The Priest (19 page)

‘Jesus, you’ve been through the mill,’ Siobhan said. But she knew very well herself how instantaneous and savage the government
cuts had been. Mulcahy wasn’t the only person she knew who’d been caught out badly by it.

‘Couldn’t this old boss of yours do anything for you?’

‘He tried. But the new unit was supposed to be one last cherry on the cake before he retired. He was gone a couple of months
later.’

‘So what did you do? What’re you doing now?’

He grimaced, picked up the wine bottle and filled his glass again.

‘For now I’m stuck in the NBCI pool – the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation – as a hack detective, like
I used to be years ago. Going wherever I’m sent, like a supply teacher.’

‘Christ, that’s a bit of a come-down, isn’t it?’

‘They’re supposed to be sorting something out for me,’ he said, resignedly. ‘I’m on a promise that I’ll be given the first
“suitable” post that comes up. But of course that’s where the specialism trap comes in again. And the months are flying by.’

‘It’s such a waste,’ she said.

‘Ah, we’ll get there in the end.’

And the way he said it, so pragmatic and unyielding, unlocked something inside her. Something that made her lean across the
table and kiss him softly on the mouth, and think that maybe she had it in her to give him some of that comfort he’d been
missing for so long.

‘Y
ou can let yourself out, can’t you? I’ve got to fly.’

He felt her lips press softly against his cheek but by the time he opened his eyes she was gone. Putting a hand up to shield
the light flaring in through thin, unfamiliar curtains he rolled over just in time to see a flash of white shirt and well-tailored,
navy-clad thighs disappearing from the room. Then he heard her voice again – ‘Call me’ – followed by something cheery but too
muffled to be intelligible, and seconds later the thump of her front door closing. For a fraction of a second Gracia’s face
flickered in his mind like a misfiring memory. Then came the happy realisation: Siobhan. It hadn’t been a dream.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Mulcahy raised himself on to one elbow. For some reason the tune from some awful Country
and Western song was nagging away at his brain. He took a look around to get his bearings. Her place. The double bed, its
duvet rumpled and greying, took up most of the small room. Every other surface was covered in newspapers, magazines or crumpled
clothes. In a glinting
shard of memory he remembered the two of them tumbling into the flat, lips sliding, teeth colliding, hands everywhere, and
her – absurdly, breathlessly – apologising for the mess.

He hauled his long legs out of the bed and sat on the edge for a moment, checking his wrist uselessly for the time. Where
had his watch gone? Then he saw his shirt and trousers neatly folded on a chair, his jacket hung on the back, shoes paired
beneath. Had he…? No way. Siobhan must have done it, this morning. He smiled at the gesture but more than anything at the
oddness of this tiny oasis of neatness amid the carnage of the rest of the room, then he spotted his watch there too and reached
for it. Only seven o’clock still, thank God. Where could she be off to in such a hurry at this hour? He knew the broad, if
not specific, answer: work. Which was where he should be heading, too. He took his mobile from his jacket and walked out into
the living room, using the speed dial while looking for an envelope, a delivery note, anything with her address on it. He
found a pile of bills on her dining table, mostly plastered in red, and the cab company confirmed they could be there in ten
minutes.

It was bang on eight-thirty when he got to Harcourt Square, having gone via his own place for a shower, shave and change of
clothes. He’d kept the taxi waiting, an expensive option but he was in the mood for self-indulgence, and he’d only have had
to call another anyway as he’d left his Saab at work the night before. Feeling fresher, more alive
than he’d been for months, he climbed into the taxi again full of drive and focus. It was time to cut through all the crap
with Brogan and that arse Cassidy, he decided. Only one thing mattered now: he had to ensure that the case was wrapped up,
or at least that his role in it was finished, before Murtagh announced that the Southern Region job was free. Well, he sure
as hell wasn’t going to bring that about by sitting sifting through files in the background while the others buggered around
outside wearing blinkers. He was going to have to push hard, whether they liked it or not. What was the worst that could happen?
He’d piss them off so much they’d dump him? That sounded like win-win to him.

He ran into Brogan in the corridor, just about to go into the briefing. She was looking tired, a bit more rumpled than usual
– as if the pressure was beginning to get to her.

‘Claire, about last night.’

‘Last night?’ She was looking right at him but also straight through him, her thoughts clearly glued to something else entirely.

‘Yes, that farce with Cassidy—’

‘Please, Mike, I really don’t have time for this.’ She went to move around him but he blocked her, smiling.

‘Then make some, Claire. Because I wouldn’t have brought up the issue of religion unless I felt strongly that it must have
a significant bearing on the case. I really feel it deserves to be given more serious consideration than it received yesterday.’

Her response was the last one he was expecting. ‘Okay, Mike, maybe you’re right. I had another look at the exam photos myself
again last night, and I can see there’s something in what you’re saying. It makes sense. Like you said, it’s probably best
if we take a closer look. Straight after the briefing, yeah? We’ll talk it through then. But, for now, I’ve got a bit of a
mess to sort out.’

She pushed through the doors of the incident room and he walked in beside her. Inside, the murmur of conversation faded as
they entered. Mulcahy found a seat at the back, wondering at the reasons for her U-turn, and what form this mess she was talking
about would take.

‘Alright, a bit of hush, please, lads,’ Cassidy began. ‘The news isn’t great this morning, so listen up cos we’re going to
have another long, hard day in front of us.’

Mulcahy straightened up, as attentive now as the backs and necks ranged in front of him. Up front, Cassidy was dressed the
same as always, same grey suit, same greasy hair. Brogan, perched on the desk edge behind him was thumbing her way through
a sheaf of papers, clearly dissatisfied with what she was seeing.

‘Okay,’ Cassidy continued. ‘So we pushed Technical to rush through what they could on the van for us overnight. And, miracle
of miracles, they did.’

A sarcastic rumble rose from the front but Cassidy shut them up with a wave of his hand.

‘Yeah, which is all well and good but that’s as far as the encouraging news goes. Not to put too fine a point on it, we
got nothing conclusive – as far as preliminaries are concerned, anyway.’

Cassidy’s voice had been getting noticeably gruffer as he went on and now he knitted his brow and a thunderous look took up
position on his face.

‘Now, it’s not all bad news. But, while we’re on the subject of the van, we do have a bit of a problem,’ he said, shooting
a glance at Brogan. ‘That’s because some dense shit-for-brains over in Traffic didn’t do his job properly yesterday afternoon
and failed to notice that the Patrick Cormac Scully whose vehicle he was running a check on was born in nineteen
fifty
-six and not nineteen
eighty-
six, as advised.’

All the heads in front of him turned towards each other; some puzzled, others quickly getting the picture.

‘That’s right,’ said Cassidy. ‘The van belongs to Scully’s father, also Patrick C, a plumber of this parish. Which, as you
know, could and should have been checked out this end too – by you, Hanlon, ye thick fuckin’ eejit.’

Everyone in the room turned towards Donagh Hanlon, who himself didn’t seem to know where to look, other than at the floor.
Yesterday’s golden boy was turning a distinct shade of red. Meanwhile, Brogan pushed herself away from the desk and called
for quiet again.

‘Guys, look, this is the sort of pointless fuck-up we really don’t need. As a result of it, we are on record as citing Scully
Junior’s ownership of that van as being cause for a full search of the premises. Not only is the fact that he doesn’t own
it a
material error, it’s just the sort of technicality that some shitehawk lawyer could exploit in court to make us look like
a bunch of incompetent amateurs. That’s just not on, not ever, but especially on an investigation like this. So listen, take
it as a warning: double check everything and don’t rely on anyone else – either inside, or especially outside, this unit –
to do it for you. No more stupid slip-ups, okay?’

Mulcahy looked around at the bobbing heads, noting the seriousness on every face, a look which, in Hanlon’s case, was still
suffused with mortification.

‘Okay,’ Brogan continued. ‘But obviously this doesn’t rule Scully out in any way. Just because he doesn’t own the van doesn’t
mean he couldn’t have used it. He certainly had access to it, and if his father’s a plumber chances are the boy learned how
to use the equipment at his daddy’s knee. And there are plenty more results to come back still, including the forensics on
his clothing. So, Andy and myself are having another go at him in interview this morning. Let’s see if a night in the cells
has taken the smile off his face. He’s still our number-one suspect. No let-up. We’re just going to have to dig a bit deeper
than we thought. Okay?’

Another murmur of consent. As Brogan and Cassidy started doling out tasks for the day to the others, Mulcahy zoned out, wondering
what he’d say to Ibañez when he put in his mid-morning update call. The Spaniard had obviously been taken aback by the speed
of the arrest yesterday, especially when Mulcahy stuck in the knife about not being able to get a positive ID from the girl,
now that she was gone.
What could Mulcahy say to him now? That they still had a man in custody? But were getting nowhere with him? That he was helping
them with their enquiries – just not very much? Better go through it with Brogan first. She could always charge Scully with
intent to supply the ecstasy and maybe, that way, make it sound like they were making progress after all.

They wound the briefing up after another five minutes and as the others drifted away a small gang formed around Brogan, asking
questions, going over the detail. He stepped into his office and switched on his computer, leafing through some of the files
he’d left on his desk the day before, keeping an eye out for when Brogan became free.

He was reading a witness statement from a taxi driver, in relation to a violent assault on a woman in Rathgar the year before,
when he realised he hadn’t yet checked his email. He opened his inbox and saw a long list of replies to his Dublin Regional
information request start flowing in. He looked at his watch, then out at Brogan who was still deep in discussion. He had
forty minutes or so before the call to the embassy. He clicked the first message in the queue and started to read.

In the
Sunday Herald
newsroom Siobhan, too, was sitting at her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard, words ribboning out across the screen.
She was getting occasional fond blossomings of memory from the night before but wasn’t going to let that distract her. Hair
groomed, face
made up, lips a perfect glossy plum, none of her colleagues – not even the more hardened, cynical, long-in-the-tooth hacks
– would have guessed that she’d spent the night wrapped in anything but blissful sleep. What they might have spotted was a
certain avidity in her eye, a furrow of concentration on her brow, a crinkle of barely contained excitement pulling the corners
of her mouth, and recognised them as signs of a reporter who was at last beginning to nail down one blisteringly good story.

On her way into work, in the car, she’d gone over her doubts about whether, up at the Blue Light with Mulcahy, she’d given
up too easily on the subject of the Spanish girl. But she’d seen then and knew still that Mulcahy would never have compromised
and that they wouldn’t have had a hope of getting anywhere if she hadn’t backed down. And wasn’t it worth it? She could see
this thing with him going further, and for once she was completely delighted at the prospect of getting involved. Then, as
soon as she got into the office, got a coffee inside her, booted up her computer – what should come along but the confirmation
that she’d been right to think of herself for once.

She was listening to the messages left on her landline when it came: ‘This is for Fallon, the reporter.’ The voice was rough,
unfriendly and curiously sexless – mainly due to its being heavily, if amateurishly, disguised. ‘A friend in the Force says
you’re looking for information on a case I’m working. About a Spanish girl. I can help, but it’ll cost you.’

The caller knew exactly what he or she was doing, leaving a few choice pieces of information to whet the appetite and show
that they were serious, then leaving precise details of when they’d call again – and how much they wanted for the info. She
rewound and listened again, guessing it had to be one of the Gardai that Des Consodine had mentioned, hoping to cash in on
their role in the investigation but afraid to risk approaching her directly. For a second she thought about Mulcahy and his
damned integrity and decided she wouldn’t want him any other way. Then it dawned on her: this was actually working in her favour. Whatever
small anxiety she’d been feeling about pursuing a story involving a man she’d slept with was now completely laid to rest.
He’d given her the perfect excuse, telling her he was the last person she should talk to about the case. Well, now she didn’t
need to. So long as she stuck to that, she couldn’t go wrong.

Most of the email responses to Mulcahy’s appeal were useless; quick-hit replies in the negative, to the effect that no information
locally matched his request. Those that contained more detail might as well have been negative for all the relevance they
had. His phrase ‘religious connotations’ had exercised the minds of the wags and the witless in quite a few Dublin divisions,
and as a result he ended up digging through a pile of reports covering everything from a lengthy investigation into a middle-aged
Cabra woman’s morbid sexual obsession with the Papal Nuncio (she’d broken into
the nunciature one night and nearly given the unfortunate Italian cleric a coronary when he woke up to find her slipping into
bed beside him) to a mind-numbing list of break-ins and vandalism to church property in the Santry area over the past five
years. Everything else was pretty much the inevitable fallout of the clerical abuse scandals of the preceding decade: rumours
and intelligence reports gathered on priests who’d been accused of sexually abusing kids.