The Trust

by Ronald H. Balson

  “I don’t get it. Why did Fergus want to keep the identity of the beneficiaries or their shares secret? I understand deferring the distributions. You wouldn’t want a killer to get a portion of the estate. But why not at least let the beneficiaries know that Fergus left them a share?”

  “I can only speculate. There is a murderer out there. It could be an old revenge killing, but it could also be a person who wanted some or all of your uncle’s property. Identifying people who are in line to inherit that property might put their lives in danger. And I suppose we should consider the possibility that the killer might be a member of the family. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I hate to think that my uncle was murdered by a member of the family. I hope you’re wrong. But I’m sure of one thing—I’m going to get a huge pushback from Conor. He’s already threatened to hire a lawyer and contest the validity of the trust.”

  “If he does, he might find himself disinherited. There’s an in terrorem clause. That means…”

  “I know, I know. O’Neill warned us about it. Is that legal?”

  “I don’t practice in Northern Ireland, but as a general rule, such clauses are legal. They serve a valid purpose. Sometimes an heir who thinks she deserves a larger portion of the estate will contest the will and tie up the estate for years. If this were in Illinois, the clause would not be enforced because Illinois beneficiaries have a right to know the terms of the trust. But in the UK or Northern Ireland, I don’t know. Maybe O’Neill is right. He practices there. Regardless, the threat is real and anyone who contests the will or trust will certainly fear losing his inheritance.”

  “Any other provisions I should know about?”

  “Not really. But Liam, I want you to think hard whether you should accept the appointment. I know you want to honor your uncle’s wishes, but maybe you should turn it over to the Bank of Antrim. Serving as a trustee is an enormous responsibility that may require you to spend a lot of time away from home. As a trustee you’ll have a legal duty to take possession of all the accounts and investments and manage them prudently until they are distributed.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? I don’t mind handling it for a little while.”

  “Well, the trust says you can rely on the advice of Mr. O’Neill or anyone of your choosing. You can hire people to run the farm. You can hire investment counselors. I just want you to think about it. If you decide the responsibility is too much, you should decline.” Then in a whisper she said, “I have to go now, Ben’s asleep and I’m tired. Good night, my love.”

  I sat there staring at the phone and wondering what I was getting myself into. Answer a ringing phone and life’s direction changes. First I’m going north, now I’m going east. First I’m in a comfort zone, now I’m in a firestorm. What if I hadn’t answered the phone? For years I’ve been riddled with regret for betraying my uncle and ruining our relationship, but now I know that the relationship wasn’t destroyed at all. I hadn’t ruined anything. Didn’t he set up an account for Ben saying it was for all the good times we missed? Didn’t Deirdre say he loved me like no other? Didn’t he think enough of me to appoint me as his trustee? I vowed not to let him down.

  I dressed and drove off to Fergus’s house to meet with Inspector McLaughlin of the Police Service of Northern Ireland in my capacity as trustee of the Fergus Taggart Testamentary Trust.

  EIGHT

  THERE WERE THREE POLICE vehicles in Fergus’s driveway when I arrived. Two of them bore the distinctive PSNI blue-and-yellow checkerboard designs along the sides of their Skodas. One of them had EVIDENCE TECHNICIAN stenciled on the door. I recognized the third as an aged Tangi Land Rover, a gray armored jeep-like vehicle, formerly used by the Royal Ulster Constabulary for crowd control during the Troubles.

  An attractive young police officer, smartly dressed in her PSNI uniform—dark green jacket belted at the waist, creased green trousers, white shirt—stood at the front door, her hands clasped behind her back. Her blond hair was tightly drawn back in a Celtic knot. The name tag over her right pocket read Dooley. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said sweetly but firmly, “this residence is secured. There’s an investigation in progress.”

  “I know,” I said. “Fergus Taggart was my uncle.”

  She looked me over with her blue eyes, and then shook her head. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir, but I can’t let you in.”

  I smiled my most engaging smile. “I’m also the appointed trustee of Fergus Taggart’s estate. Technically, I own this property right now.”

  She crossed her arms on her chest. “You’ll need to come back at another time to look at your property, Mr. Owner,” she said not-so-sweetly. “You’re not getting in. Now turn around and be off.”

  “I want to see Inspector McLaughlin.”

  “Inspector McLaughlin is busy. And you’re becoming a pest. Don’t make me remove you from the premises.”

  I smiled. “You’re going to remove me?”

  She started to reach for her belt and I quickly backed up and said, “Look, Officer Dooley, I have a meeting set with Inspector McLaughlin. It’s scheduled. Prearranged. He’s expecting me. Just ask him. He won’t like it if you give me the bum’s rush. Would you just tell him that Liam Taggart is here?”

  She gave me an exasperated look. “You stand right there. Don’t move.” I nodded and she left to fetch McLaughlin.

  A moment later, a lanky man in civilian dress, tweed sport coat, brown slacks and a checkered wool cap came out and introduced himself. He had a kind face, and while clearly in his late sixties or early seventies, appeared to be strong and fit. I had already informed him by telephone that I was the appointed trustee and that I wanted to be present when he opened the house. After his initial objection, he relented, but only after telling me not to get in the way of his techs.

  “Why are you giving my officer a hard time?” he said.

  I smiled. “I think she can hold her own.”

  “We don’t get many murders out here anymore,” McLaughlin said as we walked inside. “Most of the time we’re working on property crimes. Occasional street crime, to be sure, but this one presents quite a conundrum.”

  “How so?”

  “Man shot dead through the heart. No signs of a scuffle. No defensive wounds, no bruises. Happens in broad daylight twenty meters from the side of the house, but there are no witnesses and no murder weapon was found. No apparent motive. We’ve already questioned half the family. No one knows anything. Everyone tells me he had no enemies, at least not in the last two decades.”

  “No witnesses and no suspects?”

  McLaughlin nodded. “That’s correct. Someone drove out to this farmhouse and shot the man. No one heard him drive up. No one heard the gunshot. No one saw or heard anything unusual. No one called the police, not even from the house. The murder happened at ten thirty and we didn’t get a call until one thirty, three hours later. And his girlfriend was home all day.” He shrugged. “Curious, don’t you think?”

  “She’s an older woman,” I said. “She says she didn’t know anything until she found him in the field.”

  “Older? Is she deaf? Blind? She’s in her sixties. That’s a young woman to me. No, I don’t buy that. She’s certainly a person of interest.”

  I shook my head. “You’re wrong. Deirdre loved him. They’ve been together forty years or more. What possible motivation would she have to kill my uncle?”

  “You’ll excuse me, but I hear that a lot. What motivation? Money? Freedom? Arguments? Another man? Maybe he left his dirty clothes on the floor? You’re the trustee, does she stand to inherit from his estate?”

  “I can’t disclose that information. It’s a sealed document.”

  “It’s not sealed to us. We can get it by warrant.”

  “Then you’ll have to do that, but I ask that you keep the information private. It was Fergus Taggart’s wish not to reveal the contents of his trust until his murder was solved.”

  McLaughlin showed surprise and th
en smiled. “So, you’re telling me that he knew he was going to be murdered?”

  “Apparently he had some basis to fear it.”

  “If he thought he was going to be murdered, why didn’t he identify his murderer in the trust? Or maybe he did and you’re not telling me?”

  I shook my head. “No, he didn’t. In fact, just the opposite. He doesn’t want any disbursements from the trust until his murderer is identified and prosecuted.”

  “So, he’s going to assist me in the investigation of his death by providing financial incentives? That’s a new one for me. Well, unless something else develops, I’m going to keep my eyes on the girlfriend.”

  “I thought she called you as soon as she found the body?”

  “Well, first of all that wouldn’t eliminate a suspect, but in fact, no she didn’t. And isn’t that strange? She says she found the body, but we were contacted by Mr. Taggart’s brother, Robert Taggart at 1:32 p.m.”

  “That’s right. I forgot Deirdre said she called Robert right off. She was probably in shock.”

  “Mm-hmm, no doubt. What’s the relationship between the girlfriend and the deceased’s brother?”

  “Robert and Deirdre? I’m sure they’re very close. It’s a loving family. If you spent any time talking to her, you’d find it hard to believe she’s involved.”

  “She’s convinced you of her innocence, has she?”

  “I’ve known her for years. She wouldn’t have to convince me.”

  “Hmm. I’ve talked to her. For two hours. And I think she knows more than she says. We understand that the deceased’s son Conor and the girlfriend don’t get along, what do you know about that?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve heard the same thing. But to be fair, Conor isn’t exactly Mr. Warmth.”

  “The deceased’s brother Robert, and the deceased’s son Conor, do they also inherit under the will and trust? Or are they disinherited?”

  I started to speak, but McLaughlin interrupted and waved me off. “I know, I know, I’ve got to get a warrant. Well, I’ll be doing just that, Liam Taggart. I’ll be getting that warrant and then I’ll be questioning all your beneficiaries one by one. You know, all these Taggarts have roots in the IRA. Your Taggart family goes way back, deep in the Troubles. No one would describe them as innocent, dyed-in-the-wool pacifists. No, sir, not the Taggart family.”

  The technicians came out of the house, McLaughlin closed his clipboard and stepped off the porch. He stopped at his car door and said, “If you get any information, you’ll be sure to share it with me, won’t you?”

  “Of course. Will you do the same?”

  McLaughlin smiled and got into his car.

  * * *

  WITHIN A FEW HOURS, the police had removed the yellow crime scene tape, removed the padlocks and restored the electrical service. I went in to take stock of what was now in my possession as official trustee of the Fergus Taggart Testamentary Trust. The first thing I noticed was that the bottle of Bushmills and the two tumblers that Deirdre and I had used the other night were gone. Presumably, the police had taken them in for analysis. That would identify me as someone who crossed the DO NOT CROSS tape. If McLaughlin asks me what I saw and what I took, I’ll have to turn over the wooden box.

  I went from room to room taking pictures with my cell phone and writing notes. In order to make an inventory, I had to search the house, open the cabinets and drawers and look in the closets. It made me feel like an intruder, peeling back the layers of my uncle’s privacy, and of course, in many cases I was also violating Deirdre’s privacy. I spent considerable time riffling through his office, trying to be alert to anything that might reveal who my uncle thought might be trying to kill him. I was also looking for more information on Bridget McGregor. I didn’t find either. There was nothing further in his desk.

  What I did encounter were memories in each and every room of the house and I had to stop every so often to dwell in the moment. But there was nothing that implied a death threat and that was disappointing. I was sure there had to be clues. I went into his bedroom and started riffling through the drawers. There, in the top drawer of his bedside bureau, I found a file folder. Nothing was written on the outside and it was held shut by a clasp. I opened it and four pieces of paper fell out. One was a copy of an article written in The Belfast Telegraph reporting on a murder outside a Belfast pub in 1999. A young Protestant man was bludgeoned by an unknown assailant. I had no idea why my uncle kept it.

  The second piece of paper was a short news article from the Telegraph about a murder in the Maghaberry Maximum Security Prison in 2006. An IRA prisoner had been found dead in his jail cell with a U painted on his chest, a clear statement that a unionist had killed a republican in jail.

  The third was a photograph of an open wooden shipping crate packed with automatic assault rifles. Nothing was written on the back of the photo and there was nothing further to identify it. The fourth was a page from last month’s Irish Times. A small blurb was circled. It read, “Global Comes under Regulatory Scrutiny for Inflated Financials.” I wondered if any of these documents had anything to do with the picture left in Fergus’s mailbox. I’d share them all with McLaughlin. Maybe he could tell me if they were connected in some way or if they made any sense in my uncle’s homicide investigation.

  I thought about McLaughlin. Wise. Experienced. In his cap, he looked like Central Casting’s idea of a Scotland Yard investigator. He was also somewhat predictable. I’d have had the same thoughts if I were him. Fergus was shot at close range through the heart. Was it someone who knew him, someone he trusted, someone who could get right up close to him? Family members knew him. Robert, Riley and Conor were all strong enough to force such a confrontation. Not Eamon. Not Deirdre. Not without help, anyway.

  McLaughlin brought up the Taggart connection to the IRA and I still believed it made sense to think about ancient adversaries and confederates. Fergus must have made a lot of unionist enemies back in the day. An old vendetta might have been lying in the weeds, waiting to catch up with him. A lot of people were jailed and sentenced during the Troubles and many of them were released after the Good Friday Peace Agreement. Their crimes were deemed politically motivated and they were set free, even some of the most brutal killers, which made no sense then or now. I recalled that the releases were a critical component of the peace agreement and that the agreement wouldn’t have been signed without it, but it put a lot of violent people back on the street.

  And one can only imagine how twenty years in Crumlin Road Prison would serve to intensify the hate that caused a person to kill in the first place. What’s the likelihood that a steadfast unionist would be rehabilitated and full of brotherly love on the day of his release? To my way of thinking, it only put the worst elements back on the street to commit further acts of violence. Did one of them harbor a grudge against my uncle? Could be.

  McLaughlin was also correct in another regard—money is a strong motivator. Who coveted Fergus’s property so strongly that they would kill him for it? I ran the list of beneficiaries through my mind. His two sons, Conor and Riley, seemed well off, but you never know. Robert and Eamon would never have killed their brother for money. Would they? Janie’s a beneficiary but she loved Uncle Fergus. I couldn’t imagine Janie as a suspect. Forget about Deirdre. What about Bridget McGregor? Who or what was she? Fergus had demanded that the Bridget McGregor Trust remain secret. Perhaps it was a secret to Bridget McGregor herself. Or itself. Had she been Fergus’s girlfriend back in the day? Or now? Was she a daughter that no one knew about?

  My phone rang and it was O’Neill calling to tell me he received a call from McLaughlin. A warrant was being issued for a copy of the trust. Fast work, Inspector.

  “I’m not about to hand it over so readily,” O’Neill said. “No one pushes Malcolm O’Neill around. I’m on my way to the courthouse to file a motion for a protective order. Ultimately, I don’t think I will prevail, but the procedure will slow him down and give you more time to investigate befo
re the contents of the trust become public knowledge.”

  That was something Catherine might do and O’Neill seemed like a hardened trial lawyer to me. “What do you know about Bridget McGregor?” I asked. He took a moment to respond and then said, “Why don’t you come over this afternoon and we’ll talk.”

  As I ended the call, a blue Toyota van pulled into the drive. Deirdre stepped out and I met her at the front door.

  “Can I come into my house, Mr. Trustee?” she said with a wry smile.

  “Of course.” I stepped aside. “The electricity’s been restored.”

  She brushed by me, set her purse and car keys on the kitchen table and turned around with an expression that said, this is bothersome for both of us, isn’t it? “What has my darling Fergus decreed for the disposition of our home?”

  Sadly, I shook my head. “I’m sorry. My hands are tied.”

  She smiled again, this time with a tinge of amusement. “Are you going to evict me?”

  “Goodness, no. Until further notice, you can live here just as before. Come and go as you please. We’ll change the locks. You and I will each have a key.”

  “And after further notice?”

  “You’re pushing me, Aunt Deirdre.”

  “You bet your ass.”

  All I could do was shrug. She started busying herself in the kitchen and asked me if I wanted a cup of tea, which I accepted. She brought two cups to the table and sat across from me. “That old rascal,” she said, “he made damn sure he wouldn’t hand over his property until we knew who murdered him. And that’s just fine with me, because there’s some of his relatives that don’t deserve a damn thing even if they weren’t involved.”

  “And who would that be, Aunt Deirdre?”

  “Stick around a while, you’ll see.”

  “What about a holdover from long ago, from the IRA days? What do you think?”

  “I think those days are not as long ago as you might believe. Don’t underestimate the hate and distrust that still exists on each side of the Peace Wall.” She held her cup with both hands, took a sip and raised her eyes. “Fergus was not the peacenik that Robert eulogized. Especially in days of auld lang syne. The Taggart boys were rough and ready.” She paused and smiled at me. “Back in the day.”