Chapter One

I still don’t know why I went or why I go to these. It was pissing down and freezing. I hadn’t decided whether to go to the burial, but knew I probably would. We always do. Thomas Dent was dead. Thank God say we. Thank God says every person and every family affected by his decades as Dublin’s main crime lord.

Outside the church, a couple of photographers and Niall Healy from the Evening Journal tried to get me to stop and give a comment. Modern science is a wonderful thing and I’m often more than amazed at how science not only managed to mould a pile of shite into a humanoid structure just under six foot, but also managed to clothe it, equip it with a pad and pen and get it a job at the leading evening newspaper. I politely declined the offer. Polite meant sticking with the second word of a well-known phrase, “off” and  being at liberty to choose what precedes it.

On entering, I tried to sit at the back, but there was no room. The place was packed out with faces that would, and do fill mug shot books. So I had to sit near the front causing some uneasy stares and minor threats from those around me. As only a member of the Garda Síochána could. Though there was no reaction from the grieving sons of Thomas, Danny and Liam. Not even a flicker of recognition.

Funny the respect we show at these things. Six vans probably wouldn’t be enough to pick up all the bail skips and outstanding warrants seated here, but even we have standards, sometimes. My standards and tastes though tend not to cover the parade of numerous black limousines that followed the hearse, and certainly not the garish display that kept the local florist in business for a year. Various declarations of “Tommy”, “Dad” and even a floral pint of Guinness were strewn around the back of the hearse. What’s that thing that money can’t buy you? I’m half surprised there wasn’t a horse drawn carriage and a lone piper.

Apart from the numerous people around me modelling the latest designs in sports wear, there was an old lady in a head scarf and blue trench coat. I’m not sure she even knew the family, more likely she’d been scouring the announcements in the Journal and decided this is a good way to spend a cold and wet Saturday afternoon in January. She turned to me with a non-too-sympathetic look of one that recognises a fellow curious outsider like herself.

“They always come in threes.” She said.

“What do?”

“Funerals, they always come in threes. Or so they say.”

“Right. Does that just include me or the other two hundred people also sat here? I mean If we’re all going to suddenly witness three deaths, that’s six hundred funerals just us sat here can expect in the next few weeks, or whatever time period you’re attaching to this superstition. And then there are all the other people also at the next funerals we’ll be attending. Does the same also apply to them? If so, by that reasoning half the population of Ireland will be dead in a matter of months.” That was what I should have said, instead it came out something like a noncommittal “Meh.” She turned around in disgust.

In the front row sat the family, his widow and his two sons along with his remaining siblings. Father Eoin said Thomas was a loveable rogue. Maybe. He was a pleasant enough man to talk to and he did look after his family. So yeah, maybe he was loveable. Definition of rogue though had been stretched. Poetic licence, especially seeing as there are at least fifteen murders still open on my desk linked to him, plus the other five we definitely know was him but just haven’t been able to get any people to come forward on. What about loveable evil shit, or loveable psychopath? Probably a good idea I’m not a speech-writer then. God seems an ok guy though and I should get to know him better. Father Eoin reckoned Thomas is in heaven, Thomas is only a loveable rogue, so who knows what it takes to be an evil bastard in this God’s eyes, but at least it gave me hope.

There was a buzzing that came from my coat pocket. I’d put the phone on silent before coming into the church, but had forgotten it vibrated and it drummed off my house keys. Apart from general tutting around me (though they never even raised an eyebrow when several beeps and high pitch versions of dance songs went off previously)…I keep forgetting I’m different. Anyway, their tuts became even more venomous when I had to squeeze past while they were all kneeling in prayer, with no sense of hypocrisy, to take the call.

 “Jim Byrne.” I said.

“What?” I tried to yell, but with some respect and as quiet as I could be outside, though I’m not sure why. There was certainly no respect for Dent, but then churches of any denomination always made me feel like a guilty eight year old. The Control Centre back at The National Bureau of Criminal Investigation was not only hard to hear due to the weather, but also appeared to be talking some form of nonsense.

“There’s a guy in hospital, we need someone to interview him. He, well, he’s freaked the nurses out a bit and he wants to give a statement to us. And, well Jim, you’re down as being on call.”

“I’m always on call. Send a uniform down.”

“We did and they reckon we need a Detective down there.”

So that was the choice, freeze my bollocks off while they finally put that bastard in a big hole in the ground (rather than send a bouquet I’d toyed with the idea of sending several tonnes of concrete just to make sure he was properly buried), or go along to Beaumont A&E and interview some drugged up nut who’s decided to scare the Nurses. Depressing it may be, but at least Beaumont Hospital would be warm.

Sure I had warmth but at what cost? I’m sat next to a radiator with my back now resembling crispy duck and the rest of me drenched in sweat. I’d have been more comfortable at the graveyard. The guy in question seemed to have played a good card, as by pretending he’s nuts, he’s bypassed the two day wait in a trolley on the corridors and had managed to find an actual bed in an actual ward. However, I had to sit there in the waiting room with all these “serious” casualties with their sprained thumbs and sniffles that just couldn’t wait or heaven forbid they just get over it. Eventually a nurse came down to take me to the ward.

I could have gone myself, but I always get lost and end up walking in on the maternity ward at feeding time or the old lady ward at bed bath time.

The guy must had some good medical insurance benefits, he’s got a room to himself and he was sleeping. I brought the chair to his bedside loudly enough so that he soon woke up.

“Uh…”

“Detective Jim Byrne, you have a statement you wish to make sir.”

“Uh, yeah, just let me get some water.”

I passed him the glass of water that felt hotter than the room and seemed to have all the purity as if it had come direct from the Ganges via the bladder of a dead goat.

"What’s your name son?"

“Thanks. Peter Lyons. Ok, well I told the guard here earlier what happened, but he didn’t seem to think it was his area.”

“No offence sir, but if it’s a case that might involve some work, I should tell you that it’s a pretty packed day of sporting fixtures this afternoon, so he’s probably reluctant to take on much that may involve missing any of the matches. It doesn’t necessarily mean what you have to say is that special, just he knows I don’t like football or rugby.”

“Erm, thanks.  You always this blunt?”

“About eighty percent of the time. Other twenty I’m just obnoxious.”

 “Ha, well I won’t keep you. Not much to say really, not too sure why I’m here. I mean in this room. I just blacked out in the Eddie Rockets, and well next thing I’m here.”

“No sir, that’s all right. See we investigate every case of lost consciousness, especially ones involving a chain of faux American Diners. That happens to be my speciality in the guards. It’s the least we can do after all you paid for our training in Templemoore and for the most uncomfortable uniform a person could be expected wear. It’s our pleasure.”

“This is the other twenty percent right? Yeah I blacked out, but it’s more what happened after, or during, I don’t know. I never asked for the gardai, just that the nurse check with them. I think I saw something and just wanted it checking.”

He sat up at this point. It’s amazing how even up close someone lying in their most vulnerable position (their favourite sleeping position) can appear so different. He was a young (about twenty two I’d say) tall guy, probably good looking, not that I’d be a judge of that. He wasn’t looking too bad for someone who’s passed out in a diner, been passed off as mad in a hospital and been woken up by a grumpy detective.

“Why don’t we just begin at the beginning?”

“I live around Phibsborough and had gone out to Eddie Rockets because I hadn’t eaten for a day. I’m an artist, it can happen when on a roll, you try to get it all out before you hit a block again. That and I was craving some cheese and bacon fries. Anyway I had the fries and a chilli burger and I was almost finished when this girl passed. Man she was gorgeous, but that’s another story, anyway as she passed someone else was coming the other way and she stopped near me to let them pass, as she did, she hit off my shoulder. Then it all went weird.”

“Weird? I’m afraid to say that unfortunately weird isn’t a specific legal term at this moment in time.”

“Weird as in why I’m here.”

“You fainted.”

“Blacked out. No. Look. When she hit me, I think I passed out, but before that I saw her. Not there, not then, but it was her. She was dead or dying. I was…I mean someone was stabbing very slowly. It was me, or I was seeing through their eyes. It was like I had all the time in the world just smiling at her like it’ll all be ok and over with very soon. She was there, naked and she was being killed with a knife. When the slashing had stopped I could just see her lying there dead. There was blood everywhere, I could smell and taste it.

“But through all that, she was looking at me, and I could see her face. THEN I blacked out.”

“So you had a bad dream and then passed out? Maybe the bacon was off.”

I’d been here before. Bloody psychics. So many times we’d been working our bollocks off to solve a case. Chased every lead, searched every area, spoken to every possible person we can only for some dear old lady to come forward and claim the spirits can tell her where the body is. Naturally we consider everything in the investigation, we’d be slated for not doing. So this old dear with her open channel to the spirit world manages after an hour to come up with the vaguest information possible. I mean if what comes through passes as conversation in the spirit world then hopefully I’ll be damned and kept out of there. I’d rather be pushing a rock up a cliff than spend eternity trying to tell a second cousin who’s never heard of me where their lost ring is.

At the end of all the spirit communication we’d have a list of points telling us that the body is to be found in some woods, off the main walkway and there may be water nearby. Well feck me! She’d solved it, now we just had to track down a wooded area with a walkway and water nearby…oh wait that’s all of them in a country full of them. Cheers.

So we’d ignore it. We continued to work our bollocks off and eventually through pure slog and some even greater pure luck we’d find a body. Yes it was in some woodland, I’ll accept that, but then outside of leaving them in the street or a house for us to find in a few hours, where else is someone going to hide a body? That’s right, the bleeding woods. And would you leave it on the walkway, erm no someone will see you, so you take it off. And let’s face it, this is Ireland, it’s wet. Try being more than three feet away from water of some kind at any one point in time. Then what happens? Do we get credit by anyone for our work? No. All of a sudden this dear old lady sells her story of how she helped us solve it and we’re made to look like incompetent fools who should employ these cranks on a full time basis.

So forgive me if I was being a bit short with this kid. Any possible humour that there might have been in his face had now disappeared.

“Detective, I’ve told this tale three times now, and yes everyone has been the same in their response. Thing is I never asked for this. I never said send me the grumpiest bastard detective so I can be made to feel like a prick. No, all I asked was if there has been any incidents or bodies found. The vision, or whatever, freaked me out and I just wanted to make sure it was bad bacon, or the fact that I’m knackered. I never asked for you.”

“Sure, look I’m sorry. But we’ve all had bad dreams, we’ve all dreamt of family members, car crashes, plane crashes and woken up expecting something to be on the news or a phone call and it never happens. It happens all the time. What time did this happen?”

“I went there about four o’clock, I think the ambulance came at half four or so.”

And that was it, the extent to my Saturday so far, one funeral, one sauna like packed hospital and one guy who passed out due to hunger and tiredness and thinks he’s the next Nostradamus. I left him to his sleep and made for the exit. Once I got outside the furnace of the hospital I was hit by arctic conditions, I threw my notes of the conversation in the bin on the way out.

Chapter Two

I got up that Monday like I have done every single Monday as far as I could remember, loathing and dread of another five days if I’m lucky and promising myself that I will get that early night and tonight I’ll do the Lotto. I can’t recall a week since I dropped out of UCD and trundled off to the Garda College at Templemore those twenty five years ago when I hadn’t promised myself this and when I subsequently had ever actually got that early night.

No paper delivery, must remember to stop at the shop. Another thing I missed, some kid weighed down with a bag full of papers, pushing and shredding the thing through your door. At least it saved us the effort of walking fifty yards to the shop ourselves. I qualify as being Irish because of my dad. Having said that it’s an odd situation to be in, I was born in England, my mum’s English and for ten years I lived in England (not that at that age it’s makes any difference what nationality you are), but Dad missed Dublin and ended up setting up his legal practice here so we all shifted over. I soon lost the accent, the accent that not only caused a few fights, but also caused a few problems in Irish class, or for the first few years having to ask to go the toilet in Irish. I still haven’t lost though the feeling that I don’t seem to belong either here, or back home. Despite knowing both like the back of my hand, they are still alien places to me.

I got into property at the right time, or so they say. It’s true that I picked up the house in Goldenbridge for next to nothing and that even now it would now be worth more than I could ever spend, but I got a nice amount when my dad retired and sold on his business and it paid for the whole lot. I didn’t have to scrimp and save a penny, I feel like I cheated the system. Anyway, it’s not a bad spot and there’s the LUAS tramline a mere five minutes from my house. I ditched having a car a long time ago, didn’t really see a need as I rarely left the Dublin area, and when Public Transport wasn’t an option or when out the area, I could always use one of the NBCI’s pool cars.

Despite the best efforts of the network operators and the car drivers of Dublin, the LUAS was on time, and predictably faces and bodies are pressed against the door, undoubtedly so since Tallaght. I squeezed on through the dense mass at the door and into the aisles, which as usual are relatively spacious and person free.

So, it was another day. Another day filled with dread. Another Monday only marked by it’s familiarity to every other Monday that had ever passed in my forty five years and it proceeding another unremarkable weekend. All in all I’m quite cheery today.

“You look like shit.”

Detective Roche, as good as we’ve got here to someone passing for a detective bordering on the competent and that includes me. That means he should only be treated with the deepest suspicion. He walked up to my desk with one of those thermos travel mugs filled with coffee.

“Thanks Noel. You never think you’re too chirpy for Monday mornings? And that it’s me who just looks normal. And you who’s the freak looking unnaturally fresh?”

Now “fresh” in the spirit sense is something I could never lay claim to. I may physically be fresh from a morning shower, my clothes may be freshly laundered (or more accurately aired for a couple of days), but fresh? Nah. Annual leave is a burden. You have to plan days off, you have to arrange to do things. It’s hard enough coming into work on a Monday to be asked “have a good weekend?” Or “What did you get up to at the weekend?” How many times can I keep saying “not much” “usual” “ah had a quiet one” before people stop putting me on the spot like that? If I took holidays then it’d be even worse coming in and saying I did nothing. Nothing happened, nothing was achieved, nothing was completed except the complete satisfaction of not having to spend significant portions of my rapidly expiring life sharing air and consciousness with you lot.

Roche perched on the front of my desk. I wasn’t sure of the logic behind me disliking this, considering it’s a crappy desk anyway, but it’s an invasion I’ve never been comfortable with. I’m sure Roche knew this.

“Always with the melodrama Jim. There are times when people listen to The Smiths after being with you, just to cheer them up.”

“What has you in at this time anyway, or at least not sniffing around Deirdre in reception for an hour?”

“How do you manage to go an entire commute without seeing or hearing a headline? A body’s been found over in Castleknock. Young girl, no ID yet. Some bastard took a knife to her and really cut her up.”

“Shit, why didn’t anybody call me?”

“Probably because there are, um let me see…other detectives who work here as well as yourself. Shit the bed Jim, the squad doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Fine, but Castleknock’s my old patch, out of courtesy someone could have left me a message. Jesus, when were you going to drop that into the conversation? After a mind numbingly inane conversation about the weekend’s sporting highlights and controversies? “Oh, yeah Jim that ref’s a twat, how could he have missed that, Fergie’s got to have had him in his pocket and by the way we’ve had a murder right around where you worked for fifteen years, but back to the ref””

We were silent for a while. I asked, “Where was she found?”

“In the college grounds.”

“Who’s there? “

“Doyle was on last night so he got the call.”

Fran Doyle, that was some good news then. We went through Templemore together. He’d probably let me have a look at what they’ve got.

I called Fran who was accommodating and agreed to me coming out and giving him a hand.

“But it’s still my case Byrne, you’re working for me.” And he hung up.

I got a car from the lot and made my way over to Castleknock.

I really had little cause to be so pissed off with them, in reality I hadn’t been around Castleknock since I got transferred to the NBCI, but still it was the principle, someone should have called me. This part of the world has changed a lot, even in a couple of years, like every other part of the City I guess. Every spare patch of land is taken up with houses and duplexes. It all seems one big stretch of semi-detached and Audis.

I had plans to move out here at one point. I enjoyed my time in West Dublin. A couple of years ago I released the capital in my house with the view of buying out here. I soon found out I was still way off affording anything in this area, so I ended up buying and renting out one in Clonsilla, a couple of miles from here and one of the areas engulfed by the Dublin 15 sprawl instead. Close enough. Close enough to pretend in conversations about property portfolios with strangers I’m trying to impress.

I chose the route through the Phoenix Park for ease rather than the possibly more scenic, though longer, route around the park. It was a ploy to see if there were any deer out, even at this time of year I was hopeful of catching a glimpse. Even now in my forties there’s something about seeing those serene animals stood nonchalant to all that has built around the park or even some of the more lewd activities that go on in and around its perimeter.

The drive through the Castleknock gates and into the outskirts of the village still reminded me that money talks. Though hidden from view, one look at the Georgian Village and even the scale of the houses you pass along Castleknock Road struck my comfortable existence with awe and a tinge of jealousy. Make that struck with jealousy and a tinge of awe.

Already crowds had built up around the gates to the college, a quick blast of the siren and they cleared just enough room for me to pass through. The gates shut behind me and I parked up and decided to walk. I could see where she was lying by the small crowd around her. To get to her you had to go past the parts of the college that I used to love sitting and looking at when I was based here. Ignoring the posh mummy’s boys who go here to learn, the setting is impressive. Ancient castle ruins and an old graveyard. But it was always the ruined tower that I loved.

Towering over everyone is Fran. A true giant of a man. He had a good career in the Football, so I’m told. May even have turned out for Dublin at some point, though I couldn’t stake my life on that. He noticed me and beckoned me over to the crowd.

The body had been covered up and Fran removed the covers so I could see her. The small amount blood that had dried around her indicates that this wasn’t the murder scene. Fran tells me what he knew:

“Got a call at about three this morning, couple of lads taking a shortcut from a house party found her. Looks though like she’s been here for more than a day though.”

I could see what he meant, the state of the body showed this wasn’t fresh. Even in the general cold of Dublin’s winter, nature will always win out.

“What’s taking Mary so long?” I asked. Mary Callaghan was the Assistant State Pathologist, she’s usually here as soon as she gets a phone call (well as soon as anyone can get across Dublin). The call about the body’s had been put in a good few hours ago and no sign of her or the Garda Technical Team.

“She’s still tied up with those shootings out in Blanch, she should be here soon enough.”

Since my time out here it’s fair to say things have taken a turn for the worse, not that we didn’t always have our problems out here, just that kids now seem to be too comfortable with guns and knives. Problem is there’s still a fall out from Thomas’ passing, a few people running an election campaign in their own unique ways. Over the weekend three kids were shot and one stabbed all around the Blanchardstown area. Funny though nice middle-class murder like this would usually drag Mary away from the “scangers” lying in her morgue.

However, Mary’s absence meant we got more time than usual to look around and get a picture for the scene. I asked Fran what he thought.

“Way I see it, she’s not come here of her own free will, looks like she’s been brought here and then killed.”

“Brought from where though?”

“Not far away. No tyre tracks and the gates hadn’t been touched so he’s had to have carried her here, or dragged.”

“Where was she killed?”

He motioned to over by the castle ruins and a small hill where there was a small crew of the technical team were working.

“All the blood is over there and signs of her being held down. It looks like she was left there for a while too as there’s a clear outline of her in the dry blood. She was later moved here from what we can see.”

“Probably sometime late yesterday. Too many people and too open for movement in the day light. What’s the story with the hill?

“What d’you mean?”

“Just something about that hill. Someone’s supposed to be buried there aren’t they?”

“Like who?”

“I dunno, can’t remember. One of those old kings I think.”

“If you say so.”

A wall and hedge surrounded the college. The only problem with part of the theory is that there was little chance she didn’t come here willingly. They wall and hedge were too big and you’d have a hard time getting someone over a wall that didn’t want to get over.

“Where did the lads live who found her?”

“New estate on the college grounds, only finished about six months ago really”

“Pricey?”

“Ha! A synch on our salary Jim.”

“Maybe she lived there too? I mean it’s near, she may have been brought from there or grabbed while taking the same short cut.”

He smiled, “One step ahead of you Byrne. Was going to send uniform down, but needed an ID. Just called in before you came to Missing Persons. She can’t be more than twenty one, even if she doesn’t live with her folks, she has to be sharing with someone who’ll have missed her. As I say, reckon she’s been here a good twenty four hours, possibly more.”

And so my ego is shattered. My ideas of my own insightful detective deductions turned out to be statements of the obvious.

As a silence passed, we were disturbed by the sound of Mary’s Merc pulling up nearby followed with the van assigned to take the body to the morgue.

“You had breakfast yet?” Asks Fran.

“No just coffee.”

“Good we’ll stop at the Spar in the village and pick up coffee and some Jambons before we head to the morgue.”

“Eh?”

“I got a lift over with the uniforms, my car’s in for service, I’ll need a lift to the autopsy and you might as well tag along.”

“Jesus, thanks. I’m a bleeding charity case now.”

“Jim, ever since college you’ve been a useless twat. If it wasn’t for me…”

“Go feck yourself.”

And the hill still bothered me.

On Jambons. Despite probably accounting for a significant portion of my high cholesterol, they happen to be one of the greatest things to have come from Ireland. England has Roast Beef, France has Frog’s Legs and Italy has pasta. Ireland has given the world one of the most amazing breakfast dishes known to man. Puff Pastry filled with a cheesy, hammy mixture.

All this is important, especially as the two Jambons and the black coffee are now threatening to resurface as we watch Mary work on the body. Most of the time, after so long watching these, you’re well used to them. Sometimes though, when you get a good looking young girl like this murdered way before she’s even hit her prime, you get sick. I’m not too sure it’s sick at the actual gore, or more at the knowledge that unless you’re extremely lucky, whoever did this will never be found.

“Gentlemen.” You always felt like a stammering school boy when Mary acknowledged you. She was now getting on for late fifties, but still had more grace and class than many of the so-called desirable women out there. I reckon I’d feel the same way in Lauren Bacall’s presence as I do Mary’s. I probably think about this too much.

We both answered with a teenage squeak as our hello.

“Well gentlemen, we still obviously have all the usual tests to wait for before I can really give my full report, but you’ll both be shocked to know that the multiple stab wounds accounted for her death. Time of death would be forty-eight hours or so. Sometime on Saturday. I can’t really be much more precise than that I’m afraid. There’s no sign of sexual assault, so whoever it was just wanted to kill her. As you noticed she was moved from the initial murder scene. Given the condition of the body and the blood, again this probably occurred sometime Sunday evening. Off the record, either this has been planned to the extreme or this may not be the first victim.”

“How so?” I ask.

“It’s the wounds, they’re frenzied and accurate, but there’s still too much of an element of calm behind them. A murder of passion is a lot messier and a lot more random. This is gory, but neat. The wounds aren’t random and the cuts show the blade struck slowly and deeply. Not fast and shallow like someone looking over their shoulder or someone who has just fallen out with their girlfriend.”

I’m not sure what thoughts went through my head first, the fact that whoever had killed her was cold enough to take their time, or that I may have made one of the biggest oversights on my career. See, even at the scene it was obvious that this murder wasn’t your usual spare of the moment sudden attack. There was planning in this one. You don’t just kill someone and then take steps to move the body to a more visible place; if anything you do the opposite. The other thought was that everything else seems to match the conversation from Saturday in Beaumont.

Yeah and I’d thrown my notes away.

Chapter Three

I should have told Fran, but he was wrapped up in ID’ing the body. Instead, I asked if there was anything he wanted me to do, he asked me to start looking through previous cases of rape and assault to draw up a list of women to question and make relive their ordeals and a possible list of perverts to hassle. However, I headed back to a quiet spot and phoned the office so someone could get me the address of a Peter Lyons in Phibsborough. Time for some track covering.

There were two options. Either this was all a big coincidence or we had our prime suspect. Of course there will be some among you who may just believe in this psychic shite, but let me reiterate either the guy ate something dodgy before he passed out and had a coincidental hallucination or he is the prime suspect in a murder case. End of discussion.

Lyons lived in what we would have called not too long ago a bed sit. However, I fear it may now be officially classed as an apartment, possibly even described as a studio apartment, only because he has art stuff in there. He answered the door with a “howya” but didn’t seem too surprised or concerned about me being there.

He was brewing coffee, and naturally I accepted a drink. Now he was out of his bed and showered, he looked a different person, taller and healthier.

 “So can I take it that you now believe me? I heard about the body on the news.”

I wished I could arrest him to wipe the smug grin off his face. I had to approach this without giving some credence to his fantasy?

“Mr Lyons, we follow everything up in cases like this. That and lets call it my own curiosity.”

“You know, as part of me being released from hospital means I was assigned a shrink?”

“It’s probably a good idea. Just for the sake of argument, can you describe the girl in the café, the one you saw killed.”

“Gorgeous. Dark hair, shoulder length. Small, I’d say about 5’ 5. Slim.”

He moved to an elevated table, one of those ones used by designers.

“I’m not that good with words Detective, but I am able to draw what I see. I’m an artist. I mainly do stuff for graphic novels, a bit of animation and whatever else I can get to pay the bills.”

At the bench was a large piece of paper with a series of boxes, like a cartoon in the paper or a storyboard drawn, in pencil. In it though was a graphic depiction of a murder, a girl scared and gripped by a hand. Then a series of slashes and gore and finally her face (yes her face). We had our suspect.

“You have some talent.”

“Thanks. I know it looks bad, but I’ve had the images in my head since, well since I blacked out. Drawing helps me. It gets things out of my head, images and that. Stuff that if I left in would drive me mad.”

“You been to the shrink yet?”

“Actually I’m going this afternoon, I dunno, I’m pretty messed up about this thing. I’ve drawn it, but I can still taste blood. I’ve not really slept since.”

“Mr Lyons. This is early days, but I may need you to account for where you were on Saturday. Obviously the time before you were in Beaumont.”

“Sure, erm. I was here, then I went to Eddie Rockets, and then I was in hospital. I’ve been working on my new graphic novel. I had some success with a series on an Irish Super hero, a couple of years ago. I’ve been working on the follow up for about five months, it’s nearly finished, but I’m working round the clock just drawing at the moment.”

“Irish Super hero?”

“Yeah, based on Ireland being the origins of Vampirism. He’s more of an anti-hero really, he invented vampires. He’s called Cumhail.”

“As in Finn Mac?”

“Yup.”

He showed me a book with this Cumhail on the cover. It looks a lot like a young man, except his skin is semi-transparent so that a skull is visible behind. “Nice.”

“It’s supposed to be a kind of “Death - The Early Years”. You can have a copy if you wish?”

“No thanks, I’ll stick with Calvin and Hobbes. Mr Lyons do you have anyone to account for where you were or anything up until an ambulance was called?”

“No, and no one would have seen me for a couple of days, I was in here since Thursday working.”

“Before that?”

“At my ma’s over in Lucan. I just work here, but stay over when working.”

“And you say you saw her in Eddie Rockets?”

“Well yes, I think. No definitely, she knocked into me and that’s when it happened.”

There was little else for the time being that I could have asked. Before Fran started sweating, I needed to start the basic paper work and look at old cases. “Good luck with the shrink.” I said as I left him with his drawing.

The “shrink” assigned was an American guy with some trace of Irish parentage, or so I guessed, mainly because he was American and living in Ireland (his dad probably never stopped going on about the Mother Land despite none of his family setting foot here for generations) and because his name was Conor Kelly. I called him and explained who I was and why I was interested in his patient. He explained who he was and why I could go to hell because of patient-doctor confidentiality. I took that as a no and put the phone down.

Email was playing up, not that I needed it, but occasionally the ping of an email coming in echoing around the office at least gives people a suggestion I may just have somebody who wishes to make contact with me.

The Missing Persons reports didn’t seem to have anything relevant, or at least not that Fran has mentioned. Previous cases had given a few interesting leads, couple of rapes that may show a pattern with the girl, some in the Castleknock area. Other than that there was too many peeping tom cases to really be practicable to chase up in this case. I printed them off anyway with the intention of passing them off to uniform to follow up.

My mobile rang.

“Byrne.”

“Fran, what’s the story?”

“We’ve an ID, well possible. You still got the pool car?”

“Yeah.” Despite procedure I hadn’t signed it back in yet and still had the keys. I really know how to buck the system or sock it to the suits don’t I? “I’ll meet you in the car park.”

All I can say is it wasn’t for me to enforce, it was the Department of Health as Fran lit up in the car. My rebellion with the keys was merely a breach of company policy. Fran had managed to break policy and the law. Not that it ever bothered me anyway. But I made a mental note to embellish my memoirs with tales of hanging out with such deviants.

We headed to Castleknock, College Orchard, or something like it. As suspected the new estate on the college grounds. The girl had a room in a house with three others. Her housemates were away for the weekend back home in various parts of the country. She was only missed when one came home on Monday and thought that the house hadn’t been touched since she left Saturday morning. Then she heard the news and called us. We go out, check a photograph and now had a whole family and social network to emotionally destroy. Nice work if you can get it.

“I’ve tried her mobile and heard nothing from her, I can’t believe it.”

A brace of forty-something detectives with fifty years experience between them, yet we both sat as a cyclist with piles when faced with a crying girl. We maintained we’re trying to be professional, but it was just adopting a cold exterior in the face of open emotions.

“Miss MacLeod…” Fran was brave enough to cut in.

“Maeve, please.”

“Maeve. We shouldn’t get too far ahead of ourselves. Why don’t you start with telling us what you know.”

“Aisling, well she said she had to work at the weekend. She’s in PR for one of the banks. They’ve a big promotion coming up and she was a bit behind so she decided to go in on a Saturday and see what she could get done. I knew she didn’t like being home on her own that much so I stayed over on Friday night with her and only left for Cashel Saturday morning. We got the train into town together.”

“So she definitely got to work?” I asked

“Yes, well at least to the front door. We got off at Connolly and I went to Busáras but we went out the side entrance along the IFSC, I saw her go in to work.”

Easily checked out, as would be what time she left. Most of the places over there have electronic key cards so her movements in and out of the building would be logged. The leaving time could then possibly be matched up to a train time. I wondered if she was so concerned about Aisling, did she call to check up?

“Is that the last you heard from her?”

“I meant to call her, but I ended up pretty much going straight out when I got home, I wasn’t really that able yesterday to do anything. I just forgot and now I feel worse.”

Fran could sense that I’d managed to lay the guilt trip on Maeve, and so tried to dig me out of the hole, “Miss, try not to be so upset. We can’t say for sure that Aisling has been hurt. For the time being try to be positive. Do you have her parents address or contact number?”

Positive? Easier said than done. Conflict, now that’s much easier to come up with. Conflict between the sadness in the pit of your gut at the murder of a young girl, but a small elation that you may at least be on they way to knowing who she is. That was half the battle in these cases.

“I have a number, they live out in Naas I think.”

We’d have to arrange a formal ID, but given the pictures around the place of the four girls together, it would seem pointless. We had our girl. Aisling Keane laughing and drinking in all the pictures, Aisling Keane lying in a bag in a locker in the morgue. I hoped Fran as lead investigator will take charge and contact the parents.

He did.

“I’ll need you Byrne to try and trace that mobile and contact her work.”

“No problem, I’ll also start with Connolly and Castleknock for CCTV. One question though, is why she was in Castleknock or the college in the first place. Castleknock station’s the other side of the college, there was no need for her to be there unless she was in the village for something.”

“Shopping? Maybe a bottle of wine and some food for the night?”

“Maybe, but I’m sure there are some nearer, besides, it could even have been quicker for her to get off at Coolmine and walk up home that way, and there’s shops right there by the Carpenters pub. I need to check. I added in the shop and pubs to check, see if they’d seen anything.”

“Go easy for the time being though, we’ve not formally ID’d her. I’ll call her parents and get a car to pick them up. I’ll give you definite nod as soon as I get one.”

“Cheers. You need a lift?”

“Just drop me off at Blanch station, I’ll call them from there and get a lift back. You want to come in and say hello?”

“No.”

After dropping the car back at the office and I walked half way back across town to get the LUAS home. So, although I have a line directly outside my home and although I have one directly outside HQ. They aren’t linked and there’s a good forty-minute walk between where I get off and work.

Once off the LUAS and passed the Black Horse, there was a car parked where it shouldn’t be in Jamestown Road, more specifically outside my house. As I don’t have a car, I don’t mind if people visiting the neighbours use it, but I usually like them to ask first or let me know. Just in case anyone wants to visit me. Yes that was a joke.

But here was a black 1990 E Class Merc. None of the neighbours are in, so it can’t be someone visiting them and there was someone sat inside the car. Even though they could be completely innocent in their motives to visit, if they were that innocent they would have just knocked and left. If it were urgent they would have left a note. Even if it were innocent, if they knew where I lived, they knew my mobile and they could have called me.

I walked down to the shop and bought an Evening Journal and headed into my local the Black Horse opposite as a warm space to watch from. Watching though was harder than it seemed, seeing as most of the window seats were taken, and the ones that weren’t didn’t have the best view. I managed to find a position where I could see through the door.

In the Black Horse the tv was on and this time it’s the news in Irish, but the images were familiar. It was the College and the murder scene. Pictures of the Technical Team and the area Aisling was found. Then there was something there on the screen again. Something I’d seen hundreds of times and on the day, but had forgotten about. It was a mound near the ruined castle. Why was that important?

There were a couple of old regulars at the bar, both wearing Celtic FC Shirts that are perennially three or so seasons old. They were looking at the television and back at me, I could see they were dying to ask. Instead I put an eye on the Journal and on the guy sat in the car. In all my life nothing good has ever come from someone you don’t know waiting for you in their car.

The Journal was also full of Aisling and dedicates several pages to the murder. Of which two are on psychics, naturally you can always trust the Journal to appeal to the lowest common denominator. I skipped all the usual press saying nothing over a series of ten pages. All there really appeared to be was various commentators giving their own opinion and pushing their own agendas on small facts we had at the time. Quite what puts them above anyone else to be commentators is beyond my own modest detective skills.

So I was left with the crossword and Hagaar the Horrible. The car remained.

Four pints of Smithicks, two hours, two crosswords complete and the car was still there. I either faced it or break all vows I’ve made and take a swipe at the sudoku in public. It was now completely dark outside and from what I could see the driver was sat there in the dark in his car just waiting. In the two hours, all my neighbours had come back and he hasn’t budged, which meant he wanted to speak to me.

It was hard to think who could be that determined. Not that it was hard to come up with a list of several people who would be that determined,  it was just hard to narrow them down. I convinced myself that it was probably just a journalist and decide to go home. As I got near though I bottle it as I saw the car door opening. Instead of going to my house I knocked at next door but one. The husband opened the door and although we recognised each other, as is all too common of Dublin these days we didn’t know each other’s names.

“Yes?”

“I’m Jim Byrne, I live at number 6. This may sound odd but can I come in for a second?”

“We’re about to eat.”

I got out my ID hoping this would be enough to convince him to let me in. It was.

In the hall I tried to explain further.

“I’m guard, and I need a favour. There’s a guy outside my house and basically he could be anyone.”

“The merc?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s been there since just past two.”

“You were in?”

“Yeah, the wife had the car, I had a day off to do some DIY. I was upstairs and saw him pull up.”

“Did he knock at my door?”

“No, not that I’ve seen, he’s just stayed in the car.”

This wasn’t good.

“Can I get out through your kitchen and climb over the fence? I would have gone next door but it was a bit too close to the car. I can then climb into my back and get in that way.”

“Sure, you pissed someone off?”

“There’s little doubt that I have, it’s just a matter of determining who. As it is, I’m reluctant to find out who while it’s on their terms.”

“Help yourself. Bill O’Connor by the way.”

“Cheers Bill, I owe you a pint.”

I could lie to myself all I want, but the mirror in the hall is the biggest tell tale I’ll ever know. For the last few years it’s showed my face and belly filling out, though I’ve always been able to hide the gut. Unfortunately were it even ten years ago I could have vaulted these six foot fences, each one was now like an Everest in their own right. I could see Bill in his back window pissing himself as I huffed and puffed over the first fence. I made enough of a racket that Jeff next door (who I do know) came running out with a baseball bat.

“Jesus Christ. Jim! What the Fuck?”

Between breathes I spluttered, “Jeff, I’ll explain later, we’ll go the Black Horse, just not now and how long have you been a baseball fan?”

“The son, he plays softball.”

“Jeff, he left for Manchester University two years ago.”

“It’s handy to have around.”

Another person I’d asked for a drink and another fence to climb. Unfortunately the four pints were sloshing around in my stomach, apart from the stuff that was dripping out of my pores. Jeff decided that rather than watch me struggle he’d give me a leg up to the last fence. After much effort and instructions about my foot, complaints about my weight and the mysterious substance on my shoes that went squelch in his hand, I was able to sit astride the fence. Not the most comfortable position, but from here I could see all the gardens in my row and I could clearly see some guy, probably the car guy climbing the fences on the other side of my house far faster than I was, he was now only three fences away.

Although I was at my back door, the sound of the guy clearing the fences in true athletic style, the fact that I was now dying for a piss and the fact that I couldn’t distinguish between my backdoor key and numerous ones I had for work, getting in proved difficult.

At this point a few things happened, the car guy landed in my back garden, Jeff from next door passed over to me his baseball bat. I lamped the guy with it and he goes down in a heap. Oh and I pissed my pants.