The Priest (39 page)

‘Not the point?’ Mulcahy pulled away from her, fuming. ‘I’m up to my neck in shit because of you and you say it’s not the
point? Jesus Christ!’

That seemed to take her by surprise. She sat back, away from the table, then rubbed her eyes with both hands; anything, it
seemed, rather than look at him. When she spoke again it was as if a soft, cold wind was blowing beside her words.

‘You know as well as I do, I couldn’t tell you even if I did have a name. But for what it’s worth, I got a call, the morning,
you know, after we were up in the Blue Light. This guy said he was working the Salazar case and could deliver the goods. Gave
me the whole thing on a plate and again when Catriona Plunkett was attacked. Then I heard nothing for days, I swear. I was
actually relieved to get the call from him when Paula Halpin’s body was found. “Get yourself over to the Furry Glen, asap.” That’s
all he said. And I’ve only heard from him the once since. So shut up now or I’ll have a jinx on me and I’ll never get another
decent tip-off again.’

Mulcahy threw his head back and let out a long, low groan. ‘That’s how he said it, is it? “Ay-sap”? Just like that?’ He thumped
the table with his fist. ‘I knew it. That treacherous shitebag. I knew it had to be him all along.’

Siobhan stared at him, panic in her eyes, knowing she’d said too much – knowing she’d said more than even she knew she’d said.

‘Look, Mulcahy, whoever it is you’re thinking of, you didn’t hear about him from me, okay? On my life, nobody’d ever tell
me anything again. I’d be ruined.’

But he wasn’t even listening to her, seeing it now from Cassidy’s point of view – the perfect set-up, shafting the uppity
inspector while pocketing a bit of easy cash on the side. He must’ve thought all his Christmases had come at once.

‘Look, Mulcahy,’ Siobhan broke in on his thoughts. ‘For what it’s worth, I’d never have done anything to get you into trouble.
I liked you, y’know. I still do. Christ, I mean, I can’t even help myself, can I? Who’s the first bloody person I
think of when I need a big strong man to come and rescue me?’

She looked away from him then, leaned down and picked her bag up from the floor. He thought how tired she looked suddenly,
hurt even. It was there in her voice, too. He put a hand out and stopped her as she was getting up to go.

‘Wait. What was it you were going to show me?’

She shook her head, her black hair flowing like a dark sea in winter. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was all in my stupid head. I’d
better be going.’

‘No, don’t,’ he said. ‘Have another drink, come on. You said you were going to have six.’

But she got up from the table anyway. ‘What’s the point? If it’s not this time, it’ll be the next. We’re never going to be
able to get on.’

It was only when her bag fell open slightly, as she hitched it up on her shoulder, that he saw it poking out from between
the handles, like a dried-up chamois leather, black marks scorched on it, all over it, like a piece of burned…

‘What in the name of Christ is that?’ he said, pointing.

He carefully examined the stiff fold of parchment in his hands. He’d slid it into a clear plastic evidence bag the minute
she told him what it was but he could still catch the strong back-of-the-throat stench of charring from it. The frenzied jumble
of crosses burnt on to it looked just the same as the ones he’d seen on all The Priest’s victims, only smaller.

‘Just look at that, will you?’ she said, her voice a tense
whisper. He looked closer, at what she was pointing to, and only then made out the thin line of text scorched into the skin.

Deus non irridetur

‘Any idea what it means?’ It gave him the creeps just looking at it.

‘God will not be mocked,’ she said. ‘Latin. St Paul, one of his letters to somewhere, warning his flock not to go to the dark
side.’

Mulcahy must have raised an eyebrow at that because she laughed, nervously. ‘No, nor me either. While I was waiting for you
I rang a contact of mine who knows a bit of Latin.’

‘And you have no idea who sent it to you?’

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘For a second back there, I thought it might be this guy I know. He likes to throw the odd Latin
motto into the conversation, and for a while I thought he was leaving me weird messages at home. But then I realised that
this was exactly the same as what some freak said to me on the phone the other day.’

Mulcahy raised an eyebrow.

‘Yeah, before they arrested anyone,’ she said, leaning across and turning over the evidence bag in his hands. ‘But, look,
there’s another one in English on the other side.’

He looked at where she pointed. Again it was seared on to the parchment in tiny script:
The body is not meant for lust but for the Lord.

Mulcahy stole a glance at Siobhan again, impressed by how well she was taking it.

‘Were any of your colleagues, or anyone on the other papers sent anything like this, do you know?’ Mulcahy asked.

‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Siobhan shook her head.

‘And there’s no reason for you to be targeted, especially?’

‘Gosh no,’ she said. ‘Other than the fact that I broke the bloody story and I’ve been mouthing off about The Priest all over
the radio and telly ten hours a day for the last fortnight. No, I don’t suppose he’d know me from Adam.’

Mulcahy had to concede the point, but it still didn’t make much sense to him.

‘I don’t buy it, it doesn’t feel right,’ he said. ‘But it’s still evidence. You’ve got to show it to Brogan or Lonergan as
soon as possible.’

‘Can’t
you
get it to them?’

‘No, they need to see this first thing, and I’m away tomorrow.’

‘Away? Away where?’ she snapped, like she had any right to know.

‘Don’t ask.’

‘God almighty,’ she said in exasperation. ‘I forgot, every bloody thing you do is top secret. Still, I suppose it’ll give
me time to get it photographed and everything for the story.’

‘What are you saying?’ He was horrified. ‘This could be important evidence. You can’t go splashing it all over the front page.’

‘Why not? It’ll look bloody good on the front page.’

Mulcahy stared at her, incredulous. ‘Look, we have no way of knowing yet if this is a hoax or a sick joke, but it
could derail the entire investigation if you give it undue prominence in your paper, and everyone has to go hightailing off
on a wild-goose chase.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say. I deal with jerks and cranks every day of my life, and I’m telling you, Mulcahy,
this one gave me the creeps – big time. Y’know, they took Emmet Byrne into custody this morning. This was delivered to me
by hand
between half seven and eight tonight. What if they’ve got the wrong guy? What if he’s after me now?’

‘Look, I honestly don’t think you need to worry. I don’t think you’re his type,’ Mulcahy replied, but even as he said it,
his eye was drawn to the small silver cross glittering between the buttons of her shirt. ‘We’ve still got to get this examined
as soon as possible. Call Brogan. Let her follow it up.’

Siobhan sat back straight and stared at him like she’d seen inside him.

‘You don’t think it’s Byrne, do you?’

He didn’t know the answer to that question himself. ‘From what I’ve heard, we have a very strong case against him.’

‘Sure,’ she snorted. ‘I thought so, too, until some loony started sending smouldering skin samples to me.’ She looked over
her shoulder before continuing in a whisper. ‘You know, I interviewed an old man this afternoon who’s known Byrne for years
and swears he’s a saint.’

‘Everybody has friends, Siobhan. Even rapists and murderers get good character references in court.’

‘Yeah, well I got an email from a psychologist contact of mine earlier tonight. And do you know what, she said every one of
these attacks had hallmarks of something called an “anger-retaliatory” personality type. She said the levels of brutality
indicated displaced aggression, someone harbouring feelings of “cumulative, uncontrollable rage”. Not necessarily related
to the act itself, since the root of it, she said, could be anything. Maybe a severe trauma in childhood, or whatever. But
the trigger and focus of the aggression would nearly always be the same. And the thing is, most people I spoke to who actually
know Emmet Byrne seemed to think he was sound. A bit on the slow side but always nice, always cheerful. Definitely not your
stewing-away-till-he-bursts type, anyway.’

Mulcahy hardly heard most of it. He was still stuck on ‘anger-retaliatory’. He realised suddenly what had been nagging at
him since he’d been out in Palmerston Park. Jesica Salazar’s whispered ‘
Como un cura
’. Rinn’s erect posture, the superior manner, the dressing like an old man. Like a sexless man. Rinn was exactly like one
or two priests he’d known as a boy. So held back, so constrained, so packed with repression and anger they all but stank of
it. That’s what had been crackling off him when Mulcahy was looking at the pictures on the wall. Anger, not anxiety.

He looked up and saw Siobhan was staring at him, just like the barman had in the Long Hall. Like he was off his nut.

‘Are you alright, Mulcahy?’

‘Sure, yeah… sorry,’ he said, trying to regroup his thoughts. ‘I was just thinking, y’know, the guys on the murder team probably
know all that stuff, too. I mean, Brogan’s done all the courses, she knows all the psychology.’

‘But she’s not in charge any more, is she? And they’re always up for a quick result. It wouldn’t be the first time you guys
let enthusiasm get the better of you.’

He didn’t even feel the dig. He was too busy with what was evolving inside his own head. Rinn was occupying most of the space
in there now, and behind him, barely visible in the gloom, those photos of his grandfather and that glorious sunlit painting,
the one he had been so defensive about:
Gweedore Summer
.

‘What’re you so distracted about, anyway, all of a sudden?’ The darkness dissolved as he felt the prickle of Siobhan’s piercing
blue gaze search his face.

‘Nothing,’ he said, shutting it down.

‘Yeah, sure. You’re a hopeless liar, Mulcahy. Come on, I was right just then, wasn’t I? You
are
thinking about another suspect, aren’t you? You must’ve had others. Is it someone who fits the bill better? Are you thinking
of someone in particular?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I—’

‘Jesus, you are, aren’t you?’ she interrupted excitedly. ‘I can tell. Look, c’mon, I can help. We have resources at the paper. You
don’t even have to give me the whole story now. Just let me in first when you’ve got it.’

And there it was, and he hadn’t even had to ask for it, his chance to look into the past.

‘Okay, then,’ he said, ‘maybe there is something you can help me with.’

Brogan pulled the door of the observation room shut behind her, leaned back against the corridor wall and breathed in a lungful
of heartfelt satisfaction. Despite being deep in the bowels of Kilmainham Garda Station, the air tasted remarkably cool and
fresh. That, though, could have been because she’d just spent the last hour and a half in close, hot, sweaty proximity to five
other detectives, all big men, in that tiny room, watching something she’d never seen before. At least, not to that degree
of intensity.

She rubbed the back of her neck, hardly knowing whether it was excitement or exhaustion she was feeling more keenly. Although
her back was creaking and her arms and legs felt like sacks, the blood was still rushing through her veins like an express
train. She actually felt more alive than she had at any time since her boy was born. Eighteen hours on the trot already, with
almost no sleep the night before. But what a day it had been.

Only an hour or so after she and the others had arrived and settled in at Kilmainham with Lonergan’s murder mob, rumours had
started trickling in of a breakthrough in the case. Then, just before noon, Lonergan had come in, absolutely buzzing. She’d
liked him when she’d first met him, earlier, at the scene in the Phoenix Park – a big, easy guy, six-foot-three at least,
early forties but fit with it and smart green eyes that somehow never seemed to land in the
wrong place. She’d liked him even more, then, when the first thing he did was invite her into his office for a one-on-one
briefing in which he outlined the rapid progress the investigation had made over the course of the morning. So unlike Healy.
So unlike any other superintendent she’d met. There was real respect in everything he said to her and, weirdly, she’d felt
this mad kind of warmth bubbling up in her towards him, like instant loyalty.

It had all been a bit of a blur since then: the massive break about the order code on the plastic sheeting, the raid on Emmet
Byrne’s place and the discovery of the fibre bark-bags in the van, the briefing Lonergan had asked her to ‘co-host’ for the
sixty-strong murder team, and the press call with Commissioner Garvey announcing Byrne’s arrest. Jesus, as if the day hadn’t
had enough in it already.

Then, to cap it all, she’d just watched Lonergan interview Emmet Byrne and reel him in like an absolute master. The man had
been beyond brilliant. Lonergan and a grim-looking detective sergeant doing a classic double-hander, but with himself very
much taking the lead. Never aggressive but always keeping the pressure up on Byrne to the max, the line of questioning relentlessly
clear and focused, yet stepping back whenever the suspect got in any way confused or befuddled, which was often. Lonergan,
she’d noticed, always gave Byrne the space and time to get his story exactly the way he wanted it, and only then came back
in hard to smash it to pieces.

It had been such a thrill to watch. All of them in the room
next door glued to the interview through the mirrored glass, breathless at times as Lonergan coaxed yet another small but
crucial admission out of Byrne, never really going at him direct but constantly chipping away, helping the man drag himself
deeper and deeper into a maze of self-incrimination. In the end, ninety minutes was all it had taken him to reduce Byrne to
blubbering remorse – and a confession to all three attacks. ‘Yes, yes, okay, I done it. I burned them. I made them bleed.
All of them, may the Lord forgive me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Byrne had wept at the climax.