First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1)

by Colm-Christopher Collins

  ‘Why, your sweaty balls aren’t attractive to Marie?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Fuck you. Get going.. Oh wait.’ He said.

  ‘What?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘You know what they say about primary school kids?’ Said Mousey seriously.

  ‘What?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘I keep getting older, but they just stay the same age.’ Said Mousey, and he broke down into cackles of laughter. Tommy rolled his eyes and left the office.

  He went to the desk where Anne was waiting with a computer and a stack of books.

  ‘Ready to go?’ Asked Anne. Tommy nodded, and they sat down together in front of the computer. Anne opened up the internet explorer, and then logged into Facebook. There were two accounts to log into, either Claire’s or Amy’s.

  ‘Evidence guys gave us her password.’ Said Anne, and Tommy nodded and left her to punch it in. Up opened a string of stories, mostly crap, in front of their eyes.

  In the right hand corner of the screen there were two icons, one was a globe, the other a message, and each had a number above them. Anne, who knew what she was doing better than Tommy, pressed on the message icon, which was coloured red with a number three.

  Down popped a menu, with two messages written there. The first was from an aunt of Amy’s, and the message was standard enough.

  Amy, your loving aunty Clara here. I know what it is like at times to be a teenage girl, I was one myself God knows, and sometimes you do stupid things. But your parents really are very worried, everyone’s worried, so I just want you to know that you can always talk to me? Whatever is the problem, whatever it is you’ve done that you have to run away, everyone’s already forgiven you. We just want to see you home, and remember that there’s no problem too big to deal with. So, if you see this, just give me a call or write back and either me or Johnny will pick you up from wherever you are. Love, Clara.

  A touching sentiment, and a reminder, in case Tommy didn’t need one, of the sheer weight of expectation on him to find Amy before the worst. The next message was nowhere near as heartfelt or as touching, it was a message from one of her classmates, one of the nice boys Tommy had interviewed for only a minute.

  I hope you stay missing you flabby whore

  Tommy gave him the benefit of the doubt in thinking the message may not have sounded as bad in the kid’s head then as it did in the cold light of day in a Garda station, still, he made a mental note to refer his name to the school’s psychologist.

  Next, Anne clicked on the globe, and a similar menu popped down. Anne clicked on the first item (‘Jack The Rackman Macauley and seventeen others posted on your wall’) and up popped Amy’s profile. Anne scrolled down and read just under twenty posts from Amy’s classmates all hoping that she would come home. There were plenty of x’s and hearts in the posts; a stark contrast to their bile they subjected Amy to in person. On Tommy’s instruction, Anne went into Amy’s list of friends and searched for a Matthew, Matt or Matty yet none were forthcoming.

  It confirmed what Tommy already knew, that whoever had been texting Amy, it hadn’t been a thirteen year old by the name of Alex. Tommy then tapped on the screen where it said PHOTOS, and Anne clicked on it. What opened up was a page where there were listed a number of albums, some were of rows and rows of photos of Amy taken with a webcam, some sepia, some black and white, most just of her making different faces.

  Anne and Tommy looked at every single one of the 138 photos so as to read the comments and find out who had liked them, very few of them had any likes of note. Beyond that there were 87 photos in other albums, most of them of the One Direction band members. Again they went through each and every one of them, and these were commented upon and liked even less.

  They then went back, and scrolled through the ‘photos of Amy’.

  ‘Wait, back up there to the top.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Where?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘The third photo.’ And Anne clicked on it.

  Up popped a photo, it was dated from just two weeks ago, however that meant it had been made before Amy’s abduction. It was of a large grey animated tombstone, with comic sans writing across the front of it. It read:

  Amy Clancy

  2004 – 2015

  A knot tightened in Tommy’s stomach when he saw that the photo had been posted by none other than Hugh Trimble.

  ‘He made this photo, and posted it days before Amy goes missing?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Think we should pay a visit to the Trimble household once again?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘You’re driving.’ Said Tommy, and they got up and left to go to the car park outside the building in Harcourt Street. It was drizzling outside, and soon Tommy’s brow was flicked by cold sweat like droplets. Anne had put on a pink hat, claiming that rain like this always messed up her hair and she had a date tonight. After they got in, Tommy decided to try asking her to elaborate.

  ‘Who’s the date with?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Don’t you mind.’ Said Anne.

  ‘Alright.’ Said Tommy, happy that he had done his duty as a partner, however, as they crossed the canal in Marino, Anne spoke again.

  ‘He’s a teacher.’ Said Anne.

  ‘Oh yeah? Garda and a primary teacher? Classic.’ Said Tommy.

  Anne frowned.

  ‘Where’d you two meet? Coppers?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘We’ve been together two years.’ Said Anne.

  ‘That doesn’t answer as to where you two met.’ Tommy said.

  Anne’s mouth tightened. ‘Coppers.’ She said.

  Tommy just laughed.

  ‘What about you then DI, have got a, ehm, someone?’ Anne asked.

  ‘I’ve got nobody.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Nobody, never?’ Anne asked.

  ‘I was to have married once, but that didn’t work out.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Oh no, don’t tell me a bad story. John’s going to propose soon, I know it – I don’t need to hear about an engagement gone wrong now.’ Anne said.

  ‘Well, she’s dead. Does that count as a bad story?’ Tommy said.

  ‘Jesus Tommy. Shit, I wouldn’t have asked..’ Anne began.

  ‘It’s ok, it happened eleven years ago, we should all be moving on and stuff.’ Tommy said.

  ‘How did she die?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Does it really matter?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘I suppose not.’ Anne said, and silence descended upon the car.

  It just took them two minutes to reach the Trimble home, and for the second time in two days they knocked on the door and were let in by a stressed looking mother. For the second time in two days Hugh Trimble came down and lounged in front of them in a chair, angrily staring at the both of them. Tommy decided that niceties were unnecessary.

  ‘I want you to tell me about this.’ He said and he took from his pocket his the photo of Amy’s ‘gravestone’ that Anne had printed off before leaving the station.

  Hugh just shrugged when he saw it. ‘A joke.’ He said.

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘She’s dead, it’s a joke. No one cries cause it’s a joke.’ Said Hugh as if he were talking about the weather.

  ‘Hugh!’ Said Ms Trimble, shouting in a mix of embarrassment and fear. ‘How could you say such a thing?’

  Hugh just shrugged.

  ‘This girl is missing, gone, no one knows where she is. Now, if she were to be found dead, what do you think anyone would think seeing this?’ Asked Tommy, lifting the picture to Hugh’s eyes.

  Hugh just shrugged.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Piss off.’ Said Hugh.

  ‘Hugh! Please!’ Said Sarah, his mother, more pleading than reprimanding.

  ‘It’s a death threat Hugh, it’s a death threat. You know what the police think when someone receives a death threat and then goes missing?’ Said Tommy, his tone of voice becoming harsher.

  Hugh stared at him angrily.

  ‘We tend to think whoever issued t
he threat killed her.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Her daddy did it. He’s the only guy who could stand being around her long enough to kill her.’ Said Hugh.

  ‘Hugh!’ Exclaimed Sarah, but Tommy just grimaced.

  ‘You’re very witty. Why then don’t you tell us where you were when Amy went missing?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘I hope she’s dead, how much better the world will be without her.’ Said Hugh.

  ‘Hugh!’ Pleaded Sarah.

  ‘Did you kill her?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘No, but I wish I had.’ Said Hugh, his face contorting into an angry sneer.

  Tommy stood up.

  ‘I’ve got my eye on you.’ He said, and Hugh just continued sneering.

  ‘You ever seen anything like that?’ Asked Tommy, after they had left the Trimble household and were driving away.

  ‘What? Your interrogation techniques?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘No, blind hatred of authority.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘You worked on the Branch, I’m sure you’ve seen it before.’ Said Anne.

  ‘Yeah, but even among the flats and in the north, kids hit puberty before they really start to hate the police. An eleven year old from middle class Rathmines, something is strange with how fucking angry he was.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘He’s a nut.’ Said Anne.

  ‘Exactly.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Wait, this isn’t the way to Harcourt Street.’ Said Anne.

  ‘I know, I’m going to Donneybrook Station.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Really? What the hell for?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Cross Hugh off our list.’ Said Tommy.

  ##

  It took them just fifteen minutes before they reached the station. One of the largest in the city, it sure got a lot of work for a station in what was meant to be one of Dublin’s most exclusive postcode.

  A man sitting behind the desk writing barely looked up at them as he nodded them into the back of the station. Tommy climbed two sets of stairs and reached a heavy wooden door. Knocking and opening, Tommy came upon a grey haired man sitting behind a cluttered desk.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Tommy Bishop.’ Said the man, getting up to shake Tommy’s hand.

  ‘This is Sergeant O’Mahony.’ Said Tommy, and Louis, the man behind the desk, and Anne shook hands.

  ‘Busy as ever?’ Asked Tommy, looking at the giant piles of folders Tommy recognised as a referral.

  ‘Well, you know, kids never stop getting JLO’s.’ Said Louis. Louis was the Juvenile Liaison Officer in Donneybrook, and the only one in an area that was famous for its teenage discos. Tough gig.

  ‘I need you to tell me about someone.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Couldn’t find them on PULSE?’ Said Louis. Tommy assumed it was JLO humour; minors weren’t placed on the PULSE system.

  ‘Ok, gimme a name.’ Said Louis when he saw Tommy’s face.

  ‘Hugh Trimble.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Rathmines resident?’ Asked Louis.

  ‘Know him?’ Asked Tommy.

  Louis breathed out slowly. ‘Quite a fucking character.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Said Tommy, in an attempt to get Louis to elaborate.

  ‘Diagnosed with Conduct Disorder, at eleven? That’s just odd.’ Said Louis.

  ‘Sorry, Conduct Disorder?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Yes, the precursor to Anti-Social Personality Disorder. The kid is a wreck, a wild light. I’ve seen him four times already and he’s only eleven.’ Said Louis.

  ‘We’re looking at him as a suspect for a crime.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘What crime’s that? Is it arson?’ Asked Louis.

  ‘No, Amy Clancy going missing actually.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Jesus.’ Said Louis.

  ‘Any way you can rule him out?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Well, the only thing that ever rules anybody out is an alibi. Got one of those?’ Asked Louis.

  ‘He has one, yes, but Anne here said the old man who gave it to him was a little shaky on the memory front.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Oh, his neighbour, yeah. I had to take an inventory of his day. That kid spends an inordinate amount of time with his neighbour. Helping out and the like. His one redeeming characteristic I suppose.’ Said Louis.

  ‘So you’d trust the neighbour’s alibi?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Yeah, I ran him, a stand-up guy. He’s been a mentor within the community for years.’ Said Louis.

  ‘Right.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘No, Id trust him if he was giving the alibi.’ Said Louis.

  Tommy turned to Anne and shrugged.

  ‘Looks like Hugh’s off the hook.’ He said.

  ##

  Again, the seminar room was empty, when a dishevelled John Ryan was taken in. Tommy noticed how he wasn’t given cuffs, unlike most of the other prisoners Tommy had dealings with. He was being kept in the Training Centre, generally an easier place to be than most in the Joy and obviously no one saw him as any kind of physical threat.

  ‘Detective, never thought I’d see you again.’ Said John, considerably calmer than he’d been before.

  ‘Well, you weren’t making much in the way of sense.’ Tommy said.

  ‘So you believe me?’ Asked John.

  Tommy just stared at him.

  ‘You, you believe me right? That’s what you’re here for? Right?’ John asked, becoming worried now.

  Tommy continued to stare.

  ‘Look, why would you come if it wasn’t to tell me you think I’m innocent.’ John said.

  Now Tommy leaned forward.

  ‘How the fuck could I know if you were innocent? There’s a shitload of evidence pointing right your way buddy. So, what, your wife wasn’t using her real name in all her documents? It’s hardly reasonable doubt.’

  John’s expression curdled, he looked like he was about to cry.

  ‘But.. But.. But..’ He began.

  ‘But.’ Tommy said. ‘I happen to be quite the perfectionist, and the thought of leaving this uninvestigated leaves me feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable. Now, John, you’re on trial for murder in a month’s time, between then and now I’m going to investigate as to who exactly your wife was. If you want me to get anywhere with this, I’m going to need your help and you are going to answer every single question of mine. Do you understand?’

  John nodded.

  ‘Thank you.’ He said, and to that, Tommy nodded.

  ‘Now, where did you meet Elizabeth O’Hara?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Ghana.’ Said John.

  Tommy looked up at him.

  ‘Ghana?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Yes, see, she was an English teacher by trade, and I met her when I was on holiday, and she was teaching English locally with an NGO.’ John said.

  ‘When was this?’ Tommy asked, taking a bottle of orange juice from his pocket, and swallowed it in three large gulps.

  ‘I went to Ghana in the January of 2006, and met her there.’ John said.

  ‘She came back with you?’ Tommy asked. ‘To Ireland?’

  ‘Goodness no, she remained in Ghana until the following December when we married. I visited between times, whenever work didn’t call.’ He said.

  Tommy tried to rack his brain as to when he last heard an Irish person use the word ‘goodness’ but no such instances came to mind no matter how hard he thought.

  ‘When she returned to Ireland, what did she do?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘She returned to college, to teach Braille.’ John said, tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

  ‘To teach braille, why not go back to teaching English?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘She, uhm, well she seemed to have parts of her old life in Dublin she’d rather not return to.’ John said.

  ‘You’re certain she’s from Dublin?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Positive.’ John said, now quietly sobbing to himself. Tommy had seen such displays before, but this one was particularly well acted, as John’s aged face wrinkled in emotional pain.

  ‘You didn’t ask her about it ever, did
you?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Oh, if only I had, then maybe she’d still be with me.’ John said.

  ‘Tell me about her hobbies – what did she do with her free time?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Well, she only ever thought part time, otherwise she was involved in several charities. I have been rather luck Detective, to be rather successful in my field and to therefore have become wealthy. I therefore have supported a number of charities with Betty’s support.’ John said. Despite himself Tommy was starting to like the guy.

  ‘And what charities did she support?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Uhm, the DSPCA, the DSPCC and, uhm, the Women’s Aid. She was on the board for the Women’s Aid shelter in Tallaght.’ John said.

  Women’s Aid. Tommy thought, already beginning to race ahead of his thoughts.

  ‘I’m going to investigate this John. But there’s nothing I can promise. A fake ID is not enough to overturn all the evidence stacked up against you.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Detective, I am innocent. But I will understand your tentativeness in believing it. Just, investigate it for me. And for the love of God, find the monster that shot my wife.’

  Tommy nodded, then turned and signalled to the Prison Guard in the corner who came forth and guided John from the house. Tommy, however, did not follow them out – an NA meeting was due to start in this room within fifteen minutes. So, he just sat patiently thinking of the reasons Betty O’Hara had for becoming Betty O’Hara.

  ##

  Why don’t we visit hotels anymore?’ Asked Jennifer.

  ‘I don’t know, maybe we should do so someday soon. Hire a room with a giant bathtub, go for a swim separately in the pool, then bathe together at night. It would be beautiful. We’ll hire a room with a balcony, and sit there naked, raining or not.’ Said Tommy, glassy eyed at the thought.

  ‘Sounds fabulous honey.’ Said she. Tommy just ignored her use of that word.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot you hate that word.’ She said.

  ‘It’s fine.’ Tommy said.

  ‘No don’t be like that.’ Jennifer said.

  ‘I’m hardly being like anything, am I?’ Tommy said.