The Priest

by Gerard O'Donovan

  ‘Someone else?’ She sounded startled. ‘What someone else? What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘The guy I was telling you about the other night.’

  ‘The taxi driver?’

  ‘Well, he’s not a taxi driver, really, but—’

  ‘No, Mike, hang on a second now. Let me stop you right there, because I need you to get something into your head. There is no someone else. Do you understand me?’

  ‘But, Claire, look, with this other kid missing, you need to see—’

  ‘No, I don’t need to see anything.’ Brogan was really angry now. ‘Other than that you are no longer a member of this investigation team, so back off. Look, I don’t know why you’re doing this but I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say honestly – and I’m telling you this as a friend and colleague – that you’re being led up the garden path by Fallon. All she wants is a sleazy story to splash across the front page of that rag of hers, and she doesn’t care who she uses or how she gets it. She’s been hassling me and Lonergan all afternoon, and now she can’t get any further she thinks she can use you to get to us instead. Well, it’s not going to work, Mike, because we charged Emmet Byrne this morning on three counts: murder, aggravated sexual assault and kidnap. And do you know why? Because he put up his hand for it himself. He coughed for it. I was there in the room myself when he did.’

  ‘But Siobhan says he has a history—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Brogan shouted at him. ‘It’s “Siobhan” now, is it? What is she, your own personal fucking oracle? Listen to me, Mulcahy – Emmet Byrne is our man, he’s our only man. Now I’m going to put the phone down and do you the biggest favour in your life and forget we ever had this conversation. Alright?’

  ‘No, Claire, don’t hang up, listen to me. I’m telling you, Byrne is not The Priest. This is all—’

  But all he was left with was silence. Brogan hadn’t listened to a word.

  ‘What about the statement? What about Gracia?’ Martinez was shouting as he ran down the wide stone staircase after Mulcahy.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, we can sort that out later. You’ve got to take me to the airport, right now. I have to get back to Dublin tonight.’

  ‘What can you do there that you can’t do from Madrid? Call your colleagues and let them take care of it.’

  Mulcahy’s glare was evidence enough of his seriousness. ‘What the hell do you think I’ve been trying to do?’

  ‘Okay, but there must be another solution. Dublin is hours away.’

  ‘No, Jav, they’re absolutely convinced they’ve got the right man. They just can’t see how wrong they are.’

  Martinez looked sceptical but Mulcahy gave him another sharp look. ‘Come on, Jav, don’t give me that. You know how it is. If I could think of any other way, I would. But I can’t. I’ve got to get back there. Now, will you please find out what time I can get a flight?’

  Martinez made the call as they hurried to his car.

  ‘The last flight to Dublin is at seven p.m.,’ he said, getting into the Mercedes. He looked at his watch. ‘We can just make it if we’re lucky. You are sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Martinez barked instructions into the phone, then snapped it shut. As he started the engine there was a hydraulic whish and the car’s folding metal roof began to close over them. Martinez reached into the small space behind his seat and handed Mulcahy a blue lamp unit.

  ‘You better put that on top, my friend. We are going to need it.’

  *

  ‘C’mon, Siobhan, that’s it. You have to file it, now.’

  Siobhan looked up from her screen and saw the clock strike five forty-five: copy deadline for the first edition. She uttered a stream of oaths, then pressed the send key.

  ‘Fine, take the fucking thing,’ she shouted back at Griffin. ‘It’s a pile of shite anyway.’

  She hadn’t been able to make any of it stand up. All she’d done was vent her spleen into a stupid little piece about Garda irresponsibility in ignoring the reported kidnap of a young woman and refusing to connect it with the Priest case. And she was lucky to get that in. She knew in every aching inch of her gut that she was right, but she had nothing concrete. No evidence even that there had been a kidnapping, apart from that one eyewitness who she’d tracked down and got some quotes from – becoming more convinced than ever he was telling the truth after he told her he was that rarest of Dublin creatures, a teetotaller. And all she could think of, while she bashed out her words onto the screen, was that another girl was in danger and she could do nothing about it. She felt sick in a way she’d never felt before, deep inside her. This was more than a story, it was somebody’s life and – she looked around at the buzzing busy newsroom – nobody was willing to do a bloody thing about it.

  Not even Mulcahy, it seemed. Some great collaborator he’d been. He hadn’t even returned her call. Well, who needed him? She’d done the hard graft, scoured the obits and the death notices and the electoral register. She’d burrowed it out during every spare second that Griffin hadn’t been on her back. And now she had what she needed, and she sure as damnation wasn’t going to waste that. But how to go about it?

  She glanced around the office again and there, like he’d materialised out of nowhere, was Franny Stoppard, her old pal and absolute favourite photographer – or, at least, that would be how she’d approach him now, anyway – lumbering into the newsroom. A big bear of a man, he knew how to handle himself after years of fending off paparazzi-hating celebs. He’d be safe to go with, and she wouldn’t even have to tell him why. Grabbing her bag and stopping only to tell Griffin she was done and would be back in an hour to sign off her subbed copy, she ran over to Stoppard and seized him by the elbow.

  ‘Oh, thank God it’s you, love. I’ve got one last job and you’re the only one to do it.’ She beamed him a dazzling smile despite his obvious lack of enthusiasm. ‘C’mon, maybe we can get the scoop of the year for the late edition.’

  If it had been a weekday, they’d never have made it. As it was, the roads were fairly clear for that time of evening and the siren and lights cleaved a path through what traffic there was, as Martinez’s car surged like an earthbound missile out of Madrid. Mulcahy spent part of the journey trying to make himself heard on the phone to the Garda Transport Division in Dublin Castle. Rinn, they eventually confirmed, had two vehicles registered to his home address: a grey 03 Toyota Corolla and a white 05 Volkswagen Transporter. The rest of the time, Mulcahy spent berating himself for not having checked this out before.

  As they turned off the autoroute onto the airport spur, Martinez looked at his watch and cursed. ‘Only fifteen minutes to departure.’

  He grabbed his phone from the dashboard and asked to be patched through to airport security, ordering whoever answered to get a car over to the diplomat’s gate, and to instruct the control tower to hold the plane until a VIP passenger got on board. Minutes later, Martinez pulled onto a slip road leading to a gate in the chainlink perimeter fence. Inside, a car with an amber emergency light flashing on the roof was waiting, a policeman already holding the door open.

  ‘God knows what sort of trouble I’ll get in when they discover you’re not the Foreign Minister,’ he laughed.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll talk your way out of it,’ Mulcahy said. ‘You always do.’

  Martinez pushed him forward. ‘Show them your passport. I am not that powerful.’

  Mulcahy did as he was told, and felt himself being propelled towards the waiting security car and into it, a hand pushing down on the crown of his head. The door slammed and instantly the vehicle screeched away. All he knew was he wanted to be in the air and on his way back to Ireland. His wish was granted faster than he could have imagined, as the car sped across the tarmac and pulled to an abrupt halt beside an Aer Lingus plane. There another security guy stood gesturing towards the gantry steps and the open door above, where a steward was waving him up.

  Mulcahy hurried a
board and was shown to a seat just a couple of rows in. Even before he sat down, the plane had started to taxi out onto the runway. He remembered then that he hadn’t called Siobhan back. But as soon as he pulled the phone from his pocket, the steward was in his face, telling him he had to switch it off. It was only then that he saw the little yellow envelope at the top of the screen, indicating that he’d received another text message. He clicked on read, knowing it was from Siobhan, waving the protesting steward away.

  You prick – I’ve got it anyway. Rinn, Palmerston Park, right?

  For the first time in his life, he felt like throwing up on a plane.

  20

  By the time they landed in Dublin, Mulcahy had put a lot of it together in his head. Not just about the scars on Sean Rinn’s neck but also the fibres, and the path Byrne had been laying for Rinn. Then there was the van and the false taxi licence – the method must’ve been much the same for all his victims. As for Byrne’s so-called confession, Mulcahy knew how scared and confused a man could get in police custody, especially a man like Byrne, who clearly wasn’t the full shilling to start with. The rest of the details he could figure out later but, for now, he was sure he had the basics right and his priority had to be getting off the plane and ensuring Siobhan was safe and Rinn was taken off the streets.

  He did not wait, as instructed, until he got into the terminal building at Dublin Airport to use his phone. He was dialling even as he pushed to be first off the plane, and clattered down the steps, running towards the terminal. But it was only once he was well inside, in the comparative quiet of the arrivals hall, that he finally accepted, after repeated attempts, that all he was going to get from Siobhan’s number was a dead tone, followed by a message saying the person he was calling did not have their phone switched on. That wasn’t good. If there was one thing Siobhan Fallon, chief reporter, would never do, he felt sure, it was turn her phone off. At passport control he flipped his warrant card open and was waved straight through. He looked at his watch: 10.05 p.m. Where the hell could she be? He rang directory enquiries and asked to be put through to the Sunday Herald, and then the newsdesk.

  ‘Is Siobhan Fallon there?’

  ‘No, she isn’t,’ a harsh male voice barked back at him.

  ‘Do you know where I might find her?’

  ‘Not a fuckin’ clue,’ the man said angrily. ‘I’ve been trying for hours myself. On bloody press night, too. So if you do track her down, my man, be sure and tell her Paddy Griffin says not to bother coming back to work at all, if that’s her attitude. Do you hear me? Tell her she’s not to bloody come back here again unless she has the best excuse on the planet.’

  The phone line went dead and Mulcahy’s gut began to churn again. He remembered Griffin’s name from the Herald’s front page. What was he again, news editor? If he’d been expecting to hear from Siobhan but hadn’t, that really wasn’t good. The best excuse on the planet? Christ, he hoped not. Mulcahy tried to think it through. Siobhan had texted him Rinn’s address – so she must have intended going there, following up her lead. But why hadn’t she told anyone else? And why, three hours later, hadn’t she turned up again? Most worrying of all was her phone. Why the hell was it not on? He didn’t want to think the worst, but it was the only option that kept on screaming in his head.

  He was exiting the terminal now, half walking, half running, heading for the multi-storey car park. When he reached the Saab he put his forehead against the cool black leather of the steering wheel, closed his eyes and willed himself to calm down. It would be pointless going over to check her flat. He barely remembered which block it was in, never mind what number. And if she was there she’d be alright anyway, so no urgency there. In fact, if she was anywhere but Rinn’s house it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference – because she’d be safe. That left him with just one option: head over to Palmerston Park, check the place out, and get Rinn arrested and into a pair of handcuffs. If Siobhan was still there, so much the better. If not, no harm done.

  He was halfway into the city on the M1, the speedometer tipping into the red zone, when it dawned on him that it might be as well to have some back-up. Despite everything, he tried Brogan again but predictably the call went straight to voicemail. He left another message but didn’t hold out much hope. There was no way she was going to phone him back. Not now. So he tried Liam Ford, a friend in need and all that, but got exactly the same response – voicemail. Shit. Saturday night, Liam was probably out on the piss. Was it worth leaving a message? Why not?

  ‘Liam, it’s Mike here, I need your help. Can you get back to me as soon as possible?’

  Which was when he thought of another option. As soon as possible. It would be a payback of sorts, just not the sort he had envisaged. The anger hit him even at the thought of doing it. But what other choice did he have? It was the one and only bit of leverage he had left. He took his foot off the gas and, as soon as he came to a straight stretch, he glanced down at the phone and scrolled a few days back through his call log, stabbing at a number with his thumb. It was as good a time as any to settle that score now.

  Palmerston Park was dark, empty and deathly quiet. Mulcahy roared up the road in the Saab and screeched to a halt behind a filthy blue Golf GTI. As he jumped out, the Golf’s occupant got out too and walked back to stare at the minimal gap left between their two cars.

  ‘Christ almighty, another couple of millimetres and you’d have had my back bumper off. What the fuck is going on? I thought you were off the case?’

  Sergeant Cassidy wasn’t looking at all happy about having his Saturday night disrupted. And Mulcahy wasn’t in any mood to placate him.

  ‘Shut up, Sergeant. I don’t want any crap from you. Just your attention, alright?’

  Cassidy scowled angrily at him. On the phone, Mulcahy had been nothing if not abrupt, only dictating Rinn’s address to him and telling him to meet him there, asap – if he still wanted to have his job on Monday. It was a risk, he knew, but having Cassidy at his back was better than nobody at all, especially now he had a hold on him. The explanations could wait till later.

  Mulcahy looked up and down the road and saw exactly what he’d hoped not to see: the red open-top Alfa Spider was parked by the railings, about thirty yards further down the road. He pointed it out to Cassidy.

  ‘Don’t you recognise it?’

  Cassidy looked blankly at it, then a slow glimmer of realisation lit up his features.

  ‘That’s right, Sergeant. It’s your paymaster’s car, and she’s in big trouble here.’

  Cassidy looked totally stumped by that, as if he didn’t know whether to protest or not, let alone how to go about it.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, Inspector, but you’re making a big—’

  ‘You wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t right, so just shut the fuck up,’ Mulcahy hissed at him. He turned away and pointed at the house. ‘A guy by the name of Rinn lives in there. He likes to play at being a taxi driver, but you know him better as The Priest.’

  ‘What are you bleedin’ talking about, we’ve—’

  ‘I think this guy’s got Siobhan Fallon, but I don’t want to spook him if I’m wrong. He already knows me, so just back me up, okay? That way, maybe I won’t tell Superintendent Healy who was behind the leaks to the Herald. Maybe you’ll even get to keep your job.’

  Pushing Cassidy ahead of him, they went through the open gates of Rinn’s house. The place appeared to be in complete darkness.

  ‘Bloody madness,’ Cassidy grumbled. ‘There’s nobody in there.’

  ‘Just go knock on the front door,’ Mulcahy said. ‘We need to get in if he’s here. Tell him somebody reported a disturbance and see if you can get yourself inside. I’ll come straight after you, as soon I’ve checked out the garage.’

  Mulcahy headed for the old coach house, hoping the sound of Cassidy crunching across the gravel would mask the sound of his own footsteps. He stopped at the garage door and listened, hearing knocking at the front door, t
hen the jangle of the old-fashioned bell from inside, then louder knocking as Cassidy upped his efforts to raise the household. Mulcahy looked back. There were no lights going on, or any other signs of life. He pulled the wooden garage door open and in the gloom inside saw a grey saloon car with a taxi sign on top. Not out on the hunt, then. But there was an empty space for another vehicle, big enough for a van. And another, larger, taxi sign was leaning against the garage wall beside it.

  Locating a light switch by the door, Mulcahy flicked it on. Almost the first thing he saw made him stop. A pile of red plastic sacking lay in a corner, exactly the colour and texture of the fibres they’d found on all the victims’ clothing. A couple of layers of full sacks were sitting on a wooden pallet beside the empties, shreds of opaque bulk-wrapping still stapled to the base of the pallet. Coconut husks, he read, for laying garden paths. He saw now how Byrne must have ordered them and brought them over to use in the garden, only for Rinn to put the empty sacks and wrapping to less innocent use. Before he could investigate further, he heard Cassidy come in the garage door behind him, looking fit to kill someone.

  ‘Like I told you, there’s nobody bloody in there.’

  Mulcahy shook his head and pointed at the taxi. Cassidy shrugged but then stooped down and scooped something out from beneath the car.

  ‘Looks like he’s incommunicado, too,’ he said, turning over the find in the palm of his hand and showing it to Mulcahy. A smashed-up mobile phone that looked like it had been stamped on. With a lurch of his stomach, Mulcahy recognised the flashy Motorola handset immediately.

  ‘No, that’s Siobhan’s.’

  For the first time, Cassidy looked like he might actually credit Mulcahy with some belief. ‘You’re sure about this?’

  Mulcahy nodded. ‘Her car, her phone – what do you think? And you know there’s another kid missing, right?’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ Cassidy gasped. He looked at the handset in his palm again, then quickly around the garage, reason getting the better of his scepticism.