First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1)

by Colm-Christopher Collins

  ‘No, look, Detective, I was with a hoor last night; and I know nothing about the park; and.. And the afternoon Amy went missing, I was in the hoorhouse with the kid.’ David said.

  ‘The kid? You brought a fucking Autistic teenager who you were charged with caring for to a fucking prostitute, is it?’ Tommy said.

  ‘Yeah!’ David said, as if he was glad that was cleared up.

  ‘A seventeen year old disabled kid, you brought him to a brothel.’

  ‘Yes, you gotta believe me.’ David said.

  ‘Oh, I believe you.’ Said Tommy, standing and biting down on his knuckles.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you almost thought I was a killer.’ And with that David let out a relieved laugh.

  Tommy stared angrily, and David began to shrink in his chair. ‘Shame.’ Said Tommy.

  Then he lurched across the room and landed a punch right on David’s face, which made him teeter back on his chair and fall onto the ground. Then he landed two or three kicks on his torso, before Anne came running into the room.

  ‘Tommy!’ She shouted, and pushed his chest with surprising strength, driving him hard into the wall. Then she shut off the tape recorder.

  ‘Beating a suspect? This isn’t the fucking 80’s!’ Then she glanced back at David coughing on the ground.

  ‘You’re a DI.’ She said, and Tommy felt shame begin to tickle his neck

  She glared at him, and Tommy was strangely reminded of trying to get clean with two sisters to supervise you. Anne looked like she was going to blurt something out, but then her pocket started to buzz. She took out her phone.

  ‘Jerry, I can’t talk right now.’ She said.

  And from the tinny voice on the other end of the phone, Tommy could hear a whiny voice say. ‘The cameras are off.’

  Anne placed the phone into her pocket, and Tommy watched as her face turned from stern anger to blind rage. Then she turned, and with a booted foot, she kicked David Breen hard in the face.

  ‘You’ll never fucking work again.’ She said, in a voice considerably colder than usual.

  Tommy let her have her way with him for a minute or two, but then finally interfered, before finding that Anne was surprisingly harder to move than she seemed. He did however in the end manage to convince her to come out of the room with him.

  ‘So what do you think of his story?’ Tommy asked once Anne had gotten her breath back.

  Anne frowned. ‘I don’t know, it seems unlikely, don’t you think?’

  ‘It seems very likely to me to be honest, but he’ll need an alibi. You stay out here anyway, he probably wont be much in the talking mood after what you did to him.’

  Anne shrugged, so Tommy picked up a few tissues and went back into the interview room.

  ‘Here.’ He said, and he handed the paper towels over to Breen who wiped the blood from under his nose away.

  Tommy sat down and sighed. ‘If you really expect me to believe that someone who identified you as being in the Phoenix Park the night a body got dumped, and that you also have no clear alibi for the other two Ripper murders; but that we have the wrong guy, you’re gonna need to come up with a fucking alibi.’

  ‘The escorts, they’ll back me up.’ Said Breen.

  Tommy smiled to himself, knowing that finding an individual hooker in Dublin would be like finding the proverbial needle among the not so proverbial seedy whorehouses.

  17

  Claire Clancy worried at her thumbnail until it bled, then began to twist her hair into knots when her thumb became unusable. Waiting had never been her strong point, and Gary would be late to his own funeral; still he had called and had said it was urgent so she had no choice but to sit waiting in the kitchen for King dope to arrive. He’d enter with his idiotic buck toothed smile and Gorrila like walk.

  Silence sat heavy like fresh snow on every surface, where once Amy’s very essence used to bounce around these walls. Amy was warmth, Amy was life, Amy was happiness; and now? Amy was dead, and the world had died with her. All that was left for Claire Clancy was hatred and vengeance, fuels that sustained her better than any meal – parents had the right to vengeance upon those who kill their children.

  The rustling from the hallway told her Gary had arrived, so as he let himself in she took her hand away from her hair and hid her bleeding thumb under the kitchen table. As he entered she noted that his usual smile was missing, instead his eyes were narrowed with rage.

  ‘Gary.’ Said Claire, giving him the courtesy of a thin lipped smile.

  He stared at her, his lower lip shaking.

  ‘What’s wrong Gary?’ She asked, by way of a prompt.

  ‘You’re fucking him.’ He said.

  ‘Fucking who Gary?’ Claire replied.

  ‘The detective.’

  ‘I never knew that it was any of your business who I fucked actually; but since you ask, yes, I am.’ She said.

  Gary thought for a second or two, then spoke again. ‘Why?’ Was all he said.

  Claire had to think about that; she really was an awful liar, so if she claimed to like the detective, well she would hardly even convince herself. In truth, she hated the guy, everything about him repulsed her.

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I don’t even like him.’

  ‘Bullshit, you don’t know. Claire you only ever do things for a reason, malicious and all as they tend to be.’

  Claire looked him up and down. ‘He may be an ugly junkie; but he sure fucks better than you.’

  Gary’s face soured. ‘Mature.’ He said.

  ‘Does that irritate you Gary? To know that I’m pleased with someone else?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Are you pleased with him?’ Gary asked.

  ‘Not in the slightest, can’t stand the guy.’ Claire replied.

  ‘So why are you fucking him?!’

  ‘I never could stand you, but I fucked you anyway.’

  ‘Answer me!’ Gary said.

  Claire stood up. ‘Because, I have him right here.’ She said, pointing to the palm of her left hand.

  Gary glared.

  ‘He’s going to find this killer, and once he does the first person he’ll tell is me – and once that happens – I’m gonna kill whoever harmed my Amy.’ Claire said.

  ‘That oaf won’t find her, he’s as clueless as you and me.’ Gary said.

  ‘I think he will.’

  ‘Are you kidding, he doesn’t know shit about shit – fucking nonce.’ Gary said.

  ‘Well maybe they’re just lacking your help.’

  ‘I’ve helped in every way I can.’ Gary replied.

  Claire giggled. ‘No Gary, you don’t understand me. I mean that in the movies, when they’re catching a killer and are nonplussed, why who do they turn to next? Another murderer.’

  It happened quickly; Gary leaped forward, and despite her previously cool exterior, the sudden panic Claire felt stopped her from reacting as he put his hands around her throat and slammed her back into the oven.

  ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’ He shouted at her.

  Clair could see the individual hairs in Gary’s brows. Her breathing was restricted, but still she managed to speak.

  ‘I said that you’re a murderer.’

  His hands began to constrict around Claire’s throat, her airways blocked even further.

  ‘I swear to God Claire, I’ll do it, I’ll fucking do it.’ Gary said.

  She could see from the temper rising in his eyes that he was wholly serious, still she spoke regardless.

  ‘I knew one day she would end up murdered, just whether it would be you or some other nut…’

  The blow came hard against the side of her face, and she fell to her knees. The shadow of Gary stood over her as she felt the three teeth he had knocked out flowing around her mouth – he had always been as strong as he was tall and now that his blood was up, there was no stopping him.

  He grabbed the collar of her dress and lifted her up like a rag doll, before connecting with her temple – this time her vision swam,
pain spiked across her head and confusion ruled her brain. She barely processed it when he threw her onto the kitchen table, but she definitely noticed the next blow: a hard punch straight to her stomach.

  She fell onto the ground, gasping crazily for air, yet completely unable to fill her lungs as her body became a suit of pain. Gary was on her too, stamping and kicking and punching.

  It was over as quickly as it had begun and Gary Clancy stormed out while she was left bleeding and broken on the kitchen floor.

  ##

  Night had descended upon Dublin city, and a normally crowded Pearse Street was blissfully empty – except for a few drunks staggering blind and a few stragglers getting the last few buses home, no one had any reason to be here. That is, except for Anne and Tommy, who huddled together in a piss stained arch while a misty drizzle hazed its way onto the old streets.

  Anne had lay her head against his chest, and he could almost swear she was sleeping – Tommy, with his hood up covering his eyes could have been mistaken for being asleep too. It was tempting just to lean back against the black iron gate and drift off, god knows he needed it, yet he kept his eyes focused on the road before him.

  After a number of moments along came a man. He was wearing a loosely fitted shirt and tie, greasy with sweat after a day in the office – over that he had a large duffle coat, the collar of which kept interfering with his second chin. He stopped at a gigantic shop window and began to rub his fat fingers together in a nervous fashion. The shop was, of all things, one which sold second hand hardware – strange thing to be looking at ten o’clock at night.

  ‘John.’ Tommy whispered, and Anne’s only reaction was to open her eyes, still lying still against his chest.

  It took only two minutes for their quarry to arrive. She was breathtaking in her beauty, which was strange given that she worked in an industry where willing degradation eroded any freshness of appearance within two weeks. In five years of being a homicide detective Tommy had seen the dead bodies of twenty seven prostitutes, and he wondered if this girl was the best actor he had ever seen as she assuredly walked up to the strange punter without a care in the world or actually didn’t understand the danger she was undergoing mixing with the suited scum of Dublin.

  She was dressed like royalty, which was another thing of note with Dublin prostitutes, after their families in the third world or eastern bloc had gotten their weekly sub, the rest of the (usually substantial amount of) cash was blown early – something about the danger and draining nature of the job meant any ability to think long term was quickly destroyed. Prostitutes burned money on one of two things, drugs or designer brands, as their initial depth and integrity as a person gets eroded by the thousands of leering creeps whose sole purpose in life seems to push as far as they can get.

  This girl, who if Tommy had to guess from this distance would probably turn out to be South American, wore only the finest of clothes; so Tommy could then surmise, and hope for her sake, that she had so far avoided taking drugs. She walked up to the man before the window and flashed a smile so white it belonged in a Colgate commercial.

  ‘Jane.’ Tommy said, and both he and Anne moved.

  He put his hand around her waist as they stumbled across the empty road, just another lonely couple in a city of wanderers, except, as is prone to happen, Tommy stumbled crossing and Anne, attempting to hold him up staggered into him and both fell onto the wet kerb in front of the second hand goods store.

  Both John and Jane looked at them lying in the gutter and paused their conversation, unsure how to deal with the drunken man. Good thing then that they were shocked when Tommy sprung up in the full of health, leaped across the path, and grabbed the Latin girl’s arm in a steely grip.

  ‘Hey! Leave her alone!’ John shouted.

  Tommy laughed. ‘You know, you guys make me sick: you were literally going to fuck this girl who is half your age and finds you repulsive, just cause she’s poor and you’re rich – and now you’re gonna act the White Knight just before you start putting fags out on her? Fuck off you prick, DI Bishop.’

  And with that, Tommy took out his ID, and John scarpered as quick as he could.

  Jane was indignant. ‘What right have you, are you arresting me?’

  Her English was impressive.

  ‘No, not arresting you.’ Anne said, who they both had agreed would be better to do the talking.

  ‘Why won’t you let go of me then?’

  And Tommy saw that Jane had her thumb over a MACE spray on her gold keyring.

  ‘Don’t even think of pepper spraying a Garda.’ Tommy said.

  ‘We’re looking for someone. Find her for us, and you’ll be on your way.’

  ‘’You just cost me eight hundred euro, don’t think I’m in a very helpful mood officers, so perhaps you could just let me go.’

  ‘We’ll give you something in return.’ Anne said, and took from her pocket a card.

  Jane took it, and looking at it, scowling, asked what it was.

  ‘My number, next time some thugs try muscle out some of your profits, call me and I’ll get some of the heavies after them.’ Anne said.

  ‘So what, I trade one set of pimps for another, except this time they’re all in blue?’

  ‘You can look at it like that, but i won’t take a cent of your money, will I? You pay me in information; seems a much better deal to me.’

  Jane looked Anne up and down.

  ‘Ok, who do you want to find?’ She said.

  Tommy took a set of photos out of his pocket which had been printed off at the station.

  ‘This is a girl who goes by the work name of Jewel.’ Tommy said.

  Jane smiled.

  ‘Her real name is Yuan.’

  ‘Chinese so?’

  ‘No, Taiwanese. First heard of her about eight months ago – spends most of her time as your standard happy ending masseuse – only sometimes is she put out as a full escort. She’s not independent, no way, definitely earning for one of the big Chinese boys. You’d have to find anything else out for yourself.’

  ‘You speak with a very Irish accent.’ Tommy said.

  ‘There was an Irish missionary in my village in Bolivia, everyone there learned English from him.’

  ‘You also know a lot about your business.’

  The girl just shrugged.

  Tommy let go of her then, and she didn’t need a second chance, as she steered herself away into the rain.

  ‘So what now?’ Anne asked.

  ‘We’ve to find this hooker.’

  Once upon a time there was a division in Store Street Garda Station that dealt solely with prostitution; a wealth of knowledge, they had contacts enough to find any working girl south of the border within half an hour. The unit still theoretically existed for the purposes of press releases and the like, but during the recession it had had every single hour of manpower pulled from it, and had its budget reduced to zero so nowadays it was nothing but an empty title and prostitution was de facto legalised across the country.

  In the rain, Anne and Tommy walked back to the car.

  ‘You up for blagging our way into a whorehouse?’ Tommy asked, once he’d sat in.

  ‘Sure.’ Anne said. ‘How do we find them?’

  ‘Online.’

  She took out her phone then, and opened up the browser. A few minutes of searching and she was able to find one of Ireland’s most valued directories; 400 women, men and others, all for sale for the right price.

  ‘What the fuck am I looking fo here?’

  Tommy thought for a few seconds.

  ‘Chinese? Is there any kind of nationality search?’

  Anne frowned while she pushed the relevant buttons.

  ‘Oh, wow, there actually is. Asian prostitutes in Dublin. What now?’

  ‘Check them for addresses. Any of them repeat?’

  Anne scanned through. ‘One Fleet Street, one Dame Street, one Smithfield, one Jervis Street, one Jervis Street, one Jervis Street.’

&nbs
p; ‘That’s the one.’ Tommy said. ‘Ring it.’

  And so she did, Tommy taking the phone off her once it began to dial.

  ‘Herro.’ Said the voice on the other side of the phone after a few rings.

  ‘Hi, you, ehm, free tonight?’ Tommy said, completely nonplussed as to hooker hiring etiquette.

  ‘Yes honey, I am free.’ She said.

  ‘Jewel’s not working tonight is she?’

  ‘No honey, Jewel is off tonight baby; but I am good, I will give you good time.’

  ‘Ok so, like Jewel?’

  ‘Just like Jewel baby.’

  ‘Great, so where do I meet you?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Between the Morrison Hotel and the Jervis Centre, call me when you get here honey.’

  ‘Ok, I’m just fifteen minutes away.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Ok honey, I have big boobs and ass, you will have fun time baby.’

  And Tommy clicked off.

  ‘Drive to the Jervis Centre.’ He said.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Anne asked as they pulled out.

  And so Tommy explained.

  It took them little more than five minutes to cross the O’Connell Bridge and park near the cramped LUAS stop just off Jervis Street. Anne lit up a cigarette and Tommy got out of the car. On an electric wire a pair of shoddy runners were tied: drugs on sale here.

  Tommy rang the number again, and got directed to a large browned steel building, Jervis House ran the sign over its front gate. The voice on the phone told Tommy to hit the buzzer of number 45, and once he had, the heavy door swung inward and behind it an Asian woman was smiling.

  ‘Hello, come in.’ She said, putting down the phone which had been at her ear.

  Tommy followed her as she walked to the elevator.

  ‘What is your name honey?’ She asked once the elevator doors had closed.

  ‘John.’ Tommy said, smiling at his own joke.

  ‘Well I am Ling.’

  They were silent then, as she led him from the elevator and out towards her apartment. The door was slightly ajar, and they both slipped in making the least amount of noise possible. She led him along a dark hallway; heavy bedroom doors to the left and the right, till she brought him with her into the fifth room. It was cramped in there, a large double bed taking up most of the space, while fresh cream sheets were folded on the old bed.