The Priest (14 page)

‘Eh, are you alright, boss?’ Ford asked again, a look of amused concern on his face.

‘Yeah, no, I’m…’ He looked at Ford, then quickly at the clergymen, then back again. ‘Sorry, Liam. Thanks for all that, but
I’ve just thought of something important. I’ve really got to go. I’ll call you later, okay?’

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just automatically checked that his smokes and lighter were in his pocket and half walked, half
trotted out of the pub.

Ford stared after him, shaking his head, pouring the remains of Mulcahy’s pint into his own.

Mulcahy slammed through the door with such force that the lone secretary nearly leaped from her chair. He stormed over to
the table by the whiteboards, and grabbed a picture folder from the stack. Flicking quickly through the first few pictures,
he soon saw what he wanted. Although it wasn’t completely clear, he knew immediately that he was right.

Eyes glued to the folder, he went straight into his office and turned on the desk lamp, pulling out the hospital photos of
the wounds inflicted on Jesica’s stomach and groin, spreading them out under the halo of light. He’d looked through the pictures
before, but his stomach still heaved on seeing the injuries again – livid bruises, blistered skin, scorched and knitted in
ways it shouldn’t be, charred
black elsewhere. But now the wounds no longer seemed entirely random to him.

There was a pattern to them, not easy to discern at first, but there if you knew what you were looking for. The random scattering
of burns all seemed to connect at right angles at some point or another. Broken in places, yes, but if you took the contours
of the girl’s body into account, especially imagining how a narrow flat surface might be pressed against it, he could see
how it was possible to interpret the marks as basic angular shapes. Where the hot metal had been pressed harder or more softly,
so the injury was greater or less, and the colours of the burns themselves were more intense or lighter. It was the colours
that matched up best. But the width and severity of the wounds did too. He looked at the worst of them, the one that had scorched
the flesh around her sex, trying not to visualise the horror of the act, or the pain it must have caused. It took more than
one picture to tell the story but it was there, discernible: a wide cross-shape traceable from pubic bone to buttocks.

Un
fucking
cura
. Why hadn’t he spotted it earlier? What Jesica had said about her attacker being like a priest, making the sign of the cross?
But her own missing cross and chain had blinded him to that. What’s the most common gold item you’re going to find in Ireland,
apart from jewellery? Bloody religious regalia. Crosses, for Christ’s sake!

He examined each of the pictures again, and saw nothing to make him feel any less convinced. Long vertical burns, intercepted
two-thirds of the way along by shorter horizontal
ones. The wounds looked exactly like they’d been inflicted with something shaped just like a cross. A big one, too, at least
six to nine inches. Bigger than the one the priest in the pub was wearing. Gold plate rather than fine jewellery, that’s what
Geraghty had said. The sort of thing you’d find in a sacristy or a private chapel, maybe. Plain, cheap, not even a figure on
it. Fuck, there must be millions of the bloody things knocking around the country.

He grabbed his phone, hoping that Geraghty might be able to shed some light. But the receptionist at the Technical Bureau
told him he’d been called out on a job and wasn’t expected back for the day. She also refused to give out his mobile number.
Then he tried Brogan, but again went straight through to voicemail. He left a message asking her to call, then hung up, frustrated,
and started going through the files again.

He’d been looking for the wrong thing all along.

B
lackrock Garda Station was a small modern block marooned on an island between the ceaseless four-lane traffic of Frascati
Road and the quieter Temple Road on the seaward side. Its position and blank exterior, dark brick relieved only by columns
of black glass, suggested the Garda Siochana’s desire to keep the folk of Blackrock at bay rather than offer them a place
of succour or sanctuary. In other parts of Dublin that would be understandable, but Blackrock was historically one of Dublin’s
most affluent suburbs, making the station’s defensive siting all the more incongruous.

Interview Room 4 was located on the first floor. Cassidy had an eye glued to the spyhole in the door. Brogan was pacing the
short patch of corridor outside.

‘How long has it been?’

Cassidy pulled back from the peephole. ‘Getting on for three quarters of an hour.’

‘And he hasn’t started sweating yet?’ Brogan checked her watch, conscious of time slipping away. Ideally she’d prefer
to let this one stew for a bit longer, as everything she’d seen of him so far screamed smart-arse. But it was Aidan’s poker
game with the lads tonight, the one thing she always tried to get home in time for so she could spend a few sacred hours alone
with her boy. Just get on with it.

‘Chewing his fingernails a bit,’ Cassidy said, ‘but apart from that he looks cool enough.’

Sweeping the guy up had been easier than Brogan had expected. As promised, the lads from Blackrock had kept an eye on the
house – a well-maintained semi with a large, immaculately kept front garden, in Castlebyrne Park. When they arrived, DS Leahy
was able to confirm that Patrick Scully was actually on the premises, having seen him go out to the garage and back about
ten minutes after he’d got there. That’s the way luck should always work. She let Cassidy and Leahy take care of the talking
when they knocked on the door. A woman answered and got into a bit of a flap when she heard who they were and that they wanted
to talk to her son. But Scully himself, almost as well groomed and attired as he’d looked in the CCTV footage, was remarkably
calm about it, and straight away agreed to come to the station. Didn’t even seem surprised, which made her wonder if he had
any form. She kept well back and didn’t say a word herself, retaining the psychological advantage of presenting him with someone
new once it came to the interview.

‘Okay, c’mon then, we’re wasting time. Let’s do it.’

She opened the door and swept in, locking eyes with
Scully straight away, but saying nothing. Like all interview rooms everywhere, it was bare of decoration and furnished to
the minimum. Its windowless continuum of grey wall was uninterrupted but for two air vents, the door and a bright red plunger-style
panic button to the right of it, to summon help in the event of a suspect getting stroppy. Scully sat back in a rangy slouch
on one of the four plastic chairs around a metal table that was bolted to the floor. Once again she was struck by how well
turned out he was. His long legs were wrapped in cream chinos that looked like they’d come off the designer rails at Brown
Thomas. So too with his scuff-free suede loafers, impeccably ironed blue-check shirt and a linen jacket that might have been
made to measure. The backs of his hands and his long fingers had the remnants of a tan and his nails shone like they’d been
buffed and manicured. Obviously biting them wasn’t a habit, so he had to be feeling some anxiety underneath the Mr Cool act.
Good.

He held Brogan’s gaze as she took her seat, not bothering to alter his slouch. She tucked her own chair under her and pulled
it to the table. Only then did he sit up and do the same, positioning his elbows on the table in a mirror image of her own.
At this proximity, the first thing she noticed was that he didn’t seem in any way disconcerted by her stare. Quite the opposite,
in fact. It was his eyes that made her feel slightly uncomfortable. They were so unusual, the irises a deep intense brown
that all but merged with his pupils and glinted like jet in the harsh fluorescent light from overhead.
She sat back, to diminish their effect, listening to the scrape of Cassidy’s chair as he sat down beside her, waiting as he
cued up the digital recorder that was secured to the table top by a steel bracket, then recited the formalities of date, place
and people present into the machine.

‘Can you confirm, please, that you are Patrick Cormac Scully?’

He nodded, fingers now arched under his chin.

‘Answer yes or no for the tape, please,’ Cassidy said, a growl of aggression in his voice.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Of 43 Castlebyrne Park, Blackrock?’

‘Yes,’ he said again, to Cassidy, but more confidently this time. He turned his gaze back to Brogan. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No.’

‘Then would you mind telling me what this is about?’

‘Certainly,’ Brogan said. ‘It’s simple. We want to know where you were and what you were doing three nights ago – that’s last
Saturday night.’

Brogan thought she saw a flicker of concern cross Scully’s face.

‘Saturday night?’ he asked, struggling to keep the catch from his voice.

The reaction was so faint, Brogan looked involuntarily towards her sergeant for confirmation. Cassidy gave a barely perceptible
nod. He’d clocked it, too.

‘Yes, Saturday,’ Brogan said. ‘As in Saturday night/Sunday morning. Can you tell us that?’

‘Sure,’ he said, adjusting his position in the chair again, sitting up straight, tugging the sleeves of his jacket down over
his shirt cuffs, eyes flicked down in concentration, playing for time. At last, with a little jut of his chin, he raised his
head and stared back at her. Again, she couldn’t help being hit by the intensity of his eyes. It was actually tangible, like
a jolt of static.

‘I went out,’ he said. ‘Clubbing, like, you know?’

‘Could you be a bit more specific, please? When and where would help – all the details you can remember.’

‘Yeah, no problem.’ He seemed almost eager to help now, but there was a sense of wariness, of control being exerted behind
the words. ‘I was at home watching telly with the folks until about eight, then I went upstairs to get ready, and I suppose
it was about ten when I went out.’

Brogan smiled. Two hours to get ready? That explained a lot. She hoped for his mother’s sake they had more than one bathroom.

‘You live with your parents still?’ Cassidy put in, hoping to needle him.

‘Yes,’ Scully replied flatly, not even looking at him.

‘And where did you go?’ Brogan asked.

‘That place up in Stillorgan, the GaGa, you know? I got there about half ten, I suppose. Had a few Buds and a few dances.
Left about half one or two, I suppose. Walked back. Got home half two at the latest and went straight to bed. Out like a light,
but I’m like that.’

‘Is that it?’ Brogan asked, thinking it sounded rehearsed.

‘What more can I say?’ He grinned and turned his palms up. ‘Not the best night of my life, I suppose, but I’ve had worse.
Better than staying in and watching Ma and Da getting frisky.’

Brogan gave him a small smile. He was a bit more confident now, thought he could flirt with her. Fine, if that was his comfort
zone. She could kick him out of it whenever she liked.

‘Getting back to the club,’ Cassidy said. ‘Did you go there alone?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you always go there on your own?’

‘Not always, but often enough.’

‘Don’t you think that’s a bit weird?’

‘No more than going to a film or something on my own.’

‘Don’t you have any friends, Patrick?’ Cassidy asked.

‘Of course I have friends. Look, what’s this about? I go there cos it’s just up the road, and it’s as good a place to go as
any if I need to get out of the house – which I often do. What the hell is wrong with that?’

Cassidy ignored the question. ‘Seems a bit
young
for you. The GaGa is aimed at sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds, isn’t it? They’re just kids compared to you. How old did you
say you were?’

‘I didn’t. But I’m twenty-three. And what can I say? Maybe I like my girls a little bit younger than me. There’s no law against
that, is there?’

‘So long as they’re not
too
young,’ Cassidy muttered.

Scully bridled at that, alright. ‘Hey, what are you trying to say?’

‘Nothing,’ Cassidy grunted, ‘apart from the obvious.’

‘Look, I’m getting tired of this. It says on the door that it’s for over-eighteens only, so as far as I’m concerned anyone
in there is kosher. Now, entertaining as this has been, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what you want and let me the hell
out of here.’

‘Did you meet anyone at the club last Saturday?’ Brogan asked.

‘Of course I did, I mean, I always…’ He pulled himself up short.

‘Always?’ Brogan raised her eyebrows and smiled again. ‘That’s nice – but then, clearly you know you’re a good-looking guy.’

‘No law against that either, is there?’

More defensive now, but she could see him absorbing the flattery like a sponge. Couldn’t help himself.

‘Certainly not. It’s to be actively encouraged, I’d say.’ Brogan laughed. To her left she felt Cassidy’s stare shift towards
her, and saw Scully pick up on it, too. Game on.

‘So Jesica wasn’t anyone special, then, just a casual pickup?’

‘Who the hell is Jessica?’ he said, wrong-footed, surprise flaring in those eyes.

‘Jesica – you know, the girl you took home on Saturday night.’

‘I didn’t take anybody home on Saturday night. I told
you, I walked back afterwards and went straight to bed. I’ve never even heard of any bloody Jessica. Who’s been winding you
up?’

Brogan glanced at Cassidy and raised an eyebrow.

‘So, Patrick, you’re actually denying that you left the club with anyone on Saturday night?’

Scully paused, thinking about that one carefully.

‘Well, no… I mean, I did leave the club with someone, a Spanish girl, but I never even got her name. Is she this Jessica one
you’re talking about?’

‘What if she is?’

‘Well, I sure as fuck didn’t take her home with me. I mean, we had a bit of a snog on the dance floor, but I could tell she
wasn’t up for anything else.
She
really was just a kid. I told her I was going, and she said she had to go too, and it turned out we were both going the same
way so we walked together as far as the Stillorgan shopping centre.’