First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) (10 page)

‘Hey.’ Said Tommy.

‘Hey.’ Said she in reply.

Tommy pulled out of the taxi bay and then swung right on St Stephan’s Green. Tommy had suggested the Shelbourne but Jennifer had told him that it was too public, so Tommy had said that there was no problem and set out to choose a hotel as far from the Dáil as he could find.

‘You look terrible Tommy.’ Said Jennifer, as they checked right down Dawson Street.

Tommy looked at her. ‘Exactly what you want to be hearing just before a date.’ He said.

‘No, no, no Tommy.’ Said Jennifer, reaching over and placing her hand on Tommy’s forearm. It was enough to set Tommy off, as he felt himself harden.

‘It’s just that you look really sick.’ She continued.

‘Yeah, well, work will do that to you.’ Said Tommy, as he drove down Pearse Street before turning right onto the Quays. Then, it was a left turn and plain sailing until he reached the hotel, kind of.

‘She got mooted in the Dáil. Amy, that is. The opposition asked whether the Minister thought underfunding of the Gardaí was hampering them in doing their job and affecting public safety.’

Tommy snorted.

‘After Leader’s Questions then, it was a committee on education, fucking Ruarí Quinn keeps pushing in Educate Together’s.’ Said Jenny.

Jennifer was the resident conservative Catholic in the Dáil, famous for her aggressive stance against abortion, gay marriage and even at times contraception. Her husband, Fionbar Costello, was a journalist who was a known member of the Knights of St Columbanus. Reviled by the left, distanced by the right and adored by the far-right, Jennifer had found herself a niche in national politics that would ensure she would be re-elected every five years into the future (at least until everybody over fifty at the moment died), but would never leave the backbenches, given how toxic her image was to the public. Of course, given the kind of extra-curricular activities she was engaging in with Tommy, she was a hypocrite. Apparently the sins of sex outside of marriage, abandonment of monogamy and the use of the contraceptive pill were sinful only when committed by the general public, she had, by way of her constant campaigning, earned a  free pass to conduct her personal life as she wished.

Tommy couldn’t judge however, and he didn’t; in fact it was the same contradictory nature that was so downright appealing to him. Jennifer had, in the first instance, seemed attractive to him only because, like most men in the country, he had found her incredibly beautiful. The straight jaw, slim figure, the long legs. No, even had Jennifer been just a random girl in a bar, Tommy would have been drawn to her superficially; the Kissinger Syndrome merely helped. After that, it had been her conflicted person that had appealed to him. She hated her husband, hated her party, hated her life; yet loved her ideals and her life in general. She believed herself to be a genius, a visionary, a woman of the future; the saviour of the nation. Her only fault, according to herself, was that she was held back, either by ‘comrades’ or by the liberal media; both of which seemed out to get her, constantly. Tommy liked her, Tommy really liked her.

They chatted aimlessly about anything but Amy Clancy until they reached the hotel, which sat an hour away from the Dáil. The Citywest Hotel stood a massive cathedral to the Celtic Tiger, and was constructed the reflect the grandeur of its original owner. A poor Dublin native, Jim Mansfield had begun his empire in selling of scrap metal; and following that in the buying of machinery left over after the Falklands War. He had died just a few short months ago, but Tommy hadn’t gone to the funeral; he never had met the man, and funerals weren’t really his cup of tea.

Tommy parked in the space nearest to the entrance to the car park, and then got out, letting Jennifer out after him. At the rotary door of the hotel a bellboy in a black uniform welcomed them, and they both smiled at him. Behind the desk was a woman, probably Polish smiled at them, checked their aliases off a list, and then handed them their key cards. She asked them if they required someone to help them with their luggage. Both Tommy and Jennifer indicated that that wouldn’t be necessary, they just had a night bag each.

They strolled to the lift, getting in with three or four Koreans. While they jabbered, Tommy reached over and rubbed along Jennifer’s hand, and then her leg. Jennifer arched her neck, and smiled a sly smile at him. Inviting.

They got off at the fourth floor, and walked together down the corridor, her hands in his. They reached their room after two minutes of walking, and Jennifer slipped the key into the slot and pushed open the door. The room was perfect, a bathroom on their left, and a huge bed in the middle. Tommy, however, wasn’t examining the room; he was looking only at Jennifer. Normally he was patient, but not now, not with the case, not with him needing a fix. No, he would have her now.

He threw his bag onto the bed, then turned to Jennifer who was facing away from him. Tommy kissed her neck, then bit her ear. She turned around, a grin from ear to ear, and began to kiss him. He grabbed her ass, grabbed her breasts, all the time taking off her clothes as quickly as possible. He didn’t wait for her to undress him, either; taking everything off himself. He was already completely hard, no need for foreplay, so he slipped on the yellow condom and gently steered her to the bed. She, in a show of urgency, threw his bag to the other side of the room, then leaned back and opened up to him.

He entered her, and began to push. Once he was certain of his being firmly inside, he began to speed up; quicker and quicker. Soon Jennifer began to moan, she sounded, as ever, like she was tiptoeing her way across warm coals: oh, oh, oh, oh. He sped up now, as everything flashed before his eyes: Amy Clancy, dead; vials of clear morphine. This wasn’t helping him relax, if anything he was just getting more and more stressed. He began to itch, however he just sped up to put it out of his mind.

Jennifer’s oh’s soon became more elongated, more angry. She began to say ow. Ow, ow, ow. Tommy didn’t slow, didn’t even notice, until she shouted.

‘Ow, Tommy, you’re hurting me!’ She said.

Tommy snapped out of his reverie, and jumped away from Jennifer.

‘Shit, I’m so sorry.’ He said.

Jennifer reached down and felt between her legs, winced, then smiled.

‘It’s ok, I’m sure another time I wouldn’t mind it being rough, just not now.’ She said, and Tommy nodded in reply.

‘Now get over here.’ She said gently, and steered him towards the bed, placing him on his back. She then sat beside him, peeled off his condom and threw it away. She took him in her mouth, a rarity for Jennifer. For the first few minutes Tommy watched her, but she was focused entirely on what she was doing, and bar the odd smile, she didn’t look at Tommy at all. Tommy knew it was safe, so he fell back and closed his eyes.

He forgot that he was with Jenny, and instead imagined Rebecca. He allowed his mind to wander, he wasn’t in a hotel room with conflicted blonde, but instead was in his home with Rebecca.

As usual, he could only finish when he thought of her.

When finished with their separate showers, they were lying together in white robes, her wet hair in Tommy’s lap.

‘Think you’ll catch him?’ Asked Jennifer.

‘Who?’ Asked Tommy, knowing well what she meant.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll retain confidentiality. I really have no choice but to.’ Said Jennifer.

‘Dunno.’

‘Is it really a serial killer like they say?’

Tommy looked her in the eye.

‘Serial killers are people who kill more than once, so no. But I don’t think it was someone Amy knew.’

‘You don’t?’ Asked Jennifer.

‘She talked to him plenty, over the phone see, but whether she actually would pull his face from a lineup? Not a chance.’

‘So, who’s the killer then?’

Tommy just smiled, kissed his index finger then placed it on her lips. It was a cute gesture, however the point was clear: shut up about the case. God Tommy needed a fix.

Dawn was breaking purple over Dublin city as Tommy swooned in the driver’s seat. Round his feet an empty naggin of Huzzar was clinking as it rolled around with four empty bottles of Corona and the pint glass he had drunk them all from; it was an orgy of glasses – Krystalnachtorgie. Tommy smirked at his own witticism.
God I’m such an idiot when I’m drunk.

Tommy shifted gears – there were few people on the streets of Dublin in the early morning, the city had changed since Bloom had plowed the streets.
I wonder if Old Leo would have been partial to a bit of the auld drink driving.
Probably not, Tommy reasoned.

Despite the sparsely populated morning streets, Tommy crawled along at a snails pace – reactions being dead and all, he found it to be the only way to ensure not killing a pedestrian. It was too slow for the road’s current users apparently, as a taxi driver overtook him on the narrow Christchurch streets, beeping his horn at Tommy’s swerving Toyota.

‘Fucking Nigger!’ Shouted Tommy through his closed window, without even knowing if the driver was foreign.

As he swung left along the quays, Tommy knew his driving was obviously drunk, as he was moving from bus lane to Liffey wall trying to get his steering wheel under control.
I need some sleep
. The clock on the dashboard told him that he had three hours before he would be painfully late for work, so he had planned to head home and rest, but maybe sleeping in the car would make sense. To his left was a petrol station, as good as anywhere for a place to sleep. He was driving too drunk at the moment, and while no Garda would do a fellow Garda for drink driving, there always was the odd rank and file who got too ahead of themselves and thought they could ping an Inspector. So, at the petrol sation, Tommy tried to swing into the Fore Court.

His head bumped into the steering wheel and the car stopped. Tommy’s head swooned. The car door opened, and he was dragged into the cold air, two hands were clothes around his throat.

A fat face right before his eyes. ‘My fucking car.’

Tommy’s throat constricted. He reached into his waistband, but then swooned even worse. Puke came shooting out of his mouth, coating the windshield of some car he didn’t know in chunky vodka vomit.

The fat man punched him, and Tommy fell back against his own car. Now he was clear to reach into his waistband, and so he took out his Sig Sauer.

CRACK.. CRACK..

Two bullets loudly left the gun and hit who knows where, and the fat man began to run away from Tommy.

Oh shit thought Tommy; despite his drunkenness he knew that this would land him in a serious amount of trouble. He tucked the Sig back into his waistband, and jumped in behind his wheel, speeding off this time without worrying about how much he veered.

##

The hem of Tommy’s scalp was slightly bruised,
from the bump I took earlier.
It all came back to him in serious fits and starts. His memory was patchy, but he was willing to bet that the incident with his gun had happened, and thought of it made him vomit with shame – if the gutter press got hold of it, Amy’s investigator drunkenly shooting on the Quays, well that would be curtains for his career and public appearances. In fact, if the upper echelons of the Gardaí were to find out, they may even consider it serious enough to act too, and it would be the end of his career anyway.

Tommy cussed his shoes as he waited by his car door. It seemed to take an age, but finally Anne came out of the front gate of Harcourt Street station.

‘Why weren’t you in this morning?’ Anne asked.

Tommy checked his watch, Ten O’Clock.
The woman’s early rising will be the death of me
. Though perhaps she had had a point, this case didn’t really suffer late risings.

‘Yeah, so, I was working the case a bit last night. And a few anamolies began to stack up.’ Tommy said.

‘Go on?’

‘Well, I was thinking a bit about Hugh Trimble.’

‘School psycho.’ Anne said.

‘Right, him. Well he seems an anamolie, dunno if I trust that he’s all he seems.’ Tommy said.

‘But you said he couldn’t have done it?’ Anne said.

‘And I still think that he couldn’t have, but his alibi and general demeanour makes no sense, and that leads me to believe I need to ask him some questions.’ Tommy said.

‘And that’s where we’re going?’ Anne asked.

‘That’s where we’re going, yup.’ Tommy said.

##

Rat-tat-tat, Tommy knocked on the door. It was answered by a man who looked the spit of Hugh Trimble.

‘And you must be the father of the house.’ Said Tommy.

‘You must be the detectives. I’m Kevin Trimble.’ Kevin sounded weary, but he let them in anyway.

Tommy followed Kevin into the living room for what would be the third interview for Hugh Trimble. Kind of irregular for someone who wasn’t considered a suspect, as Anne had been more than happy to point out on their way here.

Hugh was sitting with his arms joined in his lap staring blankly at Tommy.

‘I wanna just run over your alibi once more.’ Said Tommy.

‘He’s already done this.’ Said Kevin. Tommy glared at him.

‘Need I remind you that this is a murder investigation?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Need I remind you that this is my son and a minor.’ Said Kevin. Inside, Tommy rolled his eyes: solicitors.

‘Hugh, you were, the entire time of Amy’s kidnapping, helping one Mr Tully around the house. Am I correct?’ Asked Tommy.

Hugh glared, but a thin nod was just perceptible. Tommy decided to take a risk.

‘Do you follow the news Hugh?’ Asked Tommy.

Hugh shrugged.

‘Do you know who the IRA are?’

‘Of course.’ Said Hugh, incredulous that Tommy would think he didn’t know.

‘Do you know what the IRA do to those who grass? Who tell the police what they do?’ Asked Tommy.

Hugh shook his head.

‘They come into their home, take you away at gunpoint, and bring you on a drive to a mountain somewhere. Once there, they make you dig your own grave, before they shoot you once in the left side of your skull, and cover you up with the dirt. Most times you aren’t found for years, if at all.’ Tommy said.

‘How is this relevant?’ Asked Kevin.

‘It’s relevant Kevin, because I was going to tell Hugh here about a time I took on the IRA and won. A few years ago I was involved in Operation Bell. The IRA bombed a British Army station, killing seven soldiers and four civilians. Loads of others injured. I put twenty eight members of the Real IRA behind bars. Do you wanna know how?’ Asked Tommy. For obvious reasons, Tommy had never told anyone this before, but Tommy would eat his hat if the Trimbles were IRA informants.

‘How?’ Asked Hugh, actually seemingly interested.

‘Rats. And lots of them. So many, you wouldn’t know. Guess how many the IRA have managed to get to since I got them to speak to me?’ Asked Tommy.

‘How many?’ Asked Hugh.

‘None, because when somebody is my witness, they know they’re safe. I don’t let my witnesses be interfered with. When I have a witness, they continue their life as normal, no change, no one even knows a thing.’ Tommy said.

Tommy saw the look break over Hugh’s face, it wasn’t boredom, or anger, or fear; it was hope. It told Tommy enough to know he could continue.

‘Has Mr Tully ever kissed you?’ Asked Tommy, abandoning his inquisitive style and instead metering out his speech to a whisper.

A thousand expressions passed over Hugh’s face, before he crooked his head forward in a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Tommy looked over at Kevin, and saw that he had gone ghostly white and was clinging tightly to the arms of the chair. High, who receded back into his shell, looked like nothing had just happened, but Kevin had begun to shake. Tommy knew that was rage, pure rage convulsing up his spine. He was in shock, so he wasn’t yet expressing it, but the anger would be quick to outweight shock, and even gentrified solicitors could become violent when it came to someone abusing their kids. Tommy knew he had to act quickly.

He jumped from his chair. ‘Anne, keep an eye on Hugh and Kevin.’ Said Tommy as he ran from the room and he didn’t even have to look back to know that Anne understood what he meant – keep them away from the suspect.

He stepped outside into the driving rain and checked left and right for cars that weren’t there before crossing the road. Mr Tully’s house was directly diagonal from the Trimble’s house. Tommy realised he didn’t know Mr Tully’s name, but it didn’t matter; contrary to what most freemen thought, a Garda didn’t need to know your name to arrest you. Nor even did he need to be wearing his hat.

Rat-tat-tat. Tommy knocked on the door harshly. How long had Mr Tully been waiting for a knock on the door just like this one? They say that abusers such as him were born with the urge, so years probably. He more than likely had a bag upstairs so he could run, and a program he had bought from his abuser friends that would immediately wipe his computer permanently. Tommy would have to handle this properly to make sure Mr Tully didn’t have a chance to eliminate any evidence.

He opened the door, a strange caricature of what a paedophile should be. Grey hair slicked back, a handsome older face, and a strong stature; he looked more like the groundsman for the local GAA club than Brenden Smyth.

‘Mr Tully, how are you? I just need to take down that alibi you gave Hugh.’ Said Tommy upon the older man opening the door and Tommy showing his ID.

‘Certainly then, come in out of that rain though.’ Mr Tully said and stepped aside to allow Tommy to pass.

During his time in the Special Detectives Unit, Tommy had been to a number of seminars on assassination, and the same message had been repeated by their lecturer at the time – An assassination is successful only when the victim is dead before he can figure out what’s happened. Arrests operated something like that, and Mr Tully should have no fear of arrest.

‘I thought I gave the alibi to one Sergeant O’Mahoney.’ Said Mr Tully.

‘Mr Tully, you are under arrest for suspicion of breaching section 2.2 of the Criminal Law (Sexual Offences) Act 2006, you are suspected to have committed the act of defilement of a child. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’ Tommy took from his pockets a set of handcuffs.

‘What’s this?’ Tully asked.

‘Shut up.’ Tommy said, and he clicked the handcuffs into place, squeezing them tight, crushing Tully’s wrist.

Tommy

brought him from the house. The Mondeo outside was already open, so Tommy pulled open the back door and pushed Mr Tully into the back seat with as little force possible. It was easy, Mr Tully was fully cooperating.

Tommy then locked the car doors and walked back into the house. He went to Anne and threw the keys at her.

‘Mr Tully’s in the car.’ Said Tommy. She nodded and left.

Tommy turned to Hugh and Kevin, with Kevin having moved over to sit beside Hugh and had his hand on his son’s shoulder.

‘In about two hours, we’ll need you in Donneybrook Garda Station, where a Police psychologist will take a statement. That may take several hours. Can you take the day?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Yes, absolutely.’ Said Kevin.

‘Ok, take Hugh for some McDonalds, then be in Donneybrook Garda Station for one o’clock. Hugh’s going to need some serious help to overcome, whatever this turns out to have been. Now, the state can provide, but with the situation in the state as it is; I’d advise you go private.’

##

Mr Tully was booked within the hour. Upon Tommy entering Donneybrook Station and saying that he had a man suspected of defiling a child in the car, the duty sergeant had immediately been called and the charge sheet lined up. They wanted to work on Mr Tully as quickly as possible so as to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.

He had nothing of note in his pockets and didn’t reply when Tommy asked him if he would like something to drink. Usual tactic would have been to begin interrogating him from the off, but given that they in fact had so little to go on, Tommy thought it key that they not show their hand too early: a confession could save Hugh a serious amount of trouble.

So, Tommy sat in a back room and drew up a warrant for Mr Tully’s home, putting particular emphasis on permission to seize his computer. Anne was calling anybody concerned who would want to know about the arrest: sexual offences, the psychologist who would interview Hugh and the DPP.

Once had signed off and then emailed the warrant over to one of his favourite Circuit Court judges, Tommy closed down the computer and strolled to the interview room. He opened the door on a Mr Tully who was looking slightly nervous, but Tommy had most certainly seen worse. Flicking the switch to turn on the recording, Tommy began to speak.