The Priest Page 5

  To Mulcahy, from the distance of Madrid, the boom had always had the feel of something that couldn’t last. The new loaded Dublin bore little resemblance to the one he’d grown up in, and now that the bottom was falling out of it, he could see the old city beginning to reassert itself. Thousands of flats stood empty and tenantless, impossible to sell on. The market square looked as lost and dust-blown as a ghost town. And just a couple of streets back, he knew the smack-heads and crackheads, the burglars and muggers, were all still there, out of sight, waiting their time in the cycle. And it would come. No amount of fancy new apartment blocks could change that.

  He double-checked that his car was locked, and headed down towards the river, turning his thoughts to the meeting he was due to attend – a pre-trial briefing at the Four Courts with the state prosecutor. It was one of the few cases he’d worked on during the last six months that was actually making it to trial. Mainly because it was fairly cut and dried. The Colgans were two career low-lifes from Phibsboro who’d got in over their heads, stealing high-performance cars to order for a gang in England, which in turn serviced a substantial part of the illegal car trade in Jordan, Syria and the Lebanon. Mulcahy had only come on board at the closing stages but he had to admit he’d felt a thrill getting away from his desk, back on the frontline nabbing bad guys.

  Coming round the corner on to Arran Quay, Mulcahy looked up at the green dome of the Four Courts, standing out against the sky over the Liffey. A flash of light drew his attention to a flurry of movement by the main entrance. A gleaming silver SUV with dark-tinted windows was pulling up, and a scrum of journalists swarmed around it, cameras jostling for position, flashes popping, microphones, recorders and notebooks waving aloft. He couldn’t see who was getting out of the car, but it hardly mattered. Doubtless some gob-shite gangster who’d been stoking up the media ahead of trial – and as usual they lapped it up. For a moment Siobhan’s face drifted into his mind, but he pushed the image away. It worked both ways, of course. Half the gangsters in Dublin would hardly be known to the Gardai if it wasn’t for journalists exposing them. But it still grieved him to see psychos being treated like celebrities.

  He moved around the press pack and up the steps, between tall granite columns, dragging his focus back to the case. Entering the round, marble lobby, all echoing footsteps and murmured conversations, he looked around to see if he could spot any of the other guys who’d worked on the operation, then stopped in his tracks when he heard a familiar voice hailing him from behind.

  ‘Mike, wait up there.’

  Mulcahy turned and watched as Superintendent Brendan Healy, all blue-serge uniform and amiability, patted a gowned barrister farewell and strode across the lobby towards him. In his mid-fifties, he was a big man but with a head that seemed too small to match his bulk and, despite the heavily braided cap tucked beneath his arm, a hairstyle of such steely precision it’d put a US news anchor to shame.

  ‘Brendan, what brings you down this way?’

  ‘You do,’ Healy replied. There was an edge of castigation in his voice, despite the smile. ‘Didn’t you get my message last night?’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘You weren’t answering your mobile, so I left a message on your phone at home.’

  Mulcahy remembered the blinking red light and mentally kicked himself. It was only when he’d pulled on his jacket this morning that he realised he’d left his mobile switched off ever since he was in the hospital. Didn’t look good, that. Unprofessional. Trust Healy to use the home number.

  ‘I didn’t get it,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, no matter. I wanted to come down here and square things with Downey in person, anyway. Never hurts to stay on the right side of those fellas.’

  Mulcahy didn’t like the sound of that. Downey was the barrister prosecuting the Colgan case. ‘I don’t follow. What did you need to square?’

  ‘Why you won’t be attending today’s briefing – on account of more pressing matters having arisen. Look, I hate to spring this on you, especially when you were so obliging yesterday, but I did try to give you notice. You’re on the case with Brogan.’

  ‘I’m what?’ Mulcahy spluttered.

  Healy adopted an expression of sympathetic disbelief. ‘The Spanish say they want you as liaison officer.’

  ‘The Spanish? Why in the name of God would they do that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Healy shrugged. ‘Whatever you did yesterday, they took a liking to you and the Ambassador himself asked the Minister for you to be assigned.’

  Mulcahy was gobsmacked. Why would the Spanish ambassador have asked for him? Then he remembered the incident with the diplomat, Ibañez, and, with a groan, cursed himself for getting involved. He tried a last forlorn hope.

  ‘But sex crimes is a specialist area of operations. I have no experience—’

  ‘No buts, Mike.’ Healy cut in, getting impatient. ‘This is right from the top. I told the Minister it’s not what you do, but he felt he wasn’t in a position to refuse, in the circumstances.’

  ‘And how long am I going to be stuck doing that?’

  ‘As long as it takes. I told Brogan you’ll be joining her at Harcourt Square this morning. Go over there now, and you’ll make the eleven o’clock briefing. And remember you’re just assisting. Brogan is the lead on this, so let her get on with it. Okay?’

  But for Mulcahy that caution was so far beside the point as to be irrelevant. The last thing he wanted was to be tied into some politically sensitive operation while opportunities to get back to where he wanted to be passed him by.

  ‘But that’s crazy, Brendan. The whole point of me being with NBCI is so I don’t get caught up in—’

  ‘I thought I’d made myself clear, Mike. This is not up for debate.’

  A hiss of steely officialdom had entered Healy’s voice, and it was probably this more than anything else that pushed Mulcahy too far.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Brendan, that’s the last time I’m doing you a favour.’

  The anger in his voice was altogether too raw, and he knew he’d overstepped the mark even before he heard the sharp intake of breath, and saw Healy’s chest puff up so fast the buttons threatened to pop off his uniform. Healy looked quickly around to make sure no one was within eavesdropping distance, before hissing back at him.

  ‘Now, look here, Inspector. I know the last few months have not been easy for you. But we’ve all been doing our best to sort it out, and we hope you’ll be going back to Drugs as soon as something suitable comes up. In the meantime, I would remind you that you’re not a one-man band like you were in Madrid, and for as long as you’re under my command you’re going to have to toe the line like everyone else. Do you understand me?’

  Mulcahy glared back at him. ‘And what if this “something suitable” comes up while I’m working on this case?’

  Healy’s eyes narrowed as he pushed his face fractionally closer to Mulcahy’s.

  ‘Then you’ll just have to wait for the next bloody thing, won’t you?’

  Brogan checked her watch: quarter past eleven. What the hell was Mulcahy playing at? Helpful as he’d been the day before, he looked like he could be a tricky one. Well, he’d get a shock if he thought he could swan in late and trample all over her team, her investigation.

  She clapped her hands for a bit of hush. ‘Okay, lads, come on, enough hanging around. Listen up.’

  Behind her, Cassidy was sticking copies of the medical examiner’s photographs of Jesica Salazar’s battered face to the whiteboard he’d set up in a corner of the DVSAU’s cramped quarters. The Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Unit, officially, but everybody called it ‘Sex Crimes’, as if it were one in itself. Ordinarily, on an active op, they’d have been working out of an incident room by now, in whichever station had logged the assault, which in this case was Dundrum Garda Station. They’d have been parachuted in to run the operation with the local lads; to steer, advise, take charge of the investigation but use mostly local manpower a
nd resources. Sometimes, though, when things got overly complex or – as here – required an unusual level of discretion, they had to work out of their own godforsaken offices on the fourth floor at Harcourt Square. Brogan looked around and cursed Healy for his media paranoia again. This was the pokiest, most uncomfortable office accommodation she’d ever had the misfortune to work in. Every chair in the place was knackered, and the muddy-beige walls and threadbare grey carpet tiles looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since the building went up in the seventies. Every chance she got, she was gone from the place like a flash. Now she’d almost certainly be stuck here for weeks.

  There were only seven of them in the room, including the two uniforms from Dundrum, but already the air was oppressive. It was as big a team as Healy would allow – the more faces, the more tongues might wag, he’d declared. And then, despite all the hand-wringing, he’d snapped at her and said it wasn’t as if she was dealing with a murder. Patronising wanker. As for landing her with Mulcahy, she could have punched him. That’s all she needed – a spy in the camp checking out her every move.

  ‘Boss?’

  She blinked and realised that Cassidy and everyone else in the room was staring at her, waiting for her to begin. ‘Okay, guys…’ She coughed, rallying her thoughts.

  ‘Some of us initiated actions on this yesterday and early this morning, but for those of you coming to it fresh now, Sergeant Cassidy here’s going to take us through what we’ve got so far, just so we’re all up to speed. Then we can start thinking strategy. Before that, though, a reminder that we’ve got blanket silence on this one. No leaks, no exceptions – on pain of the worst transfer you’ve ever imagined. Okay?’

  There was a low murmur of assent from the room, and Brogan turned to Cassidy. ‘Andy?’

  Standing in front of the whiteboard, using a marker pen as a pointer, Cassidy launched into his what-we-know-so-far spiel. ‘Right then, lads, this is Jesica Salazar – at least that’s the easy version, so let’s go with that from now on, yeah? She’s a sixteen-year-old Spanish national, here on a four-week English course. You know the type exactly…’

  Brogan zoned out and compared her sergeant’s face with those of the others looking up at him. His expression, as usual, was glowering to the point of aggressive, his wide-legged stance a parody of the John Wayne gait. As for the suit, if he didn’t get it cleaned soon, Health and Safety would be having to prise it off him by force. She ought to say something, take him aside and explain that it wasn’t acceptable to go into people’s homes scowling and stinking of sweat. But she didn’t want to risk alienating him because, for all his faults, he was a good cop. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer but a street fighter to the core, and the others looked up to him.

  She surveyed the rest of the team. Three of them were her own: Maura McHugh, Donagh Hanlon and Brian Whelan, all detective Garda rankers and all okay in their own way, but not exactly shit-hot. None of them could hold a candle to Cassidy in terms of getting things done. Maura was about the best of them but she’d be losing her in a few weeks anyway, when she went off on maternity leave. As for the two uniforms in from Dundrum, well, what could you expect? Young, green and thick, cheeks still rosy, hair trimmed down to a stubble that wouldn’t normally be visible beneath their caps. They’d hardly be much use for anything but knocking on doors and keeping the coffee hot and sweet. The look of shock seeping into their expressions, as Cassidy summarised some of the more horrific detail from the medical reports, told her all she needed to know about them. Not much of a team, but you got used to that in the DVSAU. And at least Healy allowed her use of the two administratives outside, to help with the paperwork.

  ‘As I said, lads,’ Cassidy went on, ‘the damage you can see here to the girl’s face and chest is nothing compared to what he’s done to her down below. But if you’re still in any doubt about what kind of a twisted sick fucker we’re after, the photos taken by the burns specialist at the hospital are here in a folder for you to look at afterwards.’

  He paused as every gaze in the room took in the folders stacked on the table to his left, weighing up whether they really wanted to open them and see the worst – knowing that morbid curiosity would get the better of them all in the end.

  ‘Right, we’re not doing too badly on this so far. We tried to interview the victim yesterday, but she was too distressed to give up any detail and our translator wasn’t exactly on the ball. Still, we managed to get a couple of things… Ah, speak of the devil.’

  Cassidy broke off and every head in the room turned to the back of the room as Mike Mulcahy came in through the door, flushed and short of breath.

  ‘So you managed to join us,’ Brogan said, and all eyes returned to her, momentarily, before ping-ponging back to Mulcahy again.

  Mulcahy nodded. He’d arrived at Harcourt Square to be told that no one had booked a space in the basement car park for him, and there were none left now anyway. It had taken him the best part of half an hour to find a spot in the crowded side streets nearby and another ten minutes to walk back. Sweating and visibly annoyed, this wasn’t the impression he was used to making on entering a room.

  Cassidy waded into the gawping silence, drawing the attention back to himself again.

  ‘Okay, lads, this is Inspector Mulcahy. He normally hangs out with the glam boys in Drugs, but he’ll be working with us on this. Now, as I was saying…Yes, Maura?’

  McHugh, the only woman seated in the group, her blonde hair cut in a bob, her short stature emphasised by the swell of a pregnant belly, had put up a hand. She turned to look towards Mulcahy for a moment, before asking Cassidy her question.

  ‘Is there a drugs angle to this you haven’t told us about?’

  ‘No, at least not that we know of,’ Cassidy laughed grimly. ‘But the inspector here is fluent in the old es-pan-yole and he was the one who helped us talk to our young victim yesterday.’ Cassidy glanced over at Brogan before continuing. ‘For which we’re very grateful, I’m sure. But not as grateful as the Spanish. They liked him so much they wanted to buy him.’

  A few sniggers broke out in the room as Cassidy grinned broadly at his joke.

  ‘Well, at least we prevented you from making matters any worse, didn’t we, Sergeant?’ Mulcahy said, gritting his teeth.

  Eyebrows raised, every face in the room now turned from his to Cassidy’s in time to see it flush with indignation. At which point Brogan pushed herself away from the table and intervened.

  ‘Alright, lads, settle down. What the sergeant meant is that Inspector Mulcahy here is kindly lending us his expertise in all things Spanish, and in particular liaising with the embassy – for reasons we really don’t need to go into just now.’

  All heads turned back to Mulcahy again, one or two nodding a bit more respectfully this time as Brogan invited him to take a seat and instructed Cassidy, flatly, to get on with it. The sergeant flicked an angry glance at Mulcahy before resuming.

  ‘As I was saying, we’ve yet to pin down the actual scene of the assault but given the severity of the girl’s injuries she can’t have staggered too far from where she was found. What we do know now is where she was beforehand. It’s a club called the GaGa, out on the Stillorgan Road, where she was with some of her student pals. We tracked one of them down last night and she says Jesica left the place early to go off with some fella she picked up – an older guy, early to mid-twenties, we reckon. So, for the moment, tracking him down has got to be our number-one priority. Asap, alright?’

  Asap, my arse, Mulcahy muttered to himself. Clearly, Cassidy had been watching too many American cop shows and they’d gone to his head. The man was a complete and utter tool. The sullenness, the smart-arse remarks, the fists-first approach: all the redneck, bullshit attitude that gave the Gardai a bad name. Mulcahy looked up and saw the sergeant pointing at a large question mark written on the whiteboard behind him, beneath which were scribbled various notes and key words.

  ‘In terms of ID-ing this guy, so far we’ve only
got the one vague description: tallish, good-looking, brown hair – but that’s under club lights – and wearing a stripy shirt. That’s all. The good news is that me and the boss popped into the GaGa last night and managed to score some CCTV from around the right time. We went through a couple of hours’ worth this morning and managed to locate Jesica’s gang of students entering the venue at 9.35 p.m.’ – he pointed over his shoulder at a video printout pinned on the board – ‘and, also, the rest of them leaving, as they claimed, at about 12.55 a.m. But, so far, no luck on Jesica departing with the mystery fella. That means, Whelan, you and me’ll have the delightful job of trawling through the rest of that CCTV footage this morning.’

  A skinny, wavy-haired detective in his mid-thirties, a cheap grey suit and what looked like a GAA tie, groaned loudly, and got a poke in the back from Hanlon sitting behind him.

  ‘Before we move on,’ Brogan interrupted, ‘Donagh and Maura were round at the school earlier, mopping up statements from the other kids – some of who were also at the club. Got anything to add to that, guys? Did any of the kids get a good look at this fella?’

  The two detectives shook their heads and launched into a dull summation of why everything they’d got there tallied exactly with what had been reported already. Mulcahy was hardly even listening, still simmering over Healy, over Cassidy, over being stuck on a shitty Sex Crimes case. Christ, he hadn’t been forced to deal with this kind of crap for years.

  ‘Okay now, lads.’ Cassidy was up at the board again. ‘Tasty as this guy may look, one thing we did manage to get from our victim was that her attacker came out of nowhere, and apparently on the street. She only referred to him as, quote, “a man”, which implies a stranger. Isn’t that right, Inspector Mulcahy?’

  Mulcahy looked up, surprised to be consulted.

  ‘Uh, yes…’ he stumbled, ‘you could say that. Although, from the little the victim was able to give us, it’s hard to know whether or not she got a proper look at him at all. One thing she did say was “everything went dark”, so maybe something was pulled over her head. Anyway, her whole emphasis was on how sudden and brutal the attack was. She gave no sign of knowing who her attacker was.’