‘
Tranquilo, niña,
’ he said, as softly as he could. ‘
No te preocupes. Somos policías. Queremos ayudarte.
’
Don’t worry. We’re police. We want to help you.
The girl trembled at every word he spoke. Instinct urged him to reach out and take her hand, to try to comfort her with something
other than words. But Brogan had been very specific, and he knew it himself, from long experience: no physical contact. Words
would have to do.
It took a while for him to know for sure that she understood him. At first she wouldn’t reply in any way, evading even his
eyes by closing her own and keeping them that way.
So he asked her to nod if she agreed that her name was Jesica… that she was from Madrid… that she was sixteen years old. With
each question that followed, her head moved a touch more surely on the pillow. Then, when he asked her to confirm her father’s
name, her eyes flickered open again, narrowly, tears welling along the lids, and she mouthed her first words. So indistinct,
so full of fear, that he could barely catch them.
‘
Dónde está
…
dónde está mi padre?
’
A little girl looking for her daddy.
Mulcahy didn’t want to destroy what little trust he’d built up, so he said he was sure her father was on his way. That seemed
to reassure her. He then looked over at Brogan, whose expression left no doubt of her frustration at being left out of the
loop. He nodded encouragingly at her, but said nothing. He wanted to broach the main issue with Jesica without breaking the
mood. So he turned back to the girl and asked what had happened to her.
‘
Fuiste asaltada?
’ Had someone attacked her?
She turned away, her swollen eyelids blinking as rapidly as they could, as if trying to fend off some terrible thought. Then
she nodded. It was a tiny movement, replete with emotion.
‘What’re you saying to her?’ Brogan whispered, plucking at his sleeve. He mouthed at her to wait a second, then turned back
to face Jesica. The girl looked more uncertain than ever, glancing up, then the tears started to flow.
‘
Un hombre me golpeó
…
No sé que pasó.
’
Beside him, Brogan wouldn’t remain patient.
‘What’s she saying?’ she hissed at him, beneath her breath.
‘A man hit her. She doesn’t know what happened.’
‘Ask her did she know the man?’
Mulcahy turned back to Jesica. ‘
Este hombre, lo conoces?
’
‘
No vi nada
…’ She didn’t see anything, Jesica replied, as haltingly as before. The blow had come from nowhere. Straight in her face.
So hard, so unexpected, that she fell to the ground.
‘What did he look like?’
Mulcahy translated Brogan’s question.
‘
No, no sé
,’ the girl insisted, the tears now in full flow.
‘She doesn’t know.’
‘Did he say anything to her?’
Mulcahy’s heart took a dive as he watched Jesica’s swollen features seize up with fear again.
‘
Todo se puso oscuro
,’ she said, her facial muscles contracting until the tendons in her neck stood out like cables under the effort of voicing
her fear.
‘Everything went dark, she says. The man threw something over her, and dragged her somewhere inside. He kept punching her,
over and over again.’
Mulcahy stopped as Jesica subsided into a long coughing fit, grasping for a bowl on the cabinet beside her as the terror within
tried to work its way out, though nothing emerged but a long dribble of blood-streaked saliva. The nurse helped her up, then
wiped her lips gently with a tissue
as the girl lay back against the pillows, each heave of her chest a fraction shallower as she slowly found calm again.
‘She shouldn’t be having to be put through this now,’ the nurse complained. ‘Can’t it wait until she’s a bit stronger?’
‘I don’t think the bastard who did this to her should be on the streets for a second longer than necessary, do you?’ Brogan
snapped at her.
The nurse flushed and looked like she was going to say something back. Instead she tutted to herself and turned to Jesica,
stroking her forehead and holding out a beaker for her to sip from.
‘Okay,’ Brogan whispered to Mulcahy. ‘Steer away from the attack or she’ll get too upset. Ask her what she was doing just
before? We’ll go for detail again in a minute.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Mulcahy asked her. Bugger Healy. Bugger the bloody Minister, for that matter. This girl was in no
condition to be interviewed.
‘Just ask the question,’ Brogan insisted. ‘It could be the only shot we get for days.’
He held her gaze, turning things over in his mind. She was the sex crimes expert. She had to know what she was doing. How
would he feel if some shoe-in tried to tell him how to operate? He turned back to Jesica and asked. But they didn’t get much
more from her. She said she’d been to a club, but didn’t know where. When they asked her if she’d left on her own, she became
distressed.
‘
Me golpeó
’ – he punched me – ‘
me golpeó
,’ was all she would say, over and over. Then something new and even
more terrible seized her, and her eyes rolled and she whimpered something Mulcahy could only just make out: about hellfire,
a flaming sword and the vengeance of God. Could that be right, though? Mulcahy repeated the words in his head, and was certain
he’d heard correctly.
But, even as he did so, the girl cried out and curled herself into a ball, rocking and sobbing in the nurse’s arms.
Mulcahy turned to Brogan again. ‘What the hell did he do to her?’
Brogan met his eye with a fierce glare. ‘He tortured her, the sick fucker. Burned her, or branded her more like, all across
her stomach and genitals. We don’t know what with, yet, maybe a knife and a blowtorch. Whatever it was, he absolutely destroyed
her.’
‘Jesus wept,’ Mulcahy said, struggling to hold back the shock.
‘You’re really going to have to leave it at that now,’ Nurse Sorenson insisted to Brogan. ‘She’s too upset. She badly needs
to rest.’
Brogan nodded in agreement, but wasn’t done yet.
‘Okay, yeah. Just one more thing.’ She plucked at Mulcahy’s sleeve again. ‘Tell her it would really help us if she could remember
one small detail, anything at all, about the guy who did this. About his clothes, his hair, his shoes – or where they went
to. Anything.’
Mulcahy spoke as gently as he could but, almost instantly, panic rose in the girl again – as if his words were smashing through
all the barriers of analgesia she’d been
given, worming out the pain, sharp as the first time. He cursed quietly and stood up, unable to imagine what she was reliving
and unwilling to provoke it any further. Quickly he told the girl it was okay, he wouldn’t ask her any more questions. Then
he pushed past Brogan towards the door. He’d had enough.
‘Where’re you going?’ Brogan was staring at him like he was crazy.
‘Okay, that’s it,’ the nurse said. ‘Out now, all of you. No arguments.’ But even as she was standing up to shoo them out,
Jesica erupted. Like a burst dam it came, flooding out, a torrent of tears, snot and terror. The nurse struggled to control
her, to stop her tearing at herself beneath the sheets. Mulcahy’s first thought was to step in, too, but Brogan was there
before him, lunging to restrain the girl’s flailing limbs. He stepped away, mesmerised by the ferocity of emotion.
Just as he did so, a small, elegantly dressed man swept into the room. In his late thirties, jet-black hair slicked back,
he took one look at the distressed girl, another at the scrum around her and launched straight into a heavily accented diatribe
against both Brogan and the nurse.
Having encountered a few excitable Spanish diplomats in his time, Mulcahy instantly recognised the type. Detective Sergeant
Cassidy, however, was not so subtle. Rounding on the newcomer, shoulders hunched, palms raised to block his approach, he warned
him to step out of the room. When the Spaniard became only more incensed, and tried to push past, there was a blur of brown,
a groan of pain, and in an instant
the man was on his knees, bent over, his right arm twisted and locked upright behind him. The look of agony on his face mirrored
the one of flushed triumph on Cassidy’s.
Beside them, it was alarm that was now paralysing Brogan’s features.
‘Jesus, Andy! Let him go, for God’s sake. He’s from the embassy.’
By now even Jesica had been startled into silence by the scuffle at her bedside. She looked on uncomprehendingly as Brogan
and Cassidy helped the man to his feet, dusting him down. Meanwhile the nurse, flushed and outraged, was forcing all three
towards the door, demanding they take their appalling behaviour elsewhere.
Mulcahy dragged his disbelieving gaze away from them and found it connecting with Jesica’s. He shook his head, smiling as
reassuringly as he could. But she appeared to have forgotten the ruckus already and made no response other than to hold his
gaze intently as she touched a red weal on her neck, anxiously checking for something, a look of pleading in her injured eyes.
She whimpered to him that her cross and chain was missing.
‘
Quizás lo tienen las enfermeras
,’ Mulcahy suggested. Maybe the nurses had it. But looking at the severity of the injury on her neck, he guessed it was more
likely it had been torn off during the attack. She wasn’t really listening to him, anyway, just staring at him, playing something
out inside her head.
‘
Recuerdo una cosa
,’ she said, her voice so fragile he could
see her fighting hard to stay in control. She remembered something.
‘
Hizo la señal del Cristo.
’ she said, almost too low for him to hear it, the voices of the others raised again now they were outside the room.
‘
La señal del Cristo?
’ he repeated, making sure he’d heard her correctly.
‘
Sí, claro
,’ she said, choking back tears. ‘
Como un cura
.’
But before he could say anything else the nurse was back in the room, taking him by the elbow, insisting that he leave. He
took a look back as he went, wanting to say goodbye, but Jesica had forgotten him already, another spasm of tears testimony
that her focus was back again on the horror replaying itself inside her.
‘Like a priest!’ Brogan exclaimed. They were standing by the main hospital entrance. Mulcahy took a deep drag on his cigarette,
relieved to be outdoors again.
‘That’s what she said to me,’ Mulcahy said. ‘Her exact words were: “He made the sign of the cross. Like a priest.”’
It was a good half-hour since he’d left Jesica’s room. Down the corridor he’d found Brogan still trying to calm the indignant
Spanish diplomat but clearly getting nowhere. Mulcahy introduced himself to the man, then asked Brogan if she minded him having
a word with the guy in Spanish. Maybe it was surprise at being addressed in his own language, or maybe it was just Mulcahy’s
equable presence towering over him, but First Secretary Ibañez calmed down rapidly after
that. A couple of minutes later, he cracked a smile when Mulcahy alluded to a legendary Spanish joke about a doltish member
of the Guardia Civil, while apologising for Cassidy’s short fuse. Ibañez even seemed to have forgotten the ache in his right
arm by the time he shook Mulcahy’s hand and headed back towards the ward, an assurance having been brokered that no attempt
would be made to interview Jesica again without an embassy official present.
It wasn’t until they were outside, waiting for Cassidy to bring the car around, that Mulcahy got to tell Brogan what Jesica
had said to him.
‘Jesus, that’s all we need,’ Brogan continued. ‘Why, in the name of God, would she say that? Was the guy wearing a dog collar
or something?’
Mulcahy shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask her, next time.’
‘What do you think she meant? Do priests bless themselves any different to the rest of us?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Well, it can’t be because she doesn’t understand it, can it? I mean, she’s Spanish so she’s Catholic, right?’
‘I think we can safely assume that,’ Mulcahy said. ‘Her father’s famously right wing. In fact, he’s always being attacked
for his links with the Church. And, like I told you, she said the cross and chain she was wearing around her neck is missing.’
‘It’s a strange thing for her to focus on, given all the other stuff this guy did to her, don’t you think?’
‘You’d know more than me about that, but maybe it’s of
some… Oh, I don’t know.’ Mulcahy stopped, not wanting to speculate or get any more involved than he was already.
‘No, go on,’ Brogan prompted. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Just that I remember reading a profile of Jesica’s father in
El País
or somewhere. I don’t remember exactly, but I’m pretty sure her mother died when she was very young and it was himself brought
her up alone. Or as alone as you can get with the sort of lifestyle they lead. We’re talking real old Spanish aristocracy.’
‘All the less reason to worry about a cross and chain, then, you’d think?’ Brogan said.
‘Unless it had sentimental value. Maybe it was her mother’s – or maybe her father gave it to her. It must have had some special
significance for her.’ He dropped the guttering cigarette beneath his foot and crushed it. ‘Anyway, I’m sure it’ll all come
out in the end. What do you reckon your chances are?’
Brogan brushed a strand of hair off her face. ‘Hard to say at this stage. It’s not exactly run-of-the-mill, is it? We won’t
know anything until we get an idea of where she was and who she was with last night. And you never know what the guys from
the Technical Bureau might turn up.’
‘What sort of sicko could do that, eh? She’s hardly more than a child.’
Brogan scowled at him, but not unpleasantly. ‘Try working in Sex Crimes for a while, you’ll find 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.