The Priest Read Free Page A

requirements.
    All the other words on that page were Siobhan’s. She looked them over, if not exactly with pride, then at least with a heartfelt
     sense of satisfaction. In particular, she liked the four words picked out in bold at the head of the story:
Siobhan Fallon
,
Chief Reporter
. It had taken a heck of a lotto win that title, and all too often it was only when, as now, she saw it in print that she felt it was worth it. Every element
     of the story was down to her. She’d sniffed it out from one of her best sources, tracked down the lovers, told Franny the
     snapper where to meet her. All he had to do was sit in the car with her and wait until Maloney came out. Flash, whirr, flash
     – pics in the bag. And then she’d dived in with the voice recorder. No hassle, no fists, no abuse. Maloney was too startled,
     or too coked out of his tree. And when she asked him for a comment, the dim hunk gave her one to die for. ‘Did the wife send
     you?’ he’d asked. Christ, you couldn’t make it up. If she was the editor, that would have been the headline.
    Not that it mattered. It was the biggest scoop of the day by a long shot. Siobhan grinned to herself, ran her eye over the
     page again, and went to fetch her camera from her bag. The story had been picked up by every newsdesk in the country and it
     was one of the lead items on RTE radio’s
Ireland on Sunday
, to which she’d contributed by phone earlier. After which, it was prominent on every other radio and TV bulletin she’d seen
     and heard. Even made it as high as the number-three item on Sky News at one point. And still Harry thought he could palm her
     off with a bunch of flowers?
    She tried to hold out against the thought, didn’t want to spoil the moment. She looked again at the profusion of blooms in
     the basket. Flowers were all well and good but they wouldn’t pay any bills. She wondered what Heffernan would have sent one
     of her male colleagues in the samecircumstances. Tickets for a big match, probably. At least you could flog those on eBay. But she pushed the idea away impatiently.
     It wasn’t about that. It was about getting her due. That long-promised pay rise, she thought, as the frustration began to build
     again.
    She flopped on to the sofa, feeling suddenly defeated. Around the room, newspapers and magazines, most weeks out of date,
     were strewn everywhere. The few sticks of furniture she possessed were buried under stacks of unironed clothes, half-read books
     and discarded packaging from things she mostly couldn’t recall buying. It was worse in the bedroom, where stuff got dumped
     and left for weeks on end before being washed or else picked up, brushed down and re-worn after a decent interval. Every moment
     she had, she gave to her job. There never seemed to be time for all the other bits and pieces.
    Siobhan stared up at the white, uncluttered ceiling. The only trapping of success that would mean anything to her right now
     was a cleaner. If only for one or two mornings a week, just to tidy up, do some ironing, take a tiny bit of the burden of
     living from her. But the mortgage payments, even on this shoebox, were already crippling. She’d bought at the height of the
     boom and, even if she wanted to, wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting rid of it now without losing out big time. If she
     were chief reporter on the
Irish Times
or
Irish Independent
her finances would be very different. But on the piddling, cash-strapped
Sunday Herald
…? Dream on, Siobhan, dream on.
    *
    Brogan hadn’t been exaggerating.
    Mulcahy stopped by the metal bed-end and drew his breath in sharply on seeing the mottled mass of bruising, clotted blood
     and stitches that was Jesica Mellado Salazar’s face. The dark, purpling flesh around her eyelids was so swollen, he couldn’t
     tell if she was awake or asleep. The nurse sent in to supervise the interview, a thin, careworn but kindly looking woman,
     went over to the far side of the bed, smoothing