The Priest (12 page)

The girl, unrecognisable from the bruised and broken Jesica he’d seen a couple of days previously, was exceptionally pretty,
her dark eyes radiant, glossed lips drawn in a wide smile over bright teeth, her black hair shiny enough to reflect the light
over the door. She was wearing a short white top and matching mini-skirt; her long legs and midriff were
bare. The young male cut a handsome figure, too. Tall, maybe six-two, narrow athletic frame, early twenties probably, fair
hair feathered into a fashionable cut, his smile gleaming almost as much as the expensive leather jacket he wore over a striped
high-collared shirt and dark jeans. The final photo was a blow-up of his face.

‘Have these been enhanced?’ Mulcahy asked, amazed at how good the images were for a club CCTV. He flicked back a couple of
sheets and looked more closely. Sure enough, the glimmer of a chain was visible around the girl’s neck, the cross glinting
bright against her white top.

‘No,’ Brogan laughed, ‘we got very lucky there. Somebody must’ve invested in some good-quality equipment without knowing it.
Or maybe it was knock-off.’

The whole room laughed together, high on the knowledge that identifying the suspect could only be a matter of time. These stills
were every copper’s dream.

‘Okay, so this is a real break for us, as you can see,’ Brogan continued. ‘Getting an ID remains our number one priority. We
circulated copies to all Dublin area stations last night, so hopefully someone local will recognise this guy and contact us
this morning. Maura and Donagh, I want you to get out and track down those three bouncers again, and shove this guy’s mug
in their faces. There’s a good chance they’ll know him if he’s been there before. He’s older than the usual crowd at that
club, and pretty distinctive anyway. I’d also like you to do some follow-up calls this morning, make sure every sergeant in
south Dublin makes all his
shifts take a good hard look at that face. We need this badly. Any questions?’

‘He’s a good-looking lad,’ Mulcahy commented. ‘No problems picking up girls there, it seems.’

Brogan tutted loudly, like he’d broken some basic rule of detecting.

‘And as
we
all know, Inspector, that means nothing. It might even go some way to explain why he did what he did to Jesica. If, indeed,
he did it at all.’

‘Just an observation,’ Mulcahy said, wondering if the reproach was supposed to be some kind of payback for what he’d said
to Cassidy.

Whelan put his hand up. ‘Is that something dangling from his right hand?’ he said, still staring hard at the video grabs.
‘Could it be a set of keys? Car keys, I mean, or
van
keys?’

A sound of rustling filled the room, everyone flicking back through their own set of photos, checking they were looking at
the same image, squinting hard to see what Whelan was talking about.

‘Jaysus, I think he could be on to something there,’ Cassidy said, holding up the print in question for Brogan to see.

‘Can we get this blown up any bigger?’ Brogan asked urgently.

‘I’ll get straight on to it,’ Cassidy said.

‘But didn’t someone say the girl was walking home?’ McHugh asked.

A silence fell on the room, before Brogan turned to Mulcahy, the look in her eyes question enough for him.

He shook his head. ‘All she said was that a man hit her. But there was definitely an implication that it was outside. I mean,
she said that she fell to the ground. And then, that he dragged her somewhere inside.’ He thought back over the exact words
Jesica had used, and had no doubt that he was right.

‘And her pal said the guy had offered to
walk
home with her,’ Brogan said. ‘Look, it’s just one more thing to throw in the mix. Like I said, the sooner we get on with
this the sooner we’ll sort it out, so come on, now…’

‘Hiya, Des,’ Siobhan began, cradling the phone on her shoulder with her chin as she finished a sentence on her screen and
hit save. She looked over her shoulder automatically, making sure no one was paying any undue attention to her. ‘You took
your time getting back to me.’

It was Des Consodine, the Garda sergeant she’d primed the night before for information on the attack. Consodine was okay,
as sources go, but he could be a lazy old bastard sometimes and she liked to keep him on his toes.

He started making excuses but she brought him up short. ‘Okay, but what did you get for me?’

His reply was the one answer she hadn’t expected from him. He’d got nothing at all.

‘You mean it didn’t happen?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘For God’s sake, Des, what’re you on about?’ She was
about to give up on the whole thing, when her brain kicked in. That wasn’t exasperation in his voice: it was unease. ‘What
do you mean, “not exactly”?’

‘I mean, it might have happened. But, if it did, nobody’s telling me anything about it.’

‘Actively?’

‘Very. When I rang Dundrum, they denied knowing anything about it at all. But…’

She heard him take a deep breath.

‘But?’

‘Look, Siobhan, this is as much as I’m going to be able to give you on this one. And, even at that, it didn’t come from me,
okay?’

‘Sure. But at least tell me why, won’t you?’

‘All I can say is, after I didn’t get anything from the lads on the desk, I rang a guy I know in Dundrum – a sergeant. He
jumped right down my throat as soon as I mentioned it. Started giving me the third degree over how I’d heard about it.’

‘You didn’t tell him?’

‘No, I fobbed him off. Then he told me to back off and stop asking. And he meant it.’

Siobhan was aware of her chest tightening slightly, as the feeling began to bloom inside her that she’d stepped into somewhere
she wasn’t supposed to be. She knew the feeling well. Loved it. Craved it, even. ‘Bizarre, huh?’

‘Too right,’ Consodine agreed. ‘And it sounded like it came straight from the top.’

She reached for a pencil and scribbled the phrase on to the reporter’s pad beside her keyboard, underscoring the word ‘top’
three times.

‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Des?’

She thought she heard him swallow during the short pause that followed.

‘No, why?’

‘Well, so far you’ve told me nothing I didn’t know already, except for some useless little hints. I can’t exactly magic up
a story from that.’

‘Maybe there isn’t one.’

‘Yeah, well, in that case there’s nothing in it for you, either,’ she said sharply.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ he whined. ‘Look, I did what you asked, didn’t I? And got a right bloody arse-kicking for my
trouble. I need this. I’ve had a lousy run the last couple of weeks. You’ve got to give me something.’

It was just as Griffin had told her once: you couldn’t beat a betting man when it came to making a good snout.

‘And I say the same to you. We’re not a charity. No lead, no wedge.’

‘But I’ve told you everything.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Des, you’re just taking the piss now. Let’s just leave it.’

‘No, wait.’

She didn’t say anything, just waited for him to cave.

‘Okay,’ he sighed at last, ‘it definitely came from the top, like I said.’

‘From the Commissioner’s office?’

‘Higher.’

The significance zapped straight from the earpiece into her brain.

‘What, from the Minister’s office? Why would Harmon stick his oar in?’

She didn’t wait for a reply. Her own thoughts were popping like flashbulbs now. It must’ve been even more serious than the
informant on the phone had suggested. Why would the government be interested? Were they worried about the effect on tourism
or something? But a cover-up would be a ludicrous over-reaction. She was pulled up by Consodine, speaking again.

‘I’ve no idea, Siobhan. That’s all I know. God’s honest truth. Even telling you that much, I’m in the shit if it gets out.
I’m putting my job on the line here. Are you going to stump up or not?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake Des, you still haven’t told me anything worth having. Can’t you give me a name, at least? Who’s handling
the case? Who’s in charge?’

Sounding sick to his stomach now, Consodine mentioned a couple of names who
might
be called in to handle something sensitive like this. Neither of them meant anything to her but it was something to follow
up on at least.

‘Alright, Des,’ she said after she’d scribbled the names on the pad. ‘I must be in a generous mood today. I’ll put the usual
in the post tonight.’

Siobhan put the phone down, her mind racing. Maybe
Consodine hadn’t told her everything he knew, but that only meant he was protecting himself from something serious. She was
sure in her gut that she was onto something. How big it was, only time, and a few more phone calls, would tell.

‘Boss… boss?’ Cassidy was all gruff urgency as he clamped a hand over the mouthpiece and held the phone away from his face.
Brogan, leaning over a desk, talking to McHugh about something, turned awkwardly towards him.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Sergeant Gerry Leahy from Blackrock, says one of his uniforms down there reckons he knows our boy in the photo.’ He
paused to look at the name he’d written down.‘ Student by the name of Patrick Scully. Even knows where he lives. Wants to know
do we need them to go out and pick him up for us?’

‘Jesus, no!’ Brogan said, the risk of someone their end bungling the break too great. ‘No, tell them not to do a thing, and
we’ll head straight down there.’ But as soon as she said it, she had another, alternative vision of the whole thing going
pear-shaped and this Scully vanishing without trace before they even got there. ‘No, no – wait,’ she said, waving a hand at
Cassidy. ‘Find out the address, then tell Leahy to get someone out there pronto to keep an eye on the place till we arrive.
We’ll meet them there. C’mon, Maura, Donagh, fingers out, let’s get going…’

They were all long gone, the incident room empty and hushed except for the occasional hum of the fan from a hard
drive, when Mulcahy next raised his head from the files. It was one of the civilian secretaries, rapping politely on the door
jamb, a phone held out towards him in her other hand.

‘There’s a call for Inspector Brogan. When I told the gentleman you were the only one here, he insisted on talking to you.’

Mulcahy took the phone from her.

‘Hello?’

The voice that boomed from the other end of the line was a bizarre blend of pomposity and brogue, such a voice as linguists
might use to demonstrate the effect of advanced education on vocal chords trained to bellow messages from one godforsaken
bog to another in the remotest west of Ireland. Mulcahy recognised it instantly as that of Dr Frank Geraghty, director of
the Technical Bureau, the Gardai’s inhouse forensic science facility. He was a bear of a man with a penchant for baggy tweed
three-pieces in bilious shades of green and a gaze so penetrating it could cut you in two.

‘It
is
you, Mulcahy, you big sleeveen! When in God’s name did you make it back onto these sainted shores? And why didn’t you call
me? I’d have organised a reception committee, then shipped you straight back whence you came. You were doing a great job for
us over there, last I heard!’

‘Frank, how are you doing?’ Mulcahy said, holding the phone a good bit further away from his ear. ‘How’s it going over there
in Technical?’

As ever, Geraghty ignored the side of the conversation that was not his own.

‘Jesus Christ, man, what are
you
doing lurking in Brogan’s inner sanctum?’

Mulcahy groaned. He’d spent enough time hanging around courtrooms or attending conferences with the father of Irish forensics
to know what was expected of him.

‘I’ve never been anywhere near her sanctum, your honour.’

‘Ah, ye dirty brat,’ Geraghty guffawed. ‘To be honest, I’m not entirely sure she has one, anyway. A mite too imperious for
my tastes, the lovely inspector. She’s certainly never wanted to indulge my more frolicsome side. But, to get back to my question,
if you have been foolish enough to chuck Old Castille for the Old Sod, why aren’t you back on crack alley? What on earth are
you doing consorting with Brogan?’

Mulcahy spent a couple of minutes explaining the situation, amassing a large number of crude comments along the way. Geraghty
was not one to waste words on subtlety.

‘Ah well, I don’t suppose she’ll mind me telling you. I’ll be emailing through the results in a minute, but I thought she’d
want to know the basics straight from the horse’s mouth. Not that she’ll be any happier with them. The main thrust is that
we found no physical evidence of sexual congress. Or nothing, should I say, to support a charge of rape in the traditional
sense, anyway. Clearly, the medics will have to come back with a view on that, from the internal exams, but, on the basis
of our analysis of the swabs taken externally there was nothing. No semen traces, no pubic hair, not even foreign skin cells
so far as we’ve been able to establish. She was clean as a whistle – which, I have to say,
is most unusual. Normally anything as vigorous as sex, even if it’s just masturbation, leaves
some
physical evidence behind. At least, I’ve certainly never seen a case where it didn’t.’

‘But you’re not saying she
wasn’t
raped?’

‘No, Mulcahy, what I’m saying is that, from the materials presented to me, and within the limits of my brief, I could find
no evidence of anyone engaging in sexual activity with the girl. But it is possible that when this freak tortured her, or
whatever he thought he was doing to her, he could have burned off whatever trace evidence there might have been externally.
The doctors that treated her must’ve come to some conclusions about it.’

‘Not much good to us, if we’ve got no forensic back-up.’

‘Oh, there’s no shortage of forensic evidence, Mulcahy – just none to show the foul wretch had sex with her. That may be unusual,
but it’s not impossible in the circumstances.’ There was a faint wheeze at the other end of the line as Geraghty drew breath.
‘One curiosity did emerge, which you
will
probably want to pass on to Brogan post haste. She asked us to venture an opinion on what might have been used to burn the
girl and, judging from the photos, we told her it was probably a heated flat metal surface. Sure enough, when we examined
the swabs there were metallic flakes amid the residue and so I ran a check on them. Damn me to heaven if they didn’t have
a high percentage of gold in them. Not your good-quality, eighteen-carat stuff, now, but more the sort you’d find in gold
plate. The thing is, it had definitely
been subjected to intense heat… But all that’ll be in the report. I’d have to venture that whatever he burned her with must
have had some form of gold-plating on it. Maybe a ceremonial dagger or the like – though obviously it’s not my place to speculate. To
be honest, it’s so unusual we’ll have to run more tests. Perhaps he swiped it from Mummy’s best cutlery set, but it’s not
exactly your standard attack weapon, anyway.’