by Dee McInnes
“We might have been fed false information,” Viv said, thinking about Gillian Beattie and her shifty, bird like eyes. The more Viv had thought about how the housekeeper had acted, the more convinced she was that they’d been sold a red herring. “I am sure you’ve experienced the same thing?”
“The truth is elusive. It’s what keeps me in work,” Kozlowski said with a tight smile. “But how do you think I am personally connected to anything?”
Viv decided to push a few more buttons. “We understand a Doctor Jan Kozlowski works at the Lakeside Hospital,” she said.
The detective looked thoughtful. “That’s a very common surname, where I come from.”
Detective Kozlowski placed her business card on the table. “Your colleague already has the number for Antrim Station, but this is my personal number and email address. If you remember anything else or want to share any other information, please get in touch.”
Viv put the card into her pocket, drained her coffee and walked out.
She leaned back against the door of her bedroom. Housekeeping had returned her laundry. The orange sweater and jeans she had worn to Woodside Industrial Park were hanging on the wardrobe door under plastic. Her leather jacket was clean and dry. She changed out of her trouser suit and threw the detective’s card onto the writing desk next to her laptop, where, twenty four hours earlier, she had been putting the finishing touches to their ‘Conspiracy of Silence’ feature and congratulating herself on a job well done.
Viv scrolled through the saved numbers on her phone, until she found the number she was looking for. Pulling her reporter’s notepad across the desk, she scribbled; Whose is this? Where are they? How are they connected to the Hasletts?
The phone at the other end rang for a long time before it was answered by a female.
“Hello?”
“I’ve got some clothes to sell, are you still open for business?” Viv said.
“You will need to speak to Carol,” the female voice said.
“Carol? How can I reach her?”
“It’s he. Karol with a K.”
“Oh. I see. Is he going to be back soon?”
“I don’t know. Please try later.”
“Wait, can I leave my name and number. Ask him to call me back please,” Viv said.
Viv got the woman to repeat the details.
“I’d really like to talk to Karol. I’ve got a lot of… material to sell. Okay?”
“I’ll try,” the woman said, ending the call abruptly.
Viv sent Pete a text message, telling him she was signing off for the night, and took two vodkas out of the mini bar.
Chapter Twenty-Three
At the stroke of midnight when black fingered shadows
curl and swirl outside the window,
No restless spirits walk, as did the royal Dane,
Only recollections; fragments at the edge of reason,
Stretching senses; staring into the seeping greyness.
In that time, between sleep and waking,
In the early hours; chasing spectres, where the darkness echoes,
I search the corners and can summon up his face.
Vivien Hunter, Carnegie College. 1987
Viv cast her mind back to the time before her father had died. When he pulled the night shift and she slept over at Aunt Cassy’s white-washed house near the level crossing, the dark outline of Benevenagh mountain towering in the distance.
Her Aunt’s house was separated from the railway line by the row of Silver Birches that she and her father had planted as saplings. Viv could imagine the smell of turf fires, the sound of cattle, and the chip and caw of the sea birds swooping over the Lough. On school nights, she was allowed to stay up until the twenty-one thirty-eight train thundered over the crossing, sending glass ornaments on a staccato dance across the mantlepiece. There was a family of swans, ducks, strange-shaped dogs, a tortoise, snakes, penguins, elephants and a herd of deer. Most of the tiny animals had black pinprick eyes. It was amazing that so many of them survived, given their precarious position. They were thin and fragile. Her favourite was the tiny black kitten with white eyes and a broken ear.
When the wind howled, the grey straited Birch branches bent and bowed, their black leaf buds casting ghostlike shadows through the curtain. No-one had ever told Viv how to fill the void after her mother drowned, walking out into the water. Unbalanced by pain medication. Viv had been incapable of putting her grief into words. She had prayed that her father and Aunt Cassy would always be there, but the realisation that, one day, they too would die, had been terrifying. Who would look after her then?
She had never questioned why her Aunt lived alone. Later, she discovered that her Aunt had been engaged to an RAF pilot during the war. The lough shore and flat plains of the lowlands were an ideal base for naval operations and flight training exercises. There used to be a gun battery at Magilligan Point, to protect ships coming through the narrows into port. Aunt Cassy’s sweetheart had crashed and burned over the North Atlantic.
A derelict war time look-out post stood in the field, near the end of Scotchtown Road where Aunt Cassy lived. The building was a crude block of reinforced concrete with four narrow windows. Exterior steps ran diagonally from the ground to a barricaded entrance on the upper floor. The top of the structure was open to the elements.
Viv and her schoolfriends used to play a game they called “Fancy Falls.” Each person took a turn on the staircase, descending one step at a time waiting for ‘the killer’ to make a move. The ‘stepper’ had to act out their death, depending upon the killer’s chosen weapon, before tumbling dramatically onto the grass at the bottom. If the acting wasn’t ‘fancy enough’, to the satisfaction of the others, you had to take another turn. The irony was not lost on Viv when she found out about her father’s war-time experience, and later, after his murder. But they had been children. The isolated farmlands of Dunross in the mid-to-late seventies were a long way from the towns and cities where sectarian violence mostly took place.
Wesley Houston was three years older than she and her friend Mandy, but he lived nearby. He spoke with a slight lisp and had been mercilessly teased by boys his own age. Wesley had a silver cap-gun, a six-pointed Sherriff badge and a black cowboy hat that he got one Christmas. After much persuasion, Viv’s father had made her a rifle out of a piece of metal pipe and a carved wooden stock. Mandy had a two-handled baton, borrowed from her older brother, that doubled as a machine-gun. Mandy’s baby brother sometimes joined in with his bow and arrow. They tried to avoid including him as he always ended up in tears and needed Mandy to take him home. You couldn’t play Fancy Falls properly with two. One time, when Viv was alone with Wesley, he had tried to kiss her. His lips were like wet rubber. It wasn’t an experience she wished to repeat.
Mandy shot Wesley. “Nn Nn Na, Na na na na na NA,” Mandy yelled waving the baton. Wesley jerked like a marionette and staggered down the steps, clutching his stomach. He sank to his knees on the grass and rolled over, his hat falling to the ground.
“You dirty r-rat…” He groaned in a fake American accent. “You g-g-g-got me!” The girls hooted with laughter. Wesley picked up his cowboy hat and straightened it on his forehead. He took up a wide-legged stance, extending his gun.
Viv ran up the steps.
She was half-way down when she saw Mitch at the bottom, Alice’s walking stick balanced on his forearm.
“Goodbye,” he mouthed, his lips moving without sound.
Viv heard the retort of two gunshots. Scarlet petals blossomed across her chest and her breath caught in her throat. The second shot caught the side of her neck. Blood sprayed like a garden hose under pressure. She was falling, falling, falling…
She jumped herself awake.
Daylight peeped through a chink in the curtains. As soon as the gym on Adelaide Street was open Viv jogged round. Pounded the running belt, surrounded by the odour of machinery, sweat and rubber. An overweight man started up the treadmill next to hers,
despite free spaces further away. His proximity was an irritant. Viv increased the belt speed and focused on reading the subtitles on the TV screens overhead.
The newsreader’s mouth silently opened and closed. “In Belfast yesterday…a grieving son exacted his revenge for the murder of his father fourteen years ago…taking advantage of some very lax court security, Mitchell McVeigh, 21, a serving British soldier, brandished a concealed antique shotgun.”
Viv tried to reassess her feelings as she ran, driving one foot in front of the other. She had envied Mitch. He had two of the things she craved - someone to blame for his father’s murder and someone who was going to be punished in a court of law. She had been thinking about a future for the two of them when, all along, Mitch had a different outcome in mind. He must have known there would be no escape, that he would be taken into custody. She was furious for allowing herself to be misled…for allowing herself to care.
The fat man beside her was perspiring heavily, his feet juddering on the conveyor-belt. She stopped her machine and went into the changing room. Peeling off her clothes she stepped under the showerhead. The Conspiracy story had been a good piece of work under the circumstances. Carruthers might pull it, reassign her to another investigation or ask for a rewrite. She tilted her chin, the water jets cascading over her face.
Viv had called Carmen after her encounter with Detective Kozlowski and vented her irritation. Carmen had already heard about the shooting.
Carmen had said. “Try and let go of your negative emotions. The detective is just doing her job and Mitch was obviously set on the course he was going to take. It’s natural for you to feel shocked and angry. I know you’ve invested a lot in this story. It nearly got you killed at one point for God’s sake. Don’t underestimate how much a brush with death can upset your emotional ballast. Are you able to take a break from work for the next forty-eight hours? I could pick you up tomorrow. We could have lunch and go shopping. You’ll need something to wear for the party, if you still want to go?”
Viv had promised Carmen she would stop clock watching for one day in her life and to hell with the consequences. Until then, whenever you hit a brick wall, Carruthers’ advice had always been the same; to shake the tree a little harder and see what falls out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Aim high, Viv told herself. Don’t waste time poking around the lower branches… although it was a long shot and there was no guarantee Rhona would be working on a weekend… so soon after her brother’s murder. Viv was willing to play her trump card in order to get Rhona’s attention. She had rehearsed her approach before telephoning the hospital and was put through to Rhona’s personal assistant.
“Good morning. I’m Viv Hunter from the Libera News Agency. After yesterday’s unfortunate turn of events, we were wondering if Miss Haslett would be giving any statement or would like to comment? We appreciate that this is an extremely difficult time for her, but this is a high-profile case, of great national interest.”
The assistant cut in brusquely. “I’m sorry. I don’t think Miss Haslett will be speaking to anyone. As you can appreciate, it’s been a huge shock. If there is any public statement, it will be through our Press Officer, and he won’t be back at work until Monday.”
“Wait. Please,” Viv said. “We’re trying to verify something we’ve been told and want to make sure we’re presenting a balanced view before we publish the story tomorrow. It’s to do with the death of Miss Haslett’s father, when she and her brother were children…”
“I don’t think Miss Haslett is going to be working today or speaking to anyone. She has just suffered a terrible loss,” the woman said in a lofty tone.
“Could you please pass on our sincere condolences and a message. We have no desire to distress her any further, but it’s very important. Tell her it’s to do with the candlestick? Okay?”
“The candlestick?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m Viv Hunter. My number is 07964 232397.” She got the assistant to read her number back and extracted another assurance that IF Miss Haslett got in touch she’d pass on the message. It was a slim hope. Viv checked her Breitling and called Pete.
“I was just about to ring you,” he said. “Are ye well?”
“Yes, I’m fine thanks. Just needed an early night. I forgot to say I was hijacked by Detective Kozlowski when I got back to the hotel yesterday.”
“And?”
“She was on a fishing expedition, for anything Mitch might have told me in advance, about his plan. I also confronted her about her link to the hospital, but she denied any relationship to Dr Kozlowski – well, in fact, she just said it was a common surname - but that’s not why I called you. I think we need a more direct approach. Shake a few branches, as Carruthers would say. I got in touch with the Lakeside hospital, to try and speak to Rhona and dropped a hint about the information Reggie Scott disclosed.”
“That might put the cat among the pigeons. Anything I can do?” Pete asked.
“I tried to get in touch with the tenant who left his card in the window of unit five. But all I’ve managed to find out so far is that his name is Karol, with a K. Could you track down the plumber and see if he remembers anything more - and call Ballylester police station. Ask if they’ve made any progress. If we knew for certain who was behind the fire, it would help. Maybe it has nothing to do with the case…”
“And maybe it does. Okay, no problem. And we’ll meet up later?”
“I’m having lunch with Carmen, and apparently I need something to wear for the party on Monday, but I should be free after six. We’ll compare notes,” she said. “I hope you’ve dusted off your dinner jacket?”
“Don’t worry. It’s a date,” he said.
Less than an hour later, Viv’s phone rang. An unknown mobile number. It was Rhona’s assistant. “Miss Haslett can spare you twenty minutes at eleven o’ clock this morning.”
“Oh, great,” Viv said. “Will she call me, or should I ring this number?”
“She would prefer to meet with you face to face. You should come to the main reception and say you have an appointment.”
The assistant hung up.
Pete would be halfway to Ballylester. Viv rang Carmen.
“Could I borrow your car for a couple of hours please?” I can drop you at home and still be back in time for lunch,” Viv said.
The hospital foyer was an expanse of clinical white. The receptionist handed Viv a clip-on Visitor Badge and directed her towards a chrome elevator. Rhona occupied a corner office that had a dual aspect, overlooking the main entrance and a landscaped courtyard where a circle of benches surrounded a tiered, stone fountain. Rhona was sitting behind a mahogany desk inlaid with burgundy leather, her hands clasped in front of her. She had the same swept fringe, and her mouth was set in a thin, red line.
It was like being ushered in to face the headmistress. “Thank you very much for agreeing to speak to me,” Viv said, sitting down in an upright chair in front of the desk, designed to put visitors at a disadvantage. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“This meeting is under duress,” Rhona said. She wore a sour expression. “If you were outside court on Monday, you’ll know that we’re making no comment about my brother’s circumstances, and his blood is barely cold. I’m surprised you have the audacity.”
“It’s my job,” Viv said. “You agreed to meet me.”
“I’m intrigued to find out what you think you know.”
“This is your opportunity to share anything you would like, from a personal perspective. Not necessarily the official hospital position.”
“My brother handed himself in to the appropriate authorities and admitted his guilt. He was executed right in front of me, less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“I was there too. I appreciate it’s been a great shock,” Viv said.
“Are you recording this conversation?” Rhona asked.
“Not at the moment, although I’d like to, if you’d give your permission?”
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“I don’t think so.”
“Could I take notes? Just to make sure that anything you say is not unintentionally misrepresented.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to make any mistakes,” Rhona said. “I’ve the best legal resources that money can buy at my disposal. Very well then.”
“Thank you.” Viv pulled her notepad out of her pocket.
“The clock’s ticking,” Rhona said, looking at a digital desk clock. “You’ve had five minutes already. My assistant said you wanted to verify something about my father’s death in nineteen sixty-six. I’m trying to fathom out what that could possibly have to do with anything. It’s the only reason you’re here.”
“The public are very interested in this case. Your brother was portrayed as an evil monster. We’re simply trying to establish what might have shaped his ideas. Contrary to popular belief, people are not born evil. Upbringing and life experiences can play a huge part.”
“My brother and I had a perfectly normal childhood,” Rhona said. “I acknowledge that we had the sort of privileged lives not afforded to most people, but we were brought up to be altruistic. To uphold Christian principles. Our mother championed many charitable causes.”
“Yet your brother seduced another man’s wife and killed her husband. Deprived a child of his father, a mother of her son,” Viv said.
“I assume you’ve been talking to her, and that’s where this absurd idea has come from?”
“By her, you mean Tania McVeigh?” Viv had no intention of contradicting Rhona and bringing Reggie into the frame.
“My father died in a tragic accident that broke my mother’s heart,” Rhona said.
“And your own? We’ve been told that the two of you were very close. You were, I think, ten years old at the time? The circumstances surrounding the fire have been disputed.”
“There’s no great mystery. An enquiry found that a faulty battery charger was to blame,” Rhona said, looking at the clock. “That’s ten minutes.”