The Priest Read Online Free PDF Page A

there’s no shortage of sickos
     in Dublin.’
    He shook his head. ‘No thanks, I’ll stick to what I know.’
    Given half a bloody chance. Mulcahy looked at the sky again. The inviting azure of the early afternoon had gone, obliterated
     by a flat expanse of ashen cloud. And the wind had a hint of rain on it. Perhaps it wasn’t a good day for sailing, after all.
     A dark blue Mondeo rolled up beside them. Inside, Cassidy leaned over from the driver’s seat and pushed the passenger door
     open. In doing so he shot Mulcahy a sullen glare. He hadn’t been at all happy when Mulcahy had suggested he make another,
     more sincere apology to Ibañez. The ignorant fucker should be thanking him for saving him an appearance at a disciplinary hearing.
    Brogan glanced back as she climbed into the car. ‘Thanks, Mike – and sorry for spoiling your Sunday. I’ll let you know how
     we get on.’
    ‘Do that,’ he said, hoping she wouldn’t. ‘Good luck with it.’
    With a squeal of tyres, the car shot away. Mulcahy stared after it a moment. Cassidy was clearly an old-school thug of the
     first order, a bloody liability. He wondered how Brogan put up with him. Then he shook his head again, took his keys and cigarettes
     from his pocket, and headed towards the car park.

3
    S iobhan Fallon swept up Stephen Street like a March wind, coat flapping open despite the steady drizzle, one arm deep in her
     shoulder bag, rummaging for her mobile phone. She was fifteen minutes late already. Ordinarily, she’d just blame the weather
     and flash a winning smile, which usually did the trick. But she liked this guy, and even if that didn’t work out there was
     always the chance of a story in it. She scrolled back through her recent calls and clicked on his number, but all she got
     was voicemail. There wasn’t much point in leaving a message now. She slipped the phone back into her bag and upped her pace.
     She was nearly there, anyway.
    Three minutes later she rounded the corner onto South Great George’s Street and saw the Long Hall across the road. The old
     Victorian pub had enjoyed a bit of a facelift since the last time she’d seen it, when a vast new office block was being built
     behind. For a while it had looked as if the whole street front would be demolished, and the Long Hall with it. Par for the
     course during the early days of the boom, when no inconvenient bit of Dublin’s heritage lasted longerthan it took to stuff a planning officer’s pocket with cash. But somehow the Long Hall had made it through, a valiant survivor,
     doubtless still as decrepit as ever inside. She’d laughed when he suggested meeting her there. Not exactly the place to impress
     a girl.
    She pushed through the door and past the dark mahogany bar, her eyes trailing over the mad mishmash of mirrors and chandeliers,
     the wood-panelled walls bedecked with mottled old Chinese prints, the crazed fruit plasterwork on the ceiling. She spotted
     him straight off. He was sitting reading a paper at a table in the back room, long legs stretched out, a pint of stout hardly
     touched in front of him, jaw jutting towards the story, absorbed. A memory coursed through her of a time years before, when
     she’d seen him in a posture just like that, but without the paper, exhausted and thoughtful after leading a major drugs bust
     out in Clondalkin. Herself a rookie reporter and him already in a position that reeked of responsibility and power. The sense
     that washed from him then, of being in complete control, had gone through her like a charge – his calm, cool determination.
     And, though her own position had changed a great deal since, she felt shot through by exactly the same feeling now.
    Exactly the same.
    Mulcahy was about to check his watch when he looked up and there she was, framed by the dark wooden clock arch that divided
     the front and back bars, smiling at him, looking like the rain hadn’t dared touch her.
    ‘I’m
really
sorry I’m late,’