First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) (17 page)

Life has a flavour I love, and every day with you is a joy. Your parents make simply the finest Christmas dinner and I absolutely love the house we’re renovating together. In essence Georgia, I just wrote to tell you I love you.

Yours always,

Rachel

11 November 2004

Georgia,

I’m gone, don’t come after me. My name is not Rachel, I’m not gay, and my parents are still alive. The woman you fell in love with was a lie.

I’m sorry, maybe if I had’ve been honest, then maybe, just maybe we could have been together forever but Georgia, right now, it’s just not working out. I do still care for you, but Georgia all we’ve done for months is fight, and the haven that your home once was has become more stressful than general life to me at this stage. I’m frightened, in my leaving, but I before stayed in a toxic relationship out of fear of change and now I say, not this time. Of course, I’m not comparing you to my ex, these withering of love grows from my neglect much more than yours.

In a search for answers these past few weeks I’ve been turning to Dylan’s Blood On The Tracks, and the bard seems to have written a song to perfectly encapsulate my current mood. I shall write out the lyrics below, and hope it can explain much better than I ever could the situation we lovers find ourselves in.

But mostly, I’d hope you never think I was cold to you, angry and dishonest, because I didn’t return your affections. You see, when I successfully left my husband, it was my second attempt. When first he found out what it was I was trying to do, he caught me and beat me in a furious rage, swearing that if ever I left him, he’d kill me. Though you may think that to just be manipulative melodrama from an abusive husband, remember please that this was a man who successfully infiltrated a prison just to kill his father. He’s a madman, evil to the bone, and if he finds me, it means death. I shall shortly disappear, and leave Dublin to go to a country where he could never find me, and only now will I leave you these letters so that you know who I was and why I failed you so bitterly as a girlfriend.

I love you,

Rachel

Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood

When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud

I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured

I’ll always do my best for her, on that I give my word

In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved

Everything up to that point had been left unresolved

Try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail

Poisoned in the bushes an’ blown out on the trail

Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

Suddenly I turned around and she was standin’ there

With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair

She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

Now there’s a wall between us, somethin’ there’s been lost

I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed

Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount

But nothing really matters much, it’s doom alone that counts

And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

I’ve heard newborn babies wailin’ like a mournin’ dove

And old men with broken teeth stranded without love

Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes

I bargained for salvation an’ they gave me a lethal dose

I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

Well, I’m livin’ in a foreign country but I’m bound to cross the line

Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine

If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

Beyond proving John Ryan innocent in Tommy’s eyes, and confirming that there was a murderer somewhere who thought he got away with his kill, Tommy knew he had just read something profound. His intuition had, however, far outpaced his thoughts, and after five minutes of chewing on the ice left behind in his coke glass, he accepted that he wasn’t going to remember whatever it was.

He took out his phone and left a message for his friend in the DPP, telling her that she’d have to drop by his office tomorrow morning, charges were to be dropped against John Ryan. Then he went out and had a cigarette in the pub’s porch area, before leaving half the fag in a puddle at his feet and walking out into the rainy night.

‘So, as well as Jennifer Costello, who are you fucking apart from me?’ Said Claire smiling, her manicured hands resting on her bare breasts; white teeth lustfully biting her lower lip.

Tommy came up, and kissed her on the lips.

‘I haven’t seen Jennifer for weeks.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I haven’t! And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly having to swot away hundreds of potential lovers.’

‘Really?’ Claire said, staring at Tommy with a look no amount of adjectives could describe. She scraped her fingers along Tommy’s stomach until she grabbed hold of his balls. She twisted, Tommy writhed.

Claire let go after a few seconds, then she spoke.

‘Why become a Garda though? You have a masters from Cambridge and, well, it seems a little.’ Tommy looked at her. ‘Well a huge amount of Gardaí barely have degrees at all.’ And she turned red while speaking.

Tommy laughed, but before he could speak, he heard his phone go off, so he rolled from the bed and begun to search for his trousers. ‘My Dad, before he went missing, was a Garda. And well, essentially, once I got clean after two years of drug use, I was faced with a number of options. Before Rebecca had died I was planning to go to a barrister, however that would involve five years of inconsistent work, pay and hours: not the ideal situation for an addict. Beyond that, I too had other reasons to avoid employment in the legal sector, I needed a place that wouldn’t mind that I spent two years sleeping in London alleys, and I also needed something that would act as something of a vigorous challenge for me both physically and mentally: something that would keep me out of trouble. I too wanted to work somewhere I could have connections. All this added together meant that there were only two places that would suit, the Jesuits or the Gardaí Síochána. I liked women too much to go for the first; and so I got included in the 2005 class in Templemore. Now, I have to take this.’

And Tommy placed the phone to his ear. Straight away he heard Anne’s voice shouting into his ear. His breath caught in his throat as he heard her panicked speech. He hung up.

‘I’ve to run.’ Said Tommy, and began to dress. Claire asked what was up, but Tommy blew her off, she was emotionally involved in the Ripper case. Tommy added up the number of days between Amy and Aishe, and now the number of days between Aishe and today.

He’s escalating.

Tommy put on his slacks, then his t-shirt and jumper. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, saw that it was three o’clock in the morning: there would be no traffic and therefore no need for sirens. He charged from the house and out into the Rathmines air, which was throbbing with a drizzling shower of rain. No sirens needed.

##

Tommy shivered inside as he passed the price of parking in the Mater Hospital: nothing like charging people dying with cancer 5 euro an hour for parking in the city centre that spells out an underfunded hospital. He ducked right into the emergency, and saw a sight that made his lips curl in distaste. There was a large queue of somehow wounded persons before a desk with a single admission staffer sitting behind it. There were two or three babies with temperatures, wailing in their heat; but most of the others were injuries of another kind. The worst of these types was some oaf from the country; a chubby man with a strong Munster accent. He was attempting to get the attention of a mother who was attempting to comfort her vomiting son. The culchie had found an IV holder, and was attempting something approaching a pole dance; the mother seemed to be incredibly frustrated with the guy distracting her from her son, but she was afraid of angering him too much due to his inebriated state. Tommy had business, and no time to waste, but no one else looked like they were gonna stop this guy who, upon closer inspection had a broken thumb. Rolling his eyes, and remembering what Rebecca used to say about his hero complex, Tommy strode towards the large country fellow. He placed one hand around his throat and shoved him into the nearest chair. Then, grabbing the man’s broken thumb and twisted, snapping it further. He wailed, but Tommy knew he heard him when he whispered.

‘Stay in this fucking chair or else I’ll break the other nine.’

Then he was up at the desk and showing his ID, asking to be taken to the victim. The administrator told him that the best she could do was give him directions, and she then told him to turn right twice. Tommy was about to go, when he spotted Anne leaving through a brown door. He chased after her, then grabbed her right shoulder.

‘Jesus Tommy, you put the heart crossways on me.’

‘What’s going on, where is she?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Recuperating, she’s just had a blood transfusion. We’ll be able to speak to her soon.’

‘Blood transfusion? Do you know what happened?’ Asked Tommy.

Anne shook her head. ‘A girl was found wounded among the bin bags in Campden Lane.’

‘Have you been down there yet?’ Asked Tommy.

‘No? A doctor here rang Harcourt Street upon realising that the girl’s wounds matched the MO for the Ripper and the call was put through to me.’

‘What? That’s a crime scene.’

‘No you knob, obviously a patrol car has taped off the scene, they just didn’t know it was the Ripper.’ Said Anne.

‘Oh, shit, yes. I need some sleep.’ Said Tommy. ‘Have you rang Matty?’

‘Called him before you.’

Tommy frowned.

‘Joke, it was after you.’

‘Now is definitely not the time, so where is this doctor.’

‘He’s just outside the girl’s room, c’mon.’

Anne brought Tommy with her into a long corridor, along the right side of which ran thirty trolleys, each of which held a patient. Tommy immediately placed his sleeve over his nose: there was a smell of shit in the air. One of those sick in a trolley had defecated, and none of the nurses had gotten around to cleaning him or her up. It wasn’t their fault: the amount of nurses on duty had been halved and the amount of rooms open to the public quartered, and every night it was a first come, first served kind of situation. Regardless of the amount of patients who came in, the same amount of staff and rooms were made available, everyone else was put onto a trolley until a space could be freed in one of the A&E rooms. The only consolation perhaps was that if you appeared with a serious injury, you would be given immediate treatment. Perhaps.

Past the trolleys, they reached a door but just before it Anne checked right and Tommy followed her through a set of doors labelled ‘Post-Op’ to two doctors at a coffee machine.

‘Ah, Sergeant.’ One of them said and he put down his cup.

‘Dr Lissidel, Dr Corry. This is my boss Detective Inspector Thomas Bishop.’ Tommy shook hands with both of them. Dr Lissidel had a shaved head, and from his speech Tommy detected a slight British inflection; Dr Corry had long flowing locks and spoke like a typical south Dublin resident.

‘Do I need a warrant before you can tell me what happened?’ Asked Tommy.

‘No, the hospital lawyer told us we were in the clear. We can break confidentiality.’

‘Well, tell us then, what is all this?’

‘The patient entered ER at 01:12 this morning. Her blood pressure was very low, so the decision to operate was made almost immediately. The main source of the blood loss was from lacerations to the chest caused by some blunt force trauma. We managed to staple them shut; however there were a number of other wounds which, if left unaddressed could have turned serious. The patient presented with a torn anus and a minor concussion, her left ear has been bitten off, her nose and seven of her fingers broken, both eyes gouged and internal bruising from a beating. All these were addressed before we took cultures and used it to give her a blood transfusion. It all took an hour, and since then she has been recovering.’

‘You called us because?’ Asked Tommy.

‘This was an assault so grievous, well, I’ve never seen anything like it in all my career of medicine. An assault on a teenage girl, committed in a short flurry of maddening aggression by a physically superior adversary – attempted murder through chest lacerations – well Detective my wife loves the tabloids. ’

Tommy nodded his agreement. ‘Will she be asleep for a while now?’

‘No, actually, she’s awake, but with a recent surgery, high dose of painkillers and mild concussion; nothing she says is verifiable.’

Tommy looked at Anne. ‘You’re the expert on evidence.’ She said.

‘It wouldn’t be admissible, anything she says, but we just need something on the Ripper.’

Anne nodded so Tommy pointed to the door, which Dr Lissidel opened. It led into another corridor before eventually they reached a room which was unlocked for them. Inside, on a bed, lay the Ripper’s third victim. She was a large blonde girl, hooked up to three separate IV’s. One held blood, the other held fluids and the third, Tommy noted hungrily, held some kind of liquid painkiller.

‘Hi, please, we don’t mean to disturb.’ Said Tommy, but the girl didn’t reply, instead she just stared at him, scared.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Thomas Bishop, and I just want you to know that you are safe now.’ Tommy said.

Again, nothing.

He was trying hard not to wince at the mess of a human left in front of him, in fact he showed no disgust at all, though inside he was writhing at the pain he saw in her wounds. The last thing a teenage girl needed to hear was that she was irreparably damaged, no matter how true it was. After her wounds, the next thing Tommy noticed about the victim was how unlike the other victims was: Aishe had been sized normally, and Amy had been bordering on the anorexic – this victim was, to put it mildly, massive. She weighed well over eighteen stone, and, given how short she was too, in fact seemed to be wider than long.

‘We never found any ID on you, do you mind telling me your name?’ Tommy said softly.

‘Tanya Hickey.’ Her voice was dry and she spoke with a country accent. Tommy turned to Anne and nodded to her; she understood: find the parents.

‘Tanya, do you mind telling me what it is that happened tonight?’ Tommy said

She shook her head at him.

‘Ok, ok.’ Said Tommy, raising his hands.

‘
Piggy.
’ She spat out of swollen lips. ‘He shouted it, so much. He was so loud.’

Tommy nodded.

‘I shouldn’t have been so drunk.’ And she sobbed a shocked sigh.

‘What? No, no.’ And Tommy kneeled by her bed and took her hand. ‘Understand that anyone should be able to be as drunk as they want in Dublin, and that there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s this guy, whoever did it, it’s entirely his fault, everything he did was his fault. You can’t blame yourself, because it wasn’t your fault.’

Tanya just looked at him.

‘His shouting.’ She said and shivered, and Tommy nodded, realising that she was in no state to be questioned. So he just sat down beside her bed holding her hand.

So they stayed for a short five minutes, until, she sat up and looked at him. First, he thought she was crying, but then saw that instead her eyes had become horribly bloodshot and that there was sweat running down her brow. It was then that Anne entered.

‘Ok, so, I called her parents, they live in County Kilkenny and left immediately. They’ll be here in two hours..’ Anne stopped for the exact same reason that Tommy stopped listening to her.

‘Get a fucking nurse!’ Tommy shouted, and Anne sprinted from the room.

Tanya’s breathing had spread up, her whole body had begun to shake, but most alarmingly a blotch of red underneath her skin had begun to spread around her face. Then the pain seemed to hit her, and she opened her mouth and roared at the top of her lungs. It was a roar that tore into Tommy, carving him up inside and rooting his feet to the spot. She crushed his hand in the palm of her own, but Tommy held on without making a noise.

The red blotch spread finally to her eyes and left ear, and with horror Tommy saw as drops of blood seeped from the corner of each eye, and a line of it drooled its way out of her left ear. In rushed the two doctors and three nurses.

‘Shit, her body’s rejecting the blood, stop the IV, we’ve got to get her down to surgery.’

Tanya, her eyes now two shining pools of blood, was screaming and writhing as they wheeled away her bed, and it was only as she left that Tommy was able to move from the spot and glance up at Anne’s horrified face.

Fifteen minutes later a nurse emerged from the ER and shook her head before Tommy could even ask. Tanya Hickey was dead.

The rage chewed Tommy up, and he turned and grabbed the bedside chair next to him, flinging it across the room with a shout.

‘Detective, you’ll have to leave if you’re going to start like that!’ A nurse bellowed at him.

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m going.’ Tommy said as he walked to the old side door used now by many patients as a smoking area. So he stood beneath the makeshift porch beside all the cancer patients smoking and glanced out into the rain. He heard a rustle beside him that told him Anne had joined him. Without looking at her Tommy began to speak.

‘He fetishizes the weak: the mentally ill Amy, Aishe: a gypsy, and the obese Tanya. The women society hates, the women we crush every single day – their weakness arouses him. He turns them into objects, thus surrendering their autonomy and free will; he humiliates them, hurts them, crushes them, then leaves them in the dust to be despised by everyone else. Tell me Anne, who does he remind you of?’ Tommy asked.