The Priest (41 page)

Outside the court the victim’s mother, Theresa Lowry, said Blaney’s conviction for
assault
was a triumph for local justice. ‘There are those of us in
Gweedore
who remember how, less than a decade ago, in
1988
, rich and powerful men could make even the worst crimes go away, sweep them under the carpet with a pile of cash. We all remember
Helen Martin. Well, this one tried it too and, thank the Good Lord, he didn’t succeed. Now at last we can say that justice
is alive and well again in Donegal.’

Siobhan exhaled slowly. There could be little doubt that this referred to the same incident as Mulcahy had found in the
Herald
archive search. Gweedore. 1988. Rich and powerful people covering things up in a remote part of Donegal. She felt her stomach
squirm, sensing she was on to something here, even if she didn’t yet know what. But she reckoned she might be able to get
to the bottom of it. She took a note of the reporter’s name, Eamon Doherty, called up a fresh search on the
Donegal Courier
site, and typed it in to see if he still worked there. A blizzard of hits came back at her.

Not only was Doherty still working there. He was the editor of the
Donegal Courier
now.

‘E
xcuse me, sir, any drinks or snacks?’

Mulcahy flicked his eyes open as he felt the brush of fingers across his shoulder. No, just let me sleep, he thought, then
shook his head as he realised what the flight attendant had been asking him. He pulled himself upright in his seat, trying
not to get in the way as she handed a dribble of clear liquid in a plastic cup and a can of chilled Schweppes, to the middle-aged
woman in the seat beside him. He looked at his watch blearily. Ten twenty-five in the morning, and they were doling out gin
and tonic, Christ. And over an hour still to get through before they landed.

He rubbed his eyes, realising he must have dozed off almost as soon as the aircraft had got into the air. He felt rotten –
and looked worse, to judge by the wary glance the lady alcoholic had given him when he first sat down. Better have a tidy-up
at the other end, before heading into town. He’d slept badly, and what sleep he’d had was fitful and filled with nightmares.
Dreams of Byrne, driving out of Rinn’s gateway in the van, spotting Paula Halpin, grabbing
her, pulling her into his van, murder in his face and a burning cross in his hand. Over and over again.

Dragging his bones out of bed at seven, slinging himself into the shower, racing to the airport to catch his flight, hadn’t
done anything to make him feel better. But at least he was doing something useful, and it would be good to get back to Madrid
for however short a time. The last thing he’d done before going to bed the night before had been to ring Gracia to let her
know he’d be in town. There was still so much to sort out between them, not least the question of the apartment. But although
it was past midnight, there was no answer, so he’d left a message saying he would call again when he landed. He couldn’t help
being infected by a jab of jealousy, or possessiveness, at the fact that she hadn’t been at home. Knowing this was ludicrous
didn’t make him feel it any less.

He stretched awkwardly in his seat now, the stiffness in his arms prompting another memory, of folding them around Siobhan
outside the
Sunday Herald
and kissing her goodnight. The way she’d pressed her body into his. Why the hell did it have to feel so right, when it was
so obviously never going to work with her? Suddenly, he felt a tightness in his chest, as if his lungs were contracting inside
him. He felt the woman beside him shift an inch or two further away, and wondered if this was what it was like to suffer an
anxiety attack. But it only lasted a moment and once it passed he felt nothing but a great wave of relief wash through him.
He thought of the envelope, now in his case in the baggage
locker above his head, which he’d found on the mat by the door when he got home
.
Healy had come through on his promise to ask Lonergan if he wanted to try getting an ID from Jesica. Two 5 x 4 blow-ups of
Emmet Byrne’s mugshots were in the envelope, a note attached with ‘Go for it’ scrawled in a clumsy hand.

Maybe, he thought, he would be able to play some small part in calling The Priest to account after all.

Siobhan, too, rose at seven, having slept the sleep of the driven, so she was up, showered, ironed and out, all in the space
of twenty-five minutes. A coffee she could pick up on the way. Even so, she wasn’t in the office before Griffin. Not on a
Saturday. He was already hard at it, so absorbed he didn’t notice her come in, didn’t drag his eyes away from the Reuters
or PA feed or whatever it was he was scrolling through on his screen. Fishing for a big one, or else racking up the more mundane
stuff for the shift guys and subs to work up into nibs and fillers during the day. She shouted a hello, expecting him to jump
up and congratulate her for delivering yet another cracking lead. But all he did was raise a rangy arm in greeting, didn’t
even bother to turn her way.

‘Didn’t you get my message?’ she asked.

‘I did,’ was all he said, flatly, still not turning around.

‘And…?’ Christ, the man could be infuriating sometimes.

‘And nothing.’ He swivelled round in his chair then, his
face hard as stone, and put his hands up in front of her. ‘We’re not running it.’

‘We’re not
what
? What are you talking about? You haven’t even seen it.’

‘Not my decision,’ he said. ‘I phoned Harry at home, as soon as I got in. To prime him for the “
Herald
reporter gets Priest death threat” splash. And, for some reason, he took it upon himself to ring Lonergan – you know, the
superintendent in charge of the murder team – to insist you must be given round-the-clock protection.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Siobhan groaned. ‘Where is he? I’m going to bloody murder him.’

‘I actually thought it was a good idea,’ Griffin said. ‘It would have spiced up the whole focus on you and the
Herald
, and you can’t buy publicity like that.’

‘So what happened?’ Siobhan asked, beginning to see his point now.

Griffin moved his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look at her while telling the rest. ‘Lonergan
killed it dead. Apparently they charged Emmet Byrne with the murder this morning, and now they’re saying this letter of yours
is evidence material to the case.’

‘But that’s bollocks!’ she shouted. ‘It has nothing to do with Byrne.’

‘With the best will in the world, Siobhan, I don’t think you could argue—’

‘Did Harry,’ she interrupted, ‘point out that it came
after
Byrne was taken into custody?’

‘No, he didn’t…’

‘Well, that’s it!’ she said, clutching at straws.

‘But
I
did, Siobhan, and to no less a man than the Director of Public Prosecutions himself – who then spent half an hour, probably
in his pyjamas, shouting chapter and verse at me down the phone and describing the ton of bricks he’ll bring down on us if
we even think about printing it.’

‘And that’s it?’ She was actually shaking with frustration now. ‘That’s
it
?’

‘Yup.’ Griffin nodded. ‘Harry says it’s not worth us going to court over.’

‘Easy for him to say,’ she said. ‘I bet I’m not getting any protection, either.’

Griffin laughed. ‘Funnily enough, no.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘They’re sending someone over at eleven o’clock to take a statement from you. And to formally take that
thing
into evidence and, of course, initiate investigative action, or some such bollocks.’ He smiled sympathetically as she shook
her head in disbelief, then leaned forward and squeezed her arm gently. ‘Can I see it, at least? You only left me a photocopy.’

She went over to her desk, unlocked the drawer where she’d left the parchment overnight and handed it to Griffin. He whistled
as he examined it through the plastic.

‘Jesus, you weren’t wrong, were you?’ His eyebrows went up when he realised it was in a Garda evidence bag. ‘What’s this?’

She shook her head again. ‘Long story.’

‘Oh, well, you can’t win ’em all, Scoop,’ he said, smiling broadly again. ‘And anyway, the way your career is going, I’ve
no doubt there’ll be plenty more death threats to come.’

‘Mike!… Mike!… Mulcahy!!’

It was midday in Madrid, and Terminal One at Barajas Airport was swamped with humanity. It was only the appalling abuse done
to his surname that made Mulcahy stop and stare into the crowds jostling at the barriers to greet the passengers disgorging
into the arrivals hall. Then he heard the voice again.

‘Mike! Over here!’

Mulcahy scanned the phalanx of meeters and greeters to his left. There, leaning against a pillar and waving a rolled-up newspaper,
he recognised the tall, thin figure of Javier Martinez.

‘Jav!’ he called out. He wasn’t expecting to be met, and had intended taking the Metro into Principe de Vergara before contacting
Martinez for details of where and when the interview would take place. ‘What are you doing here?’

Grinning broadly, Martinez pointed towards the end of the line of barriers and started walking in that direction. Mulcahy
followed and gave his old friend a warm embrace when they eventually converged. For a split second, all the heaviness and
worry was gone from his shoulders and he was transported back a year, two years before, to the Narcotics Intelligence Unit,
fighting the good fight, working for the cause. Martinez had been the one colleague he’d
worked alongside for the full seven years of his Europol tenure, a man who’d combined the skills of guide, language coach,
cultural consultant, drinking buddy and bloody good friend. He’d even met Gracia through Martinez, although that wasn’t necessarily
a plus point any more.

Mulcahy laughed, slapping Martinez on the back for good measure. His mood had skyrocketed. ‘Christ, but it’s good to be back.’

The Spaniard smiled, waving his car keys and heading towards the exit. For Mulcahy, the mere fact of being back in Madrid
and seeing his old pal had loosed a flood of endorphins into his bloodstream. Even the wall-hard shock of heat that hit him
as they left the air-conditioned terminal building felt good; even the sweat prickling out under his shirt. He was so heady
with it, Martinez had to grab him as, looking the wrong way, he stepped into the road and almost directly under the wheels
of a large taxi that was just pulling away. It was a huge thing, an MPV or van, and the driver had to swerve sharply to avoid
him, sticking his head out the open window and shouting a selection of choice
Madrileño
obscenities.

But Mulcahy only laughed. ‘Christ, Jav, I really have been a long time away.’

They reached the car, a silver Mercedes two-seater convertible that looked to be brand new. No surprise there. Martinez had
always had money: a huge apartment in the Salamanca district; a wardrobe full of finely tailored English suits, shirts and
handmade brogues, like the ones he was
wearing now. It was an affectation he’d picked up from his ‘filthy-rich Anglophile family’, as he told Mulcahy years back.
He was incredibly well connected, which presumably was how he’d got his current job. The one question he’d never answered
to Mulcahy’s satisfaction was what a Spanish playboy was doing slumming it in the
Policía Nacional
.

Martinez reversed out of the parking space with a screech of tyres that was deafening in the enclosed space of the multi-storey
car park. Some things never change, Mulcahy thought. He’d never got used to the crazed machismo of Spanish driving. It wasn’t
until they’d negotiated the route out of the airport and roared onto the motorway that Martinez opened his mouth again.

‘Don Alfonso knows the requirements of the investigation process, so he is aware you need to talk to Jesica sooner, not later.
He demands, though, that you can only do it if Jesica’s doctor is also always present in the room. That’s okay, yes?’

Mulcahy didn’t reply, thinking it through, although he couldn’t see it being a problem.

Misinterpreting his silence, Martinez glanced over at him a little shamefacedly. ‘I know it’s not ideal for you but he was
very, eh… insistent.’

‘No, no, what’s to be sorry about?’ Mulcahy shouted back at him. ‘It’s not a problem. And thanks again for sorting it out
so quickly. Honestly, we appreciate it. If we’d had to go through official channels, it might have taken weeks, knowing what
you bloody Spanish are like.’

He grinned across at Martinez, who responded with a broad grin of his own and a push on the accelerator that took the engine
from a purr to a growl, and shot them forward at an even more ridiculous speed. By now the ear-buffeting airflow was too much
to allow for easy conversation. Mulcahy tucked himself further into the body-hugging leather of the car seat, letting the
speed and exhilaration of being back in Madrid rush over him. By the time they reached the outskirts of the city proper, and
the traffic had slowed to a more metropolitan crawl, he found himself more relaxed than he’d felt in weeks. The two of them
chatted away during the journey, Martinez pressing for details of the wider story of The Priest, Mulcahy seeking to fill out
his sketchy knowledge of the powerful politician he would be meeting that afternoon: Don Alfonso Mellado Salazar.

‘You know, most politicians we have now, they were babies when Franco was around,’ Martinez said, ‘but Don Alfonso, he was
in politics even then. He was one of the new ones who oversaw the transition to democracy, and one of not many whose career
survived it. Because he can change, I think, but without being hypocritical like most.
El Juez –
you know they call him this, the Judge. He is tough but respected. And a big Catholic, too. Many older people like this.’

Mulcahy nodded. ‘He must be getting on a bit. From what I remember of seeing him on the news, he looks more like a grandfather
than a father.’