The Priest (9 page)

Cassidy screwed his face up, like he always did when she said anything even vaguely abstract to him.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘he’s got plenty to keep him out of our way for now.’

‘He’s going to go through the dregs, is he?’ Cassidy wrung his hands together, as if he hadn’t left them under the dryer long
enough. ‘I’m still not sure about giving him that job. What if he misses something useful?’

‘And maybe a fresh pair of eyes will spot something we would’ve overlooked.’ Brogan turned and walked back a few paces towards
her office. ‘Look, Andy, the bottom line is we’re under pressure for a result. Whatever else he might be, he’s a smart guy
and an experienced investigator. If there’s something there, he’s got as good a chance of finding it as anyone else.’

‘He doesn’t look very happy about it.’

Brogan followed his glance back up the corridor. Through an open door she saw Mulcahy taking files from
boxes, arranging them on his desk, frowning in concentration.

‘No, he’s okay with it. He knows he’ll need a bit of background if he’s going to pull his weight over here, for however short
a time.’

‘G
od, is it yourself again? You’re never out of this bloody place.’

‘I could say the same to you.’ Siobhan Fallon dumped her bag on the desk and switched on her screen, while she waited for
news editor Paddy Griffin to respond. The newsroom, as she knew it would be, was empty but for the two of them.

‘Yeah well,’ Griffin said eventually, ‘it’s pretty much accepted that I’ve got no life outside the paper. You, on the other
hand, being the young and rather lovely ace reporter that you are…’

Griffin’s voice was laden with irony, his grey, deeply lined face wreathed in good humour. In his sixties, pushing retirement
now, he was leaning back in his swivel chair like a lounge lizard in a hotel lobby, his long, thin limbs like pipe cleaners
inside the tubes of his rumpled linen suit. It was a posture born long before computers became the basic tool of journalism.
Some said he doted on his chief reporter, but in reality his relationship with her went much deeper than
that. It wasn’t her body he was after but the same doggedness and hunger for a story he recognised from his own glory days.
He sucked what he could of it straight off her, like some creature of the night feeding on her energy and need.

‘Run out of things to buy, did you?’

‘Ran out of spondulicks, more like.’

Siobhan pressed her stomach against the back of Griffin’s chair and gave his shoulder a fond squeeze as she stared at the
computer screen in front of him. He looked like he hadn’t left the office since she’d signed off her copy on Saturday night,
as if he’d just stayed there all along, scrolling through the wire services, looking for anything that would make a half-decent
story for next week’s edition.

‘Anything doing?’

‘Nothing that won’t be dead by Thursday,’ he groaned. ‘Christ, but I miss the dailies sometimes. This place’s been deader than
a nun’s knickers all day. I’m beginning to wonder why I bothered coming in at all.’

Siobhan knew there was more to it than that. Griffin was a minor legend in Dublin newspaper circles. He’d been everywhere,
seen it all, done foreign and war for the
Irish Independent
, crime and politics for the
Irish Times
, even a stint as managing editor of the old
Irish Press
before it went splat back in the nineties. Not for him any sense, though, that the
Sunday Herald
was a comedown. No, anywhere there was news flowing in and out, and he was in a position to put it into print, was good enough
for Paddy Griffin.

‘I heard you on the radio again this morning,’ he said. ‘You were good, as usual.’

‘Thanks. I stayed on for the Pat Kenny show afterwards, but even they were getting bored with it by then. Only gave it the
three minutes.’

‘Better than nothing, eh?’

‘Yeah, I suppose. How’s it doing on the wires?’

‘Oh, still kicking up a storm with all the Johnny-come-latelys.’ Griffin swivelled round and beamed at Siobhan. ‘You did well
there, my darling, and your instinct was right on the follow-up. They’re doing their best to shut it down: the FAI and United
are closing ranks. Lenihan’s come out with a statement – all the usual bollocks about how him and Suzy are happily married
and are certainly not splitting up.’

Siobhan cast her eyes heavenwards. It wasn’t like anyone would feel sorry for Suzy Lenihan being caught fooling around with
one of her husband’s squad members. Especially Maloney who, let’s face it, was as fit as they come. Everyone knew she only
married Marty Lenihan so she could stay in the spotlight – he had little else going for him – and that together they made
up the most toxic couple in Irish sporting circles. Lenihan himself chased every bit of skirt naive enough to get within fifty
yards of him. Siobhan, too, had come in for his foul-breathed attention at a book launch in Buswell’s one night. A shiver
of disgust ran through her, followed by one of satisfaction on recalling the look on his face when she’d told him to fuck
right off with himself. But Marty had so far avoided being caught out, and he had lawyers like
Rottweilers. So the headline LENIHAN PLAYS AWAY was still just a tantalising prospect. Her stomach squirmed at the mere thought
of it.

‘As for Maloney,’ Griffin continued, ‘he buggered off on the first plane to Marbella this morning, his missus conveniently
in tow and definitely not saying a word. So, unless the big own-goaling dope makes an even bigger cock of himself out there,
you’re right, it won’t have the legs to make it through the week.’

‘Better get moving on something else then, hadn’t I?’ Siobhan said. ‘If I want to convince Harry that he can’t do without
me.’

Griffin looked up at her, the lines and furrows on his face rearranged in a crazy-paving of mock pain.

‘You got the flowers, did you?’

Siobhan nodded, knowing what was coming.

‘I’m thinking that’s probably the best you can hope for, just now. He said he’d look at the budget again, but you know yourself
what that means.’

Mulcahy was out by the kettle, spooning instant coffee into a mug – they didn’t even possess a cafetière, never mind a proper
machine – when he heard a commotion break out up the corridor. He turned to see Brogan emerging from her office and making
straight for the incident room, her gait a stiff clip-clop of heels, thunder in her face. It took him a moment to realise
her fury was focused on him.

‘So when were you going to tell me?’

If she hadn’t been so tall, he might not have felt her aggression so much; if she’d been a man, he’d have been tempted to
deck her.

‘Tell you what?’

‘That Jesica Salazar has been removed from St Vincent’s by some bunch of embassy clowns.’

Mulcahy put the kettle down slowly.

‘She’s been what?’

‘You heard me. She’s been spirited away by some gang of bandoleros from the bloody embassy. Came in mob-handed, took the girl
away, didn’t leave a forwarding address.’

‘They’ve probably just moved her to the Blackrock Clinic, or some other private place. She’s a VIP’s daughter. You know how
it is.’

‘No, Mike. I don’t know
how
it is. Even more to the point, I’ve no idea
where
she is now, either.’ Brogan ruffled her hair, as if trying to tease something from it. ‘You said earlier you’d been talking
to your Spanish guy. Are you seriously saying he didn’t mention anything about this?’

Mulcahy had been so backfooted by her tone, only now did it register what she was implying. He looked around him to see who
else was in the room. One civilian secretary looking at them curiously. And Cassidy, sitting at a desk staring back at him,
a malevolent smirk on his face.

‘Yes, Claire, that’s exactly what I’m saying. And, for the record, what I actually told you was that I tried to contact Ibañez
but he wasn’t available.’

‘Probably because he was the one who marched into the
hospital this morning waving an order demanding the girl’s release into their care, the little shit.’

‘Who’d you get this from? Not Healy?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I rang the hospital to see how Jesica was and they said she’d been moved out hours ago. I hadn’t
even thought of Healy. What the hell am I going to tell him?’

‘Fuck that,’ Mulcahy said, ‘it’s not your problem. This is the embassy’s doing, and they’ll have to do the explaining. Don’t
say anything until I ring Ibañez and tear a strip or two off him.’

‘
Home?
’ Mulcahy gasped, unable to believe what he was hearing. ‘You’re telling me she’s been taken home, as in
out of the country?
’

‘But of course.’ It was Ibañez’s turn to sound surprised. ‘Where else would we take her?’

Mulcahy couldn’t have been more shocked. He’d been all set to give Ibañez a mild upbraiding for moving Jesica Salazar to another
hospital without informing them. But the Spanish First Secretary was now telling him that the girl had been put on a plane
that was already most of the way back to Madrid. Mulcahy ran a hand through his hair, the phone still clamped to his ear.
What a disaster – surely someone must have known?

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell us?
’

‘Please, Inspector, there is no need for anger here. It was not my choice to do it this way.’ Ibañez’s voice was sounding
a little strained now. ‘Jesica’s father, as you know, is a very powerful man. He wanted his daughter back, beside him, safe
in her own country without any more hurt, either physical or psychological.’ He paused to let the barb hit home. ‘You know,
Don Alfonso might have been less insistent if it hadn’t been for your colleagues’ shameful attempt to interrogate his daughter
before she was well enough. In these circumstances I understand why he was not so concerned with, uh, niceties, but making
certain nothing would delay ensuring his daughter’s safety.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Mulcahy growled into the mouthpiece. ‘She was in no further danger and you know it. All this achieves
is to leave our investigation high and dry.’

‘Which is precisely why her father wanted Jesica repatriated, Inspector. Because, as your reaction shows all too clearly,
this was the only way to guarantee she would not be pressured by your officers into talking about this terrible incident until
she is ready. Which, I might add, in the opinion of our medical team, will not be for some time yet. So I do not apologise
to you, Inspector. We did not do anything wrong. We had all the permissions we needed, including from your own government.
If you were not informed, this is not our fault.’

Brogan nearly choked when Mulcahy told her.

‘Madrid? For Christ’s sake! So now we can wave goodbye to any hope of getting this mess cleared up quickly. How will we get
a statement now? Or an ID if we turn up a suspect?’

‘I don’t suppose they had much confidence in any of us,
after what happened at the hospital.’ Mulcahy stared pointedly at Cassidy. ‘What I don’t get is why you thought I’d have known
they were going to swipe the kid? Or why I wouldn’t have shared that with you, if I did?’

Brogan had the decency to redden a little at that. ‘You’re the one supposed to be liaising with them. Who else would have known,
if you didn’t?’

He felt his annoyance shifting from Brogan back to where it should have been focused all along. He might be pissed off at
her paranoia about his presence in her little fiefdom, but what the Spanish had done was unforgivable by any standards of
cooperation, and could only make the investigation more difficult.

‘We’ll find a way around it,’ he said, trying to put more reassurance into his voice than he felt. ‘All the swabs were done,
weren’t they? And it’s not as if Jesica was likely to give up anything useful, for the moment anyway. We’ve just got to let
it be known upstairs that we knew nothing about her being taken, and that we’re very unhappy about the situation. Let the
minister deal with the politics. He must have been in on it.’

From the look on Brogan’s face, as she walked away, he could tell she hadn’t taken a word of that on board.

The incident room was deserted. Mulcahy had already spent most of the afternoon sifting through the files on his desk, alone
apart from a civilian secretary in the outer room tapping away at a computer screen oblivious to his presence.
Brogan had done a good job of sidelining him. Shortly after he’d told her the outcome of his conversation with Ibañez, she
had buggered off with Cassidy and the rest of them on the house-to-house enquiries and to interview some known sex offenders.
Still, their absence had given him a chance to make some phone calls he’d been meaning to make for a while. Not least to his
old sidekick, Sergeant Liam Ford, over in the Drugs Squad, who he hadn’t seen for ages.

‘Jesus,’ Ford guffawed, staggered to hear his old boss had been press-ganged into servitude in Sex Crimes. ‘Did they whip
your bollocks off at the door?’

Mulcahy assured him that they hadn’t. They arranged to meet for a pint the following lunchtime, then Mulcahy put the phone
down. No wonder Brogan and Cassidy had chips on their shoulders. Whatever his own feelings about the DVSAU, Ford’s contempt
for the unit was the typical Garda reaction. All the more reason for him to get out of there as quickly as possible. And,
the girl being back in Madrid, he now realised, could only work in his favour, since there might no longer be any point to
his staying on. The Spanish embassy would probably now loosen its grip on the ‘liaising’ and he could slip away quietly, maybe
in a few days’ time. What he’d be going back to might not be much better, but at least he wouldn’t be pussyfooting around
Brogan and that little shit Cassidy any more.

Just then his mobile rang, but he didn’t recognise the number on the screen.

‘Mike?’

The voice was Spanish, and instantly recognisable as that of his old colleague Javier Martinez from the Narcotics Intelligence
Unit in Madrid. A close friend throughout his seven years in Spain, Mulcahy hadn’t spoken to him for months and he felt his
spirits lift instantly. It was as if he’d been transported back to his former life.