The Priest (43 page)

‘IRA?’

‘Yeah, but as in 1922 and all that. A friend of De Valera’s, y’know – a founding father of the Republic. They called them
“The Great Ones”, a gang of Donegal lads who were hugely influential at the start. I think this guy was President of the High
Court at some stage.’

‘A judge?’ The hairs rose up on the back of Siobhan’s neck, as all the keywords from Mulcahy’s searches started pinging in
her brain. She remembered the obituaries he had been reading. They were all about some old judge. She dug in her pocket for
a ten-euro note as the waitress returned with the pint for Doherty, waving her away quickly and telling her to keep the change.

‘Yeah, a judge,’ Doherty said, taking a glug before continuing. ‘A local boy made good, Gweedore born and bred.
Had a big old house by the sea that he used when the Dublin courts weren’t in session. And a right old bastard, too, by all
accounts. He had the power to silence people and used it – with the guards especially. As I heard it, after the attack the
boy was whisked away and never seen again. Helen Martin was sent to a private hospital and the whole thing was hushed up.
The judge even pushed through an injunction on the
Courier
. Not a word could get out. I’m told he paid the girl’s family off but I don’t imagine they had much choice but to shut up
about it. Young Helen must’ve recovered alright in the end, anyway, cos they all moved away soon after. To England, I think.’

Poor girl, Siobhan thought with a shudder, wondering what sort of hillbilly backwoods place Gweedore would have to be to let
that happen as recently as 1988.

Doherty must have seen in her expression what she was thinking. ‘If she’d died it would’ve been different, y’know. Even in
the eighties, the old ways of kowtowing to priests and politicians still had a hold up there – especially with the Troubles
at their height across the border. But their power was on the wane. And, after something like that, well, people were just
sickened by it.’

‘This judge, though, he got away with it?’

‘Yeah, but like I say, times were changing. There was a huge amount of bad feeling about it round the place. He never came
back after that, and the big house stayed empty until it was sold after he died. That must’ve been before 1997, or else we’d
never have published even the small reference
that you read online. The editor back then wasn’t exactly the campaigning type, if you know what I mean.’

‘Oh, I know, alright,’ Siobhan said, just to keep him happy. ‘I’m beginning to think it might be a bit too dodgy for my editor
to wear even now. I mean, whatever about a court case, there probably wasn’t even an arrest, or a police record of the incident,
was there?’

Doherty sat back in his seat and shrugged. ‘If there was, it’ll have disappeared years ago. But, now that you come to mention
it, it might be worth looking into. I think everyone’s forgotten about the whole thing, to be honest.’

‘Well, don’t go doing anything on my account,’ Siobhan said hurriedly. ‘I’m pretty sure I won’t be using it now. But if you
do dig up something, will you promise to let us have first dibs?’

Doherty laughed. ‘Right you are then, Siobhan. It’s a deal. Although I’ve a feeling it won’t be knocking anything off our
front page next week. This match today and the cutbacks at Letterkenny General Hospital are what people are interested in,
up my way.’

Siobhan apologised again to Doherty for wasting his time and said she had to get back to the grindstone, leaving him to saunter
back towards the bar with his half-drunk pint. It had been risky, that final double-bluff, but she was as confident as she
could be that Doherty wouldn’t pursue the story now. Unless he was an even cuter operator than she gave him credit for. But
she didn’t think so. By saying she wouldn’t pursue it herself, she’d effectively pulled the plug.
For him it was nothing more than old news again. And even if he did do some digging, she was sure he’d be enough of an old
hack to want to sell it on through her to the
Sunday Herald
first; get a bit of the big time out of it.

She ignored the doorman’s offer to get her a taxi, and ran down the steps outside, snagging one for herself straight away,
right from under the eyes of a startled tourist. In under five minutes, she was back in the newsroom again, checking out Harry
Heffernan’s office. She was in luck, the conference had overrun – the rumble of conversation was still coming from behind
the closed door. Heated it sounded, maybe even heated enough to give her time to do a quick follow-up on this old judge. And
his grandson, who’d be, what, in his mid-to late thirties by now? If God really was being kind to her, the grandson would
be a scion of the male line. Lovely word that, scion. And there couldn’t be many people in Dublin with that surname, now could
there?

For the first time that day, Siobhan felt a genuine smile playing on her lips.

T
he Salazar residence took up the entire top floor of a majestic period block situated between the Palacio Real and the Opera,
a huge wedding cake of a building, the swirls and swags of its stucco-work like white icing baked in the glare of the midday
sun.

‘This is only their pied-a-terre, you understand,’ Martinez whispered as they were ushered into a finely appointed sitting
room by a middle-aged man in a charcoal-grey business suit – the uniform, Mulcahy assumed, of the modern-day butler. ‘The
family of Don Alfonso has a nice house, too, over near the Retiro,’ he continued. Not a sound intruded from the busy city
outside. ‘But I hear that it is currently leased to a Russian billionaire.’ He laughed. ‘The family’s historical residence
is even more impressive, Palacio Salazar, out in the country near El Escorial. Which shows you for how long they have been
close to the centre of power, here in Spain.’

Mulcahy understood alright. The old power systems, those of family, wealth and privilege, were still very much alive in Spain,
even if hidden from view by the youthful
thrusting face that was the nation’s preferred image to the outside world. He looked around him. The room was sparsely but
elegantly decorated in a style that was antique in itself. Everything from the carved furniture to the pale silk wall hangings
had an air of faded elegance, as if the very notion of home improvement were beneath contempt. Just then came a sound of footfalls
from the corridor outside, and the door swung open. Martinez was on his feet instantly, smoothing down his suit with one hand
and striding across the room towards the tall, lean man who entered with a loping, authoritative stride.

Mulcahy recognised him immediately from television and the newspapers. Don Alfonso Mellado Salazar. Dressed in a dark grey
pinstripe suit, the silver of the stripe a perfect match for his hair, he had to be in his early seventies at least. But while
not exactly burdened by age, he looked a little weakened by it. His thin, hollowed-out face still had a hawk-like imperiousness
to it, the silver hair swept back from a broad forehead that topped a high-bridged nose, intense brown eyes, and pale fleshy
lips. But his posture was more stooped, less fearsome, than Mulcahy had anticipated.

‘Don Alfonso, thank you so much for admitting us to your home.’ Martinez was formal to the point of obsequiousness, approaching
Salazar with his head bowed and a hand outstretched. Salazar nodded as he took the proffered hand and shook it warmly.

‘Good afternoon, Javier. Thank you for taking the time to handle this personally.’

By now, after just a few hours back in the city, Mulcahy could feel the language returning to him. During lunch he’d suggested
to Martinez that they switch to speaking Spanish, and after half an hour or so of stumbling it had started flowing for him
again. Enough to pick up now on the subtleties of the exchange taking place before him, and to be surprised that his friend
was on what amounted to first-name terms with Salazar, the older man using the intimate ‘
tu
’ when addressing him. Quite clearly, they had met many times before. Mulcahy wasn’t the only one who’d been done a favour
by Javier’s trip to the airport, it seemed.

‘This is the police officer from Dublin, sir,’ Martinez announced, as he steered Salazar across the room. ‘A good man, and
a friend of mine, Detective Inspector Mike Mulcahy.’

‘Yes, yes, I know of him,’ the old man said. ‘They thought highly of him at the embassy there. He speaks the language, yes?’

The question was directed at Martinez, but Salazar had his gaze fixed firmly on Mulcahy.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Mulcahy said. ‘It is an honour to meet you. My Spanish is far from perfect, but I hope it will be sufficient
for the task ahead. I will do my best to make the process as painless as possible for your daughter.’

This formal approach was what Martinez had suggested but Salazar wasn’t interested in niceties.

‘So this man you arrested, is he the same one who attacked my daughter?’ The old man’s tone was accusing.
‘They tell me he has murdered a girl since – another child. Is that correct?’

‘The investigation is ongoing but, yes, our suspect may have committed both crimes, and at least one other. But it is not
possible to say more than that, at this stage.’

He paused as Salazar harrumphed and shot a sceptical glance at Martinez, who did a magnificent job of pretending not to notice
it. Before the old man could say anything else, Mulcahy went on. ‘We’re hoping that any information your daughter can give
us will greatly help our efforts to take this man off the streets permanently.’

For a second or two Salazar looked like he was about to say something combative in reply, but then a shadow crossed his face
and his entire posture seemed to slump fractionally. A faint air of sadness seeped out of him now. He extended a hand to Mulcahy.

‘I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for halting the interrogation my child was subjected to, so disgracefully, on the
day she was attacked. That should never have occurred. It was an outrage. But, for your intervention, I want you to know I
am most grateful.’

Mulcahy wasn’t sure how to respond to that, since it wasn’t entirely true. As he couldn’t really see how contradicting the
man would help progress matters, he shook the hand offered and remained silent.

‘I thought it would be good for her, you see,’ Salazar continued, the gaze with which he fixed Mulcahy now sadder, more resigned
than the gruff public persona of the
politician. ‘To get away from me for a few weeks, from the bustle of politics that surrounds us, to see how ordinary people
live. So I gave in to her pleading to be allowed to go to Dublin with her schoolfriends. I thought it is Ireland, and a Catholic
country, so it will be safe for her. I should have known better.’

Retrospect, the politician’s greatest friend, Mulcahy thought. But again he resisted the impulse to respond. It was better
to move on, stay on neutral ground.

‘May I ask how your daughter is now, sir?’

‘Thank you, she is as well as can be expected. In fact, we should proceed. The sooner it is done, the sooner she can begin
to put it all behind her. I will take you to her now.’

Salazar asked the butler to show his visitors the way, and they walked through a series of tastefully decorated but dismal
corridors, Salazar lagging behind a little, engaging Martinez in a whispered conversation of which Mulcahy could make out
nothing other than that it was about some mutual acquaintance. When the butler eventually opened a door and ushered them through,
Mulcahy was surprised to find himself in a kind of sparsely furnished anteroom, where three other people were already waiting.
From the way they turned and looked at him appraisingly – the man with a decidedly lawyerly sneer – he could tell they already
knew why he was there.

Salazar made the introductions. ‘Inspector Mulcahy, this is Doctor Mendizabal, my daughter’s psychiatrist, and Señor Don Ruiz
Ordonez, my lawyer. And, eh…?’

‘The police stenographer, Don Alfonso,’ Martinez interjected hurriedly. ‘To record the interview for the purposes of the witness
statement.’

‘Ah, good. Well, please, let us go in.’

Mulcahy shot a questioning glance at Martinez. He’d only agreed that the psychiatrist could sit in, and obviously the stenographer,
too. But where the hell did the rest of them think they were going? Martinez shrugged, at a loss himself, leaving Mulcahy,
in the end, to stop them at the door and suggest that the fewer people were present, the better. At which point the psychiatrist
stepped in to agree, tactfully suggesting to Don Alfonso that while his daughter would doubtless be comforted by his presence,
she might be inhibited by it too. As for the lawyer, he could read the stenographer’s transcript afterwards. Neither Salazar
nor Ordonez were happy about this but, like Mulcahy, Dr Mendizabal stood her ground. He smiled gratefully at her as they went
through the doorway into the adjoining room.

Press day hadn’t got any easier, and Siobhan hadn’t found time to follow up on the leads Doherty had given her. Griffin had
been on her case ever since he’d come out of conference in a foul humour, muttering about the editor’s solitary habits. Heffernan
had done a U-turn on the front end, insisting that the Emmet Byrne piece was no longer strong enough for a front-page splash.

‘Stupid wanker, he’s still pissed off with Lonergan and
the DPP,’ Griffin grumbled. ‘Doesn’t want to give credit where credit is bloody well due.’

Then, about half an hour later, a story Griffin had been keeping an eye on all week, about a pensioner who’d been missing
for days from a residential nursing home in Cork, came good when the old boy turned up dead in a clump of bushes just three
hundred yards from the home itself. Ever the opportunist, Griffin saw a chance for sensation. So Siobhan had been glued to
the newsdesk for hours, working up the material coming in from stringers, agencies and whatever she could muster herself on
the phones, into a hectoring lead about the appalling state of Ireland’s nursing homes. At least it would have her byline
all over it.