The Trinity Enigma: Detective Kate Bowen Mystery Thriller Series

For my mother, Carmel Croke, and

Eva, always.

One

THE COP CONTROLLING the entrance to the dilapidated print works radioed detectives working nearby.

The D-Super’s arrived, he reported.

Around the back, D-I Henderson replied.

Go ahead, the Garda signaled.

White crime scene tape with ‘Garda No Entry’ in bold blue letters stretched along the length of the old building with most of its windows smashed. Kate Bowen ducked underneath and made her way across a small parking area, towards the service yard at the rear.

There was a nip in the autumn air and she pulled on a tan beanie which accentuated her lean, fit look. The chill forced her hands into the pockets of a navy fleece jacket. Scavenging gulls screeched overhead and dive-bombed the nearby canal basin close to Dublin’s Ringsend Dock in their never-ending quest for food. Kate knew this area well; it was where she had spent her early years on the job. Before regeneration kicked in, intruders picked at the bones of buildings like this all the time and she had spent days and nights as a Crime Task Force member, chasing them off. The printworks was a relic of other times. The machines that once clattered and hummed here were long silent and gone. It seemed whoever owned the building was holding out for the price of inner-city plots to soar even higher.

As she rounded the corner, the local scenes of crime tech was ceding control to a Garda Headquarters team. Early morning sunshine slanting through neighboring office tower blocks cast the yard in a bleak, blinding light. The disenfranchised tech dumped his digital camera into its case and snapped it closed. He began collecting the numbered markers he had laid around the body to highlight items of interest.

Leave them, D-I Henderson ordered. The less disturbance, the better.

Kate paused and took in the scene. Henderson’s gut protruded over his belt a lot more than she remembered. His trademark black trench coat hung open and a gust of wind that whipped in off the Irish Sea blew his grey hair skywards. An early mentor, he was now her subordinate.

D-Super Bowen, come on over, he invited.

Kate did not respond immediately. Instead, she maintained a few meters between Henderson and three headquarters scenes of crime techs who were congregated beside the body. Close by, there was a meter length of copper piping that looked like it had been ripped from the building’s plumbing system. It was dumped among shards of broken glass strewn over the concrete surface. Was that the murder weapon?

It’s safe to approach, he said.

Kate walked towards the little group and peered down at the victim, a skinny thirty-something male. His close-cut ginger hair was matted with dirt kicked up by heavy overnight rain which also accounted for the black splotches on his face. His blue jeans and black hoodie were relatively unspoiled.

She shook hands with Henderson and exchanged nods with the techs.

Gussie Ryan, she said. Can’t say I’m surprised. A vicious little bastard with no shortage of enemies.

I’m surprised you remember him, Henderson replied. He would have only been coming on the scene when you were around these parts.

I recall most of his customers were scared of him.

A nasty piece of work.

No blood, Kate observed. Hardly any signs of violence.

That surprised me too. Murdered elsewhere and dumped here, do you think?

Don’t count your chickens, the crime scene manager interrupted. Wait until we give the place a good going over.

How long will you need? Henderson asked.

We’re going to erect the tent around the body and it will take as long as it takes, she replied. A couple of hours, at least.

"I’ll be back in one. Call