Her email pinged and she clicked on a reply from a psychologist contact of hers who she’d emailed earlier. She was so engrossed in reading its contents that she only grunted when – it must have been about eight p.m. – someone came and placed something on her desk. Not until ten minutes later, after she’d bashed out another string of questions in reply and sent them on their way, did she drag her eyes from the screen and notice the padded envelope now sitting by her elbow, with nothing but her name scrawled on the front. Picking it up and tearing it open, she went to grasp whatever was inside. But the second she touched it, she knew there was something wrong, and then the smell hit her and she yelped like a kicked dog, and dropped the lot onto her desk. Trembling now, she looked down and saw, half drawn out from the envelope, what looked like a sheet of folded paper. But it didn’t feel like any paper she’d ever touched before. It was cold and hard yet slightly greasy to the touch – and as for the smell, it was absolutely horrible. Like burned skin or something, like… oh, for God’s sake.
She picked up a pencil and poked at the envelope, looking inside to see if there was anything else, anything dangerous inside. But all she could see was the folded sheet. Taking a deep breath, she coaxed it out further and what flopped open onto the desk, she now saw, was a thick parchment folio, hide-like in its yellow opacity and grainy texture and flex. What sent a rivulet of cold anxiety coursing down her spine, though, was that it was scorched all over with cross marks of different sizes, some deep black gouges, others burned all the way through, leaving only ragged x-shaped holes, charred black around their edges.
She grabbed the phone and dialled the front desk, demanding to know where the package had come from. The girl below said she thought it had been handed in at reception about an hour earlier, but nobody had seen who delivered it. It had just appeared there, left, presumably, by someone who’d come in off the street. Siobhan rang security, only to be told the CCTV over reception had been down for a week, waiting for the contractor to come and repair it. She cursed, but then nothing about how cruddy the equipment levels were at the Sunday Herald ever really surprised her. She sat down and poked at the sheet of parchment with her pencil again, looking it over more closely now, trying to figure out who it might have come from. Was it somebody’s idea of a sick joke? She wouldn’t put it past some of the ghouls who worked at the Herald.
Then, between all the scorch marks and gouges, she saw something different: a few words of text that seemed to have been tattooed on to the fabric, or else burned with a much finer… a much finer what? But her mind had gone beyond that now, as she realised what the message burned into it said. Suddenly she was cold around her shoulders, and noticed that her hands were shaking. She looked around, across the banks of monitors, to see if Griffin, Heffernan or any of the others were still there. But she already knew they weren’t. It was too late in the day. Even the guys from the sports desk had given up. There was nobody around but herself, and she was instantly aware of how looming, dark and empty the newsroom – the whole deserted floor – was. At just that moment, her phone rang and she lunged for it, glad of the chance to hear another human voice.
‘Hello,’ she said. And then she said it again. But she got no reply, just a faint hiss from the other end of the line. ‘Is there anybody there?’
‘God will not be mocked,’ the man’s voice said, angry, loud – the breathing heavy as it had been before. ‘You’ll see. You will be the witness to it.’
The line went dead and Siobhan put the phone down, cursing. It was the same wanker who’d been on to her the other night, but ten times scarier now. It must’ve been him who left the packet. What the fuck was he talking about, she’d be ‘the witness to it’? What the hell had he meant by that? The witness to what?
She gathered her jacket tighter round her shoulders and looked behind her again, shaking from head to toe now. What if he hadn’t just left the envelope? Nobody had seen him. What if he’d passed the security barriers as well? He could be lurking out there in the dark, behind any one of the desks, right now. Would she have noticed him come in? No way – she hadn’t even seen the messenger deliver the envelope. If it was the messenger? Oh, Jesus, fuck.
No, she thought, forcing herself to calm down. Be sensible. A freak or a nut job wouldn’t have just left it there; he’d have tried to deliver his message in person. She slipped her jacket on awkwardly, without standing up, and started saving and closing the files on her screen one by one, as quickly as possible, then logged off. ‘I’ve got to get out of here before I go mad,’ she said to herself, sweeping the envelope and its contents into her bag, and hurrying for the door. She was jabbing at the lift button impatiently when her mobile rang. She looked around suspiciously, half believing still that there was someone hiding there, staring at her, stalking her, following her every move.
Her mobile trilled again, and she answered it but again heard nothing at first, just the crackle and hiss of the line. Totally spooked now, she was about to hang up when she heard the voice coming through, all jagged and remote: ‘God will not be mocked.’
Then the lift doors clanged open in front of her, and she nearly collapsed in terror.
17
‘Mulcahy? Is that you?’
He knew her voice instantly, even though it sounded so shaky.
‘Yeah, of course,’ he said, trying to push past the spark of wariness in his own voice. For a moment, the only sound at the other end of the line was of a long breath being released. ‘Are you okay, Siobhan? Is something the matter?’
‘No, it’s okay. I’m fine now.’ She laughed, but it didn’t sound very heartfelt. ‘I just got a fright, that’s all. I don’t even know why I called you. I suppose I panicked. I was waiting for the lift, and when the doors opened all I saw was this yawning blackness. Put the heart crossways on me, it did. I thought someone was going to jump out and kill me but it was just that the light was broken inside. Anyway, I wasn’t going to chance it. I legged it. I’m taking the stairs now.’
As if in confirmation, he heard a clacking of heels on a hard surface echo down the line.
‘You’re still at work?’
‘Just leaving. Where are you?’
‘Just coming around College Green.’ He looked up at the brightly lit façade of Trinity College behind the railings, its elegant curve mirrored across the road by the sweeping blank colonnades of the old Bank of Ireland.
‘That’s only around the corner from me.’
‘You sound like you could do with a drink.’ He heard his voice falter even as he said it. What sort of idiot would she take him for? She’d as good as admitted she hadn’t intended to call him.
‘Are you kidding me?’ she said. ‘I’ll need about six just to stop shaking.’
It had to be either the Palace or Mulligans so they opted for the latter, mostly because it was on Poolbeg Street and more or less beside the Herald offices. Siobhan didn’t want to be out on the street. She must have got in there a minute or two before him at most, but as he went in the door, into the crowded dark interior, he couldn’t see her amid the throng yakking noisily around the bar. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he spotted her, sitting by herself in a dark corner cranny, well away from the main bar, with a couple of drinks sitting untouched on a small table in front of her.
‘I ordered for you,’ she said matter-of-factly as he sat down opposite her, even though there was plenty of room in the corner beside her. The dark wood, the mottled mirrors on the walls around, and the buzz of conversation all around cocooned them in privacy immediately.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking a pull on his pint. Now she was there in front of him, he wasn’t sure what to say to her. ‘You sounded kind of scared on the phone.’
‘I was, a bit,’ she said, still not looking him in the eye. ‘I mean, I got a bit spooked, all by myself in the office, you know? Somebody sent me… I mean, I wanted to show you something. See what you think, maybe?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘What is
it?’
Siobhan leaned over to open the shoulder bag lying on the floor at her feet, then changed her mind. She sat up again and glared at him.
‘You needn’t think I’ve forgiven you, y’know,’ she said.
‘You, forgive me?’ he laughed, shocked. ‘Shouldn’t that be the other way around?’
‘Why?’ She wasn’t smiling, wasn’t pouting, wasn’t playing any games at all, that he could see. She was being serious. ‘All I was doing was my job. I even warned you in advance. You didn’t have to cut me off like that. I mean, a bloody text, Mulcahy. Couldn’t you even say it to my face?’
‘Christ, Siobhan, you can’t even begin to understand how much trouble you’ve caused me. Everyone from the Commissioner down assumes it was me who gave you the story. We were seen out together. I as good as got kicked off the investigation, and now I’m going to be stuck in bloody Sex Crimes for Christ knows how long as a result.’
This time she at least had the good grace to look upset.
‘Why would they think you had anything to do with it? I mean, you made it clear enough to me you wouldn’t help. And I made sure to keep you out of it. And that wasn’t easy, trust me. Your name came up a lot, and it wasn’t all complimentary either.’
That came so far out of the blue, he almost had to repeat it to himself.
‘What the hell are you talking about? When did my name come up? Where did you come by all this information of yours, anyway?’
‘Look, Mulcahy, you know I can’t talk about sources, so just don’t start, okay?’
‘No, that’s not good enough, Siobhan,’ he said, real anger in his voice now. ‘You’ve as good as said someone was bad-mouthing me. Who the hell was it?’
‘Shush, now,’ Siobhan reached across the table and put a finger to his lips. Her touch jolted through him like a lightning strike to ground. ‘On my life, Mulcahy, I can’t tell you who it is. I’m not even sure who it is myself. But look, anyway, that’s not the point. What I wanted was to—’
‘Not the point?’ Mulcahy pulled away from her, fuming. ‘I’m up to my neck in shit because of you and you say it’s not the point? Jesus Christ!’
That seemed to take her by surprise. She sat back, away from the table, then rubbed her eyes with both hands; anything, it seemed, rather than look at him. When she spoke again it was as if a soft, cold wind was blowing beside her words.
‘You know as well as I do, I couldn’t tell you even if I did have a name. But for what it’s worth, I got a call, the morning, you know, after we were up in the Blue Light. This guy said he was working the Salazar case and could deliver the goods. Gave me the whole thing on a plate and again when Catriona Plunkett was attacked. Then I heard nothing for days, I swear. I was actually relieved to get the call from him when Paula Halpin’s body was found. “Get yourself over to the Furry Glen, asap.” That’s all he said. And I’ve only heard from him the once since. So shut up now or I’ll have a jinx on me and I’ll never get another decent tip-off again.’
Mulcahy threw his head back and let out a long, low groan. ‘That’s how he said it, is it? “Ay-sap”? Just like that?’ He thumped the table with his fist. ‘I knew it. That treacherous shitebag. I knew it had to be him all along.’
Siobhan stared at him, panic in her eyes, knowing she’d said too much – knowing she’d said more than even she knew she’d said.
‘Look, Mulcahy, whoever it is you’re thinking of, you didn’t hear about him from me, okay? On my life, nobody’d ever tell me anything again. I’d be ruined.’
But he wasn’t even listening to her, seeing it now from Cassidy’s point of view – the perfect set-up, shafting the uppity inspector while pocketing a bit of easy cash on the side. He must’ve thought all his Christmases had come at once.
‘Look, Mulcahy,’ Siobhan broke in on his thoughts. ‘For what it’s worth, I’d never have done anything to get you into trouble. I liked you, y’know. I still do. Christ, I mean, I can’t even help myself, can I? Who’s the first bloody person I think of when I need a big strong man to come and rescue me?’
She looked away from him then, leaned down and picked her bag up from the floor. He thought how tired she looked suddenly, hurt even. It was there in her voice, too. He put a hand out and stopped her as she was getting up to go.
‘Wait. What was it you were going to show me?’
She shook her head, her black hair flowing like a dark sea in winter. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was all in my stupid head. I’d better be going.’
‘No, don’t,’ he said. ‘Have another drink, come on. You said you were going to have six.’
But she got up from the table anyway. ‘What’s the point? If it’s not this time, it’ll be the next. We’re never going to be able to get on.’
It was only when her bag fell open slightly, as she hitched it up on her shoulder, that he saw it poking out from between the handles, like a dried-up chamois leather, black marks scorched on it, all over it, like a piece of burned…
‘What in the name of Christ is that?’ he said, pointing.
He carefully examined the stiff fold of parchment in his hands. He’d slid it into a clear plastic evidence bag the minute she told him what it was but he could still catch the strong back-of-the-throat stench of charring from it. The frenzied jumble of crosses burnt on to it looked just the same as the ones he’d seen on all The Priest’s victims, only smaller.
‘Just look at that, will you?’ she said, her voice a tense whisper. He looked closer, at what she was pointing to, and only then made out the thin line of text scorched into the skin.
Deus non irridetur
‘Any idea what it means?’ It gave him the creeps just looking at it.
‘God will not be mocked,’ she said. ‘Latin. St Paul, one of his letters to somewhere, warning his flock not to go to the dark side.’
Mulcahy must have raised an eyebrow at that because she laughed, nervously. ‘No, nor me either. While I was waiting for you I rang a contact of mine who knows a bit of Latin.’
‘And you have no idea who sent it to you?’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘For a second back there, I thought it might be this guy I know. He likes to throw the odd Latin motto into the conversation, and for a while I thought he was leaving me weird messages at home. But then I realised that this was exactly the same as what some freak said to me on the phone the other day.’
Mulcahy raised an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, before they arrested anyone,’ she said, leaning across and turning over the evidence bag in his hands. ‘But, look, there’s another one in English on the other side.’
He looked at where she pointed. Again it was seared on to the parchment in tiny script: The body is not meant for lust but for the Lord.
Mulcahy stole a glance at Siobhan again, impressed by how well she was taking it.
‘Were any of your colleagues, or anyone on the other papers sent anything like this, do you know?’ Mulcahy asked.
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Siobhan shook her head.
‘And there’s no reason for you to be targeted, especially?’
‘Gosh no,’ she said. ‘Other than the fact that I broke the bloody story and I’ve been mouthing off about The Priest all over the radio and telly ten hours a day for the last fortnight. No, I don’t suppose he’d know me from Adam.’
Mulcahy had to concede the point, but it still didn’t make much sense to him.
‘I don’t buy it, it doesn’t feel right,’ he said. ‘But it’s still evidence. You’ve got to show it to Brogan or Lonergan as soon as possible.’
‘Can’t you get it to them?’
‘No, they need to see this first thing, and I’m away tomorrow.’
‘Away? Away where?’ she snapped, like she had any right to know.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘God almighty,’ she said in exasperation. ‘I forgot, every bloody thing you do is top secret. Still, I suppose it’ll give me time to get it photographed and
everything for the story.’
‘What are you saying?’ He was horrified. ‘This could be important evidence. You can’t go splashing it all over the front page.’
‘Why not? It’ll look bloody good on the front page.’
Mulcahy stared at her, incredulous. ‘Look, we have no way of knowing yet if this is a hoax or a sick joke, but it could derail the entire investigation if you give it undue prominence in your paper, and everyone has to go hightailing off on a wild-goose chase.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say. I deal with jerks and cranks every day of my life, and I’m telling you, Mulcahy, this one gave me the creeps – big time. Y’know, they took Emmet Byrne into custody this morning. This was delivered to me by hand between half seven and eight tonight. What if they’ve got the wrong guy? What if he’s after me now?’
‘Look, I honestly don’t think you need to worry. I don’t think you’re his type,’ Mulcahy replied, but even as he said it, his eye was drawn to the small silver cross glittering between the buttons of her shirt. ‘We’ve still got to get this examined as soon as possible. Call Brogan. Let her follow it up.’
Siobhan sat back straight and stared at him like she’d seen inside him.
‘You don’t think it’s Byrne, do you?’
He didn’t know the answer to that question himself. ‘From what I’ve heard, we have a very strong case against him.’
‘Sure,’ she snorted. ‘I thought so, too, until some loony started sending smouldering skin samples to me.’ She looked over her shoulder before continuing in a whisper. ‘You know, I interviewed an old man this afternoon who’s known Byrne for years and swears he’s a saint.’
The Priest Page 30