Free The Priest by Gerard O'Donovan Page B

trying to look cool. She shuddered at it still.
     As for ‘In Dreams’. Jesus. Not in hers. That was for sure.
    Similar stuff had happened a couple of times recently. She’d hardly noticed. A call at work, some other Orbison warble. She
     hadn’t even listened to it, had thought it was some cold-calling ad crap and hung up. Then on her mobile, a song on voicemail:
     ‘Pretty Woman’. She’d been intrigued enough to listen to the end. But it had just clicked off. Again, she’d thought nothing
     of it, really. Some joker taking the piss, maybe, at most. But she’d had second thoughts when Bishop started coming over all
     courtly during dinner the next time she saw him, saying how nice she’d looked walking down the street and handing her the
     Gary Maloney story virtually gift-wrapped. Like some old-style suitor offering his lady a token of his esteem. Up till then
     she’d thought he was getting his kicks just by seeing some of the stuff he’d told her about appear in print. But now?
    Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it had nothing at all to do with Bishop. Maybe the other stuff was just coincidence. But that would
     be even creepier in some ways. Who the hell else could have got her home number? She was ex-directory and only a close circle
     of friends and family had that number. She hadn’t given it to Bishop. But everyone knew money like his could buy such information
     easily. And somehow the whole clammy, courtly, passive-aggressiveness of those songs seemed to fit him to a T. It
had
to be him. The only question left was what the hell was she going to do about it – without causing a rift? Because in any
     terms other than romantic, she needed Bishop more than he needed her. Gary Maloney wasn’t the only story he’d tipped her the
     wink on, and she was sure there were lots more there just for the asking.
If
she handled this the right way.
    Siobhan shook her head in grim amusement as Orbison came to his vaguely masturbatory climax and the answerphone clicked off.
     Maybe that was it. Maybe the right way was just to ignore it. What harm could an old song on an answering machine do to her,
     anyway? All she had to do was press a button, delete it, and it was gone. Compared to that, the chance of getting another
     cracking story from Bishop had to be worth any little awkwardness that might come up between them. And if he tried to take
     it any further, well, she could handle that, too, when the time came, she was sure.
    ‘I thought you might like your own space,’ Brogan said, opening the door onto a tiny office off the incident room.Space was hardly the appropriate word for this airless, windowless grey box with a metal desk and chair all but crowbarred
     into it.
    ‘Thanks… I think,’ Mulcahy said.
    Brogan wrinkled her nose, then stepped back to let him pass. ‘It’s the best we can do.’
    Mulcahy took a breath and reminded himself again that he was the interloper here. It was all a far cry from the sumptuous
     EU-funded office he’d worked out of in Madrid. Nothing but the best there, from the carpets and computer equipment all the
     way up to the expensive artwork hanging in the public areas. He’d laughed so often at the jaw-drop reactions of visiting Garda
     colleagues as they crossed the threshold of the Europol building on Recoletos, but he’d grown used to it in the end. Now he’d
     have to pinch himself if he ever went back.
    ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked in worse. I’ll leave the door open to keep the oxygen level up and to make sure I don’t
     miss anything going on out there.’
    Brogan didn’t look any happier with his friendly approach, but he caught her smiling again as he squeezed awkwardly round
     the desk.
    ‘Is there somewhere I can put these?’ he asked, indicating two cardboard boxes that, apart from the computer terminal and
     phone, were the only things on the desk.
    Brogan put a hand to her mouth and coughed. ‘Actually, that’s some stuff we dug out from