‘Like I said,’ Brogan was saying, ‘it looks like we’re on to a winner here but there’s no point pushing it until we have the forensics on Scully’s van and his clothes back from Technical. As for now, it’s not going to do any harm to let Scully stew overnight in Blackrock – and thanks to Inspector Mulcahy’s contacts in Drugs we can do just that.’
Mulcahy nodded acknowledgement to Brogan.
‘There was something else you wanted to raise, wasn’t there, Mike? Something about Geraghty’s findings that you thought we should talk about?’
‘Yes, there was.’ He looked at the faces turned to him expectantly. ‘It’s to do with Jesica’s cross and chain.’
There was a low groan of ‘Jaysus, not again’ from somewhere in the room. Cassidy, he assumed, but he let it go.
‘I’m sure if it had turned up in the van you’d have said,’ Mulcahy smiled.
‘Considering it would have put the case against Scully beyond doubt, I think I would have, yeah,’ Brogan retorted.
‘It’s just that when Geraghty said he’d found traces of gold in the swabs, my first thought was they must’ve come from Jesica’s cross and chain which, we know, was ripped off her during the attack. But he also said the metal traces he found were from cheap gold plate.’
‘So?’
‘Well, Jesica’s jewellery wouldn’t have been cheap,’ Mulcahy shrugged.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Cassidy interjected. ‘As you’re constantly reminding us, we don’t have it.’
‘It just wouldn’t be, not in that family. They’re very wealthy.’
‘Maybe it was something she picked up herself,’ said Maura McHugh. ‘You know how girls of that age are. Maybe it was sentimental value, from a boyfriend or something.’
‘I got the impression it was of enormous value to her.’
‘Look, why does it matter where it came from?’ Brogan protested, checking her watch. ‘What’s your point, Mike?’
Impatience spread like a rash across Brogan’s face as Mulcahy related his lunchtime encounter with the priests in the pub and his flash of inspiration regarding the gold crosses and the burn marks on Jesica. As he told them how he’d pored over the photos again to confirm his suspicions, some of the others began shifting about uncomfortably in their seats. For a split second the possibility occurred to him that the couple of drinks he’d had with Ford had gone to his head, and he’d dreamed it all up. But he killed that thought immediately.
‘So, really, what I was wondering was whether there isn’t some kind of religious dimension to this that we haven’t been giving proper consideration to. Or even whether the attacker’s primary motivation was sexual at all?’
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake!’ At the far side of the group, Cassidy had clearly heard enough and wasn’t going to keep his opinion to himself. He was glowering in Mulcahy’s direction now, his jaw thrust forward. Everybody in the room was gawping, waiting to see what he’d say or do next.
But Brogan got in first. ‘Like I said before, Inspector, I appreciate that this is a new area of operations for you.’ She let her gaze drill straight into Mulcahy, as if to say her vast reserves of tolerance were being stretched here. ‘And that you’ve had a lot of time on your hands for the last couple of days. But what matters here this evening is that we have a suspect in custody and we’re trying to build a case against him – not break it down and start all over again. And that case is for aggravated rape, because that’s what happened to young Jesica.’
‘I’m not trying to break anything down,’ Mulcahy replied. ‘I never even suggested it wasn’t Scully, only that you might be better going into that interview room tomorrow armed with all the facts rather than with just some of them.’
‘And what exactly is it that I’ve overlooked?’ Brogan asked.
‘Well, motive, for one thing.’
That was it for Cassidy. Pushing his chair back with a loud scrape of its metal legs, he stood up and snorted at Mulcahy. ‘What more bloody motive do you want? He didn’t get his rocks off, so he came back to take what he wanted and teach the girl a lesson while he was about it.’
‘And you think that was enough reason for one of the most violent attacks anybody in this room has ever heard of, do you?’ Mulcahy said. ‘An attack that, before you landed on Scully, you all agreed had to be premeditated and carefully planned?’
Cassidy didn’t have an answer for that, but he didn’t need one as Brogan stepped in again.
‘Shut up, Andy, and sit down.’
She examined the backs of her hands until Cassidy, cursing beneath his breath, took his seat again.
‘Okay, Inspector,’ Brogan continued, ‘maybe you do have a point there. But remember, just because Scully picked Jesica up in a club doesn’t mean he didn’t have every detail of the attack planned – other than his victim. Either way, for now I’m not sure we need to concern ourselves with why Scully did it, okay? All I’m hoping for is to get the forensics back and nail him with those, if I can. We can deal with the whys and wherefores later. Now let’s move on.’
But Mulcahy wouldn’t let it go. ‘And all I’m saying is that if you’re looking for a motive that fits, and you look at the burn marks on Jesica and tie that in to what she said about her attacker being like a priest, then maybe, just maybe, there’s some weird religious element to it.’
At that there was another snort from the far side of the room. Cassidy was on his feet again, this time spreading his arms wide to the audience already turning expectantly towards him. ‘Ah, lads,’ he scoffed. ‘That’s got to be it, alright. First we had The General, then The Monk, The Viper, The Psycho, and all that lot. Now it’s The Priest. The Priest, for fuck’s sake – as if we haven’t had enough of them in the last few years. Maybe they’ll do a film about this fella, too, and make a star of him like they did Martin Cahill. As the inspector’s pointed out to us before, Scully’s got a bit of the Brad Pitt about him alright.’
Everybody in the room was laughing except Mulcahy. And Brogan, who above the din was telling Cassidy to shut up. But Cassidy wasn’t going to do that without getting one last dig in.
‘And what about you, Inspector Mulcahy? I’m sure you see your name up there in lights. Who’d you see as yourself? George Clooney?’
Head down, every nerve in his body fizzing with fury at Cassidy, at Brogan and the whole fucking lot of them, the shouted greeting failed to crack the carapace of Mulcahy’s angry self-absorption.
‘Hey, Mulcahy.’
Louder this time, it got through.
He swung around, startled. She was leaning against a small red convertible in the parking bay outside the gates, looking like an ad for something sunny and aspirational in her big shades, white cotton top, black jeans and heels.
‘Siobhan, what the hell are you doing here?’
She folded her arms and scowled at him. ‘That’s nice. Here I am, after trekking halfway across the city to see you, and all I get is sworn at.’
With the sunglasses on, hiding those big blue eyes of hers, she was more unreadable than ever.
‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t, eh… wasn’t expecting…’
‘And why would you be?’
She smiled broadly at him. She wasn’t put out, not really. Door-stepping people was a way of life for her, he reasoned, and she was probably used to far worse reactions. She pushed herself away from the car with her hips and strode over towards him, something feline in her gait.
‘So you’ve been transferred, then?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘No, I haven’t. But, now you mention it, how’d you know I’d be here?’
She beamed at him even brighter. ‘God, you cops, always so bloody suspicious. It’s my job, isn’t it, to find out stuff?’
‘Maybe,’ he nodded. ‘But it doesn’t answer the question. How?’
‘Ah, go on, you should know better than try to get me to reveal a source.’
A source? He thought of what Ford had said about a woman calling, wanting t
o know where he was. The conspiratorial chuckle. Liam must’ve been a bit more forthcoming than he’d let on.
‘Anyone would think you weren’t glad to see me.’ She didn’t pout, but it was implicit. Instead, she raised her sunglasses up and he felt the full blue hit of her eyes.
‘No, it’s not that…’
She was so close now, if he wanted to he could put an arm out and scoop her into him, kiss her hard on the mouth. She laughed and took a small step back, like she could see it or feel it in him. He glanced back at the building behind him to break the spell of her, and drew some air deep into his lungs. By the time he turned to face her again, he was over it.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed the other night.’
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I got your message and thought maybe you’d fancy having a bite to eat tonight. It’s such a beautiful evening, we could hop in the car and head up the mountains to Johnnie Fox’s or the Blue Light, or somewhere. The traffic’s not looking too bad – we could be there in half an hour. Watch the sun go down? What do you think?’
‘I think that’s very spontaneous of you.’ He was smiling now.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that. You took a fair bit of tracking down.’
‘I hope I’ll be worth it,’ he laughed, relaxing into the idea, playing her at her own game.
‘Seems like a long shot, I admit.’ She stood there, blazing him with the smile. ‘But, then, you never know. Are you coming or not?’
She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned on her heel, opened the car door and slid inside.
Up in the privacy of her fourth-floor office, Brogan leaned into her desk, blessed herself in an only half-ironic fashion, then picked up the phone, cursing Mulcahy and Cassidy. If it hadn’t been for their stupid macho squabble, she might have got away on time. As it was, that extra ten minutes put the mockers on everything, because she then got a call from Dermot Rafferty in Technical saying he hoped to have some initial results back from the tests on Scully’s van within the hour, if she wanted to hang on. Well, what was she going to say to that? No, actually, I’ve got to go home right now or my husband will miss his game of penny poker. Yeah, right. By which time it would have taken a miracle, or a pair of motorcycle outriders at least, for her to get home to Tallaght in time.
She dialled her home number, made the call to Aidan and, by the time she put down the phone again, felt as if her soul had shrunk by yet another small but significant percentage. He hadn’t moaned or cursed or shouted. She probably would have felt better if he had. Instead, all she got was the usual surly resentment, a few abrupt words of acceptance, and the certain knowledge that she’d be paying for this with the silent treatment for days. For the millionth time, she cursed herself for ever suggesting that he should give up his job to stay at home and do the house-husband thing. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
She was eyeing up the paperwork on her desk, thinking to make good use of her hour’s detention, when the faint roar of a car revving wildly outside caught her ear. She leaned back in her chair, looked out the floor-length window and, down below, saw a red convertible reversing, with nothing like due care and attention, out of a parking bay at the front of the building and into the roadway. Some midget-dick from the Drugs Squad, was her first thought. Which seemed to be confirmed immediately when she recognised, with some surprise, that it was Mulcahy sitting in the passenger seat. Then she registered the dark curling hair, the trim figure behind the wheel, and the fact that it was a woman driving. A split second later Brogan was on her feet, pressing her hands against the glass as the car made a tyre-shredding turn, shot across the road and disappeared into Hatch Street opposite.
She didn’t turn around again until she heard a knock behind her, and the door opening.
‘Everything alright, boss?’
It was Cassidy, a look of concern masking nosiness.
She considered telling him what she’d just seen. Felt a giddy pang of temptation to share the juicy bone she’d just been thrown. But it would only end up being a blunt instrument in Cassidy’s hands. This was something to savour and use more judiciously.
She shook her head. ‘Yes, fine thanks, Andy. Just some arsehole outside, driving like a maniac.’
‘Yeah, I heard.’
Miraculously, the evening traffic melted away ahead of them. Once they got out past Marlay Park and on to the Ticknock Road it disappeared altogether and, more often than not, now, theirs was the only car on the narrow, winding roads that led steeply up into the Dublin mountains. It was years since Mulcahy had been out this way, and it amazed him to remember just how quickly it was possible to escape the city. It wasn’t half an hour since they’d got in the car, and already they were hundreds of feet up. Flashing by, behind hedgerows, dry-stone walls and houses, was a view to still the heart: the flat, built-up bowl of the city bathed in a rosy light falling softly from the west, the dark green of the sea to the east broken only by the flecked white wakes of ships and sailboats threading in and out from Dublin port and Dun Laoghaire harbour.
‘My dad used to bring me up here all the time when I was a kid,’ he shouted over the noise of the engine and the rushing air. ‘He was always a country man at heart, had to get out of the city every chance he got.’
She glanced over at him, nodding eagerly.
‘Mine too,’ she said, turning back in time to ram the engine down a couple of gears and take a hairpin bend with all the confidence of a Schumacher. ‘All of us, the whole family, he shoved us into the back of the car every Sunday, and took us up to the Pine Forest, out to Enniskerry or Powerscourt, over the Sally Gap. Or in summer we’d go down to Brittas for the day.’
‘Those were our haunts too.’ Mulcahy grinned, half a childhood washing over him in one go, pricking his heart with the thought that he’d been away from it all for too long. He’d lost touch with such a large part of his past. ‘Very, very occasionally we’d go out to Rush or Skerries. But I think he regarded anywhere north of the Liffey pretty much as foreign territory. He’d only really go up there for work, or maybe curiosity, but never relaxation. Even if it was just for a couple of hours, he’d be off to Dalkey, Killiney or Bray. But never Howth or Malahide. In fact, I don’t think I got out to Howth until I was well into my teens, when I could get there under my own steam.’
‘Nort’siders – dey’re nuttin’ bu’ a buncha bleedin’ knackers,’ she shouted back at him in broadest Dublinese, laughing, her glossy red lips drawn taut against her small, bright-white teeth. He was about to respond in kind when the car crested a rise and they shot out into a vista that took his breath away. The terrain around them was transformed in a blink from grey rock and steep commercial woodland into a spectacular broad, brown plateau of upland bracken and bogland, stretching away for miles towards Wicklow and the mountains proper.
‘I just love it up here,’ she cried into the wind, slipping the car into fifth and flooring the accelerator. They were totally alone, not another car on the ribbon of road that spun out three, four miles in front of them towards the Sally Gap. Not another soul to be seen in the still, empty landscape they hurtled through, as the sun slipped towards the rim of the world behind them.
They settled, in the end, on the Blue Light pub, high on the slopes of Sandyford at the foot of Barnaculia. An ancient old place that, last time he’d been there, maybe twenty years before, had looked a lot closer to the piggery it once was than a popular spot for late-night revellers. Now, though, it had been rediscovered, done up, and for once was the better for it. Especially when it came to food. Inside, the bar was packed, close and noisy. But outside, in the warm evening air, they found a table that afforded them comparative solitude and a spectacular view out over Dublin, all the more so now that night had begun to draw down, and the million lights of the city below were glimmering like a bowl of diamonds.
She waited until they’d ordered the food and he’d had a few sips of wine before she broached the subject.
‘So what were you doing over in Harcourt Square – assuming they haven’t just opened up a new outpost for the Drugs Squad over there?’
‘It’s a temporary assignment. I’ll be back to my usual duties in a few days time, I hope.’
‘Which are?’
‘How do you mean?’
Her mood seemed to have shifted completely from how it had been in the car. Her carefree expression was replaced by a frown of inquisition that was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. He turned away from her to look out over the sparkling city.
‘Look, Siobhan, I thought we agreed we weren’t going to do the work thing?’
‘We did.’ She paused just long enough to make him turn back to her. ‘But that was before I went down to St Vincent’s today and heard your name mentioned in connection with a story I’m interested in.’
To say he was caught on the hop hardly covered it. He did his best to conceal his reaction, but it was no use. He could see her taking in the surprise in his expression. For all he knew, she was just on a fishing expedition, but it didn’t sound like it. Best he could do was try to close it down calmly, maybe find out how much she knew.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Siobhan.’
‘Oh, come off it, Mulcahy. Don’t give me that. A Spanish kid is raped at the weekend and, from what I’ve been able to scrape together, it sounds completely horrific. But for some weird reason I can’t get a squeak out of any of my Garda contacts about it. If anything, I get the distinct impression they’re running scared. Then I hear a whisper that Mike Mulcahy is involved and I think, hang on, rape and drugs? And if it’s him, it’s not just any old drugs but international drugs, big drugs. Jesus, you can hardly blame me for being intrigued.’
That was more than enough for him. ‘Change the subject, Siobhan.’
The Priest Page 13