The Priest (6 page)

It’s not healthy, he said to himself, not healthy living like this in a house that’s getting more like a mausoleum by the
day.

For a second, like the fire outside, all the faces of his regrets seemed to flare up in front of him, dancing fingers of flame:
his parents, his friends and colleagues in Madrid, his ex-wife Gracia, even Brendan-bloody-Healy, his current boss. Then,
just as quickly, they faded again and with that came something like peace. In the window now, he saw nothing but the dark
and himself reflected in it, realising that for months he’d been doing little more than hiding out here in Dublin, licking
his wounds, trying not to feel sorry for himself and failing. That had never been his way.

He turned and looked around the spare room, as if seeing
it for the first time: the knackered old mattress on the bed unused for years, the boxes of hoarded remnants, a limp flap
of wallpaper peeling from the corner by the window. He swirled the wine around his glass, then knocked it back. This house
meant nothing to him, really. Without his parents it was just empty rooms. With a grim smile, he remembered how he’d spent
most of his teenage years dreaming of getting away from it. He’d only moved back in for convenience, for familiarity, because
for so long he’d called it home. Getting rid of it had been just one thing too many to deal with.

Well, not any longer. Tomorrow he’d do what he’d been putting off for months: despite the free-falling property prices, despite
all the memories wrapped up in it, he’d arrange to have the house put on the market. Then at least he might have some chance
of moving on.

M
ulcahy waited for the gleaming Luas tram to trundle past, then eased the Saab into the queue of traffic at the top of Abbey
Street. It was a glorious morning. Clear blue skies erased all evidence of the previous evening’s rain, and his inward-looking
mood had dissipated with it. The first thing he’d done after he got up was phone a couple of estate agents. They hadn’t been
confident about his chances of a quick sale, but just making the call lifted some of the weight from his shoulders. Eventually
he got to Smithfield and found a parking place in the lee of the high stone wall of the former Jameson distillery. Ahead of
him, the sun bore down on what was left of the old market square. Ranks of uniform new-build office and apartment buildings
lined the west side, sucking every scrap of age and tradition from their surroundings. Like so many other projects, they’d
been a sponge for the flood of Celtic Tiger cash that had swept through Dublin over a decade before, when legions of the newly
rich were desperate to stash their cash anywhere the taxman couldn’t get his hands on it. Building
boomed: in place of crumbling warehouses and inner-city blight came regeneration, young professionals, sleek apartments, smart
shops and cafés. Even the old cobbles, worn smooth and black by four centuries of hooves, carts and footfalls had been ripped
out and trucked away, replaced by whorls of new, pale-grey granite sets.

To Mulcahy, from the distance of Madrid, the boom had always had the feel of something that couldn’t last. The new loaded Dublin
bore little resemblance to the one he’d grown up in, and now that the bottom was falling out of it, he could see the old city
beginning to reassert itself. Thousands of flats stood empty and tenantless, impossible to sell on. The market square looked
as lost and dust-blown as a ghost town. And just a couple of streets back, he knew the smack-heads and crackheads, the burglars
and muggers, were all still there, out of sight, waiting their time in the cycle. And it would come. No amount of fancy new
apartment blocks could change that.

He double-checked that his car was locked, and headed down towards the river, turning his thoughts to the meeting he was due
to attend – a pre-trial briefing at the Four Courts with the state prosecutor. It was one of the few cases he’d worked on
during the last six months that was actually making it to trial. Mainly because it was fairly cut and dried. The Colgans were
two career low-lifes from Phibsboro who’d got in over their heads, stealing high-performance cars to order for a gang in England,
which in turn serviced a substantial part of the illegal car trade in Jordan, Syria and
the Lebanon. Mulcahy had only come on board at the closing stages but he had to admit he’d felt a thrill getting away from
his desk, back on the frontline nabbing bad guys.

Coming round the corner on to Arran Quay, Mulcahy looked up at the green dome of the Four Courts, standing out against the
sky over the Liffey. A flash of light drew his attention to a flurry of movement by the main entrance. A gleaming silver SUV
with dark-tinted windows was pulling up, and a scrum of journalists swarmed around it, cameras jostling for position, flashes
popping, microphones, recorders and notebooks waving aloft. He couldn’t see who was getting out of the car, but it hardly
mattered. Doubtless some gob-shite gangster who’d been stoking up the media ahead of trial – and as usual they lapped it up.
For a moment Siobhan’s face drifted into his mind, but he pushed the image away. It worked both ways, of course. Half the
gangsters in Dublin would hardly be known to the Gardai if it wasn’t for journalists exposing them. But it still grieved him
to see psychos being treated like celebrities.

He moved around the press pack and up the steps, between tall granite columns, dragging his focus back to the case. Entering
the round, marble lobby, all echoing footsteps and murmured conversations, he looked around to see if he could spot any of
the other guys who’d worked on the operation, then stopped in his tracks when he heard a familiar voice hailing him from behind.

‘Mike, wait up there.’

Mulcahy turned and watched as Superintendent Brendan
Healy, all blue-serge uniform and amiability, patted a gowned barrister farewell and strode across the lobby towards him.
In his mid-fifties, he was a big man but with a head that seemed too small to match his bulk and, despite the heavily braided
cap tucked beneath his arm, a hairstyle of such steely precision it’d put a US news anchor to shame.

‘Brendan, what brings you down this way?’

‘You do,’ Healy replied. There was an edge of castigation in his voice, despite the smile. ‘Didn’t you get my message last
night?’

‘What message?’

‘You weren’t answering your mobile, so I left a message on your phone at home.’

Mulcahy remembered the blinking red light and mentally kicked himself. It was only when he’d pulled on his jacket this morning
that he realised he’d left his mobile switched off ever since he was in the hospital. Didn’t look good, that. Unprofessional. Trust
Healy to use the home number.

‘I didn’t get it,’ he said.

‘Ah, no matter. I wanted to come down here and square things with Downey in person, anyway. Never hurts to stay on the right
side of those fellas.’

Mulcahy didn’t like the sound of that. Downey was the barrister prosecuting the Colgan case. ‘I don’t follow. What did you
need to square?’

‘Why you won’t be attending today’s briefing – on account of more pressing matters having arisen. Look, I hate to spring this
on you, especially when you were so obliging
yesterday, but I did try to give you notice. You’re on the case with Brogan.’

‘I’m what?’ Mulcahy spluttered.

Healy adopted an expression of sympathetic disbelief. ‘The Spanish say they want you as liaison officer.’

‘The Spanish? Why in the name of God would they do that?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Healy shrugged. ‘Whatever you did yesterday, they took a liking to you and the Ambassador himself asked the
Minister for you to be assigned.’

Mulcahy was gobsmacked. Why would the Spanish ambassador have asked for him? Then he remembered the incident with the diplomat,
Ibañez, and, with a groan, cursed himself for getting involved. He tried a last forlorn hope.

‘But sex crimes is a specialist area of operations. I have no experience—’

‘No buts, Mike.’ Healy cut in, getting impatient. ‘This is right from the top. I told the Minister it’s not what you do, but
he felt he wasn’t in a position to refuse, in the circumstances.’

‘And how long am I going to be stuck doing that?’

‘As long as it takes. I told Brogan you’ll be joining her at Harcourt Square this morning. Go over there now, and you’ll make
the eleven o’clock briefing. And remember you’re just assisting. Brogan is the lead on this, so let her get on with it. Okay?’

But for Mulcahy that caution was so far beside the point
as to be irrelevant. The last thing he wanted was to be tied into some politically sensitive operation while opportunities
to get back to where he wanted to be passed him by.

‘But that’s crazy, Brendan. The whole point of me being with NBCI is so I don’t get caught up in—’

‘I thought I’d made myself clear, Mike. This is not up for debate.’

A hiss of steely officialdom had entered Healy’s voice, and it was probably this more than anything else that pushed Mulcahy
too far.

‘For fuck’s sake, Brendan, that’s the last time I’m doing you a favour.’

The anger in his voice was altogether too raw, and he knew he’d overstepped the mark even before he heard the sharp intake
of breath, and saw Healy’s chest puff up so fast the buttons threatened to pop off his uniform. Healy looked quickly around
to make sure no one was within eavesdropping distance, before hissing back at him.

‘Now, look here,
Inspector
. I know the last few months have not been easy for you. But we’ve all been doing our best to sort it out, and we hope you’ll
be going back to Drugs as soon as something suitable comes up. In the meantime, I would remind you that you’re not a one-man
band like you were in Madrid, and for as long as you’re under my command you’re going to have to toe the line like everyone
else. Do you understand me?’

Mulcahy glared back at him. ‘And what if this “something suitable” comes up while I’m working on this case?’

Healy’s eyes narrowed as he pushed his face fractionally closer to Mulcahy’s.

‘Then you’ll just have to wait for the next bloody thing, won’t you?’

Brogan checked her watch: quarter past eleven. What the hell was Mulcahy playing at? Helpful as he’d been the day before,
he looked like he could be a tricky one. Well, he’d get a shock if he thought he could swan in late and trample all over her
team,
her
investigation.

She clapped her hands for a bit of hush. ‘Okay, lads, come on, enough hanging around. Listen up.’

Behind her, Cassidy was sticking copies of the medical examiner’s photographs of Jesica Salazar’s battered face to the whiteboard
he’d set up in a corner of the DVSAU’s cramped quarters. The Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Unit, officially, but everybody
called it ‘Sex Crimes’, as if it were one in itself. Ordinarily, on an active op, they’d have been working out of an incident
room by now, in whichever station had logged the assault, which in this case was Dundrum Garda Station. They’d have been parachuted
in to run the operation with the local lads; to steer, advise, take charge of the investigation but use mostly local manpower
and resources. Sometimes, though, when things got overly complex or – as here – required an unusual level of discretion, they
had to work out of their own godforsaken offices on the fourth floor at Harcourt Square. Brogan looked around and cursed Healy
for his media paranoia
again. This was the pokiest, most uncomfortable office accommodation she’d ever had the misfortune to work in. Every chair
in the place was knackered, and the muddy-beige walls and threadbare grey carpet tiles looked like they hadn’t been cleaned
since the building went up in the seventies. Every chance she got, she was gone from the place like a flash. Now she’d almost
certainly be stuck here for weeks.

There were only seven of them in the room, including the two uniforms from Dundrum, but already the air was oppressive. It
was as big a team as Healy would allow – the more faces, the more tongues might wag, he’d declared. And then, despite all
the hand-wringing, he’d snapped at her and said it wasn’t as if she was dealing with a murder. Patronising wanker. As for
landing her with Mulcahy, she could have punched him. That’s all she needed – a spy in the camp checking out her every move.

‘Boss?’

She blinked and realised that Cassidy and everyone else in the room was staring at her, waiting for her to begin. ‘Okay, guys…’
She coughed, rallying her thoughts.

‘Some of us initiated actions on this yesterday and early this morning, but for those of you coming to it fresh now, Sergeant
Cassidy here’s going to take us through what we’ve got so far, just so we’re all up to speed. Then we can start thinking strategy.
Before that, though, a reminder that we’ve got blanket silence on this one. No leaks, no exceptions – on pain of the worst
transfer you’ve ever imagined. Okay?’

There was a low murmur of assent from the room, and Brogan turned to Cassidy. ‘Andy?’

Standing in front of the whiteboard, using a marker pen as a pointer, Cassidy launched into his what-we-know-so-far spiel.
‘Right then, lads, this is Jesica Salazar – at least that’s the easy version, so let’s go with that from now on, yeah? She’s
a sixteen-year-old Spanish national, here on a four-week English course. You know the type exactly…’

Brogan zoned out and compared her sergeant’s face with those of the others looking up at him. His expression, as usual, was
glowering to the point of aggressive, his wide-legged stance a parody of the John Wayne gait. As for the suit, if he didn’t
get it cleaned soon, Health and Safety would be having to prise it off him by force. She ought to say something, take him
aside and explain that it wasn’t acceptable to go into people’s homes scowling and stinking of sweat. But she didn’t want
to risk alienating him because, for all his faults, he was a good cop. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer but a street fighter
to the core, and the others looked up to him.

She surveyed the rest of the team. Three of them were her own: Maura McHugh, Donagh Hanlon and Brian Whelan, all detective
Garda rankers and all okay in their own way, but not exactly shit-hot. None of them could hold a candle to Cassidy in terms
of getting things done. Maura was about the best of them but she’d be losing her in a few weeks anyway, when she went off
on maternity leave. As for the two uniforms in from Dundrum, well,
what could you expect? Young, green and thick, cheeks still rosy, hair trimmed down to a stubble that wouldn’t normally be
visible beneath their caps. They’d hardly be much use for anything but knocking on doors and keeping the coffee hot and sweet. The
look of shock seeping into their expressions, as Cassidy summarised some of the more horrific detail from the medical reports,
told her all she needed to know about them. Not much of a team, but you got used to that in the DVSAU. And at least Healy
allowed her use of the two administratives outside, to help with the paperwork.