The Priest

by Gerard O'Donovan

  She moved the mouse again and clicked on the History button in the tool bar. Thank God she hadn’t closed the terminal down. There it was, just before her own more recent searches. A list of hits each titled Donegal Courier… archive. The sneaky bugger. Mulcahy had been checking out the local press in Donegal behind her back. How the hell had she not noticed him doing that? She clicked on a link at random which took her to the Donegal Courier search page. And there they were: the keywords Gweedore and assault, the date, 1988. She could see straight away that the Courier’s archive, too, only went back to the mid-nineties, so she clicked out and scrolled straight to the last page Mulcahy had browsed. What she saw there made her sit up straight and lean in towards the screen. It was a story from the Courier’s news pages from 1997. And, like the story from the Herald archive, it referred back, in part, to a mysterious, and apparently shameful, incident that happened in Gweedore in 1988.

  Bingo.

  She read through the story again, this time for the detail. It was a fairly typical court report about the successful prosecution for assault of a visitor to Bunbeg, a Dublin businessman called Anthony Michael Blaney, who’d rented a house outside the town for his family for the summer of 1997. Blaney had assaulted a local youth, Aidan Lowry, who’d apparently dared to lean against Blaney’s brand new BMW outside McClusky’s bar one evening, and the Dubliner had compounded the offence by trying to bribe the Garda who was called to the scene. But as far as Siobhan was concerned, and Mulcahy too, she assumed, the real significance only came in the final paragraph. It was a throwaway remark to all intents and purposes, but a bitter one.

  Outside the court the victim’s mother, Theresa Lowry, said Blaney’s conviction for assault was a triumph for local justice. ‘There are those of us in Gweedore who remember how, less than a decade ago, in 1988, rich and powerful men could make even the worst crimes go away, sweep them under the carpet with a pile of cash. We all remember Helen Martin. Well, this one tried it too and, thank the Good Lord, he didn’t succeed. Now at last we can say that justice is alive and well again in Donegal.’

  Siobhan exhaled slowly. There could be little doubt that this referred to the same incident as Mulcahy had found in the Herald archive search. Gweedore. 1988. Rich and powerful people covering things up in a remote part of Donegal. She felt her stomach squirm, sensing she was on to something here, even if she didn’t yet know what. But she reckoned she might be able to get to the bottom of it. She took a note of the reporter’s name, Eamon Doherty, called up a fresh search on the Donegal Courier site, and typed it in to see if he still worked there. A blizzard of hits came back at her.

  Not only was Doherty still working there. He was the editor of the Donegal Courier now.

  18

  ‘Excuse me, sir, any drinks or snacks?’

  Mulcahy flicked his eyes open as he felt the brush of fingers across his shoulder. No, just let me sleep, he thought, then shook his head as he realised what the flight attendant had been asking him. He pulled himself upright in his seat, trying not to get in the way as she handed a dribble of clear liquid in a plastic cup and a can of chilled Schweppes, to the middle-aged woman in the seat beside him. He looked at his watch blearily. Ten twenty-five in the morning, and they were doling out gin and tonic, Christ. And over an hour still to get through before they landed.

  He rubbed his eyes, realising he must have dozed off almost as soon as the aircraft had got into the air. He felt rotten – and looked worse, to judge by the wary glance the lady alcoholic had given him when he first sat down. Better have a tidy-up at the other end, before heading into town. He’d slept badly, and what sleep he’d had was fitful and filled with nightmares. Dreams of Byrne, driving out of Rinn’s gateway in the van, spotting Paula Halpin, grabbing her, pulling her into his van, murder in his face and a burning cross in his hand. Over and over again.

  Dragging his bones out of bed at seven, slinging himself into the shower, racing to the airport to catch his flight, hadn’t done anything to make him feel better. But at least he was doing something useful, and it would be good to get back to Madrid for however short a time. The last thing he’d done before going to bed the night before had been to ring Gracia to let her know he’d be in town. There was still so much to sort out between them, not least the question of the apartment. But although it was past midnight, there was no answer, so he’d left a message saying he would call again when he landed. He couldn’t help being infected by a jab of jealousy, or possessiveness, at the fact that she hadn’t been at home. Knowing this was ludicrous didn’t make him feel it any less.

  He stretched awkwardly in his seat now, the stiffness in his arms prompting another memory, of folding them around Siobhan outside the Sunday Herald and kissing her goodnight. The way she’d pressed her body into his. Why the hell did it have to feel so right, when it was so obviously never going to work with her? Suddenly, he felt a tightness in his chest, as if his lungs were contracting inside him. He felt the woman beside him shift an inch or two further away, and wondered if this was what it was like to suffer an anxiety attack. But it only lasted a moment and once it passed he felt nothing but a great wave of relief wash through him. He thought of the envelope, now in his case in the baggage locker above his head, which he’d found on the mat by the door when he got home. Healy had come through on his promise to ask Lonergan if he wanted to try getting an ID from Jesica. Two 5 x 4 blow-ups of Emmet Byrne’s mugshots were in the envelope, a note attached with ‘Go for it’ scrawled in a clumsy hand.

  Maybe, he thought, he would be able to play some small part in calling The Priest to account after all.

  Siobhan, too, rose at seven, having slept the sleep of the driven, so she was up, showered, ironed and out, all in the space of twenty-five minutes. A coffee she could pick up on the way. Even so, she wasn’t in the office before Griffin. Not on a Saturday. He was already hard at it, so absorbed he didn’t notice her come in, didn’t drag his eyes away from the Reuters or PA feed or whatever it was he was scrolling through on his screen. Fishing for a big one, or else racking up the more mundane stuff for the shift guys and subs to work up into nibs and fillers during the day. She shouted a hello, expecting him to jump up and congratulate her for delivering yet another cracking lead. But all he did was raise a rangy arm in greeting, didn’t even bother to turn her way.

  ‘Didn’t you get my message?’ she asked.

  ‘I did,’ was all he said, flatly, still not turning around.

  ‘And…?’ Christ, the man could be infuriating sometimes.

  ‘And nothing.’ He swivelled round in his chair then, his face hard as stone, and put his hands up in front of her. ‘We’re not running it.’

  ‘We’re not what? What are you talking about? You haven’t even seen it.’

  ‘Not my decision,’ he said. ‘I phoned Harry at home, as soon as I got in. To prime him for the “Herald reporter gets Priest death threat” splash. And, for some reason, he took it upon himself to ring Lonergan – you know, the superintendent in charge of the murder team – to insist you must be given round-the-clock protection.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Siobhan groaned. ‘Where is he? I’m going to bloody murder him.’

  ‘I actually thought it was a good idea,’ Griffin said. ‘It would have spiced up the whole focus on you and the Herald, and you can’t buy publicity like that.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Siobhan asked, beginning to see his point now.

  Griffin moved his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look at her while telling the rest. ‘Lonergan killed it dead. Apparently they charged Emmet Byrne with the murder this morning, and now they’re saying this letter of yours is evidence material to the case.’

  ‘But that’s bollocks!’ she shouted. ‘It has nothing to do with Byrne.’

  ‘With the best will in the world, Siobhan, I don’t think you could argue—’

  ‘Did Harry,’ she interrupted, ‘point out that it came after Byrne was taken
into custody?’

  ‘No, he didn’t…’

  ‘Well, that’s it!’ she said, clutching at straws.

  ‘But I did, Siobhan, and to no less a man than the Director of Public Prosecutions himself – who then spent half an hour, probably in his pyjamas, shouting chapter and verse at me down the phone and describing the ton of bricks he’ll bring down on us if we even think about printing it.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ She was actually shaking with frustration now. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yup.’ Griffin nodded. ‘Harry says it’s not worth us going to court over.’

  ‘Easy for him to say,’ she said. ‘I bet I’m not getting any protection, either.’

  Griffin laughed. ‘Funnily enough, no.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘They’re sending someone over at eleven o’clock to take a statement from you. And to formally take that thing into evidence and, of course, initiate investigative action, or some such bollocks.’ He smiled sympathetically as she shook her head in disbelief, then leaned forward and squeezed her arm gently. ‘Can I see it, at least? You only left me a photocopy.’

  She went over to her desk, unlocked the drawer where she’d left the parchment overnight and handed it to Griffin. He whistled as he examined it through the plastic.

  ‘Jesus, you weren’t wrong, were you?’ His eyebrows went up when he realised it was in a Garda evidence bag. ‘What’s this?’

  She shook her head again. ‘Long story.’

  ‘Oh, well, you can’t win ’em all, Scoop,’ he said, smiling broadly again. ‘And anyway, the way your career is going, I’ve no doubt there’ll be plenty more death threats to come.’

  ‘Mike!… Mike!… Mulcahy!!’

  It was midday in Madrid, and Terminal One at Barajas Airport was swamped with humanity. It was only the appalling abuse done to his surname that made Mulcahy stop and stare into the crowds jostling at the barriers to greet the passengers disgorging into the arrivals hall. Then he heard the voice again.

  ‘Mike! Over here!’

  Mulcahy scanned the phalanx of meeters and greeters to his left. There, leaning against a pillar and waving a rolled-up newspaper, he recognised the tall, thin figure of Javier Martinez.

  ‘Jav!’ he called out. He wasn’t expecting to be met, and had intended taking the Metro into Principe de Vergara before contacting Martinez for details of where and when the interview would take place. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Grinning broadly, Martinez pointed towards the end of the line of barriers and started walking in that direction. Mulcahy followed and gave his old friend a warm embrace when they eventually converged. For a split second, all the heaviness and worry was gone from his shoulders and he was transported back a year, two years before, to the Narcotics Intelligence Unit, fighting the good fight, working for the cause. Martinez had been the one colleague he’d worked alongside for the full seven years of his Europol tenure, a man who’d combined the skills of guide, language coach, cultural consultant, drinking buddy and bloody good friend. He’d even met Gracia through Martinez, although that wasn’t necessarily a plus point any more.

  Mulcahy laughed, slapping Martinez on the back for good measure. His mood had skyrocketed. ‘Christ, but it’s good to be back.’

  The Spaniard smiled, waving his car keys and heading towards the exit. For Mulcahy, the mere fact of being back in Madrid and seeing his old pal had loosed a flood of endorphins into his bloodstream. Even the wall-hard shock of heat that hit him as they left the air-conditioned terminal building felt good; even the sweat prickling out under his shirt. He was so heady with it, Martinez had to grab him as, looking the wrong way, he stepped into the road and almost directly under the wheels of a large taxi that was just pulling away. It was a huge thing, an MPV or van, and the driver had to swerve sharply to avoid him, sticking his head out the open window and shouting a selection of choice Madrileño obscenities.

  But Mulcahy only laughed. ‘Christ, Jav, I really have been a long time away.’

  They reached the car, a silver Mercedes two-seater convertible that looked to be brand new. No surprise there. Martinez had always had money: a huge apartment in the Salamanca district; a wardrobe full of finely tailored English suits, shirts and handmade brogues, like the ones he was wearing now. It was an affectation he’d picked up from his ‘filthy-rich Anglophile family’, as he told Mulcahy years back. He was incredibly well connected, which presumably was how he’d got his current job. The one question he’d never answered to Mulcahy’s satisfaction was what a Spanish playboy was doing slumming it in the Policía Nacional.

  Martinez reversed out of the parking space with a screech of tyres that was deafening in the enclosed space of the multi-storey car park. Some things never change, Mulcahy thought. He’d never got used to the crazed machismo of Spanish driving. It wasn’t until they’d negotiated the route out of the airport and roared onto the motorway that Martinez opened his mouth again.

  ‘Don Alfonso knows the requirements of the investigation process, so he is aware you need to talk to Jesica sooner, not later. He demands, though, that you can only do it if Jesica’s doctor is also always present in the room. That’s okay, yes?’

  Mulcahy didn’t reply, thinking it through, although he couldn’t see it being a problem.

  Misinterpreting his silence, Martinez glanced over at him a little shamefacedly. ‘I know it’s not ideal for you but he was very, eh… insistent.’

  ‘No, no, what’s to be sorry about?’ Mulcahy shouted back at him. ‘It’s not a problem. And thanks again for sorting it out so quickly. Honestly, we appreciate it. If we’d had to go through official channels, it might have taken weeks, knowing what you bloody Spanish are like.’

  He grinned across at Martinez, who responded with a broad grin of his own and a push on the accelerator that took the engine from a purr to a growl, and shot them forward at an even more ridiculous speed. By now the ear-buffeting airflow was too much to allow for easy conversation. Mulcahy tucked himself further into the body-hugging leather of the car seat, letting the speed and exhilaration of being back in Madrid rush over him. By the time they reached the outskirts of the city proper, and the traffic had slowed to a more metropolitan crawl, he found himself more relaxed than he’d felt in weeks. The two of them chatted away during the journey, Martinez pressing for details of the wider story of The Priest, Mulcahy seeking to fill out his sketchy knowledge of the powerful politician he would be meeting that afternoon: Don Alfonso Mellado Salazar.

  ‘You know, most politicians we have now, they were babies when Franco was around,’ Martinez said, ‘but Don Alfonso, he was in politics even then. He was one of the new ones who oversaw the transition to democracy, and one of not many whose career survived it. Because he can change, I think, but without being hypocritical like most. El Juez – you know they call him this, the Judge. He is tough but respected. And a big Catholic, too. Many older people like this.’

  Mulcahy nodded. ‘He must be getting on a bit. From what I remember of seeing him on the news, he looks more like a grandfather than a father.’

  ‘Sure. He must have been sixty when little Jesica was born. His first wife died in an ETA car bomb in the 1980s. He married again later to a very beautiful, very aristocratic lady with many names and titles. Jesica was their child. But this wife also died, very tragic. I think he only works to forget it. Maybe that was why he wanted his daughter back so quickly from Dublin. I know it caused trouble for you, Mike, but she is everything to him.’

  Mulcahy shrugged, not wanting to commit one way or the other on that point. His concentration wandered as he glanced around him. Everything foreign, yet familiar – not so long ago, this had been his life. Normality had been heat and light beating down from above, not the dull hug of a scarf or overcoat. Even the brown pall of pollution that hung permanently above the city seemed normal back then. As Martinez drove down the great spine of the Avenida de las Americas, and on into Castellana, it hit Mulcahy
full on just like the heat had: the car horns, the waspish buzz of scooters, the hurtling, bustling sense of humanity always on the move. For so long they had been the things that had made him feel alive. He was actually finding it hard to believe that going back to Dublin could ever have seemed like a good option to him. Indeed, he was so absorbed by sensations, so swamped by the familiar sights and sounds around him, that he realised too late that Martinez had taken the wrong turn off Plaza Cibeles and was heading up Gran Via.

  ‘Hey, where are you going, Jav?’ he protested. ‘I thought we were going to your office first. I badly need to freshen up a bit before we go see Salazar.’

  Martinez didn’t make any effort to stop, simply grinned at Mulcahy and pointed at his Rolex, tapping the face.

  ‘That is for later. You have been travelling, so you need to eat. Fortunately, I plan ahead and booked for lunch at La Bola. You look like you could do with some cocido á la madrileña to get the colour back in your cheeks.’

  It couldn’t have been a more disastrous morning, as far as Siobhan was concerned. In the wake of Griffin’s early-morning skirmish with the DPP, and the confirmation that Byrne had been charged with murder, orders had gone out from the editor’s office that they were to go easy on the Priest stories today. Straight-down-the-line reporting was all they could use: no messing about with speculation, however justified it might be. Harry Heffernan had no intention of wasting money being dragged through the courts for contempt, and the Saturday papers were swamped in reports on the arrest already, anyway. For the moment the plan was still to lead with Siobhan’s piece about Byrne’s previous arrest, simply because that at least looked like it might keep fresh until the morning. But, even at that, it had been so filleted by Heffernan and blue-pencilled by the lawyer, it didn’t look so very exciting any more. As for her ‘I Saw the Body in the Park’ piece, which they were still intending to run as the centre spread, it was beginning to look like the old news it was, especially since the general opinion was that The Priest was safely behind bars.