First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1)

by Colm-Christopher Collins

  ‘But he who dares not grasp the thorn, should never crave the rose.’ Claire said.

  In response Tommy let go of her hand, and lifted up the grey turtleneck over her head. Her long blonde hair fell like cascading snows, flowing down her shoulders and her braless chest and Tommy grabbed a breast in each hand and kissed her lips. Then he leaped up and took off his clothes with a pace that alarmed even himself - Claire did the same, taking off her expensive jeans and then her plain white panties.

  Then she got up on the table and lay on her back, seemingly waiting for him. Tommy leaned over her, and much to her surprise, bit her stomach. She winced in pain, but seemed not to mind, so Tommy kept on biting, and it was long after Tommy was drowning in metallic tasting blood that she screamed, asking him to stop. Then she got down off the table and kissed him full on the lips, taking the mouthful of blood from Tommy before he’d had a chance to either swallow or spit.

  He thrust with more aggression than he ever had with Jennifer, but with every deep entrance Claire sighed and seemed to want him to enter even further. After a while he began to ache as he struggled to keep his weight, cold turkey hadn’t been very conductive to fitness, but all the while he also felt a pleasure deep within himself so he held on as the pain and exhaustion mounted. Finally, a deep groan wrought its way through his body, and Claire brought him in close, as he came deep inside her in a moment of ecstasy.

  He rolled off her as soon as finished, and felt the layer of sweat cool as it came into friction with the kitchen air. He turned around, ready to apologise for whatever wrong he had committed, but Claire was up too, and she took his hand in hers, and dragged him with her.

  When they reached the stairs she turned and spoke. ‘Just like that Kris Kristofferson song.’

  Tommy didn’t know what she meant, but he followed her swaying hips up the stairs regardless, and together they went to bed.

  ##

  Tommy walked along in the rain, it was a pain, but he had to park at least half a mile away from the house – around here a locked car was in no way a secure car. The stony pebbledash wall to his right was coated in graffiti, most of it just scribbled names or some kinds of cultural logos, including a Nigerian and an Irish flag; but closer to the estate the paint began to show that favourite symbol of Irish racists. The Celtic Cross, Tommy had heard it called, and it consisted of a swastika drawn in the style of St Brigid’s Cross imposed upon an Ogham Stone. Those racists who were slightly less creative merely used the standard set of slogans that adorned walls such as these.

  Behind the wall there stood several battered houses had been thrown together sometime during the Celtic Tiger and the council had somehow ended up owning the lot of them. There were plenty of spots in Dublin where poverty was the local currency, but Mulhuddart was one of the few that qualified as a ghetto in the style of the UK or US, as walking the streets one felt that only one in ten households didn’t belong to a first generation immigrant. However, even for such an area, this small cul-de-sac of houses Tommy entered looked particularly beaten up.

  The council had rented out the houses for a year until an undoubtedly well-meaning County Councillor allowed a Romani family have the occupancy of the house. The equally well-meaning neighbours, upon hearing this, ran as far from the estate as they could, and the only people the council could find who would accept living there were other Romani families.

  All this was according to the local Garda Tommy had checked in with, who told him that around about 2010 the water and electricity had been cut off; and houses even in neighbouring estates had begun to lose value and two or three times now locals in Mulhuddart had attempted; legally first, then through force; to remove the families. Yet, still they clung, thirty or forty gypsies living in the shell of what once was three houses; some of which had been burned to the ground in the intervening years. Most were eligible for social welfare, the rest got through by working in the black economy.

  Or so, anyway, the case worker with Pavee Point Tommy was travelling with told him, though inside Tommy guessed that their work in the black economy consisted mainly of either begging or other forms of criminality with which the Romani in modern Ireland had become associated with, though he understood why the caseworker referred to it as such.

  They reached the front of the estate, which was guarded by a makeshift gate of iron and wood. Upon pushing it, a loud shriek emanated from the hinges, and they were in. Tommy stared at the scene before him.

  ‘I thought you said there were only between thirty and forty of them.’ He said, surveying the scene in front of him.

  ‘It just looks like more, because the children all play in the middle. They are afraid of the glass that gets lobbed over the walls.’

  Tommy looked at the walls inside here, and saw that there were lined with glass and barbed wire to keep intruders out, however from the inside, it felt awfully like it was to keep the people in.

  When Tommy and the caseworker stepped into the centre of the small green, the children kept playing, but all the adults grew quiet. The caseworker, who had told Tommy he was born in Poland, began to speak in a staccato language, that Tommy didn’t understand, and he received a swift reply from a giant man sitting in a deck chair.

  ‘They want to know when they get the kid back.’ Said Robert, the caseworker, to Tommy.

  Tommy surmised they meant Aishe’s child.

  ‘He’s in the care of Tusla at the moment.’ Said Tommy.

  The man replied. ‘Yes, but they want to know when it is they will get him back. They want him back.’ Translated Robert.

  Tommy sighed, he wasn’t sure when the child would be returned, or, taking in some of the surrounding conditions, whether he would be returned at all. Growing up with no access to school, water and electricity would act as reason enough for the child to be taken into care, especially as the child had no natural parents to advocate he be kept.

  ‘Ask him whether they know the child’s father.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘He says that Aishe’s husband is in Romania.’ Said Robert after he had translated.

  Married and a child at thirteen years of age. Tommy took a deep breath, about to speak, but the large man spoke first.

  ‘He wants to know how it is that you know that the Ripper killed Aishe.’ Said Robert.

  ‘The injuries, the victim, the abduction. They all match up.’ Said Tommy, and after interpretation, Tommy saw the large man’s eyes narrow. The existence of the message board hadn’t been made public.

  ‘He’s after asking what it is you want.’

  Tommy pursed his lips. ‘What she was doing that day, her routine.’

  The large man shouted over to the green, and the Tommy saw a lot of shifting, and from the shell of a house ran a middle aged woman, with her billowing yellow skirt blowing in the breeze. She shouted at the large man, who then shouted back, with the two talking across each other, before the woman jumped up in excitement and turned to Tommy.

  ‘Ehm.’ She said, trying to formulate the thought. Robert intervened, and spoke across to her, and she smiled a weary smile and began to speak back to him. Her haggard figure told Tommy everything he needed to, this was Aishe’s mother.

  ‘She wants to know what you want to know.’

  ‘What she was doing that day, her routine.’ Repeated Tommy.

  Robert listened and began to translate while she was speaking.

  ‘She woke up.. Fed the baby.. At ten she walked down to Blanchardstown Shopping Centre with everyone else.. She went and ate at KFC with the baby with the last of her money, she had had a fight with Gregor, and needed to be alone with the baby… Then she collected her dole alone and went for a walk with the baby to tire him out.. Everyone else walked home.. She was taken on her way home..’

  Tommy touched his brow.

  ‘What time was it you last saw her?’

  ‘Between twelve and one, she says.’ Robert said.

  The mother spoke again.

  ‘When will they get the c
hild?’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with me.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Well we want her back.’ The voice came from behind Tommy’s back. It was a Romani man, who couldn’t have been much older than nineteen. Tommy’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the rifle he was carrying.

  ‘Woah.. Woah.. Woah..’ Robert raised his hands and walked towards the kid to try and get him to put the gun down.

  Tommy reached into his holster and took out his Sig Sauer, clicking off the safety. Eyeing the kid up, Tommy knew he’d shoot the young guy before he had time to lift his rifle. His hands were steady and no sweat touched his brow – you don’t last long in the Branch if you’re afraid of guns. Still, there were several obvious reasons to avoid trouble here, notably the kids running around on the green.

  ‘Robert, let’s go.’ Tommy said.

  Robert turned to him, then paled when he saw the Sig half raised in Tommy’s hands.

  ‘I thought the Gardaí were unarmed.’ He said.

  ‘NBCI.’ Tommy said by way of an answer. ‘Now let’s fucking go.’

  ‘We want the baby back!’ Shouted the kid after him as he left the estate with Robert in tow.

  #

  Anne had caught up with them, and was standing against Tommy’s car smoking.

  ‘Put that out. What did you learn?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Checked the CCTV and she left the Blanchardstown Centre at two.’

  ‘Mother says one was the last time she saw her.’

  ‘So what now?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Fucked if I know.’ Tommy said, and he got in behind the wheel of his Toyota and drove off.

  13

  The rain was pouring heavy on the tarmacadam as Tommy stepped out of the car. He put the hood of his already sodded coat up over his forehead, but it did little to prevent the water from running over his face. Luckily for himself, the women’s refuge wasn’t too far off the main road. He locked the car behind him and strolled into the shadowy housing estate – most of the houses being used by the elderly or foreign students. At the back of the houses sat a large building that looked something like a small school, it was grey concrete, which was slowly turning darker the wetter it became. When Tommy reached the door and pushed the bell, a light came on behind the tinted windows. The door opened and a Nigerian woman in what appeared to be a nurse’s uniform stuck her head out to look at him.

  Tommy held up his ID. ‘Detective Inspector Thomas Bishop.’

  The woman opened up, then invited Tommy in from the rain, to a curved reception desk where nearby there stood some fire retardant armchairs. Tommy took a seat while the woman who had opened the door went down a darkly lit hallway. It was only nine o’clock in the evening but the place was silent and sleepy. The only thing Tommy could hear was a TV somewhere nearby, playing the nine o’clock news to some audience somewhere. In the dark corridor, a nine year old boy emerged, picked up a toy he had left outside, then quickly receded back to wherever he had come from.

  Finally, Tommy’s quarry arrived. The boss of the centre, Lauren Brady, was a woman in her fifties – she had stayed late at Tommy’s request, with the plan to discuss something with the Detective.

  ‘Detective, perhaps you could come with me, we can speak in my office if you want.’ She said.

  Tommy nodded and rose, following her into a small, cramped room. It was like everything in the home: in need of considerably more funding.

  ‘What can I do for you Detective?’ Lauren asked, once they’d sat down.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of your patron, and the Chairwoman of your board.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Elizabeth O’Hara? Yes, it was awful. But I thought the Gardaí had found that her husband did it?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘I’m just tying up some loose ends.’ Tommy said.

  The nurse entered, and handed a cup of tea over to her boss.

  ‘Ironic. All the work that Elizabeth did for this place, to have been killed in an incident of domestic violence. Lord knows, perhaps she needed our help the whole time she was supporting us.’ Lauren said.

  ‘Can I get you anything Detective?’ The nurse asked.

  ‘No thank you.’ Tommy said.

  Then she left them alone.

  ‘Mrs Brady, you know what Elizabeth O’Hara looks like yes?’ Tommy asked.

  Lauren considered for a moment, then spoke. ‘Actually, I don’t think I ever saw the woman in person. I’ve been running things here for twenty years, and she and I never met.’

  Tommy took a photo from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  ‘Well this is her.’ He said.

  Lauren looked at it for a second, before her eyes widened, she dropped her cup of tea, and she murmured the word ‘Rachel’.

  ‘Shit!’ She said, as the cup shattered and warm tea splashed everywhere.

  Tommy helped with the clean up, with large tissues being used to mop up the tea, and a sweeping brush to gather the shards of the cup. Then he spoke.

  ‘Who was she?’ Tommy asked, as he emptied the dustpan into the bin in the corner of the office.

  ‘I.. I don’t know.’

  ‘She’s dead Lauren, you have no confidence left to break.’ Tommy said.

  ‘No, I know, but I actually don’t know who she is.’ Lauren said.

  The rain was throbbing softly against the reinforced window. Tommy wondered why exactly it was reinforced.

  ‘Who’s Rachel?’ Tommy asked.

  Lauren worried at her lip. Tommy considered asking her to elaborate further, attempting persuasion or intimidation, but instinct told him to sit tight; silence coaxes secrets from a nervous witness like a poultice coaxes pus from a wound. And so it turned out that he was right, as she spoke after a minute.

  ‘I remember her well. She arrived sometime in, oh, I think it may have been 2002. Hang on a second.’

  Then Lauren turned to the filing cabinet behind her, found the third drawer down, and opened on up. She flicked through until she pulled out a deep blue folder, which she took to her desk.

  ‘She called herself Rachel Robinson, but had no ID to verify that claim. She arrived in March 2002, and stayed until September.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘She moved in with a new partner.’ Lauren said.

  ‘Who?’ Tommy asked, deducing from the way she had said it meant that she had known the partner.

  ‘Uhm..’

  ‘Who?’ Tommy said, sterner now.

  ‘Here.’ Said Lauren, as she pulled out a notepad from her desk. ‘She, uhm, ended up dating a girl I was very friendly with at the time.’

  ‘A girl?’ Tommy asked, before stopping himself.

  ‘Yes, Detective, a girl – it has been known to happen you know. Here is her address.’ Lauren said, and then she scribbled on the first clean page of the notepad and handed it over to Tommy.

  Tommy glanced down at the page.

  ‘Georgia Power. Think I could visit her tonight?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘I haven’t a clue, I haven’t spoken to her in several months.’ Lauren said.

  ‘Will she have known that, Rachel, is dead?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Unlikely.’ Lauren said.

  ‘Then I shall handle this with utmost care.’ Tommy said, nodded, then left the room.

  The nurse was waiting by the door, and she smiled politely as Tommy stepped out into the rain, which the darkness had done nothing to dispel. Getting in behind the wheel, Tommy pinned the address to his dashboard. He knew the area well, though it would be a trek at any time of the day. Thankfully traffic had died out in the later evening, but it had not died out enough to make Tommy wish he was doped by the time he had pulled in off the M50 and was driving towards Fairview. He intersected Clontarf, the traffic slowing to a crawl as red stop lights shone through the wet air by the thousands. Finally, however, where the two towns meet, Tommy found the house, stuck in a tiny lane off the noise of north Dublin City.

  He parked up on the kerb,
blocking the residents from leaving, but he was expecting to be able to keep them occupied. The house was tiny and old, redbrick, the kind built between the wars for veterans of the trenches. Tommy knocked on the heavy black frame, which was then opened up by a figure shrouded in the hall light.

  The person was, to put it one way, androgynous, or to put it more simply, Tommy had never before been so confused as to the sex of an individual. Brown hair that would be long for a man and short for a woman flopped down to the person’s eyebrows. She had a neck too narrow for an adam’s apple, a chest too flat for breasts, and a stance enumerative of neither masculine nor feminine temperament. Tommy took his ID from his pocket.

  ‘Detective Inspector Thomas Bishop, I’m looking for Georgia Power.’

  The figure in the doorway looked him up and down, then stepped aside with a smile.

  ‘Come in Detective, it’s too cold to talk at the door.’ The person said in a south Dublin accent that was as androgynous as him/her – Tommy decided against trying to guess. Tommy was led into the small house and into a tiny living room, adorned only with thousands of books spotting the bookshelves on the wall.

  ‘Georgia, love, this is Detective Inspector Thomas Bishop. Did I get that right?’ The person said, in reference to a woman lying back on a couch with a paperback in her hand.

  ‘Bang on, how are you Ms Power.’ Tommy said, as Georgia stood up to shake his hand.

  ‘Very good Detective.’ She said, her clammy hand closing around Tommy’s.

  Tommy sat, and so did the other two.

  ‘Ms Power, I’ll get straight to it. I’m here about Rachel Robinson. Did you know her?’ But Tommy didn’t need to ask, upon the mention of Rachel’s name, Georgia’s face clouded over with something between shock, rage, and a mouth full of sour sweets.

  ‘I see you know her.’ Tommy said.

  Georgia scowled. ‘Her name’s not Rachel Detective.’

  ‘I know, I was hoping you could tell me her true identity, if I’m being honest.’ Tommy said.