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Book: First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) by Colm-Christopher Collins
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Authors: Colm-Christopher Collins
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bared.
Tommy unlocked the back door and whistled. Morris glanced up at him with one eye open but didn’t budge. Tommy now told him to get out, using a stern tone of voice and, not looking particularly happy about it, Morris walked out into the rain. Tommy locked the door after him.
From the hook beside the front door Tommy took the house key and with that he was gone. He sprinted out of his driveway, and putting up his hood against the spattering early morning rain, he jogged right. Along cracked suburban sidewalks with grassy segments he ran. The street was empty, as the rain meant even the elderly early risers decided to stay inside with their marmalade and brown bread.
Glenaulin was at the end of Tommy’s road, which turned once before the park. It sat behind a clump of high hedges meaning that to see anything in the park, one would have to be inside. The entry to the park was at the end of a cul-de-sac; and it was one of those three-gate designs all too common in Dublin, made specifically so that Travellers couldn’t get their horses in on council land. The cul-de-sac was rather quiet, but soon it would fill up with underage GAA players with their parents waiting to play their Saturday morning games. Tommy would have to remember to call the GAA and tell them all games in Glenaulin were cancelled.
Tommy quivered with nerves at the thought of the shitstorm this would cause, both in the press– the biggest case in the country
At the park entrance was a big man. Tommy had never seen before, but there could be no doubt that when you saw his thick jaw and awkward stance that he was a Garda. Tommy flashed his ID, and the big guy nodded and stepped aside.
‘Down that a way.’ Said the man minding the gate, pointing towards one end of the park.
The space where the body was dumped was clearly indicated by ten or so people surrounding the area and a tent already being erected behind the usual yellow tape. Tommy knew the place; it was a tiny stream that ended in a gawping storm drain that was built so the surrounding park wouldn’t flood too badly. Glenaulin was small, only two miles in length and even then was constructed in a dogleg, with one half being GAA pitches and the other half made for soccer; and neither side viewable from the other. It was adjoined from the south by the most ironically named place in Dublin; the Californian Hills, notable for grass that hadn’t been cut in a decade and syringes so old HIV didn’t even exist when they were first dumped.
The pitches were painted, ready for that afternoon’s set of games, and there was an air of expectation around the place. A hard gust blew along the park and sent a painful shiver down Tommy’s spine as rain droplets stung his eyes. He walked along the wet tarmac keeping an eye out for dogshit or broken bottles. None to be seen
The path turned right just before the stream and here he stepped off the tarmac.
‘Sean!’ He shouted at the man he recognised standing nearest to him.
McCabe turned and walked towards him.
‘What’ve we got?’ Tommy asked.
‘Like I said; a dead blonde child. She looks like Amy, but I didn’t want to make that claim because all I’ve seen are the photos in the paper.’ Said Sean.
McCabe was smarter than he looked so. Tommy looked down at the ground, examining the empty cider cans and naggins and the discarded Johnny’s, last Friday night had been as busy as ever.
‘You’re in Ballyfermot station right?’ Tommy asked.
‘Sure am.’ Said Sean.
‘Well, I need some foot men knocking on doors in the council estates. There was a party here last night and maybe one of the teenagers saw something.’ Tommy said.
‘The council estates? Two chances of getting an answer there.’ Sean said.
‘Just get someone to do it.’ Tommy said, and Sean nodded.
Tommy stepped under the crime scene tape and began the descent towards the stream. He nodded to another Sergeant he knew, and then finally came into the view of the
Tommy unlocked the back door and whistled. Morris glanced up at him with one eye open but didn’t budge. Tommy now told him to get out, using a stern tone of voice and, not looking particularly happy about it, Morris walked out into the rain. Tommy locked the door after him.
From the hook beside the front door Tommy took the house key and with that he was gone. He sprinted out of his driveway, and putting up his hood against the spattering early morning rain, he jogged right. Along cracked suburban sidewalks with grassy segments he ran. The street was empty, as the rain meant even the elderly early risers decided to stay inside with their marmalade and brown bread.
Glenaulin was at the end of Tommy’s road, which turned once before the park. It sat behind a clump of high hedges meaning that to see anything in the park, one would have to be inside. The entry to the park was at the end of a cul-de-sac; and it was one of those three-gate designs all too common in Dublin, made specifically so that Travellers couldn’t get their horses in on council land. The cul-de-sac was rather quiet, but soon it would fill up with underage GAA players with their parents waiting to play their Saturday morning games. Tommy would have to remember to call the GAA and tell them all games in Glenaulin were cancelled.
Tommy quivered with nerves at the thought of the shitstorm this would cause, both in the press– the biggest case in the country
At the park entrance was a big man. Tommy had never seen before, but there could be no doubt that when you saw his thick jaw and awkward stance that he was a Garda. Tommy flashed his ID, and the big guy nodded and stepped aside.
‘Down that a way.’ Said the man minding the gate, pointing towards one end of the park.
The space where the body was dumped was clearly indicated by ten or so people surrounding the area and a tent already being erected behind the usual yellow tape. Tommy knew the place; it was a tiny stream that ended in a gawping storm drain that was built so the surrounding park wouldn’t flood too badly. Glenaulin was small, only two miles in length and even then was constructed in a dogleg, with one half being GAA pitches and the other half made for soccer; and neither side viewable from the other. It was adjoined from the south by the most ironically named place in Dublin; the Californian Hills, notable for grass that hadn’t been cut in a decade and syringes so old HIV didn’t even exist when they were first dumped.
The pitches were painted, ready for that afternoon’s set of games, and there was an air of expectation around the place. A hard gust blew along the park and sent a painful shiver down Tommy’s spine as rain droplets stung his eyes. He walked along the wet tarmac keeping an eye out for dogshit or broken bottles. None to be seen
The path turned right just before the stream and here he stepped off the tarmac.
‘Sean!’ He shouted at the man he recognised standing nearest to him.
McCabe turned and walked towards him.
‘What’ve we got?’ Tommy asked.
‘Like I said; a dead blonde child. She looks like Amy, but I didn’t want to make that claim because all I’ve seen are the photos in the paper.’ Said Sean.
McCabe was smarter than he looked so. Tommy looked down at the ground, examining the empty cider cans and naggins and the discarded Johnny’s, last Friday night had been as busy as ever.
‘You’re in Ballyfermot station right?’ Tommy asked.
‘Sure am.’ Said Sean.
‘Well, I need some foot men knocking on doors in the council estates. There was a party here last night and maybe one of the teenagers saw something.’ Tommy said.
‘The council estates? Two chances of getting an answer there.’ Sean said.
‘Just get someone to do it.’ Tommy said, and Sean nodded.
Tommy stepped under the crime scene tape and began the descent towards the stream. He nodded to another Sergeant he knew, and then finally came into the view of the
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