The Priest Read online

  Gerard O’Donovan was born in Cork and raised in Dublin. After a brief career in the Irish civil service, he travelled widely, working as a barman, bookseller, gherkin-bottler, philosophy tutor and English teacher before settling down to make a living as a journalist and critic for, among others, The Sunday Times and the Daily Telegraph. In 2007 he was short-listed for the Crime Writers’ Association’s prestigious Debut Dagger competition.

  Visit his website at www.gerard-odonovan.com.

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-11693-5

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Gerard O’Donovan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  for Muds and Angela

  Henceforth let no man be troublesome to me,

  for I bear the marks of the Lord Jesus on my body.

  St Paul, Letter to the Galatians, 6:17

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter Epilogue

  Chapter Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Was it luck, really? Some might call it fate. Others the manifest presence of God’s guiding hand. He almost missed her. Between the dark and the trees and the cars parked up on the grass verge, his headlights caught a flash of white top and the gleam of something gold. He’d never have seen her if he hadn’t been in the van, sitting high up. By the time it hit him full on, he’d driven past. But he knew the road well, the quiet residential estates behind laid out in a grid. He took the next left, then three rights, and he was back out on the main road again – behind her now, taking it slowly.

  She’d got barely thirty yards further, sauntering along like all of them did, like there was no tomorrow. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Nothing. Scanned ahead. Not a ghost in sight but her. No need even to stop and ask. As he passed her again, he tried to get a better look but a lamp post was in the way and he only caught a glimpse. It was enough, though. He gave it fifty yards or so, then pulled up on the verge, nice and easy, cut the engine and lights. Then it was just a matter of slipping into the back, checking the gauge on the cylinder and making sure everything was in place.

  Watching her through the square tinted windows at the back, he could tell she hadn’t noticed him stopping. Wasn’t noticing much by the look of it. Excitement gripped his breath as each step brought her closer, slowly, until he got his first clear look at her. Dark hair, shoulder-length and glossy, a white crop top flattening out her chest, a slash of bare belly, a tiny slip of skirt only just covering her. The gleam of precious metal on her neck. Typical.

  He struggled to keep his breathing slow, forced himself to relax using the technique the doctor taught him. Concentrating, making sure he got it right this time. He’d practised it over and over in his head but experience had taught him to make allowances for the unpredictable in these matters and be prepared to react accordingly. Only the last few yards now. He closed his eyes, blessed himself and began counting down. It was easier that way. Left hand holding the sack, right hand gripping the handle of the side panel door. He’d spent hours getting the sliding action smooth. Then he was out, landing perfectly, just a couple of feet in front of her, and his right hand was a fist now, flying like a missile straight at her face, so startled she didn’t have time to take a step back – or even be frightened.

  1

  ‘Excuse me?’ The receptionist in Emergency frowned at Mulcahy and leaned forward a fraction.

  ‘Mul-cah-hee,’ he repeated, drawing out the syllables, each a fraction longer than the last. Automatic. Forgot for a minute where he was. That surname had been the bane of his life while he was abroad, every conceivable pronunciation except the right one. But here in Dublin? The woman scowled like she thought he was winding her up. He fished in his jacket pocket and flipped open his Garda warrant card for her.

  ‘Inspector Mulcahy,’ he emphasised. ‘I was told I’d find Inspector Brogan here.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. As people so often did, transfixed by the card. ‘Right, Inspector, just a second.’

  While she was on the phone Mulcahy checked out the shabby reception area. Very quiet. A few disconsolate patients scattered here and there on the ranks of orange plastic chairs. A pair of pensioners, grey, enfeebled, resigned to waiting. A pregnant woman in the front row, her milk-faced husband leaning into her, one arm around her shoulders, the other hand stroking the rotund mass of her belly, whispering. All the rest looked to be the usual sport and DIY crowd, hobbling around in unlaced football boots or cradling nail-gunned fingers. A typical summer Sunday at St Vincent’s Hospital, he reckoned, annoyed he had to be there to witness it.

  In the car, on the way over to the hospital, he’d glared up at the fine blue sky, cursing Superintendent Brendan Healy for calling him in on his day off. It wasn’t so much that he was having trouble taking orders after being, more or less, his own boss for so long over in Spain. He was a cop, orders came with the territory. And though deference never came naturally to him, he’d developed over the years his own ways of dealing with hierarchy – chiefly by doing everything in his power to move up in it. But he was finding it hard settling back in Dublin. Everyone he’d known from before seemed to be swamped in kids and other lives now. So the prospect of an afternoon’s hard sailing with a bunch of lads from the boat club in Dun Laoghaire, getting the tang of salt air in his lungs, working the knots out of his muscles, having a laugh over a few beers in the bar afterwards… Bollocks, just another fifteen minutes and they’d have been away.

  ‘It’s not like you’re being given an option here, Mike,’ Healy had spat down the phone at him when he questioned his suitability for the task. ‘The Minister’s having a fit about it already. If we’re in a position to do something to cover our arses, then we’re sure as hell going to do it.’

  Bloody politicians.

  ‘Well,’ the receptionist said, putting down the phone. ‘Your colleagues were up in St Catherine’s Ward but there’s no sign of them there now.’

  He was about to ask her for directions to the ward anyway when he spotted two figures, a man and a woman, standing by the vending machines at the far end of the waiting area. Sipping from plastic cups, hawk-eyed over the rims, something unmistakably hard and reserved in their features. Apart from the old couple, they were the only ones wearing coats. Cops, for sure.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I think that might be them over there.’

  As he headed towards them he tried to figure out which was more likely to be the ranking officer. Healy had only said ‘Brogan will brief you when you get there.’ Of the two it was the woman who had the air of authority about her. She was taller by at least a couple of inches – younger and better turned out, too. Ambitious, defin
itely. Her wavy red hair was tied back in some kind of complicated plait and her face was attractive, helped by a tint of warm colour on her lips.

  Apart from his height, which must have only just scraped five-nine, the guy was more your stereotype plain-clothes man: squat, muscular, watchful, with a flat, flushed bogman’s face, the black hair cropped short and flecked with grey. Under his tan car coat was a crumpled grey suit that, together with the creased cream shirt and brown tie, didn’t show much in the way of aspiration. What settled it for Mulcahy was that it was the guy, not the woman, who clocked his approach and coughed her a heads-up. Clearly, she was the one who had more important things to think about.

  ‘Inspector Brogan?’ Mulcahy asked.

  The woman turned towards him and looked him up and down before replying. Up close, he could see now that she was much the younger of the two. Early thirties, tops. And her green eyes full of intelligence. A fast-tracker, most likely. Degrees up to her eyeballs but short on the hard stuff, the street stuff – maybe.

  ‘Inspector Mulcahy?’ she said, her tone flat, an echo of somewhere southern in the accent. Waterford, at a guess.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said, nodding once. Wouldn’t want her to think he was pleased to be here. Still, he added ‘Mike’ for good measure while extending his hand.

  ‘Claire Brogan.’ Her smile was as tight and professional as her handshake. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Andy Cassidy.’

  The sergeant acknowledged him with a jut of his chin, an ingrained sullenness in his expression.

  ‘Superintendent Healy said you needed some help?’ Mulcahy began.

  ‘Well, a translator anyway,’ Brogan replied. ‘Our usual woman’s sick and her backup’s buggered off for the weekend. Uncontactable. Healy said you were our best bet, in the circs.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Mulcahy wondered at the prickliness in her voice. ‘Well, I’m no translator but I am reasonably fluent. I’ll give it a go if it’s as urgent as Healy says.’

  ‘He said you were in Spain with Europol. Drugs, was it?’

  ‘Until recently, yeah,’ Mulcahy said. ‘With the Narcotics Intelligence Unit in Madrid. Until they moved the main operation over to Lisbon, when they set up the Maritime Analysis and Operations Centre last September.’

  ‘And they didn’t move you with it?’

  Again he thought he caught a hint of aggression in the question. But maybe she’d just put it badly. There was no way she could know anything about his personal circumstances and he was damned if he was going to discuss the ups and downs of his career with her.

  ‘Other fish to fry,’ he said, half smiling, not giving anything away.

  Her eyes showed interest but the corners of her mouth stayed turned down, as if she was determined not to indulge her curiosity.

  ‘Madrid’s nice,’ she said. ‘I was over there myself for a few days last year, doing a course. Europol information exchange on paedophiles – it was good.’

  ‘Speaking of which…’ he said, recalling now that Healy had said something about her being with Sex Crimes. He glanced meaningfully around the waiting room.‘ Shouldn’t we be getting on with it? It’s an assault, on a Spanish kid, right?’

  ‘A girl, yeah, but not…’ Brogan paused. ‘Is that all Healy told you?’

  ‘He didn’t go into it. Said you’d brief me yourself. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She broke off again and turned to Cassidy. ‘Andy, run up to the ward, will you, and make sure they’re ready. We’ll be along as soon as I’ve brought the inspector here up to speed.’

  Cassidy grunted, threw his empty coffee cup on top of an already overflowing bin and headed towards the double doors. Brogan waited until they whumped shut behind him.

  ‘Okay, Inspector, you’d better—’

  ‘Just Mike will do,’ he interrupted.

  She looked at him, eyes narrowed. ‘Right, uh, Mike,’ she continued. ‘You’d better be aware that this is a bit of a tricky one. A serious assault on a teenage girl, sixteen years old, with really nasty elements of sexual violence. But there are other factors in play – which is what Healy’s up in a heap about.’

  ‘What factors?’ Mulcahy asked, his curiosity aroused instinctively.

  ‘Christ, he really didn’t tell you, did he?’

  Mulcahy shook his head, wishing she’d get on with it. ‘He mentioned something about the Minister taking an interest but I assumed that was just to get me over here quicker.’

  ‘Oh, the Minister’s taking an interest alright, yeah.’ Her laugh betrayed more nervousness than humour. ‘A keen interest. The victim’s the daughter of a Spanish politician.’

  ‘Oh?’ That would explain the urgency in Healy’s voice, the Minister’s supposed panic. Mulcahy felt the curiosity like a cold spring welling up inside him. ‘Which politician would that be, then?’

  Brogan drew her breath in sharply. ‘Does it matter?’

  He watched her high cheekbones take on a faint bloom of red, wondering if she was being arsy or just naive. The latter seemed unlikely.

  ‘I’d say it probably does,’ he said finally. ‘To the Minister, at least. But, look, I’ve only just been pulled in on this, so I really can’t say. All I know is that, generally, if there’s any kind of politics involved, it’s as well to know exactly what we’re dealing with. Right?’

  She held his gaze. He could see her thinking it through. Then she nodded.

  ‘I don’t know the details but he’s in the Spanish government and this thing’s really rattled the brass. Not enough for any of them to come down and handle it themselves, of course.’

  ‘No chance,’ Mulcahy agreed. ‘They’ll all steer clear for as long as they can. Or at least until they know which way the wind is blowing.’

  She didn’t respond to that, didn’t need to.

  ‘So how’s the girl?’ he asked. ‘Well enough to be interviewed, anyway?’

  ‘Hard to say. She’s out of immediate danger, according to the doctors. Whether she’s really up to questioning is another matter. Healy says to push it, if we can. Got to have something for the Minister.’

  She looked away and tucked a loose strand of hair back in line behind her ear, a flicker of uncertainty on her face now.

  ‘Her name is Jesica – with just the one S, they said. Doesn’t sound very Spanish, does it?’

  Mulcahy shrugged. He’d heard the name occasionally in Madrid, the distinctive pronunciation of the J making it sound as natural in Spanish as in English. He thought Brogan was going to leave it at that but then she pulled out a notebook from her coat pocket.

  ‘Family name’s Me-laddo Salsa, or something like that,’ she said, leafing through the pages. ‘I’ve got a note of it here somewhere.’

  Me-laddo Salsa? What the hell sort of name was that? Then it hit him.

  ‘Mellado?’ he blurted, pronouncing it halfway between a J and a Y, as the Spanish would. Now the name was instantly recognisable. His heart thumped hard in his chest. ‘Are you saying her father’s name is Mellado Salazar?’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ Brogan said, frowning at him like she thought he was being a smart-arse correcting her pronunciation. ‘You know it?’

  ‘It’d be hard not to, where I was working,’ he said, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. ‘Alfonso Mellado Salazar is the Spanish Interior Minister.’

  El Juez, they called him. The Judge. A notorious hardliner – zero tolerance, Spanish style. A throwback to the old regime. Jesus, if it was his daughter there would be trouble for certain.

  ‘Let’s just say it was immediately obvious she’d been seriously sexually assaulted.’

  Brogan was showing Mulcahy up to the ward now, explaining how the girl had been spotted on the Lower Kilmacud Road in the early hours, half naked and in terrible distress, by a motorist who stopped and rang for the Gardai and an ambulance. ‘It took them a bit longer to figure out she was Spanish. She was in an awful state, completely incoherent. Meanwhile, Dundrum Ga
rda Station took a call from a couple worrying because the sixteen-year-old Spanish student lodging with them hadn’t come home from a night out. It was only later they thought to mention whose daughter she was.’

  She looked at him closely, letting him put it together for himself. ‘It took a while for the pieces to fall into place but, once they did, it didn’t take long for panic to break out in the Park.’

  Mulcahy nodded sympathetically. Few if any from the upper echelons of the force would have been on duty at the Garda Siochana headquarters in the Phoenix Park on such a sunny Sunday morning. He could imagine the riptide of career anxiety that must have washed out along the phone lines to Dublin’s fancier suburbs. Healy had called him from his home out in Foxrock. How many other Sunday lunches would this news have spoiled?

  ‘Have the press got hold of it yet?’ Mulcahy asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘And Healy’s determined to keep it that way.’

  ‘He can’t seriously think he’ll be able to do that?’

  Brogan shrugged. ‘Well, nobody here in the hospital knows whose daughter she is. Whatever English she had, it’s been knocked out of her. So, beyond the brass and us, it’s only the Dundrum lads who know. Healy’s made it quite clear it’s a one-way trip to the sticks for anyone who breathes a word.’

  Mulcahy thought about it. Being transferred out of Dublin to man some godforsaken small-town station would be a fate worse than death for most guards. But he doubted it was Garda tongues wagging that Healy needed to worry about. Hospitals are big places, and Healy could never control that side of things.

  ‘Of course, the Spanish embassy’s been informed as well. But they’re not very likely to go blabbing to the papers.’

  ‘Have they not been down here yet?’ He was surprised about that. When it came to protecting one of their own, diplomats were usually even quicker off the mark than cops.

  ‘On their way, I’m told. Probably not many of them around on a Sunday, either.’ Brogan checked her watch again. ‘Which is why we need to get cracking, or they’ll be trying to tie us up in red tape before we can get anything out of her.’