The Priest (20 page)

Everything else, except one. As he glanced through the brief details in this email, he felt a tingle in the back of his neck
that grew as he read through the single-page report attached. It concerned a violent assault on a nineteen-year-old from Irishtown
called Grainne Mullins, almost exactly a year before. She’d been attacked on the street outside her home by a man who’d dragged
her behind a bush, bound her hands with cable ties, gagged her, exposed himself to her and then carved two crosses into her
breasts with a knife. Beyond this one-page report there was nothing other than the status marker
No Further Action
typed into the header.

Mulcahy grabbed the phone and rang the sergeant at Ringsend Station who’d forwarded it to him. The man was on duty but not
much help. The file in question had been put on ice after the detective who’d interviewed the girl was seconded on to a major
murder investigation. He’d subsequently been promoted and transferred and, it seemed, the case had fallen through the cracks.
Until a couple of days ago when the sergeant came across it during a routine case-review process.

‘Did the victim not get in touch again at all?’ Mulcahy asked, gobsmacked that anything as serious as this could be overlooked.

‘Doesn’t look like it, does it?’ said the sergeant.

‘And it was still active when Detective Branigan left?’

‘So I understand.’

‘Then how come it has a
No Further Action
flag on it?’

‘How should I know?’ the sergeant replied. Regret was creeping into his voice now, that he’d ever been foolish enough to step
out of the usual desk sergeant’s mindset and actually try being helpful with a colleague’s enquiry. ‘Maybe Branigan referred
it on, and didn’t have the time to file it properly. It’s been known to happen, you know.’

‘Maybe,’ Mulcahy said, unconvinced.

‘You boys on the National forget what these local stations are like, y’know. It’s a feckin’ lunatic asylum down here most
of the time. Too much work, too few fellas to do it. You should try coming back to earth sometime and see how ye like it.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Mulcahy said, barely aware of what the man was saying now he knew he’d be of no further help. ‘Thanks, anyway.
I’ll see if I can chase it up myself.’

‘You do that,’ added the sergeant petulantly. ‘You’ll be the only one has the time for it.’

Mulcahy put the phone down, still staring at the girl’s address. What was the likelihood of her still living there if she’d
never been back in touch with the local Gardai? But it had to be worth a shot, and it was probably easier than
trying to track down this Branigan guy, who’d only get all defensive about the case if it really had fallen into the gully
unnoticed. He was jotting down the girl’s details on a scrap of paper when a movement in front of him made him look up. Brendan
Healy was standing in the doorway. How the hell long had he been there?

‘Sir?’ Mulcahy said automatically.

‘I thought you’d never get off that bloody thing,’ Healy said, pointing at the phone.

He looked around the small room critically, slapping the palm of one hand with the leather gloves he was holding in the other,
as if searching for somewhere to sit down. Surely he could figure that one out for himself?

‘Is there something I can help you with, Brendan?’

Healy frowned. ‘The Minister’s been on to me.’

Mulcahy glanced at his watch. Five minutes to go before he was due to call the Spanish embassy. Nothing to do with that, then.

‘About the investigation?’

Healy nodded. ‘The Ambassador called him this morning, asking about progress. Said he’d been informed last night we had somebody
in custody. Was that you?’

‘Sure, I rang First Secretary Ibañez as soon as Brogan told me about Scully. She said you’d approved it.’

‘Did she now?’ Healy replied, cryptically. ‘Well, the Minister wasn’t happy about it. At least, not when I had to tell him
how little progress we’ve made with this character, Scully, so far, if you catch my drift.’

Mulcahy not only caught it, he was already trying to figure out what the hell he’d be expected to do about it.

‘You must be pretty sure that this Scully character is involved,’ Healy continued.

‘I can’t take any credit for that. It was Brogan’s call. I haven’t had much to do with that aspect of the investigation myself.’

‘Haven’t you?’ Healy frowned even deeper. ‘Well, you’d better get up to speed on it before we have any slip-ups with the Spanish.’

Mulcahy gritted his teeth. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘No? Well there better not be any, Mike. I’ve told the Minister you’ll go over to see the Ambassador in person this morning
and use these diplomatic skills of yours to explain why they shouldn’t be expecting anything too dramatic to happen any time
soon. And while you’re there, would you please impress upon them again that
you
are the official liaison officer on the case – at their request, remember – and not the Minister or his private secretary.
Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, sir.’ What’s not to understand, Mulcahy thought, feeling his heart sink. He wouldn’t be getting out of this place for
a few more days yet, then.

‘Good man. Now, where’s Brogan?’

‘Probably questioning the suspect in the interview room downstairs. They had him brought over from Blackrock earlier.’

‘Right. I’ll call in on them on my way out – see for
myself if this fella Scully is as guilty-looking as everyone says he is.’

She was just grabbing her bag to run out for a coffee, when the ping of an incoming email drew Siobhan back to her screen.
She sat down again, shoulders slumping when she saw the message was from Vincent Bishop, not wanting even to think of him
on this of all mornings. But she was unable to resist the lure of a potentially good tip, especially one headed: ‘I know you’ll
like this…’

She clicked on his name and the email opened, but it was blank. It took a couple of seconds for her to notice there was a
pdf file attachment, then she double-clicked on it and was gobsmacked by what unscrolled before her eyes – a scan of a flight
ticket from Dublin to the Seychelles, departing the following Monday. In
her
name. Beside it was an itinerary for a week’s stay at some hyper-luxurious resort called the Banyan Tree. This, though, was
not only in her name but Bishop’s as well.

If the sound of her hand slamming down on the keyboard didn’t draw much attention in the newsroom, the string of four-letter
ordure that exploded from her mouth did. Paddy Griffin raised an eyebrow, rose from his desk and ambled over.

‘What is it?’ he said, leaning in towards her screen.

‘Oh, Jesus, nothing that would interest you, Paddy, trust me.’ She closed the attachment before he could read it and hurriedly
quit the entire email programme for good measure. ‘It’s just someone taking the piss.’

‘About what?’ he said, disappointed, not quite ready to believe her.

‘It’s nothing, honestly. Go on, get back to work,’ she said, batting him away with her hands and standing up. ‘I was just
going out for a coffee, do you want one? My treat?’

Even more in thrall to the bean than she was, Griffin smiled an affirmative and let her pass. Only when she got outside onto
Burgh Quay did Siobhan allow the anger to take hold of her again. Ducking into an alleyway round the corner, the one place
that offered enough shelter from the street noise for her to use her mobile, she leaned back against the brick wall and noticed
her hands were shaking. She jabbed at Bishop’s number, determined to exert some control over the situation.

He answered immediately.

‘Hi, Siobhan—’

‘Vincent, what in the name of Christ do you think you’re doing?’

N
odding a comradely farewell to the security guard closing the iron-studded door behind him, Mulcahy stepped into the sunshine
and pulled out the cigarette pack he’d been clutching in his jacket pocket for over an hour. He sparked up a cigarette and
drew the smoke deep into his lungs, exhaling with a heartfelt sigh of relief, and tried to forget the polite mauling he’d
received at the hands of the Spanish Ambassador and Ibañez.

‘My government expects the Garda Siochana to treat this case with an urgency appropriate to the status of the individuals
involved, Inspector,’ Ambassador Escriva had complained. Tall, fair-haired, his manners even more impeccable than his suit,
he cut an altogether more impressive figure than his miniature First Secretary.

‘I can assure you it is being given every priority, Ambassador,’ Mulcahy had responded, and a hundred more variations on the
same as the diplomat repeatedly drove home the point.

Mulcahy looked around again as he walked towards
his car, unable to ignore the splendour of his surroundings, the colonial-style house behind him, the lush, carefully tended
gardens. Like most of the older diplomatic missions in Ireland, the Spanish embassy occupied a sprawling mansion in the heart
of Dublin 4. Whether by coincidence, astute speculation or the glamour that came with diplomacy, this was one of the few areas
of the city that hadn’t suffered the recent catastrophic drop in property prices. Snobbery always seemed to hold its value,
even in recessions.

Suddenly, his mobile shattered the tranquillity around him. He looked at the screen, recognised Javier Martinez’s number,
and cursed as he answered.

‘Jesus, that didn’t take long,’ Mulcahy said.

A brief, Scooby-style grunt of confusion came from the far end of the line. ‘What are you talking about, Mike?’

‘I’m at the embassy, Jav, I’ve just been updating—’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Martinez interjected, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. ‘I am calling to update you,
actually. After we spoke the last time, I asked an investigation team to reassess any recent threats made against Don Alfonso.’

‘And?’

‘And they think they may have discovered something that has relevance to your case.’

‘Seriously?’ Mulcahy didn’t bother trying to conceal his surprise.

‘I really don’t know yet,’ Martinez said. ‘It is little better
than anonymous, from an ETA cell who say they will kill Don Alfonso
or his family members
any opportunity they get, when he least expects it, at home or
abroad
.’

Mulcahy let out a deep sigh. ‘Christ, that’s not exactly specific, Jav. Do you really think—’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ Martinez cut in again. ‘My men are thinking that, you know, historically, ETA has links with
the Provisional IRA, and so Ireland… Like I said, I don’t know. But this man you have in custody, he isn’t IRA, no?’

‘Scully?’ Mulcahy gasped. ‘No, he’s not. I mean, not that we know. And from what I’ve heard, I can’t imagine that he could
be. But we’ll check it out, now, obviously.’

‘Good,’ Martinez said. ‘Let me know what you find out.’

Mulcahy hung up, shaking his head in disbelief. An ETA/IRA connection? Jesus, this thing was getting crazier by the minute.
He had to be able to do something. He was taking his car key from his pocket when his fingers brushed against the scrap of
paper on which he’d scrawled Grainne Mullins’s details. She was the only lead he’d managed to come up with so far. He looked
at the address again. It was only a mile down the road. He turned the car around and set off towards Irishtown.

It might have been less than a mile away but the street Grainne Mullins lived on seemed light years from the sedate, tree-lined
avenues of embassy row. A council estate built on landfill on the fringe of the East Link development,
in the shadow of the Pigeon House power station, it sat jammed between the wastes of the river’s southern docks and three
busy arterial routes. A bunch of thin, crop-haired youths in chav caps and knock-off trainers stared sullenly as he drove
by, clocking him instinctively as a cop. He parked outside No. 18, the last one in the terrace, locked his car and rang the
doorbell, feeling the youths’ eyes on his back, hearing the confidence in their cackling jeers. One voice, louder than the
others, called out: ‘Goan’ta get yer rocks off, are ya, pig?’

He ignored them, noting the feeble, wind-blasted hedge that straggled around the side of the house, behind which the report
said the assault had happened. Even if she hadn’t been gagged, he doubted whether anyone round here would have responded to
a cry for help.

The smell of stale milk and mildew hit him before she’d got the door open wide enough for him to see her. She was small, no
more than five foot two, wearing a loose pink scoop-neck top and pale blue jeans, thick hanks of bleached blonde hair flopping
around a face that not so long ago must have been pretty, but now looked hollowed out and emptied by life.

‘Grainne Mullins?’

‘Yeah, what about it?’

She eyed him suspiciously, folded one arm across her chest, and flicked at her fringe self-consciously with the other. Mulcahy
froze on the spot. Beneath her hair, slashed across her forehead, was a pale scar. He couldn’t take his
eyes off it. Nobody could argue
that
wasn’t in the shape of a cross. How the hell had it not been mentioned in the report?

‘Is there something you want or are you going to just stare at me all day?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m from the Gardai.’

‘Yeah, I gathered that, but what d’ya want? I got a baby in there needs feeding.’

As if on cue, the wail of an infant escaped from within the house. He looked in past her, saw wallpaper peeling away from
walls, a staircase with dirty pink carpet on the treads, a doorway into a kitchen that looked like a swamp.

‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you about the assault,’ Mulcahy said.

Her reaction took him completely by surprise.

‘You’re havin’ a fucking laugh, aren’t ya?’ Her face curled up in a snarl and she grabbed the door to slam it in his face.
He only just got his foot into the gap in time.

‘No, wait, Grainne, please,’ he pleaded.

‘Go fuck yourself.’ Inside, she leaned her minimal weight against the door. ‘Youse lot are fuckin’ unbelievable, you are.
Why can’t you just pay for it like everybody else.’