Intel, at that time, was often based on conjecture, or worse, on information provided by local informants who were double agents, providing contradictory information in order to muddy the water.
Despite all of this, Viv had held onto the slim hope that a review of historical atrocities, promised as part of the Good Friday Agreement, might, one day, expose those responsible... Twelve years on, the process was mired by political infighting. There had been little progress.
The authorities may have given up, but the unanswered questions were just as hard for her to ignore as they always had been. Now that Aunt Cassy was dead, she was the only one who cared about finding out the truth. Over the intervening years, loyalties could have changed. She might be able to find someone, like Reggie, with a grudge to bear, or someone with information for whom a financial reward would unlock a memory. She made a promise to herself that once this investigation was put to bed, she’d have a fresh look at the court transcripts to see if there was anything she’d missed.
Viv had often wondered what T.P stood for. A search for crimes where The Sherriff and T.P were suspected, might uncover something new.
Chapter Twenty
The court official’s announcement made her sit up straight. “All rise.” Viv watched Judge Nolan enter from a door at the far corner of the stage, his black robe bound at the waist with a wide belt, his scarlet sash across one shoulder. He took his seat on the bench and picked up the red folder and opened it on the desk. He sat upright, the lights reflecting off the lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles as he surveyed the courtroom. The official called the first case. “Four zero seven five two, Mr Dale Atkinson.”
The man in the tight, brown suit stepped forward. He was subjected to a body search before entering the dock. The charge was read, and he confirmed a guilty plea. The case was a charge of common assault by a single punch that had almost taken a man’s life. It was prelude to the main drama. Viv listened, without any great interest, to the Crown Prosecutor describing the events that took place on the night in question. How Mr Atkinson, a stranger to Belfast, was trying to make his way to the train station when he became embroiled in a petty dispute with the victim of the assault and his
girlfriend.
Atkinson’s defence lawyer stood up and began reciting a long list of mitigating circumstances. Viv glanced at the dial of her Breitling. Pete offered her a piece of chewing gum, but she shook her head.
At last Nolan began his sum up and sentenced Atkinson to two years suspended. As Atkinson made his way back towards the gallery, the man in the black anorak and the blonde stood up and hurried towards the exit at the back of the court. “Fuckin’ joke,” Viv heard the woman say, as the door closed behind them.
The next case dealt with two brothers, charged with robbery and intimidation. One of the brothers was already in custody. He was brought out in handcuffs, the female guard springing into life with her keychain. The other brother joined him from the front row of the gallery. The brothers were like identical twins. A type Viv had seen many times before. Barrel chested, shaven-heads, designer jeans. Hoods. They shook hands on the other side of the pale green glass, as soon as the first man had his shackles removed. The brothers seemed in good spirits, given their predicament.
The barrister representing the brother who was not already in custody, was reprimanded by the Judge for appearing in front of him minus his legal robe. In his haste, the barrister had left his robe back at the Reception Centre, he apologised. Confusion ensued over the first brother’s legal representative who did not appear to be present. The brothers looked around, scanning the public gallery.
“Where is this defendant’s legal representative?” Judge Nolan asked.
The chastised barrister consulted his mobile phone.
“M’Lord. This case recently transferred from Court Number twelve. It’s possible my learned colleague may not have got the message.” A legal assistant hurried out of the courtroom. A few minutes later she returned and whispered something.
“Well?” Judge Nolan’s impatience was legendary.
“I’m sorry M’Lord, it appears she has, um, temporarily left the building.”
“This case is adjourned. We’ll reschedule.” Nolan consulted a diary. “Two weeks from today. Try to ensure your learned colleague is present, and that next time you’re properly dressed for the occasion. We’ll take a short recess.” He stood up and swept out the door behind the bench.
“I’ll take that gum,” Viv said. She was tempted to turn on her mobile phone.
“Look. There’s yer woman,” Pete whispered.
John Young and Rhona Haslett filed into the courtroom, followed by a man in a baggy black suit. Rhona’s expression was inscrutable. Viv recognised the man behind Rhona, from photographs. Gregory Martin’s clerical collar was a dead give-away. John Young was wearing another expensive looking suit. He had a purple, tri-folded handkerchief in the chest pocket.
After several minutes, the court was called back into session and case four eight nine four six, Steven Macartney Haslett, was announced. The Doctor was led out in handcuffs, wearing a pale grey suit. For the first time he looked across at the public gallery. His hair was cropped close and his eyes were narrow underneath bushy eyebrows. Crows’ feet spread from the corners of his eyes and his high forehead was a ripple of lines.
Viv wondered how Mitch and Alice would be feeling. Viv tried to imagine what she would think if she saw the man who had killed her father standing in front of her.
Inside the dock, the Doctor’s cuffs were removed, and the charge sheet was read out.
“The defendant’s plea was heard in this courtroom on Monday the tenth of November,” Judge Nolan said. “Has either side anything to add?”
Kieran Murphy said the Crown rested. Richard Watson, straightening his talcum coloured wig, rose and concurred, to everyone’s relief, that he had nothing to add to the submission he made on his client’s behalf on the same date.
The Judge sat with his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and his elbow on the desk in front of him. He turned several pages of the case file before he looked down his hawk-shaped nose into the courtroom. “Steven Macartney Haslett, I have to sentence you for one count of murder which was committed fourteen years ago in May nineteen ninety-six. You met your victim, Mr Christopher McVeigh, aged thirty-five, at his premises in Ballylester Business Park. You sedated him by means of a sleeping drug dissolved in a glass of vodka and staged his suicide of asphyxiation by carbon dioxide from a vehicle engine.
You have entered a plea of guilty and for murder there is only one sentence, life imprisonment. That is the sentence I shall pass in due course. But I am also required by law to fix the minimum term you must serve before you are eligible even to be considered for parole. This murder was committed before the provisions of the Criminal Justice Act of 2003 came into force. I am required by paragraphs 9 and 10 of schedule 22 to the Act, to ensure that I do not specify a minimum term which, in the opinion of the court, is greater than that which you would have been directed to serve under the practice followed by the Secretary of State before December 2002. Next I have to decide whether there are aggravating or mitigating factors which require departure from that starting point.” Justice Nolan looked up, his eyes hidden behind the glare of his lenses.
“I have determined that there are two main aggravating factors. Firstly, the significant degree of planning and pre-meditation. The murder plan which you hatched was ruthlessly executed with no thought to your innocent victim nor to the consequences of your callous act. Second, you are now fifty-one years old, and have been free to enjoy the intervening years, grossly heightening the distress of Mr McVeigh’s family, who were led to believe he had died as the result of suicide. Even though there is a much greater understanding about the struggles of those who are led to take their own lives, there is still the stigma and disreputation associated with suicide that society has yet to fully eradicate.
Turning to mitigating factors, the only ones I find to be of significance are your eventual admission of guilt and remorse and your confession, perhaps under the influence of alcohol, to Mr Gregory Martin on 31 December 2008. Although you claim to have been acting out of some irrational logic in order to put your victim out of his pain and misery, following rumours about your affair with his wife, I find that your actions were most likely motivated by much baser instincts. As you were a man in a position of authority and of comfortable financial means, you were perhaps used to having everything you wanted. I find it likely that a combination of lust and envy prompted you to plan this monstrous crime. After Mr McVeigh’s death, you calmly continued with your life. We do not know precisely when your relationship with Mrs McVeigh went sour, but that is not a matter for this court. Stand up please.”
The security guard took the Doctor’s arm and they rose to their feet.
“Steven Macartney Haslett, in respect to the count of murder, I sentence you to life imprisonment. You will serve a minimum of seventeen years less the two hundred and eighty-seven days spent on remand. If, and when, you are eventually released, you will remain on licence for the rest of your life. You may go out.”
A murmur of voices swelled across the public gallery. This was no more than Haslett deserved, but Viv could sense the underlying resentment that he had evaded justice for so long, and for the deception that had been clinically maintained.
Mitch stood up. She assumed that he and Alice would go out with the Public Prosecutor, as they had done earlier, to avoid any unwanted attention. She wondered when she would see Mitch again, whether he was still irked that she had stood him up, even though she had a valid reason. He hadn’t replied to the text she’d sent to ask if they could meet up to discuss the sentence, and if he thought his mother would answer a few questions. She remembered the smooth, hard press of his mouth when he’d kissed her in the elevator. The excitement sparking in all the right places. Mitch reminded her of Harris Clarke, the same athletic build, the same sexual chemistry fizzing beneath the surface. Carruthers would have said, “If you really want something, you’ll find a way. If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse.”
The guard took the handcuffs from his bel
t and fastened them around the Doctor’s outstretched wrists. He opened the door and Doctor Haslett stepped out towards the custody exit, his head down. Mitch took two paces forwards onto the floor of the courtroom, his arms by his sides and shouted, “Haslett, you bastard.” As the Doctor turned toward him, Mitch swung Alice’s walking stick up and rested it on his left forearm. A loud bang rocked the courtroom.
Someone screamed. Mitch was doing something to the top of the stick. Viv saw the Doctor staring down at his chest in disbelief. A red patch was expanding across the front of his grey suit, to the right of the chest pocket. His legs gave way. The female officer let out a loud shriek.
“OH MY GOD,” she yelled.
Officials scrambled out of chairs and dived onto the floor. The judge abandoned his seat.
Viv stood up. They were safe, behind Mitch. Pete said aloud what she was thinking. The Doctor fell backwards. Haslett’s security escort looked at Mitch, raised his hands and stepped aside. Viv climbed onto the seat of her chair to get a better view.
The second male guard made a move forward, his palms up. “I’m unarmed. Come on now, son, drop your weapon,” he said.
Mitch slotted something into the stick and raised it up. “Stay back, let me finish this. I’m not going to hurt anyone else.” He walked across to Doctor Haslett who was writhing on the floor and jammed the end of the stick under his chin. Mitch’s arm jerked once.