by Dee McInnes
Viv heard the second shot at the same time as the top of Steven Haslett’s head exploded.
Court officials picked themselves up. There was a cacophony of voices. This was not in the script. Someone shouted for an ambulance. Someone else to clear the court. Alice McVeigh had never stirred. Mitch placed the walking stick on the floor and held his hands up. He was rushed by the two male security guards and Mitch’s hands were cuffed behind his back. The female guard was trying to rub something red off her shirt. Blubbing like a baby.
Viv glanced at her Breitling. It was eleven twenty-nine. She sent a message to Carruthers as soon as they were allowed outside.
Chapter Twenty-One
They hurried along Donegall Road and under the bypass. Viv thought about her conversations with Mitch earlier in the week. The impassioned way he spoke, the flashes of anger, the inked Death or Glory emblem. Talk of putting on his poker face, playing his hand well. The signs were there, only she hadn’t noticed them.
From the time Mitch stepped forwards from the public gallery to Steven Haslett toppling onto the floor, she estimated that no more than ten seconds had passed. Ironic that it was her childhood admonition before taking action - to count to ten. The saying went on that if you were very angry you should count to one hundred. She didn’t think that anything would have prevented Mitch from carrying out what was obviously a well-planned assault.
When Viv had called Carruthers he said, “The only thing certain is change. I’ll expect your summary within the hour. The conspiracy feature, good as it may be, will be on the back burner until McVeigh enters his plea and is sentenced.”
Pastor Martin had given an impromptu address outside the courthouse and Pete snapped a photo of the ambulance leaving from the rear entrance, transporting Doctor Haslett to the nearby Royal Victoria hospital. There was no need for the ambulance to hurry. Most of the Doctor’s blood and brain matter had been soaked into the carpet by the time the public gallery had been cleared. They decided that Pete’s quayside apartment was marginally closer to Laganside courthouse than the Europa. Viv couldn’t wait to escape the melee that ensued.
She replayed the sequence of events. Wondering if she would meet Mitch again and whether there was any future in their relationship. She remembered the sound of the handcuffs being ratcheted onto Doctor Haslett’s wrists and watching him step out of the dock. Mitch raising the walking stick. The three words. The first gunshot and the red stain spreading over the breast pocket of The Doctor’s suit. The female guard’s high-pitched scream and Pete’s exclamation. “WHAT THE FUCK?” Mitch calmly reloading. Delivering the head shot - the exit point blooming into a grotesque pink and red mushroom.
They took the stairs to Pete’s apartment. Viv took off her jacket and pulled up the sleeves of her crew neck. He switched on his laptop and waited, fingers on the keypad. Viv didn’t notice the polished wood beneath her feet as she paced. She didn’t notice the view of the city centre beyond the paved courtyard outside the window. Pete’s fingertips tapped rhythmically. Occasionally he would ask her to wait for him to catch up or ask her to repeat what she had just said.
“How the hell did we not see this coming?” she said, when they had reached the necessary one thousand words.
“No-one could have known. It was totally unforeseeable,” Pete said.
“Mitch was consumed with anger. We were too busy with our theories, the story, the deadline. We couldn’t see what was right in front of us.”
“It’s not your fault, or mine. Steven Haslett brought this on himself… whoever’s supposed to be in charge of court security is going to get some rollicking.” Pete stood up and pushed his chair back, stretching his legs. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. What’ll it be? Coffee? Or I have beer. I could make us a sandwich.”
“Read it back please, before we send it. Then we can relax.”
Pete scooped up his computer and sat on an easy chair opposite the window.
“Court Number Eleven at Laganside Courts was thrown into chaos at 11.29 today when Doctor Steven Haslett was fatally wounded in a dramatic wild-west style shoot-out. Events unfolded after Dr Haslett, who entered a guilty plea on Monday 10 November, was returned for sentencing. He had just been handed a minimum of seventeen years in prison for the fourteen-year-old murder of Christopher McVeigh, when things took a turn for the worse.
The fifty-one-year old doctor from Ballylester, North Antrim, the former C.M.O at the prestigious Lakeside Independent Hospital, and a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons was gunned down by Mitchell McVeigh, the son of his victim, as he exited the dock in handcuffs across the open courtroom.
It’s been alleged that the weapon, a modified gun barrel and antique mechanism, was unwittingly brought into court concealed in a walking cane carried by seventy-six-year old grandmother, Alice McVeigh. Questions will no doubt be raised about the lax court security. It’s believed officers may have inadvertently waved Ms McVeigh through the security check, despite her cane setting off the alarm when she arrived for Monday’s plea hearing. Officials will, no doubt, need to review procedures. Court Number Eleven is one of only two courts at the Laganside Complex where defendants do not enter the dock directly from the custody suite, leaving them open to the public gallery.
Crown Prosecutor, Kieran Murphy, told the court that Doctor Haslett’s actions were calculated, manipulative, evil and wholly without mercy for his defenceless victim…the father of an eight-year old boy. Fourteen years later, that boy, twenty-one-year old Mitchell McVeigh, stepped onto the floor of the courtroom to avenge his father’s murder. Dr Haslett’s barrister, Richard Watson QC, had expressed his client’s profound regret and deep remorse, and said that Mr Haslett accepted that his offence was the product of grossly distorted thinking.
Rhona Haslett, from the front row of the public gallery, witnessed her brother’s brutal murder. Afterwards she was comforted by her brother’s defence team and Pastor Gregory Martin of Ballylester Pentecostal Church. Mr Martin spoke briefly to reporters outside the courthouse saying that he and his fellow church-members would be praying for Rhona, who is now the only surviving member of the Haslett-MaCartney family. Pastor Martin said, “The Old Testament scripture says, An eye for an eye. But vengeance is for no-one except the Lord. We will pray for Mitchell, that he may repent of his sin.”
Mitchell McVeigh was placed under arrest and will be held in custody at Musgrave Police Station. He will appear at the earliest possible date, at Belfast Magistrates Court.
Cane guns were made popular during the California Gold Rush of the late 1800s. Most were short range pistols, but shotgun canes were accurate over a greater distance. They would normally hold a single .410 gauge round of either shot, small pellets inside the shell, or, as in this incident, a single lead slug. During an exclusive interview Mitchell McVeigh, a trained soldier told us, “Doctor Haslett doesn’t deserve to have a life. He’ll get what’s coming to him.” The doctor was shot twice, once in the chest and the second a headshot, at point blank range.
Viv looked out of the window at the brown cobble stones she hadn’t noticed herself walking over forty minutes earlier. Mitch had torpedoed their story. Grabbed the headlines with his Wild-West style revenge shooting. She had been played like an amateur and let physical attraction cloud her judgement.
Birch trees lined the parking spaces outside Pete’s apartment. Saplings with slender, grey trunks, dotted amongst the cobble stones. The trees reminded her of the bare-root Silver Birches she and her father had planted in Aunt Cassy’s garden, to screen her patio from the railway line. Viv hadn’t been back to her Aunt’s house since she had died. A place Viv now owned. Viv wondered how tall the birch trees would be. Her father had said that they could grow to over sixty feet, given the right conditions.
“Sounds good to me,” she said, putting the memories to the back of her mind. “Let’s see what The Boss thinks. What about that drink?”
Viv followed Pete into the kitchen. It hadn’t changed since the last time she had visited, beech-wood cupboards and white appliances; triple spotlights shining on gleaming granite work tops. She spied a bottle of high proof vodka in a wine-rack. “I’ll have some of that please.”
He added a splash of lemonade and some ice cubes. “Hope this is okay? It’s all I have.”
“It’s fine, thank you.”
Pete switched on the flatscreen TV and she sat down. The story was all over the news. She tilted the glass to her lips, knowing she should cut down on her drinking, but now was not the right time. It never was. “Do you think his Gran knew what was going to happen?” she asked.
“Alice McVeigh? She’d be wise not to let on one way or the other, or our pal Lucille will be after her for aiding and abetting, or whatever the charge might be.”
“That’s not a distinct offence, you know. A secondary party would be guilty of the same offence as the principal…in this case, cold-blooded murder.”
“Then she’ll plead ignorance if she’s any sense.”
“Mitch McVeigh deceived everyone. I take my hat off to him, for taking everyone by surprise. For executing the classic revenge.”
“The dish best served cold,” Pete said.
They watched the screen in silence for several minutes.
“Do you want another drink?”
“Sure. One for the road.”
“Ye could stay here with me, for as long as ye like,” Pete said.
“I need to get back. Sort myself out. My head’s been like a ball of cotton wool since Wednesday.”
A look of disappointment crossed Pete’s face. He got up and she followed him back into the kitchen.
“But I really appreciate the offer,” she said. “Are we still on for Monday? I’ll message Carmen and say we’ll go to the Reception. One of us will have to go to Mitch’s arraignment and afterwards we can drown our sorrows.”
“Okay. I could do it - if you like? If you don’t feel up to it?”
“That’d be great, thank you,” she said.
They took their drinks back to the sitting room, in front of the TV. Carruthers sent a message to say he’d received the summary, and that they should stick with the story. Keep digging.
Viv finished her drink and said she needed to go. Pete wasn’t happy when she refused to let him accompany her or to call a taxi.
“I’m tired, I can make my own way,” she said.
He made her promise to text him whenever she got back to the hotel.
The footpath was littered with discarded take-away wrappers and old newspapers. Two glasses of high-proof vodka probably weren’t a good idea on top of the dull headache she had been unable to shake since the fire. Her right temple began to throb, just above the scar.
At Muldoon’s Bar, on the corner of Corporation Square, a couple with their arms around each other spilled onto the pavement, music and laughter following them out. Viv contemplated turning around and walking back to Pete’s flat, but she increased her pace, hoping the physical exertion would clear her head. No-one enjoyed having the rug pulled from under their feet. She burned with injustice and anger towards the men who killed her father; towards the world in general; towards people who said the wrong thing and towards people who didn’t say anything at all. Carruthers would say, “If you’re going through hell, don’t slow down.” She didn’t know how much longer she could keep on running.
She was glad when she came within sight of the Europa. The hotel had already been decorated for Christmas. Strings of silver and blue lights were suspended in front of the tall circular pillars on either side of the main entrance. Above the revolving door, in a lofty window, was an enormous fir tree. The ornate scrolled pillar-heads reminded her of Eveleen Manor. Trying to work out how everything fitted together had been bad enough, without Mitch throwing a curve ball. Viv needed two paracetamols and an early night.
She made her way in and trudged towards the elevator, through the wood panelled lobby and across the marble floor. To the left, near the faux-fireplace, was the Concierge Desk and a line of empty tubular-framed Bellman trollies.
A woman she hadn’t noticed stepped out in front of her. “Excuse me, are you Vivien Hunter?” she said. “I’m Detective Lucille Kozlowski. I wonder, could I have a few words please?” The detective fitted Pete’s description, thick lensed spectacles, big eyes. She was wearing a neat, navy-blue trouser suit and shoes with a low heel.
“It’s been a long day. Could this wait?” Viv said.
“I only need ten minutes of your time.”
Kozlowski suggested that they should take a seat in the Lobby Bar.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Viv sat at a table inside the entrance and folded her arms, watching the red tipped second hand on her Breitling. Her heart was racing, and her mouth was dry. The detective cornered a passing waiter. Although she didn’t want to prolong the conversation, Viv ordered an Americano.
“I’m aware that you were at Laganside Courthouse this morning - when the fatal shooting took place. We’re naturally very interested in any information you may have that could help our investigation,” Kozlowski said.
“I’m not sure what you mean. Plenty of other people saw what happened,” Viv said.
“I’ve just read the report that your News Agency posted online. It must have been a frightening experience, to have been so close to the action?”
“Just doing our job. We have to make an interesting story.” Viv remembered balancing on the seat of her chair and watching Mitch jam the end of Alice’s stick under Doctor Haslett’s chin. Afterwards, one of the security guards had picked up the silver ferrule of the walking stick that had concealed the end of the gun barrel.
The detective pulled out a smartphone and swiped the screen.
“A reliable source has informed us that, on Tuesday of this week, you were seen drinking with Mitchell McVeigh at The Crown Bar, just across the street?”
Viv wondered how the detective knew about their meeting. She wouldn’t be surprised if the PSNI had hotel employees on their payroll, passing information on the comings and goings of guests. She decided there was no point in antagonising the detective, in denying the fact. She longed for the sanctuary of her bedroom.
“You’re remarkably well informed,” Viv said. “I drink with a lot of people. It goes with the territory, as I’m sure you know. We were contacted by the McVeigh family. They wanted to make sure their side of the story was made public.”
“There are reports that, at one point during what was described as ‘a very intimate conversation’ between the two of you, Mr McVeigh became very agitated,” Kozlowski said.
Viv remembered when the bartender had come into the booth, to collect their empty glasses. It seemed as if the long arm of the law stretched even further than she had suspected. The wave of frustration threatened to resurface but she fought it back. “We have a duty to protect our sources,” Viv said.
The waiter set down their coffee.
“Spoken like a true journalist,” the detective said, stirring sugar into her cup and smoothing a strand of loose hair behind her ear. Her eyes were a strange mix of grey and blue. Neither one nor the other. Unwavering behind her thick lenses. “You’ll be aware, I’m sure, that if you know something about a crime that you fail to disclose, it’s an offence. So. You are saying you had no suspicions about what Mr McVeigh had planned?”
“Is this a formal interview?”
“Just a friendly chat.”
“I’ve heard that one before.” Viv paused and took a deep breath. “Look, I had no inkling - absolutely no idea that Mr McVeigh had any intention of taking the law into his own hands, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Kozlowski peered at her phone and swiped the screen. “In your court report, you state that Mr McVeigh said Doctor Haslett would, I quote, get what’s coming to him.”
“People say that sort of thing all the time. You can never take it seriousl
y.” Viv took a sip of coffee, wishing she had a couple of paracetamols to swallow.
“You didn’t encourage him in any way?”
“No. Certainly not. Why would I?”
“I understand your own father was the victim of a brutal crime, more than twenty years ago. A terrorist attack, I believe. Perhaps you shared Mr McVeigh’s sense of injustice. After all this time, your father’s murder has remained unresolved. The perpetrators remain… somewhere out there,” the detective waved her arm towards the window and the street beyond. “I imagine it’s a great source of resentment, of grievance, even of anger?”
Viv’s heart skipped a beat. She remembered that morning. Remembered being woken up by her Aunt. It had been dark outside. Knowing, before Aunt Cassy had said anything, that something terrible had happened.
“That’s neither here nor there,” Viv said, fingering the brushed-steel bezel. Counting the seconds. “Look, I’ve given you the time you asked for. If you want to take this further, you can get in touch with our Agency office. I’ll probably be back in London next week.”
“Don’t be so hasty. We’re on the same side. We both want the same thing.”
“Is that right?” Viv said.
“Yes, of course. We’re still looking into the fire at Woodside Park and trying to track down the tenant. Given the significance of the location, we haven’t discounted a connection.”
Viv made a mental note to telephone the number that she had saved on her phone, the one that had been printed on the card in the window of Unit Five, underneath Clothes 4 Cash.
“I’m surprised you’ve been assigned to this case, given your personal interest,” Viv said, deciding to trade punches.
Kozlowski looked confused. “I’m not sure what you mean. I’m interested in anything that might be relevant. When I spoke to your colleague, he mentioned you had some suspicions about the death of Doctor Haslett’s mother. Is that an active line in your investigation?”