First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1)

by Colm-Christopher Collins

  ‘We’ve got time.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Fine. Do you just want them randomly sent to you?’ She asked.

  ‘Ciara, the girl whose party was to be held yesterday. Can she be got first?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Certainly.’ Said Leanne walking away and leaving the two detectives alone in the room.

  Tommy sat down in a flowery armchair.

  ‘Is there any woman you don’t want to fuck?’ Anne said with a brief smile.

  ‘Huh? A shared cigarette and already you’re rabbiting on about my sex life.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Yeah, just keep staring at principle fuck me, very professional.’ Anne said.

  ‘Well, I can assure you that you’re top of the list.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Come again?’ Anne said.

  ‘Of women I don’t want to fuck?’ Tommy said.

  ‘Is joking about sex and hacking up phlegm all you do?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Hey, I have lung disease; and that’s some serious shit. Right, let’s see if we can start on filling out some of these consent forms before you drag the level of conversation even further towards the abyss.’ Tommy said.

  It took about an hour before they actually settled down to an interview, speaking first with Ciara, the girl whose party Amy was meant to have attended. She was close to the same age as Amy, with long curled hair and heavy makeup on her face. 6th class, that weird space between childhood and puberty. Next to her sat her older brother; 19 years old and there to give her support. Upon being notified, Ciara’s father was so alarmed at the thought of a girl having gone missing on what he thought of as his watch that he had immediately given them permission to talk to Ciara, only to be told that an adult needed to be present. He then proposed his eldest son, a college student, would sit in with them.

  They got introductions out of the way and then began the interview.

  ‘Were you and Amy friends?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘No.’ Said Ciara.

  ‘You weren’t?’ Said Anne.

  ‘No.’ Said Ciara.

  ‘Why was she invited to your party then?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘My dad made me.’ Said Ciara, looking at the two of them, sitting very politely.

  ‘He made you?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Yeah, he said I should invite all the girls in the class and no one should be left out. I didn’t want Amy there, because if she went there were loads of girls in the class who didn’t want to go. I was so happy when I found out she was going to be late.’ Ciara said.

  Tommy felt that it wouldn’t be the first time in this round of interviews that he would be reminded of The Killing Grounds.

  ‘She said she would be late?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Yeah, she rang. All crying and stuff. Wanted me to delay the meal.’ Said Ciara.

  ‘Did you?’ Asked Anne.

  Ciara scoffed. ‘No.’ And her brother, sitting beside her, began to look uncomfortable at how blasé she was about her being so cruel. He took a breath, and looked as if he was about to speak, but Tommy caught his eye and placed a finger to his lips, indicating that he was to be silent.

  ‘So what were her exact words? On the phone? What did she say?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Something about a lift and the LUAS. I dunno really, wasn’t that bothered listening. She just asked whether I could wait an hour to order. I told her to stop being so awkward and that we would order when we’d planned to.’ Ciara said.

  ‘Ok, that’s perfect.’ Said Tommy, happy that they’d gotten everything they needed. Anne looked like she perhaps wanted to ask something more but she didn’t press it so Tommy assumed it was just routine.

  Ciara and her brother filed out, and as they went, Tommy asked casually; ‘Was Amy involved with any boys?’

  Ciara turned back. ‘She was always going on about this guy Alex, a first year in The High School. Apparently they texted all the time. We all thought it was made up though, because none of the guys in our class would talk to her because of Hugh.’

  ‘Hugh?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Hugh Trimble. He’s not in school at the moment, he’s suspended.’ Said Ciara.

  ‘Oh? What for?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘He poured ink cartridges into the fish tank on purpose, all the fish died.’ Said Ciara.

  ‘What a funny story.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘We thought so, but the teachers went crazy.’ Said Ciara with a smile.

  ‘But what does Hugh have to do with Amy?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘He just really doesn’t like her.’ Said Ciara.

  ‘Tells everyone to leave her alone?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘No, everyone just knows to.’ Said Ciara, and that was that. Tommy let her and her brother go. After they had left he turned to Anne.

  ‘I’ll continue with these interviews, I have work for you.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Was I that bad?’ She replied, to which Tommy just ignored.

  ‘Get on the phone to Hugh’s family and try to organise an interview with him for later. Before that get a warrant for the list of pupils in The High School, and then find me Matty. I then want you to arrange an interview with him too.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Sure.’ Said Anne and she left without complaint, though her grimace showed she certainly did not look happy about it.

  Amy’s parents seemed woefully misinformed about their daughter’s school life, as pupil after pupil elaborated on a dour picture of a girl with no friends, where a good day was when everyone left her alone, and on a bad she was hourly reduced to tears by her classmates.

  The interviews began to wear on Tommy, and he began to wish to return to a good, old fashioned, Dublin drug murder. At least then the scumbags lived in flats and beat their girlfriends and children; here the evil was hidden behind a veneer of middle class childhood innocence.

  Interviewing the class took up Tommy’s time until half three, by which time all the school was empty. By the reception, sitting next to the children whose parents were delayed was Anne.

  ‘Hit me up. What happened?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Got the warrant. No Alex in The High School.’ She said.

  ‘What?’ Asked Tommy, alarmed.

  ‘No Alex or Alexander in first, second or third year of The High School. Never was.’ Said Anne.

  ‘Well that’s odd. Just spoke to the cast of Lord of the Flies, and they said two things of note to our case – beyond the fact that each of them seemed to hate Amy Clancy enough to want her dead – there seems to be two obvious suspects, this Hugh who I really want to talk to; and her fella, Alex. So, now you’re telling me that Alex doesn’t exist?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Well, not in the form which we’ve been looking for him – he’s not in the school he told Amy he was in.’ Anne said.

  ‘D’you think they’ve ever met?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Sure would hope so, with how long they were talking… Shit, you’re not saying?’ She said.

  ‘Look, if “Alex” lied about his school, he could have just as easily lied about his age, name, fucking gender or even his existence.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Fuck.. So.’ Anne said.

  ‘So we still interview this Hugh Trimble fella; he seems like quite a character and to be honest, if half the stories I just heard about him are true then the fucker’s truly disturbed. Too, he had a thing for making Amy’s life tough so let’s check him out.’ Tommy said.

  ##

  Tommy got out and Anne followed. The door was thickly glassed, but still Tommy could see the figure walking out when he pressed the doorbell. It opened and a woman looked them up and down.

  ‘Detective Inspector Tommy Bishop, are you Sarah Trimble?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Yeah?’ She said, and a young boy ran out and rugby tackled her legs. ‘Run inside Luke, Mammy needs to talk to the nice man.’ She said, and the child ran away.

  ‘We need to talk to Hugh Trimble.’ Said Tommy.

  Ms Trimble’s face caved in, and she looked like she was almost about to cry. Embarrassment and fear ran up her spine
.

  ‘What has he done?’ She whispered. Tommy took pity on her.

  ‘No, no.’ He said, raising his hands towards her. ‘He has done nothing; a girl in his class has gone missing and we have talked to everyone in his class.’

  ‘Oh thank god.’ Said Ms Trimble, then caught herself when she realised what she said. ‘Sorry. That poor girl, her parents must be driven demented.’

  ‘They are; can we talk to Hugh?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Certainly, sit inside there.’ She said, pointing towards a sitting room.

  Tommy and Anne went and sat down, while Ms Trimble called Hugh down from his room. He came after two minutes, dressed in a tracksuit he looked like he hadn’t changed in several days. He had brown curly hair, cut recently, and a face coated in acne. He shyly walked into the room and sat down across from Tommy and Anne.

  ‘Do you mind staying?’ Tommy asked Ms Trimble, and she nodded and came in.

  Hugh’s jaw was jutting out as he stared at the ground while Tommy stared him up and down.

  ‘Have you heard about Amy Hugh?’ Asked Tommy. Hugh looked up at him and shook his head.

  ‘She’s been missing since yesterday at twelve.’ Said Tommy. Hugh kept looking at the ground.

  ‘Where were you yesterday Hugh?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘I had dinner here.’ He said in a voice that was somewhere between a child’s and broken.

  ‘And during the day? When Amy went missing?’ Asked Tommy.

  Hugh just shrugged.

  ‘He was over at Mr Tully’s house, helping out. I’m sure Mr Tully wouldn’t mind giving an alibi, am I right?’ Asked Ms Trimble of her son.

  Hugh shrugged.

  Tommy looked at Hugh, who for the first time since he saw him actually was displaying some emotion.

  ‘Are you worried about your missing classmate?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Never liked her.’ Said Hugh.

  Tommy got up.

  ‘We’ll be off.’ He said, and shook Ms Trimble’s hand. He went to shake Hugh’s but the kid just looked at him. Anne and Tommy trooped out to the driveway. After the door shut behind him they turned to each other.

  ‘He didn’t like us checking his alibi?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Indeed he did.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Think he did it?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Hugh? That kid? No. Probably just went off boozing. Ask the neighbour for me, I’ll wait in the car.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Ask him what?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘The alibi, how relevant is it.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Oh right.’ She said, and jumped to, running towards Mr Tully’s house.

  Tommy got into his car to make a phone call for tonight.

  ##

  Through the window pane Tommy could barely see her; a silhouette of blonde and white skin. He unlocked the door and looked at her, smiling.

  ‘Jennifer.’ He said.

  ‘Tommy.’ Said she and she leaned in, kissing Tommy on the lips. He stepped aside and allowed Jenny in.

  She knew the place well, and recognised the wine glass in Tommy’s hand meant there’d be one in the kitchen and, sure enough, she found it. She took it, drank a hefty gulp and then took off her heels.

  ‘Such a long day.’ She said, and Tommy murmured his sympathy, as he took his whiskey glass from the counter.

  ‘Want to fill me in?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Just backbenchers shit. Committees, meeting the whip, moaning constituents. The usual.’ She said.

  They looked at each other for a minute or so.

  ‘These last few months have been horrible.’ She said, and began to cry.

  ‘Here, here.’ Said Tommy, and he slipped in behind her and began to massage her shoulders. He smelled Chanel Number 5 from her neck; he supposed it was a gift from her husband.

  She seemed so much smaller without her heels on – Tommy was sure there was a metaphor somewhere there. Standing next to her Tommy saw the wear and tear of her complexion, the frizzed hair, skin dotted with blackheads and worry lines more defined than her thirty years of age merited.

  Now, it was no secret to himself that Tommy had grown tired of life, and that extended to the woman who named him lover; Jennifer’s voice, manners and sporadic texts grated on his happiness so much so that he chewed his nails whenever he thought of her, and whenever she called nowadays he was distant and cold, she could sense it, that he no longer wanted her, that inertia was the only reason he hadn’t broken her yet.

  However, despite how tardy he’d grown towards her lately, as she stood before him now, Tommy realised he hadn’t come in four days, so below his belt she became the Sunday of his every week. So Tommy reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand, and kissed her softly on the neck. The sweat of a hard day’s labour had crystallised on her skin and so to his tongue she tasted like seawater and smelled of perfume. When he grabbed her shoulder and felt the warm pulse beneath, he hardened and pressed his forehead against her downcast eyes. As Springsteen said once, she wasn’t a beauty, but hey, she was alright; and alright was alright for now.

  She kissed him with pink lips that looked like they’d been drawn with a pencil, and grabbed the suit jacket he’d yet to take off. He obliged, throwing it on the dirty floor and he followed it down, landing on his knees. He took down her tights and lifted up her skirt – she hesitated, but then swung one leg onto his back, and rested her left knee on his shoulder.

  The hem of her skirt resting on his forehead, the lip of her tights, now around her knees, digging into his trachea, stopping his breath; Tommy leant in. He chased and she began to shiver and shake, her nails biting into his scalp – that was until he stopped.

  A sliver of cold wet liquid had bounced onto his scalp, so Tommy had glanced up and saw the empty wineglass had been overturned onto his head.

  ‘We’ve a whole bottle to go Mister.’ Said Jenny with a smile.

  Tommy went to lean in, but then checked himself.

  ‘How long can you be away before Fionbar will be suspicious?’ He asked, taking off her tights – he was a generous guy, but if her stay were to be a short one, he’d need some gratification too.

  ‘Don’t mention his name.’ Said she, as she wiggled out of her underwear.

  ‘Got it.’ Said Tommy, and he leaned back in, and soon Jennifer had forgotten all about the low pay commission.

  3

  Tommy knocked lightly on the door and then entered. It was an open plan office, and in the corner was his desk, the computer barely unpacked. Tommy switched it on and waited for it to load. Upon loading Tommy put in his password, then waited for the desktop to actualise. He found his folder full with the info for old cases, and pulled the document in relation to the arrest of John Ryan – the name of whose wife he had actually forgot.

  Elizabeth Ryan, was her name, though she had been born with the surname of O’Hara. On her sheet were the photos of the crime scene, with her body sprawled back near the dinner table. Seeing the photo brought Tommy back, the Michael Bubble CD playing in the background and the taste of frost on the air.

  The investigative officer may have been a cunt, but he sure did a thorough job, as the entirety of Betty Ryan’s wallet had been scanned. Her passport told Tommy that she had been born in 1958, which made her considerably older than she looked. She was a member of a number of clubs: a gym, book club, libraries and even her local GAA club. There, however, was no Social Service Card, evidentially Elizabeth Ryan had no reason to deal with the DSP. Still, Tommy, flicked onto the Death Certificate to find what it was he was looking for. Her PPSN was listed there, so Tommy took it and copy pasted it into the PULSE system, and nothing came up. That said nothing however, only that she didn’t have a criminal record.

  It was then that Tommy decided to phone an old friend, a woman he knew who worked in the Department of Social Protection. Tommy fished her number out from his contacts (a detective’s phonebook seemed to get very long), then called before checking there was no one around.

  She an
swered on the fourth ring.

  ‘Leigh, me auld segosha, how are you?’ Tommy said.

  ‘Tommy Bishop only rings when he’s looking for something.’ Said the voice on the other end.

  ‘Aye, and he remains eternally grateful for any and all assistance he receives on this long and winding road of life.’ Tommy said.

  ‘He does in his hooch, listen, will you say hello to your sister for me?’ Leigh said.

  ‘Sure will, she’d visit more often but the kids are a handful. Sure you know yourself.’ Tommy said.

  ‘I do indeed, and tell her not to worry her pretty heart, now what can I do for you Mr Bishop?’ Leigh asked.

  ‘I need you to run a PPSN for me and tell me if its valid.’ Tommy said, and then he told her the number while she typed it in.

  ‘You sure that’s real?’ Leigh asked.

  ‘Verifiably.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Well, it’s not looking very real from this end.’ Leigh said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘It’s not a real number, it’s a fabricated number, made up for the purpose of gaining an ID would be my guess.’

  ‘So, any passport garnered off that PPSN likely wasn’t real?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘And the name on the passport?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘The name on the passport and the name of the person using it probably aren’t the same.’

  Tommy thought about asking more, but then knew that delving further would just raise suspicions with Leigh. So, he finished the conversation politely before hanging up.

  ##

  What do you have planned then, more flirting with schoolchildren?’ Asked Mousey.

  ‘Fuck you; I’m certain Amy was groomed.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Groomed?’ Asked Mousey.

  ‘Sure, why not?’ Said Tommy.

  ‘By?’ Said Mousey.

  ‘Well, her classmates said that she claimed to have a boyfriend, so Anne and I are going to be going through her social media accounts to try and find out who he was.’ Tommy said.

  Mousey snorted. ‘I have a daughter of my own, their social media accounts aren’t the hive of information you’d think they would be. I’m more likely to get head than you find something of note on any of the online pages.’