First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) (18 page)

‘Some American serial killer?’ Anne asked.

Tommy looked at her now.

‘Every fucking guy I ever knew. The country follows this Ripper with an avid fascination as if they were reading fucking Dracula – I wonder how many Irish men know they see the Ripper everytime they look in the fucking mirror? Well I do, I see him in me, all the fucking time.’

‘Tommy look..’ Anne said, but then she gave up, and instead put her arm around him and resting her head on his shoulder. Tommy then rested his head on hers, and there they stayed staring at the rain.

##

Tommy washed his hands under the warm jet from the sink more regularly used by doctors. He turned to Anne and nodded to her, and she then went ahead and washed her hands. They were public representatives, and were expected to take the steps against MRSI just as any nurse would – leaving a hospital without clean hands was a certain no. The last three hours had been beyond harrowing; briefing the Commissioner first and telling the two sobbing parents. Now he was nothing short of exhausted, and had never felt less like sleeping.

Together they strolled out to the car park. Anne nodded to him.

‘I’m going to get some sleep.’ She said, before walking off into early dawn’s shroud.

Tommy got into the driver’s seat and pulled out onto an empty city centre road. He drove straight on, but instead of turning right on the Quays to his waiting bed, he plowed on ahead over the Rosie Hackett Bridge; breezing past Trinity College and the LUAS works, and out onto Leeson Street. It was only five, so the roads that usually were chock full of cars were right now clear spaces for Tommy to gallop. He sped out of Dublin 2 and into Dublin 4, then to Dublin 6 and finally Dublin 18, in a journey that just took him ten minutes (where normally it would have been an hour). Finally he reached where it was he was looking for; just outside Foxrock was Dean’s Grange.

The road indented a little in front of the black gates, and there it was that Tommy threw his car – the cemetery wasn’t opened yet. Tommy sized up the gate, and then slipped his foot between the bars and placed it on one of the metal links. He hooshed himself up and then swung a leg over, trying his best to avoid catching his testicles in the tarred spikes on the top of the gate, he dropped himself down into the mud below. It was still drizzling outside, and beyond the tarmac path which was strewn with ugly muck, the graves were awash with water and flooding: any candles had long since been extinguished and all the tulips had been drowned.

Tommy knew where he was going. Beyond impressive stone monoliths and hunks of granite so old as to hold bodies who had never even heard of a famine; the mausoleums were the most impressive. There was a smell of wet earth on the air, and the birds were just beginning to chirp through the biting breeze. The tarmac swung right, then left, before Tommy knew he was there.

In the middle of a long row there sat a grave, a simple basalt headstone with gold lettering which read

REBECCA WEAVER

1980 – 2003

BELOVED SISTER, DAUGHTER AND FIANCE

Tommy nodded politely to the stone, and took a cigarette from his pocket. Cupping his hand so to avoid any rain falling on his light, he burned the tip of the cigarette and then inhaled. With the familiar suspicion that he was speaking only to worms, Tommy began.

‘Life’s gone to shit since you went off. It really has. Look at me, the bitter, fucked up degenerate: every morning I get up and loathe myself a little more than I had the day before. That’s.. Well, it’s a lot of hate. And Rebecca, one in every five thoughts ends with me wanting to top myself; and its not for some romantic reunion shit – I know as well as you that there isn’t shit after death, that the last time I saw you alive is the last time I’ll see you; but I know that I hate who I’ve become. Trust me, by the time I’m forty I’ll have put that Sig in my lonely mouth – wonder who’ll find me?’

Tommy sat down on a mossy stone.

‘Did you see that? That poor girl eaten inside by the wrong blood type. A sore death for a sorry girl, she was innocent, innocent and shouldn’t have been treated like that.’

Tommy threw his cigarette into the wet grass.

‘I really wanted to score some dope; you don’t know how badly, and indeed I still do. So I told myself I’d drive out here and speak to you, and that that would make it better. But now, I can’t think of anything to say. Ma used to always believe that her dead husband was watching over her, I always found it a bit creepy, but there ya go; for one she never found it if he was even dead. Anyway, if you’re watching me, I don’t doubt that you’re as confused about this Ripper as I am, so asking you to help solve it would be asking too much, because if I can’t do it, there’s no way you can, right? Me being the smarter one and all that; but just keep me off the dope. You keep me off the dope Rebecca, and I’ll find this Ripper. Oh and Rebecca? I love you. I died the same day you did.’

The muzzled terrier panted at Tommy’s feet, its broad shoulders swinging forward in the rain. There were few problems that couldn’t be solved by an hours walk with a grateful mutt and a packet of cigarettes. He had strolled across the N4 and down to Mill Lane, where children’s football teams were training in the light drizzle. Normally Tommy would be wary of being seen exercising around where groups of kids were, but in this instance, Tommy knew several of the coaches and most of them were happy to have a detective nearby should anything go wrong as on occasion it did.

This evening however, had been entirely calm. Tommy checked his phone, there were no messages, however the time told him that he could relax. He had a meeting at half eight, and now he knew that he had the luxury of being able to cook the steak he had left in the bottom of the fridge. He finished what was his sixth cigarette of the walk and then stubbed it out and threw it into Mr Mulvahill’s skip. He normally didn’t smoke as it was terrible for one’s health, however staying sober twenty-four hours a day was no mean feat, and the fags helped with that. When it came down to choosing between opium and nicotine, Tommy knew which one any doctor would recommend.

He was coming up to his house, and was about to cross the road when he heard a voice behind him say, ‘Excuse me, Inspector.’

Tommy turned, and in front of one of the houses directly across from his there stood a middle eastern man in a white shirt and jeans.

‘I don’t believe that we have been introduced.’ He said and extended his hand. Tommy felt like going home, but then remembered what Peter liked to say:
A selfish cunt soon turns into a stoned cunt
. So Tommy took this man’s hand and told him his name.

‘My name is Mohammed.’ Said he.

‘Uhm, I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you before. I’ve just..’

‘Oh no it is no worry, seriously. We only moved in a few months, and life is busy ya know?’ Though his accent was foreign, Tommy heard too many Dublinisms in his speech to think that he had been living here for just six months.

‘But you’ve been in Dublin for a while?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Yes, for two years. We just moved here because it was closer to St James’s though.’

Ah, thought Tommy, a doctor.

‘I saw your picture in the paper. You are trying to find this crazy man.’

‘Yes, that is me.’ Tommy nodded wearily.

‘My wife and I, we have been praying every day that you will be successful in stopping him.’

Just like Father John, no doubt. Tommy would have to drop in sometime soon.

‘Well, anyway, I have a dinner to cook. I’ll talk to you soon Mohamed.’ And Tommy rapped his knuckles twice on the wall in the manner of Kevin Spacey in that TV show he’d got to watching when he couldn’t sleep.

‘Our dinner would be ready in five, and if you don’t mind eating with kids, you would be more than welcome to have some.’

Tommy stopped and considered, then smiled an accepted his offer. He legged it back to the house, and letting Morris in the side gate, walked back to Mohammed’s house.

He stood waiting in the doorway and let Tommy follow him in. The house was constructed identically to Tommy’s, built to house country yobbos in Dublin during the 60’s. Past the stairs on his left was the long hallway that ended in a kitchen; Mohammed entered and introduced Tommy to his wife Shiraz, and then showed him his two kids. The eldest boy, Hussain, was only about three years old, and shyly buried his face in his father’s leg so that Tommy wouldn’t look at him. Husain’s younger sister, Amelia, was just a baby in the high chair.

Tommy was directed to the table where he sat across from the baby in her high chair. He intermittently chatted to the husband and wife, all the while making weird faces at Amelia who would giggle at each one. After a time, Hussein got up on his chair so he could investigate their new guest.

‘What’s your job?’ He asked.

‘Me? I am a policeman.’ Said Tommy.

‘Do you catch robbers?’ Asked the boy.

‘I do catch robbers, robbers and monsters.’ Said Tommy.

‘If I saw a robber, I would ask him where he was going, and then offer to drive him there. And then I would drive him straight to jail.’ Said the boy, as a plate was put before him.

Mohammed flashed Tommy a smile when Hussein said it. ‘Yes, Hussein is very brave indeed.’

Tommy looked down at his plate and cursed himself for expecting a foreign dish, of course they would eat potatoes; who didn’t?

Hussein began to play a game with his spoon and Amelia started to giggle again, much to the delight of Hussein. Tommy remembered when his sisters, Sarah and Aoife, had been growing up together, and he hardly remembered them being anyway as courteous to each other as that.

‘They really get on.’ Stated Tommy.

‘Oh yes, when she first arrived he wasn’t very happy, a new child taking up so much of what used to be his attention. But now, however, we can’t even get him to leave her alone long enough to let her sleep.’

##

‘I’m glad you weren’t busy.’ Said Tommy.

‘Is that a dig?’ Anne asked.

‘No just saying that a woman who puts her career before fiancé deserves commendation in my book.’ Said Tommy. Anne glared at him, and looked like she was about to eat him until he burst out laughing; then she shrugged it off, after the night they’d had he deserved a break.

Tommy was back in his wellingtons, and an old Nike tracksuit he had bought nigh on eight years ago. Above that was his trusty raincoat; all of which he put on after a meeting. Anne was dressed similarly on his instruction

‘Where are we headed?’ Asked Anne, as she pulled out from the kerb.

‘Phoenix Park. Want to hit up the homeless again.’ Said Tommy.

‘Ohhh, that’s why we had to dress for the outdoors. I honestly thought you’d have us looking for bodies.’

‘No, we only have three bodies that I’m aware of.’ Said  Tommy.

‘Never know, we could have a fourth.’ Anne said.

‘Yeah well, if we had, it would have had to have been a while ago, and I certainly haven’t made the connection so.’ Tommy said.

‘So what’s the theory? The one that’s got you so excited?’ Anne asked.

‘Well, all this time I’ve been thinking that whoever committed these murders didn’t think the detectives would catch him. I imagined that he sat down, thought about what it was I thought about, and realised I would never think of him. However, what if he was completely incapable of thinking of me, and that was why he didn’t think of me catching him.’ Tommy said.

‘Incapable? What do you mean?’ Asked Anne.

Tommy just looked at her; then a graphic realisation dawned on her face.

‘You mean Amy’s brother?’ She gasped.

‘Step-brother. He has plenty of motive, and some of the stranger features of the case could be explained away by his curious disposition.’ Said Tommy.

‘So what are we going to the Park for?’ Asked Anne.

‘We’re going to have to hit up the Glen again, see if anyone recognises the kid, do some detective work.’

Anne looked like she had more to ask, but at just that second, Tommy heard his phone ring. He pulled it from his pocket in case it was either Claire or Jennifer ringing him, but when he glanced at the screen he saw that it was a number he didn’t know. Tommy swiped, then placed the phone to his ear.

‘Inspector Bishop speaking.’ He said.

A nasaly voice sounded from the other end. ‘Hi, Inspector, Jane McCarthy here, writer with The Daily Star.’

‘Who gave you this number? All enquiries surrounding the case are to be handled by Mick Penny.’

The nasally voice chuckled slightly. ‘No, no Inspector. This has nothing at all to do with the Clancy case. I am ringing to check whether you have any comment on a story to be in our paper tomorrow morning. It concerns the extra martial affairs of Jennifer Costello TD.’

Tommy’s stomach dropped. He almost shouted down the phone, but managed instead to leave a no comment then hang up.

‘You alright? You look like you’ve just been punched in the stomach.’ Asked Anne.

But Tommy wasn’t listening, as he was trying to figure out whether he had any legal recourse. God damn it Jenny, had she been any other kind of TD, the paper would have had no right to publish the affair on grounds of newsworthiness; however a TD who constantly preached on the benefit of abstinence and monogamy involved in an affair? Hypocrisy was always newsworthy.

He thought about possibly calling Jenny, or at least her assistant, to ask for help. That, however, would benefit no one, best that they be able to present a united front of both claiming the relationship had ended.

He called Aoife, whose phone was off, and left a message asking her if she would mind staying with him the next few days. Anne now kept glancing at him curiously when she could take her eyes off the road, but Tommy did nothing to sate her curiosity until she had parked in the car park of the Garda Boat Club.

‘What was all that about?’ Asked Anne.

‘Tomorrow, you’ll see tomorrow. We need to get moving.’ Said Tommy.

Anne looked like she wanted to say some more, but decided instead to clap her hands and say. ‘Let’s catch this ripper.’

Tommy grimaced. ‘I hate that name.’

‘You do? Why?’

‘When I was a teenager ripper used to be used for a few weeks as the nickname for a guy who had been the first to enter a girl. When lads started to call me Tom the Ripper, my girlfriend almost ended it there out of disgust.’

‘Where does it come from anyway?’

‘Jack the Ripper; its what he called himself in letters to the newspaper. You just know the tabloids were salivating at the thought to use that name for someone. A real serial killer, all we need now is a Royal Family and the howiye’s up and down the country will be forever happy.’

The glen wasn’t anywhere as soaked as it had been the last time they came, but that meant that it was twice as full. Remembering that the last time they had gotten nowhere, Tommy advised that he and Anne stick together as they trawled through the hundreds of sleeping and stoned bodies.

Tommy lay against a tree beside an old man and took a cigarette from his pocket and offered it to him. The old man grabbed it hungrily with filthy hands. Tommy lit him up and watched as he took a grateful drag.

‘Were you in the park last Wednesday?’ Asked Tommy. And the old man began to murmur ‘no’ over and over; Thursday being the night the Romanian girl had been dumped in the park.

‘Know anyone who might have been?’ Tommy asked, and the man, with shaking hands, pointed over to what Tommy could barely make out as a group of men around a lamp. Tommy nodded, and so walked his way over to the group.

They were a bunch of men, all sharing among themselves a few cans, and, as far as Tommy could tell, were preparing themselves to inject dope. He could smell the heroin in the air, and the smell, which seemed to make Anne curl back in disgust, sent a shiver of desire down Tommy’s spine. He didn’t even think of what Anne would think, instead he just knew that he wanted to share some, so very very bad. Ask politely, and they may give.

Instead, he took from his pocket a cigarette and lit it. He dragged as deeply as he could: the desire would just last for a two minute period; just two minutes and it would go. He took several deep breaths and, with Anne staring at him strangely, began to centre himself. The seconds ticked and he finally made it past the two minute mark; he still wanted dope, he didn’t go a second in his life where he didn’t, but the walls had gone back up as he thought of Aoife and Sarah and especially Amy and Aishe, both who needed him to complete his mission.

‘Lads.’ Said Tommy, after they had been staring at him suspiciously for a time. They clearly could tell he wasn’t homeless.

‘What do you want?’ One of the largest of them said, sizing Tommy up.

Tommy’s eyes were however caught by a face shadowed in the flickering light.

‘Mick, Mick O’Reilly?’ Asked Tommy, and the face stared straight at him

‘Who’re you?’ Asked the bearded man. Tommy remembered him, the alcoholic held in Ballyfermot Garda Station.

‘I bought you pints a few weeks ago, don’t you remember?’ Tommy lied.

Mick now looked embarrassed as all around him the homeless fellows began to guffaw at his plight.

‘Here look it’s no worry, do you lads want a cigarette?’ Asked Tommy, and he offered the pack around, each of the grubby men taking one for themselves.

‘I’m looking for someone, do you mind helping me out? His mother’s worried sick.’ Said Tommy, and all around the light the lads nodded.

A picture was passed around the group; it was one of the one’s Tommy had been given by Claire of Amy, where she was on a car bonnet beside her brother: Tommy, of course had cut Amy out of it.

Not a flicker of registration passed along any the men’s faces, and Tommy sighed.

‘Did you notice anything strange last Thursday?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Shure, that was the night yer wan was dumped by the Ambassador’s residence; no?’ Said a slurry man who was rocking from side to side.