Now in paperback, a gripping tale steeped in Ireland’s Catholic history—from the most riveting writer to come out of Ireland since John Connolly.
Struggling to find his feet back in Ireland after a lengthy posting with Europol in Spain, drug specialist Mike Mulcahy is plunged into unfamiliar territory when the daughter of a foreign politician suffers a horrific sex attack. Dragged into the case against his will, Mulcahy becomes convinced there is a more to it than a random, frenzied sexual assault, especially when he discovers that the weapon used by the attacker to “brand” his victim was a crucifix. But his know-it-all colleagues and politically motivated bosses, eager for a quick, uncontroversial result, ignore his belief that the attack had religious as well as sexual motivations. Sidelined and overruled, Mulcahy sets out on his own parallel investigation. But frustrations abound at every turn—until reporter Siobhan Fallon turns up asking awkward questions. As more young women are attacked, and assault turns to murder, Mulcahy and Fallon are drawn deeper into an uneasy alliance, as each step they take hurtles them ever closer to the monstrous killer known only as The Priest, and a final showdown that’s as explosive as it is unforgettable.
WAS IT LUCK, REALLY? SOME MIGHT CALL IT FATE. OTHERS THE MANIFEST presence of God’s guiding hand. He almost missed her. Between the dark and the trees and the cars parked up on the grass verge, his headlights caught a flash of white top and the gleam of something gold. He’d never have seen her if he hadn’t been in the van, sitting high up. By the time it hit him full-on, he’d driven past. But he knew the road well, the quiet residential estates behind laid out in a grid. He took the next left, then three rights, and he was back out on the main road again—behind her now, taking it slowly.
She’d got barely thirty yards further, sauntering along like all of them did, like there was no tomorrow. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Nothing. Scanned ahead. Not a ghost in sight but her. No need even to stop and ask. As he passed her again, he tried to get a better look, but a lamp post was in the way and he only caught a glimpse. It was enough, though. He gave it fifty yards or so, then pulled up on the verge, nice and easy, cut the engine and lights. Then it was just a matter of slipping into the back, checking the gauge on the cylinder, and making sure everything was in place.
Watching her through the square tinted windows at the back, he could tell she hadn’t noticed him stopping. Wasn’t noticing much by the look of it. Excitement gripped his breath as each step brought her closer, slowly, until he got his first clear look at her. Dark hair, shoulder-length and glossy, a white crop top flattening out her chest, a slash of bare belly, a tiny slip of skirt only just covering her. The gleam of precious metal on her neck. Typical.
He struggled to keep his breathing slow, forced himself to relax using the technique the doctor had shown him. Concentrating, making sure he got it right this time. He’d practised it over and over in his head, but experience had taught him to make allowances for the unpredictable in these matters and be prepared to react accordingly. Only the last few yards now. He closed his eyes, blessed himself, and began counting down. It was easier that way. Left hand holding the sack, right hand gripping the handle of the side panel door. He’d spent hours getting the sliding action smooth. Then he was out, landing perfectly, just a couple of feet in front of her, and his right hand was a fist now, flying like a missile straight at her face, so startled she didn’t have time to take a step back—or even be frightened.
Gerard O’Donovan was born in Cork and grew up in Dublin. After a brief career in the Irish civil service he travelled widely, working as a barman, bookseller, gherkin-bottler, philosophy tutor, and English teacher before settling down to make a living as a journalist and critic for, among others, The Sunday Times and The Daily Telegraph. In 2007 he was shortlisted for the Crime Writers' Association’s prestigious Debut Dagger competition.