The Priest by Gerard O'Donovan Page A

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
     and 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 paranoiaagain. 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