The only paper who ran with a story Tommy didn’t know was the Independent, and still the story concerned Amy indirectly.
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And beneath which was imposed one of the photos of Amy that Tommy carried in his wallet: Her crouched beside a collie that was lovingly rubbing up against her side while she hugged her side. Man’s best friend, and after just over a week of combing through Amy’s life, Tommy began to think that the dog was Amy’s only friend. In one of her rambling phone calls Claire Clancy had tearfully told Tommy that Amy would occasionally talk to the dog, full blown conversations. She wanted to know what it meant. Tommy had wanted to tell her that the only reason she probably did that was because Amy didn’t know a human who would listen to her; but instead he had let it slide.
He reached out to peruse the copy of the Independent, but then his phone rang out, and he answered the number he didn’t know.
‘Detective Bishop, who is this?’ Asked Tommy.
‘Orlaith.’ Said the female voice on the other end.
‘What can I do for you?’ Asked Tommy.
‘I have a report for you.’ Said Orlaith.
‘No, can’t be, I’m only dealing with the Amy Clancy case at the moment. You must be looking for someone else.’ Said Tommy.
‘Numbnuts, I have the Amy Clancy report for you.’ Said Orlaith.
‘Wait, really?’ Asked Tommy.
‘You sound shocked.’ Said Orlaith.
‘Well, ok. In Marino again?’ Asked Tommy.
Orlaith answered to the affirmative, then hung up. Tommy hadn’t expected the autopsy to be completed at least until next week, so for it to have been done over the weekend was fantastic. Overtime was a rarity nowadays, and even though the coroner had the imperative of voters waiting on finding out how their loved one’s died, so the powers that be usually didn’t allow the back log to grow too big, they still had a considerable waiting list. Suspicious deaths got precedence, so Tommy had thought it would take a week before Amy was opened up, with another two weeks for the tox screens. Instead overtime had been granted for Orlaith to do the autopsy, and for the lab technician to run tests on all the various samples taken from Amy’s body and the crime scene; on a weekend no less. Obviously the case being obsessively followed by the general public had its benefits.
‘Anne. C’mere.’ Shouted Tommy over to the counter.
‘Yeah, just a second.’ She shouted back, and after paying for her roll, she walked over and began to hungrily stuff the food into her mouth.
‘We’ve to go to Marino.’ Said Tommy.
‘Marino, what for?’ Said Anne, and Tommy was reminded of why kids were always told to eat with their mouths closed.
‘Autopsy.’ Said Tommy.
‘Jesus, that was quick.’ Said Anne.
‘I know, now let’s go, we can call the Clancy’s on the way and tell them to be ready for us.’ Said Tommy.
‘Alright, I’m driving though, you don’t look like someone I can trust with a box of safety matches, let alone a car. Why do you always look so shit?’ Anne walked around the front of the car and stuck the key into the lock.
‘Oh, I just haven’t been sleeping since Amy’s body turned up.’ Said Tommy/.
‘No, no, no. I haven’t been sleeping either, but two nights without sleep leaves me with bags under my eyes; you have a bit more than bags. Shit Tommy, you’ve got a fucking species living under yours, you look like a member of O’Connell Street’s walking dead.’ Said Anne, as she twisted the key and pulled out from the kerb.
‘What are you suggesting?’ Asked Tommy, suspicious about what she may have heard.
‘Well, now Tommy, tell me if this isn’t my place. But you really look like you’ve been drinking.’ Said Anne.
Tommy laughed inside; Anne O’Mahony was mothering him.
‘Um, yeah, drinking.’ Said Tommy awkwardly.
‘Well, do you think I have a problem?’ Asked Anne, then realised her mistake. ‘Or, do you think you have a problem I should say?’
‘I have too many, alcohol acts more as a solution however, so no AA for me.’ Said Tommy.
‘Just, if it’s impacting on your job…’ Began Anne.
‘Just fucking drive.’ Said Tommy, cutting her off mid-lecture, as he was beginning to get irritated.
‘Alright, Alright.’ Said she, obviously hurt after being snapped at, still, Tommy was not in any mood for platitudes given the weight of the morphine hangover weighing heavily upon his brain. When next he got clean, and found himself awake at three in the morning reminiscing about the liquid, he’d have to remember just how painful the come down was.
Tommy and Anne both had a copy of the report in their hands, and were, to quote Orlaith ‘perusing at their leasure’. Tommy finished first, and so began the question round.
‘Operative cause of death?’ Asked Tommy.
‘Blood loss from the upper torso area.’ Said Orlaith.
‘State of victim with regards to nutrition?’
‘No dehydration, she was given water regularly. She however had not had any food in her system, and it seems hadn’t eaten in days.’
‘Any signs of restraints?’
‘None.’
‘Drugs then?’
‘Yes, crudely administered amounts of both diazepam and Flunitrazepam.’ Said Orlaith.
Tommy, from his history as an addict who had more than once wanted to go into a dreamless sleep, knew both these drugs well; however Anne was confused and spoke up.
‘English please?’ She said.
‘Diazepam is the chemical name for the drug commonly traded as Valium; an anxiety suppressor, it’s used as a sedative for patients in acute distress or those with sleeping problems. Flunitrazepam is the chemical name for the drug traded either as rohypnol in Europe or ruphalin in the US. Its primary medical purpose, due to the fact that it will make a patient go unconscious and forget everything that occurred while under the effects of the drug, is as a low-level anaesthetic. However, due to its unusual capacity to both incapacitate a user as well as wipe their memory, Flunitrazepam has become associated with a more sinister use than surgery..’
‘Date rape.’ Said Anne.
‘Precisely.’ Orlaith got up and stretched her legs.
‘So, was Amy raped?’ Anne asked, with a look of disgust on her face.
‘No, I was right. No sign of any sexual contact at all.’ Said Orlaith.
Tommy nodded.
‘So, how do you think it happened?’ He asked.
‘Assailant strikes her with a blow to the forehead with a brick or some such object. Victim, hungry and probably drugged, falls to the ground, where the assailant proceeds to stab the victim repeatedly with a weapon in the style of either a hammer or fork. At least thirty different entries, though the fact that each stab is on the same part of the body perhaps hides repeat entries; the number could be as high as eighty.’
‘He stabbed her eighty fucking times?’ Asked Tommy.
‘Possibly.’ Said Orlaith.
‘This was personal.’ Said Tommy.
‘Usually such violence is associated with a deep hatred or anger, yes.’ Said Orlaith.
Tommy brushed his hand through his hair, and saw as a snow of dead skin cells and loose hair fell down in front of him – fucking dehydration. If he were to keep up the morphine, shaving his head would be the next move; he of course would not be keeping up the habit.
Hopefully.
‘We need to visit the Clancy’s.’ Said Tommy, getting up.
‘Oh, then Tommy, finally.’ Orlaith said as they got up. ‘Amy showed no defensive wounds.’ Orlaith said, as a cryptic answer to the unasked question. Tommy nodded on his way out to show he had understood.
##
The Clancy house in Rathmines was becoming something of a home away from home for Tommy lately, but he had rarely seen it in so sombre a mood. The couches had been moved out of th
e living room and all that was there was a large oak table over which was draped was a beautiful cotton tablecloth: set for the open casket. There were already approximately thirty or forty people in the house, and upon entering Tommy was reminded of one of his favourite childhood poems, one that had made his stomach jump every time he had read it after the death of his father; one that reminded him still of saying goodbye to Rebecca. The words echoed through his mind’s eye as he passed grandparents standing open mouthed with shock in the Clancy hallway.
At the door I met my father crying, he had always taken funerals in his stride.
Tommy had never taken funerals in his stride, not his dad’s and not Rebecca’s. In the living room he came upon the Clancy’s, Claire and Gary. Claire was silently weeping, tears carving pathways through her expensive foundation like a river through rock, while Gary just stared at his cup of tea growing cold.
As my mother held my hand in hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
Next to Gary sat his soon-to-be stepson, gently rocking from side. The boy, aged nineteen, was severely autistic; or so Tommy had been told. He was the only one in the entire house that didn’t seem at all to be sad over what had happened; instead he smiled about some joke no one seemed to get. From anything anybody said about him, however, Tommy believed him to be very independent, for the severity of the condition. He could even drive.
‘Gary, Claire, will you come with us?’ Asked Anne, in a soothing voice.
They led the two into the conservatory, where no one would be there to listen to their conversation, the rest would have to wait to hear the entire story.
I sat all morning in the college sick bay counting bells knelling classes to a close.
‘Ok, you guys. We’ve just gotten the autopsy report back on Amy. Now, some Gardaí think it’s good practice to cushion the truth a little, to lie a little, to those left behind after homicide. I disagree, I believe that from the off those left behind should know everything that occurred, because only then can grief be alleviated properly.’ Said Tommy.
‘Have you ever had to grieve Inspector?’ Asked Claire, in a hushed voice.
‘Twice; my father and my best friend. Though I’m told that the grief of losing a child is incomparable to anything else.’ Tommy took the report from Anne’s bag an opened it up.
‘May I?’ He asked.
‘Go ahead.’ Said Gary tearfully.
‘Amy was killed by the loss of blood from stab wounds to her chest. She was, however incapacitated when the stabbing took place, so she wouldn’t have felt pain.’ Said Tommy.
‘No pain at all?’ Asked Gary.
‘She had been incapacitated by a blow to the head, so the pain of that, perhaps, she briefly felt, before becoming unconscious.’ Said Tommy.
‘Cunt.’ Said Claire, voice brimming with rage. Everyone looked at her, briefly shocked, then looked away when they realised that they shouldn’t in fact be shocked.
‘When will the body arrive?’ Asked Gary.
‘She’s being taken to the funeral home as we speak, they should have her back in the house by midnight.’ Said Anne.
‘Thank you detectives.’ Said Gary; a broken man nodding his thanks.
##
Tommy’s car hugged the kerb on Kildare Street, sitting waiting in a row of taxi drivers. Every so often in front of him a large ministerial car would pull out of the gates of Leinster House, but he knew that Jennifer was afforded no such treatment. Backbenchers were expected to make their own way to and from the House; not that Tommy felt too sorry on that behalf however, Jennifer was paid handsomely in expenses for her travels, something most workers did not have the luxury of enjoying.
He saw her from a mile away, seeing as, even with the umbrella she carried to block out the rain also obscuring her face, her blonde hair was recognisable beyond a doubt, especially among the crowds of suited men that left the building with her. She was wearing a tight black suit, that lit up her body perfectly. Tanned skin and shocking white teeth, expensively straightened. Jennifer Costello was almost as tall as Tommy’s six foot, and with the heels she almost always wore, she towered over almost all her comrades. Long legs clad in what Tommy liked to think of as ‘Mrs Robinson’ tights. He felt his pulse quicken upon seeing her with his eyes, bedecked out so beautifully. He pressed down and unlocked the door of his Mondeo upon her reaching his car. She went first to the back seat and deposited in her suitcase, then came to the front seat and sat in.
‘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 go
ne 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.
First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) Page 9
