The longest year of my life started under a bridge. And I’ve already heard all the jokes, so don’t bother.
It was the first day of a new year, and I had dragged myself to bed so late that my night of sleep was better described as a nap. New Years’ Eve is a busy time for law enforcement, and my department is no exception. Fireworks and fancy dress and drunk idiots make for a bad combination. It was well after 2 a.m. when I’d finally returned to my basement flat on Benburb Street so the ringing of my mobile phone just a few hours later went unanswered.
Eventually, whoever it was gave up and called my landline instead, the bastards. The flat was essentially un-changed since it had been furnished by the department back in the 1970s and the landline was a large cream-and-brown wall-mounted bakelite monstrosity whose cable had given up its last curl a few decades back. But its ringing was loud and shrill enough it could rouse a sleeping yet-somehow-still-sleep-deprived troll. Which it did.
I checked my mobile. Not even six a.m. and three missed calls.
“Fuck”.
“Good morning to you too,” said Cormac. Fucking Cormac, “and a happy new year.”
“If this isn’t a matter of life and death-” I began.
“Dead body on Erne Street. South side, behind Pearse Station,” said Fucking Cormac. Of course it was actually a matter of life and death. Despite his habit of being generally annoying, he was competent enough to handle the small stuff by himself.
“I know where Erne Street is,” I said in an attempt to re-establish dominance. “What makes it O.S.I. business?”
“He’s burned to a crisp. Total charcoal briquette. And he’s under the railway bridge there.”
“So probably misadventure? I’ll be there soon. Keep the Gards away, and don’t touch anything.”
Again, Cormac was competent enough to know that already, but it doesn’t hurt to remind him that I’m technically his boss. I retrieved my clothes from the laundry pile and my glamour from where I had draped it over a bedpost and headed up the steps to the street.
It was still dark when I arrived on the scene thirty minutes later. The walk and the chill in the air had cleared the fog from my head, but some still clung to the streets and the streetlights, giving Dublin a dirty orange glow.
Cormac had done his job and kept the Gardaí back from the bridge. They had set up a cordon either side using cars and orange tape and were milling about aimlessly in the pre-dawn cold. I could see Cormac chatting with a cluster of plain-clothes types. He was young for his job, but terribly keen. He was tall and thin with dark hair that he kept long but neat, and he sported a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with circular lenses. He favoured old-fashioned three-piece suits, and this morning’s was a particular shade of brown that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an ad for World War Two war bonds. I could see he was keeping a safe distance from the stone arch of the railway bridge, but he was probably still too close for comfort. No doubt he was already feeling its effects. A headache at least. Maybe nausea or dizziness.
Good, I thought, still unhappy about being woken up.
“Sorry, way’s closed,” said the uniform in charge of the tape as I approached, “there’s been an accident.”
I pulled my ID. “Victor Grey. O.S.I.,” and instantly regretted it when he mouthed the unfamiliar acronym back at me. “Office of Special Investigations?” I added. “I’m expected.”
One of the plain-clothes types detached himself from the cluster and approached the tape. We’d met before, but that was when I had my old glamour, so I let him take my ID and give it a curious look before introducing himself.
“Detective Sergeant Hurley.” He handed me back my ID and lifted the tape so I could duck under it. “It’s OK, Phil,” he said to the uniform, “he’s V.S.B.”
I straightened back up to the grin on his face. That joke never got old. Or funny. But that wouldn’t stop someone like Hurley whose sense of humour was from the same era as his ties. I gave a tight smile in response and made a ‘lead-the-way’ gesture towards Cormac and the arch of the bridge.
“Body was found about eighty minutes ago by someone on their way home from a party. Time of death’s hard to tell, but the cause is obvious. Burned all the way up. I called you guys when I noticed there’s no scorch marks anywhere else. I’ve heard that’s a sign of… y’know...” he trailed off awkwardly, almost afraid to say the dreaded M-Word out loud.
“Magic? Yeah, sometimes,” I replied tersely, “let’s have a look and see.”
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