First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) (22 page)

‘That’s the one.’

‘Yeah, well, he and his crew are a particular difficulty for homeless services.’

‘How so?’

‘There are four kinds of homeless in the city. Drug addicts, the mentally ill, illegal immigrants and victims of austerity. The last are people who are unskilled and unemployed; relied on the safety net in the boom and can’t support themselves on the reduced welfare payments; usually single mothers or just above handicapped. The first, drug addicts, are again easy to understand: they spend all their disposable income on dope or meth and then have nothing left for a house and food and family and so on. That group of homeless men you’re talking about are a mix of both the mentally ill and illegals.’ Peter said.

Tommy thought back, trying to visualise again that group of men around a fire; and indeed some of them had very dark skin now that he thought about it.

‘The mentally ill, usually, are the most difficult to deal with. Junkies would steal their kid’s transplant kidney to score; but the mentally ill: whatever they do is really impossible to predict, their behaviours make no sense. Really, the only ones they hurt are themselves, and they really do hurt themselves. When going through their episodes, they often will forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget to drink water: these are the groups of people who really should be institutionalised in the state institutions that just don’t exist on this island.’ Peter said.

‘Yeah ok.’

‘It’s weird you should mention that crew of people because, they really exemplify what it is I am talking about. I got a call from Andrew’s Street Post Office one day, Mick O’Reilly, who lives in Cabra, had gotten it into his head that he had to collect his dole from town, so he had walked all the way in along the Quays, on and off the road. He’s not been in Andrew’s Street post office once before that.’ Peter said.

‘Mick lives in a house?’

‘Lives in is a broad term. He doesn’t live there at all: prefers the streets.’ Peter said.

‘Do you have the address, I’ll try and find him.’ Tommy said.

‘He won’t be there.’

‘So what? We have to look somewhere – and that means we look where there is some kind of evidence. The only thing I have to go on is that there is a deliberate false identification of a person close to the first victim. Maybe there was a motiviation?’

‘I dunno Tommy, these guys, they’re not exactly known for their honesty.’

‘Gimme his address, and the address of all the hostels the rest of that crew stay in.’

And Peter nodded, and filled out a sheet for them and handed it over to them.

‘Hope you catch him.’ Said Peter, as they left, and Tommy nodded.

Outside the queue had grown, with stressed faces rubbing against one and another in the rush to get a Visa within the limit of some unforeseen deadline.

Anne turned to him, once they reached the door.

‘Wanna stay in mine? Its almost midnight.’

Tommy thought about it for a second.

‘Ok, after we’ve tried to find everyone though.’

‘Sure, we’ll drop by yours and you can pick up a bag. Then we can stay at it for ages tonight.’

The rain was falling heavily as the Clancy parents entered the conference room. Tommy glanced over and made eye contact with Claire, and drew in a sharp intake of breath as he saw what was hidden beneath her hood. She looked as if she had been hit by a truck, huge swollen black eyes, face out of shape, and a wincing breath. Of course injuries like that only came from a particular kind of truck – big, strong with powerful reaching arms. Tommy stared at Gary, yet the man didn’t look up.

Gary was too busy with what was in his large hands, an even larger opened brown envelope. The envelope was shaking, as along with his shellshocked complexion Gary also seemed unable to stop his body from twitching.

‘What happened?’ Asked Anne who had obviously come to the same conclusion as Tommy that there was some kind of new development in the case.

Gary swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his skin. Then he threw the envelope down in front of Tommy and Anne, and the contents fell out all over the table. There were inside a crop of A4 photographs, eighteen in total. Each one was a photo of Amy Clancy and from them Tommy could see that the autopsy hadn’t lied, there had been no penetration; but he had been ultimately right too in saying that the lack of penetration didn’t preclude a sexual element: as in each of the photographs Amy was both asleep, unconscious, and naked. In each she was postured so as to be lying in some form of a suggestive position. In some, a pair of grubby hands were fondling her, in others she was wearing various accessories: a sailor’s hat, a white gag, penny’s jewellery, sunglasses and even a clown’s nose. The worst of the bunch was in the middle of the stock which showed the ripper urinating on Amy’s chest. To send such an indictment of the horrors Amy’s final days to those who loved her most showed callousness that, in truth, Tommy had yet to see in ten years of being on the force.

‘I, guys… I’m sorry.’ Said Tommy, bereft of knowledge on how to remedy the situation. The photos were on the table so Tommy shoved them back in the envelope so both Gary and Claire wouldn’t have to look at them.

‘Get these down to evidence.’ Said Tommy, handing the envelope to Anne.

They would run it for prints and check the photo for any kind of digital fingerprints but Tommy knew it was unlikely, the ripper simply wouldn’t have sent the photographs if they were traceable; so Tommy said it more just to regain authority over the room. Though Gary clearly was in pain, Tommy could sense waves of anger coming from Claire.

‘I need to go home and sleep.’ Said Claire bitterly, as she turned to leave the room and Tommy understood that to mean she was going home to pop some Xanex, something she had told Tommy she hadn’t done in weeks.

‘Claire, wait.’ Said Tommy and Gary simultaneously, but she waited for neither of them.

Gary chased after her into the corridor, and Tommy heard Claire snap behind the door.

‘Piss off Gary.’ She said, and Gary walked sheepishly back into the room.

‘You ok?’ Asked Tommy, and Gary just shook his head.

‘Really need a fucking drink.’ He said. Tommy took him in; drinking during the day definitely wasn’t healthy but there were obvious exceptions to that rule: among them undoubtedly were the photos Anne had just taken to evidence.

As well we need to have a conversation about Claire’s face.

‘Yeah, sure. Come with me.’ Said Tommy as he walked from the room.

The headed out the door and jogged to the stairs. Glancing down Tommy could see Claire striding out the front door. He called after her but she didn’t check back.

‘Will I call a cab?’ Asked Gary.

Tommy shook his head and pointed to the Harcourt Street Station gate.

‘Just left from here.’ And Gary shuddered in reply.

Copper Face Jacks was something of a Dublin institution: one of the most profitable nightclubs in the world it every night saw lines and lines of country people enter and leave with someone new by 5 in the morning. At this time of the day however it was open to no one but its most privileged of clients: An Garda Siochána.

Tommy rang the bell to the old Georgian house, which was opened by one of the co-managers.

‘Ah, Tommy, been a while. Come in.’ Coppers during the day had been a haunt while Tommy was a member of the Branch.

Tommy followed the man in. The nightclub was large, and elaborate with stairs all over the shop, but Tommy was staying on the lower floor. He turned left and passed into an airy bar more used to being open during the dark. A Brazilian woman was cleaning, and Tommy nodded to her briefly before sitting on a bar stool, Gary sitting beside him. In the corner a group of men were doing accounts. The co-manager took down a half empty bottle of Jameson from behind the bar, and exchanged it for Tommy’s twenty.

‘You alright champ?’ Asked Tommy, unsure since when he had started saying champ.

Gary shook his head as he poured himself a cup; before Tommy gave himself a helping of the brown liquid.

‘Never thought I’d see anything this bad again.’

‘Again?’

‘Yup, I was in town that night, the Blackrock six.’

‘The night the six killed that kid?’

‘Yeah. It was my leaving cert results night. Horrible shit.’

‘Shit. They’re to be released soon enough.’ Said Tommy.

‘I know, they were in my year sure. Watching them, like dogs, tear apart that kid: They deserve whatever happened to them. I still remember it, and after Amy..’

Now Gary started to sob.

‘We don’t have to talk about the Blackrock six.’

‘Why do they name the incident that? Why name it after the perpretrator? The kid who got torn to pieces, that’s who I want to know about. You know, he was shouting; and the guys in my year didn’t like how loud he was being, so they grabbed him, threw him over a barrier onto the road in Campden Street; and just started hitting him. They stood on his head and hurt him best he could; bouncers were nowhere to be found.’

That’s two acts of sadistic violence you’re tied to Gary.

‘Nowhere?’ Tommy seemed to remember the story being that the crowd that had gathered around the beating prevented anyone from interfering.

‘Yup, smashed him to pieces. Dead upon arrival in hospital. But still, no one knows his name; instead the whole thing is remembered as being the work of the Blackrock six. Will the same thing happen to Amy? No one but me and Claire to remember her while the “Dublin Ripper” gains national fame for what he did to her. It’s.. Unfair. I really can’t help but think back to that night in Campden Street, and whether anybody ever felt sorry for that boy’s dad.’

Tommy glanced at Gary, then raised his whiskey glass.

‘To that boy’s dad.’ And Gary smiled, raised his own, and both men knocked it back.

After five minutes more of talking Tommy reminded Gary that he had a killer to catch, and Gary excused him; he however agreed to check in on Claire before the day was out, just to make sure everything was ok.

As he eased himself off his stool he took from his pocket the penknife he had taken from Anne’s desk on his way out. He slid it from its sheath, and pressed the cold metal against Gary Clancy’s neck.

‘You ever touch Claire again, I’m goin g to cut you ear to ear. Understand me champ?’

Tommy thought he would deny the accusation, but instead he just nodded – a knowledge of when to shut up showed an understanding of the police.

Gary, you’re guiltier by the minute.

##

Through the pouring rain, Tommy could tell that the door to the Clancy house was ajar. The garden hadn’t been tended in some time, and tears of mud had begun to sprout up among the cobblestones; green weeds gasping for sunlight arising too into the wet Irish air.

The wooden door was heavy, and when Tommy pushed it it squeaked against the wet floor of the hall, the Dublin rains slowly entering in the open front door. Inside the house was cold, the wood floors and walls icy to the touch. When he breathed, Tommy’s breath fogged up before him, with the only sound still being the rains falling outside – but, what was that? A soft sobbing, echoing off the empty walls. All the photo frames had been torn down, all Amy Clancy’s art work removed – the walls had nothing left to do but echo the mourning of its sad occupants.

Tommy moved into the kitchen. Claire Clancy, of course, was the source of the sobs, yet she presided over a terrifying scene. Before her was a bottle of red wine, its cork removed, but no glass was present – beside the bottle was a tipped over tube of Xanex.  ~The tablets were sprayed across the table, and were being taken, one by one.

Claire looked up at Tommy through blackened and swollen eyes. ‘Leave me alone.’ She said.

‘I can’t.’ And Tommy stepped closer.

‘Please. Let me end this.’ She said.

‘I can’t. My job is to prevent things like this.’

‘Please. For me.’ She said.

‘It will get better.’ Tommy said, putting Anne’s knife down on the kitchen table – reminded of how the first time he and Claire had fucked had been on the same table.

‘No. Tommy you twat, no it won’t.’ Claire said.

‘Still, I need you alive to press charges against Gary.’ Tommy said.

Claire laughed aloud. ‘Gary’s the expert at avoiding courtrooms, it will never stick.’

Tommy wondered what that meant, but before he could ask, Claire swooned and fell onto the table and began to slide off.

Tommy caught her just before she fell.

‘Leave me.’ Claire said.

‘I took an oath, I can’t.’ Tommy said.

Claire glanced up at Tommy with sleepy drugged eyes as he called for an ambulance.

‘Well.. Well, well, well… I suppose DI Bishop, you’re coming with me.’ Claire said, and with that she leaned back and Tommy barely had time to raise his hands before Anne’s knife came slashing towards Tommy’s neck.

The blade bit deep into his left hand, and stopped just half an inch from his eye. He howled, screamed; and when Claire pulled the blade back out, the pain was such that his legs gave way underneath him. She had gone so deep as to strike a vein, and now hot red liquid was spilling over him and the kitchen floor. Beneath the flow of blood he could see the startling white of his bone.

Claire pulled her hand back again, ready to strike again, but this time Tommy was ready. He remembered how she had winced when she had breathed in his office earlier, so he curled his right hand into a fist and struck the right side of her ribcage; where Gary had most likely cracked or broken one of her ribs.

After being struck, Claire keeled over in pain and Tommy took it as his chance. He leaped over her and using his one good hand, lashed his handcuffs onto Claire’s right hand, before rolling his weight so as to twist one hand into the other and lash them together. It was a very complicated skill that had taken Tommy years to master it, but when you worked in Branch, such skills were necessary.

##

It took ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive. Two paramedics stepped out and found Tommy bleeding profusely on the porch.

‘Holy shit.’ One said, and Tommy lifted up his ID.

‘Suicide attempt inside.’ He said, and one of the medics rushed in, the other tended to Tommy.

‘Doc, you know your emergency medicine?’ Tommy asked.

The medic looked at him.

‘Because I need you to stitch this up, before hospital.’ Tommy said.

‘Ha! Not a chance fella.’ The medic said.

‘Look, what’s your name?’ Tommy asked.

‘Paul.’

‘Look, Paul, Im investigating the Ripper, and I really haven’t got the time to spend a day in A&E. He probably is about to find some other little girl, do you understand me?’

Paul hesitated.

‘But I don’t have sufficient painkillers.’ He said.

Tommy grimaced. ‘I’m in Narcotics Anonymous, so the surgeon at the hospital won’t be giving me any painkillers either. Please, I’m giving my informed consent.’

It was then that the next paramedic came walking out with Claire.

‘I just emptied her stomach there, but she’ll need to be pumped and kept under observation. Still, she’ll be fine.’ He said.

Paul looked at Tommy, then back at Claire climbing onto the ambulance.

‘Ok, I’ll do it on the way.’ Paul said, so Tommy followed him onto the back of the ambulance.

The job was quick, efficient, and painful. First came a gauze soaked in saline solution to clean the wound, and next came the sewing needle. Tommy was given a standard mouth guard to bite on, but it did nothing to hold in his screams as a needle puncture the flesh either side of the wound and slowly brought the two flaps together. Next came the wound specific bandage, followed by a tiny carboard cast to stop his hand moving too much and reopening his stitching, and then a regular plaster to cover even that.

Upon reaching the hospital, Claire’s cuffs were removed, and she was escorted into the emergency room, while Tommy was allowed to go free. After calling her, Anne arrived fifteen minutes later.