Free The Priest by Gerard O'Donovan

locally or through us here. I take it you’ve been back long enough to have familiarised yourself with PULSE?’
    ‘Of course,’ Mulcahy nodded. The national crime database had been introduced since his posting to Madrid but he knew enough
     about it to agree with those who said the acronym – Police Using Leading Systems Efficiently – would have been far more appropriate
     as THROB, or Totally Hopeless Retarded Old Bollocks.
    ‘What we get back,’ Brogan continued, ‘is a feed of names, dates, places and offences, but there’ll be hundreds of them and
     I need someone to sift through the lot, and see if anything chimes with this incident – in terms of MO, locality, weapon,
     or whatever – and, if it does, to pull the file and do a follow-up. It’s a bit of a slog, and a one-man job really, but if
     you fancy it, it’d be a big load off my back and it’ll give you a chance to get acquainted with the kind of things we do.’
    Mulcahy nodded. It sounded boring as hell but at least it would keep him occupied and out of her way for now.
    ‘So, let’s find you somewhere to work.’
    Siobhan bent sideways from the waist as she gave the strands of her hair one last vigorous rub with the towel, before shaking
     them out and straightening herself up again. Twisting the towel into a turban, she paused for a moment in front of the wardrobe
     mirror, pulling the white bathrobe open and letting her eyes roam over her body, critically, assessing just how much damage
     these last few days’ absence from the gym had done. She pinched her waist and cursed as a couple of centimetres of flesh slipped
     between her fingers. Not as bad as it might have been, but she was unwilling to let herself off the hook entirely. She’d have
     to go at it harder tomorrow.
    She had just finished a long and reviving session in the gym downstairs: fifteen minutes each on the rowing machine and bike,
     followed by a quick fifty lengths in the pool. Then she’d had a gorgeous, energising sweat in the steam room, which was always
     empty mid-morning. Actually, the basement gym was the main reason she put up with paying the astronomical service charge on
     her flat. Having it there was the only way she could be sure of exercising regularly. Now, after a shower, she felt fully
     tuned up, tingling for the new day.
    As she began tugging on her white Louise Kennedy sweater, the soft cotton slipping over her arms, she felt herself momentarily
     back in the swimming pool, glidingthrough the warm water, her back arched, her thighs feeling the burn. Fifty lengths was getting way too easy. The pool was
     tiny, barely long enough for her to fit five strokes in, so God alone only knew what it would be like for somebody tall. Unbidden,
     an image of Mike Mulcahy – his big arms making long rhythmic strokes in a slow crawl across open water – drifted into her
     imagination and found a welcome there.
    She pulled the jumper over her turbaned head, flicked the tail end of the towel out, readjusted the delicate little silver
     cross and chain she always wore and took another close look at herself in the mirror. Surely she couldn’t have scared him
     off with that crack about being free for the rest of the night? He wasn’t that much of a prig. A bit reserved, maybe, but
     she felt something else was at the root of that. She remembered the way his team had all looked up to him that night she’d
     gone out on the drugs raid with them, how he’d kept them calm, reining in their excitement until just before the go. Real
     respect was what those guys had for him, and that wasn’t won easily. There was something about him, definitely, even if he’d
     been hiding it well last night.
    Siobhan unwound the towel from her head, pushing the thought away while shaking out her hair and reaching for the hairdryer.
     Mondays were supposed to be still the weekend for hacks who flogged their guts out on Saturdays, working for a Sunday paper.
     But she hardly ever took