Legitimate Target Read online

  Chapter One

  Viv pushed her reporter’s notepad deeper into her pocket and stepped through the doorway. The only customer sitting at the counter was a man with his hair shorn close and a skull tattoo peeking out from his collar. He looked out of place opposite the barman in his shirt, tie and bright yellow waistcoat. The tattooed man had a dark leather jacket stretched tight across his shoulders. It hung loose around him. Is he armed? she thought.

  More than a decade had passed since the Good Friday peace agreement and the decommissioning of terrorist weapons, but there were still enough illegal firearms on the streets of Belfast to equip a small army. Near the counter, behind railings, was a raised seating area. Business was slow. No surprise for a wet Sunday night in mid-November. A handful of people were drinking around two of the tables. They were too far away for her to ascertain if they were innocent tourists, or something more sinister. The posh city centre hotel seemed an unlikely venue for a clandestine meeting of local paramilitaries, but perhaps that was its attraction?

  She nodded to the bartender. “A large Irish whiskey, please.”

  “Would you like ice?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He poured the measure into a short, straight-sided glass.

  The man on the barstool was leaning over a copy of the ‘Evening Sentinel’. Evil Doctor to Stand Trial, the headline. Was that the best they could do? Viv recognised the photo splashed across the front page. She had the same one on her computer. Doctor Steven Haslett arriving at Antrim Magistrates nine months ago, before his case transferred. The tattooed man glanced up. Behind the bar was a gilt-edged mirror where his square-chinned profile reflected. His eyes drilled into hers.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” Viv said, indicating an empty stool.

  “Be my guest.” The man drained a bottle and folded the paper in half, hiding the photo. “Another beer please,” he called to the bartender. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked turning to her with a smile that softened his chisel-like features. This couldn’t be who she was supposed to meet. Carruthers said their anonymous caller was female, with a Scottish accent.

  “I’m here on business,” Viv said.

  “My name’s Mitch.” The man stood up and extended his hand. His accent was from somewhere in the West Midlands. Perhaps he had no connection to local thugs after all?

  “I assume you’re not a native?” She returned his handshake from where she was sitting. “Have you been in Belfast for long?” A medley of bar-music was tinkling in the background. Viv took a mouthful of whiskey and glanced at her wristwatch, a chunky Swiss made Breitling, a legacy from her father’s estate. It was nine forty-seven. Where was the Scottish woman?

  The bartender set a fresh bottle of beer down on the counter.

  Mitch had a grey T shirt under his leather jacket and wore a pair of faded blue jeans. He sat with the heels of his boots on the foot bar of the stool with his legs splayed out and gave her a very obvious once-over, from head to toe. Close up, he wasn’t half as threatening as he had first seemed.

  “I grew up here, you know, but I suppose I’ve lost my accent,” he said. “I came over from Liverpool on the late-night ferry with my Nan. She refuses to fly, which is a real pain. She’s not as mobile as she used to be. We can’t wait to see what happens at Laganside Courthouse tomorrow morning.”

  How was Viv to know where he grew up? Something wasn’t right. It seemed too much of a co-incidence that he was going to the same place as her. “I don’t think I…” she started to say. Wait. She’d been too slow to join the dots. “By any chance, is your grandmother Alice McVeigh?”

  “Yes. I thought you were expecting me?”

  He was the son of Doctor Haslett’s victim. Mitchell had been eight years old at the time of his father’s death. She couldn’t remember seeing a photo of Chris and Tania McVeigh’s son in any of their research. Something inside her wavered, as it always did, whenever she met someone who’d experienced a trauma like her own.

  “Are you here by yourself?” Mitch asked.

  “Yes, I’m covering the trial, however long it lasts. But. I’m sorry. You caught me off guard, I thought I was meeting someone else. Your grandmother called us?”

  “You thought you were meeting my Nan?” Mitch laughed. “We’re quite different I can assure you. Now I understand the confusion. She’s safely tucked up in bed. Will you have another drink?” he said, indicating Viv’s half-empty glass.

  “I think I need one,” she smiled back. “We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. I’m Viv Hunter, senior investigative reporter.”

  “No, it’s our fault. Nan can get a bit confused sometimes. All of this was her idea anyway. I normally prefer to play my cards close to my chest. She seemed to think it would be a good idea to tell, stroke sell our side of the story, especially now it seems like the lying bastard won’t be facing a jury.” Mitch adjusted his feet, his knee brushing against Viv’s leg.

  “What? Since when?”

  He cocked his thumb at the newspaper on the countertop. “That headline’s already yesterday’s news. You didn’t know that Haslett is changing his plea?” Mitch summoned the bartender and asked him to pour Viv another Irish.

  Why hadn’t Pete got wind of this? she thought. He was supposed to have all the local connections. She drained her glass, trying to work out the implications.

  “I agree, it’s a blow,” Mitch went on. “We won’t get the chance to find out exactly what happened, or to question his motives. Me and my Nan will be watching from the public gallery. We wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Will your mother be with you?” Viv asked.

  “Mum’s not been well. Since the investigation reopened, it’s been very difficult for her. She prefers to stay out of the limelight for now, but myself and my Nan are more than willing to be interviewed. To put our side of the story, for whatever it’s worth.” Mitch slugged his beer.

  Viv looked at the second hand of the Breitling, creeping around the stainless-steel bezel. Intervals of five were notched into the circumference.

  “When did you find out?” she asked, trying to work out the best way forward.

  “Police liaison only got in touch with us yesterday morning,” Mitch said.

  “There’s not enough time now,” she said, remembering the blank pages in her reporter’s notepad. “We’ll meet up after the hearing. Doctor Haslett could still have another change of heart. Afterwards, we can decide how to progress. You’ll have to excuse me, there’s someone I need to speak to urgently. Here’s my number.” Viv slid her card across the polished wood. “Add the drinks to my account please,” she called to the bartender, getting to her feet.

  “You know, I’m with the Royal Irish Regiment,” Mitch said. “We spend our free time playing matchstick-poker. Life’s a game of cards. You’re dealt a hand, but you’re free to play it however you want. We all have our poker faces.”

  “Everybody has something to hide, if you dig deep enough.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

  Her feet flew up the six short flights of carpeted stairs between the piano bar and her room. She pulled out her mobile phone and redialled Pete’s number. The black trouser suit that she always wore to court was lying on the bed, where she had unpacked it after getting in from the airport. She shoved the suit aside and sank onto the mattress.

  Pete answered immediately. “Hello. How’re things? Have ye just landed?”

  “Are you at home?” she asked. “Have you checked the case status recently?”

  “I was just playin’ the Xbox. What d’you mean?”

  “I’ve just been told that Haslett intends to admit the crime.”

  She imagined Pete lounging with his long legs stretche
d out, scratching his ginger stubble. The original intention had been for Pete to cover the trial on his own. The alleged offence had happened thirteen years ago, in Ballylester, fifty miles north west of Belfast. Mitch’s father, Chris McVeigh, had been asphyxiated by carbon dioxide from a vehicle engine. At the time, it was recorded as a completed suicide. During the preliminary hearing in February, Doctor Haslett had denied the murder charge.

  Pete didn’t seem to resent her involvement. He was much more laid back than she was. A big fan of beer and banter. Viv rubbed the small, pink-domed scar at the corner of her right eye, acquired during the course of the last case they’d investigated together.

  “Are you sure? Did ye meet our mystery woman?”

  “McVeigh’s son turned up instead. He seemed convinced Haslett will change his plea.”

  “Mitchell himself? It’s nearly eleven o’clock on a Sunday night. I’ll never get hold of anyone now, but the court list for tomorrow might already have been updated online. I’ll text you if I find anything. Otherwise I’ll check, first thing. Will that do?” Pete said.

  “Okay. I’ll meet you outside the Courthouse at nine-thirty and email The Boss to let him know. This could limit the scope of our investigation. We might only have a week at most to dig up the dirt.”

  “Right. I’ll see ye in the morning. Goodnight.”

  Viv brushed her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, remembering her earlier phone conversation with Carruthers. Someone had called the news desk to offer an exclusive; the inside story of the family that Doctor Haslett had deprived of a husband, son and father. It was, Carruthers said, too good an opportunity to pass-up.

  Chancers and attention seekers, desperate to be part of investigations, were the norm. They were nearly always disappointed not to be immediately offered large sums on the promise of information. Too many agencies had been burned by the negative impact of ‘stories for cash’. Their policy was always to offer financial incentives on an ‘assessment of worth’ basis, and even then, to offer reimbursement for travel and subsistence on top of a modest finder’s fee.

  She rinsed her mouth and ran fingers through her short, platinum coloured hair as she leant close to the glass, under the spotlights. Viv’s fortieth birthday was less than three months away, but she had been told that she looked ten years younger. It was all down to a lot of gym time.

  The news-desk had told Carruthers that the person who rang was a woman with a Scottish accent. She had specifically requested a female reporter to meet at the Europa Hotel. The call had been disjointed, with a lot of background noise. The connection severed before the woman could give her name. Kirsty, who was on switch, recorded the number and had tried to ring back, but only got as far as an automated message, saying the number was temporarily unavailable.

  Carruthers decided to take a chance that the call was genuine. Kirsty didn’t think it was any of their usual cranks, and Chris McVeigh’s mother was from Selkirk, in the Scottish Borders. The Boss wanted Viv to ensure that Pete didn’t run away with his wild theories, and that they got the story. She’d caught the last flight out of London, texting their contact to say she’d meet them in the Piano Lounge between nine thirty and ten pm. The trial Viv had been covering at the Old Bailey had ended. There was no reason to stay in London, apart from to try and avoid the ghosts.

  Chapter Two

  Viv spun through the revolving doors onto Great Victoria Street, her suit underneath a belted trench-coat. The pavement bustled with commuters going in and out of the train station next door. She registered the brown and gold embellished façade of The Crown, one of the oldest pubs in the city. Viv hoped there would be a story to celebrate with Pete later in the week, alongside the satisfaction of seeing another evil bastard put behind bars.

  The most direct route to the Courthouse was north then east, via Donegall Square. Her boots clipped over the pavestones. She kept her head low, leaning into the bitter wind. As she walked, she tried to figure out how it fitted together.

  Doctor Haslett, fifty-one, a renowned orthopaedic surgeon, had been arrested amid a media frenzy. Both the McVeigh and Haslett families were members of the same evangelical church. Upstanding members of the community. This heightened the sense of public outrage and revulsion. It seemed to her that Christian principles were easily forgotten when lust and envy took over. It was endemic of the Northern Ireland problem that, despite the packed pews every Sunday, division and hypocrisy were never far from the surface.

  At the time of his father’s presumed suicide, Mitch’s mother, Tania McVeigh, had been employed as Doctor Haslett’s secretary - at the Lakeside Hospital, in Ballylester. There were suggestions about an extra marital affair between Tania and her boss, that increased the story’s lurid fascination. The hospital was run for profit, operating outside of the control of the public health service. Its affairs were managed by a board of trustees. The Doctor’s sister, Rhona, was Chair of the Board.

  Viv couldn’t fathom out why, after getting away with murder fourteen years earlier, the Doctor would suddenly confess to a crime that had passed safely under the radar. She had hoped that more might be revealed during the hearing. The fact that he might no longer face a jury was a huge disappointment.

  The four copper-coated spires of City Hall came into view. She quickened her pace, keeping her head down on Chichester Street, dodging the eager early morning shoppers.

  At the time of the investigation into Chris McVeigh’s death, the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), had been the second largest force in the UK. It had been two years before the signing of the peace agreement. Detectives stood accused of being ‘easily misled’ and ‘fooled by the religious connections.’ Other sources claimed that, with so many sectarian murder investigations ongoing, the RUC had settled for the most obvious conclusion. Suicide. She had her own experience of what happened to the families of people who were suspected of hastening their own demise. She understood why Mitch and Alice wanted their side of the story put forward. Understood their anger. Their frustration.

  Viv’s phone vibrated. She paused in a doorway to check the screen. Carmen Taylor, one of her oldest friends, had replied to confirm she was free for dinner. Carmen, a psychotherapist, had agreed to act as their expert commentator and was also a good listener and sounding board.

  Questions had been asked about the Doctor’s mental state. In cases like this, a psychologist’s report was routinely commissioned by the prosecution. Following a guilty plea, the contents would be sealed until the statutes ran out. The Doctor had been labelled evil, callous and calculating. Viv was no longer surprised by what some people were prepared to do, in order to get what they wanted.

  She soon spotted Pete’s distinctive redhead. He was leaning against the black, iron railings outside the Court Reception Centre, balancing a cardboard coffee tray in one hand.

  “You’re a star,” she said, when he came within earshot.

  “Still drinking an Americano, right? Black, no sugar.”

  “You know me so well,” she said, taking the cup nearest to her.

  “How’ve you been keeping? It’s a crying shame that it’s gonna be such a brief appearance. I was lookin’ forward to spending a few weeks trying to find out what makes him tick. I mean, who does something like that and has the gall to front it out for more than a dozen years? As I said in my text, his case is first up.”

  “I’m fine, thanks, and yes, I got your message. Let’s avoid the foot-traffic.”

  They perched on a low wall, surrounding the paved walkway, between the Reception Centre and the Courthouse. Pete had short, coarse hair and neat sideburns that were trimmed level with his ear lobes. He hadn’t changed much since they’d first met as rookie journalists, under Carruthers’ tutelage. ‘When all else fails, laughter will get you through,’ their boss would claim. Pete took this at face value.

  “So, what’s yer plan of attack?” Pete asked.

  Viv took a sip of coffee. Her second caffeine fix of the day. Assuming Mitch wa
s right, they would have to work fast to come up with a scoop that would keep Carruthers happy. “We’ve got Mitch and Alice on board, which is something. When we met last night, he said she can sometimes get a bit confused… I’m not convinced how reliable her memory will be… but we won’t know until we talk to her. She’s seventy-six. Her name crops up in McLaughlin’s report, from the inquest into her son’s death. Naturally, she was strongly opposed to the verdict.” Viv paused to take another drink. “And Carmen’s standing by to give us a psychological perspective.”

  “Adele Taylor’s sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Carmen still engaged to yer man? What’s his name? The guy who had the high-tech video camera at Adele’s wedding,” Pete said.

  “Mark Cunningham, AKA Cuds. Would be film supremo. Yes, indeed. They’re trying to set the record for Ireland’s longest engagement,” Viv said.

  “Ye won’t catch me goin’ down that road,” Pete laughed. “I prefer my freedom.”

  “And there’s a long line of eligible females?”

  “Umm. Well, ye know.” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Viv enjoyed teasing him. “Getting back to the plan,” Pete said. “My cousin Aidan knows somebody who knows Tom Finnegan, one of the two churchgoers who discovered Chris McVeigh’s body.”

  Unlike her, Pete had an extensive family circle, with an unending supply of cousins and second cousins. “That sounds promising,” she said. “Didn’t Finnegan retire?”

  “Yes. He stepped down as treasurer of The Spirit of Hope church, long before Doctor Haslett was handed in by their firebrand Reverend, Gregory Martin.”

  “Hallelujah. A Godsend.”

  “Like, literally.”

  “So, what about Finnegan?”

  “The good news is that, although he’s from the same generation as Alice McVeigh, apparently he’s all there, and might be persuaded to talk.”

  “And the bad?”

  “Finnegan downsized, after his wife died a few years back. Aidan hopes he can find out Finnegan’s new address, so we can go knocking.”