The Priest Read Free

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.’
    As they pushed through a door leading on to the ward, Brogan put a hand out, stopping him. ‘Before we get into this, I need
     you to know that I’m the one who’s directing the interview, not you.’
    ‘Fine with me,’ he said. Territoriality was part and parcel of life in the Garda Siochana, everybody guarding their own patches
     like chained dogs. ‘It’s your bag,’ he added. ‘And bythe sounds of it you’re welcome to it. I might need a minute or two to build a rapport with the girl, y’know, but otherwise
     she’s all yours. Like you said, I’m only the translator.’
    ‘Good.’ A brief smile lit up Brogan’s face, only for it to darken again. ‘Look, there are a couple of ground rules I need
     to go through with you before we go in. But first I’ve got to warn you. I’m sure you’ve been in the job for years, Mike, and
     you’re a hard man and all. But I’m telling you, this guy did a right job on the poor kid.’

2
    S iobhan Fallon waited outside her apartment while the delivery guy clattered down the stairs. Only when she heard the downstairs
     door slam shut did she go back in and close hers behind her. As far as she knew, there’d never been any actual intruders discovered
     in Ballsbridge Court. It was much too nice a block for that. But the busybodies in the residents’ association would be on
     her back about ‘security’ if she didn’t toe the line. And the last thing she needed was to rock the boat in this, the one
     place she could retreat to for a bit of peace and quiet. Hampered by the huge basket of flowers in her arms – pink and white
     roses, starburst lilies, and God knows what else – she gingerly made her way over to the small pine dining table by the living-room
     window. Setting it down beside the newspaper already laid out there, she thought about getting her camera to record the moment,
     then noticed the envelope taped to the basket. No one but Harry Heffernan, her editor, could have organised a Sunday delivery.
     Still, she wanted to see it for herself in black and white.
    As it was, the card was a bit of a let-down: ‘To our very own top striker! Love and appreciation – Harry.’ How lame was that?
     It was worse than his duff headlines.
    Siobhan stared down at the copy of the
Sunday Herald
spread out on the table. A classic paparazzi shot took up most of the tabloid front page, the colours washed out by the flare
     of a flashgun in the night: soccer international Gary Maloney frozen in time, exiting an elegant Georgian doorway, his dyed-blond
     hair tousled like a sleepy six-year-old’s, his eyes rimmed red with excess of one sort or another – or quite possibly more.
     But, from a news point of view, all the magic was in the background where, peering out, caught in the act of blowing a kiss,
     could be seen the easily recognisable, blonde-haloed face of Suzy Lenihan. As in the celebrity, ex-model wife of Maloney’s
     boss, the Republic of Ireland team manager Marty Lenihan. Which might have been fine, even quite charming, had it not been
     for those two perfectly lit curves of shoulder and hip also jutting out from behind the door, attesting to the fact that Suzy
     was buck naked. In the circumstances, the blaring headline – splashed in reversed-out 72-point white down the left side of
     the picture: MALONEY SCORES WITH MANAGER’S MISSUS – was pretty much surplus to