For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions

by Richard Pitman

  As soon as he had enough money he was going to America, to die in the hands of the Everlasting Life Company of Michigan whose technicians would take him, within a minute of his heart giving out, and place him in suspended animation; freeze him in a metal cylinder that would be temperature- controlled by computer for as long as it took for medical science to come up with a way to bring him back - and keep him back. Then he would live properly! Then he’d marry and start a new Culling strain, a strong line of sons who’d never have reason to curse their father.

  And here, arriving at the top of the hill, was this despicable animal who obviously did not give a toss about his heart or any other part of him. Especially his pride, if these stupid clothes were anything to go by. He knew Breslin dressed like a vaudeville clown on the racecourse, but he’d assumed that was part of his brash act to fleece punters. Here he was in civilization proper, dressed worse than that other ninny who was always on TV waving his arms around and yelling like a lunatic.

  ‘Jesus Peter, can’t we meet at the bottom of a hill sometime? This is bloody killing me! ‘

  Culling smiled. ‘Better vantage point here, we can see if anyone’s watching.’

  ‘We’re surrounded by bloody trees! How can anyone be watching?’

  ‘Trees are easy to hide behind.’

  Breslin hobbled toward a fallen log and almost collapsed onto it, red-faced and panting. Despite his constant fears, tests had shown Culling’s heart to be perfectly healthy and he was fit and proud of it. He was older than the bookie too, and he had to try hard not to show his contempt as he watched sweat drip from the fat man’s brow on to the knee of his ridiculous blue tweed plus fours. Breslin looked close to cardiac arrest and the vet chided himself; he knew he should be protecting this valuable source of income, not putting it at risk.

  Culling scanned the trees while he waited for Breslin to recover. The woods seemed silent but for Breslin’s breathing. No birds sang. The grey squirrels who sometimes hurtled around were nowhere to be seen, and the air was still and cool.

  Breslin seemed better. He leant forward, elbows on his knees. ‘That was a nice one yesterday. Extra special because some heavy hitters were in there backing the favourite.’

  Culling stuffed his hands in the pockets of his thigh-length brown coat and turned to the bookie. ‘So you’ll be paying me a bit more?’

  ‘I’ll be paying you what we agreed, but I’m thinking hard about your other proposal.’

  ‘Well, the price has gone up.’

  Breslin, annoyed, sat straighter. ‘Since when?’

  Culling smiled slyly, his inward-slanted teeth and narrowed eyes making him look wolfish. ‘Since I’ve given you four winners in a row.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect? I had to check what you were giving me.’

  Still smiling the vet crouched low to Breslin’s eye level. ‘Well now you know how good it is.’

  ‘So what’s the deal?’

  ‘Three grand to tell you the favourite will lose. Ten grand to give you the winner as well.’

  Breslin found it hard to control his anger. ‘It was five until yesterday!’

  ‘Well it’s ten now. Take it or leave it.’

  Breslin stared at him for a long time. Culling held his gaze. Breslin said, ‘Tell me who’s actually doing it?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if there’s a third party involved it’s more risky. If someone else is doing the doping then—’

  ‘Who said they’re being doped?’

  ‘Oh come on, Peter! For the first time in its life, that horse ran yesterday like the devil was up its arse!’

  ‘And how many positive dope tests have you read about? How many out of the four I’ve given you?’

  ‘None. Doesn’t mean to say they’re not being jabbed, it just means you’ve discovered something the lab boys can’t detect yet.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘How are you doing it then?’

  ‘None of your business, Mister Breslin! All you need to know is that the information is one hundred per cent. There’s no third party involved. The next one will be in three weeks’ time. Do you want in on it?’

  ‘Will it be on a Saturday again?’

  ‘Why?’

  Breslin shrugged. ‘The others have been, that’s all.’

  ‘And does it matter?’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me either way.’

  ‘So do you or don’t you want in on it?’ Culling’s impatience was showing.

  ‘Maybe at the three grand price.’

  ‘Not the ten?’

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘Well before you start taxing your brain, maybe you’d like to count out yesterday’s payment.’

  All weekend, Frankie Houlihan had found it impossible to get Zuiderzie’s victory out of his head. It was almost as though Kathy had steered the horse home from above. Frankie had wanted to go to the winners’ enclosure and congratulate the owner and trainer and jockey, but he’d been unable to trust his emotions and didn’t want to take the chance of embarrassing everyone, himself included and, potentially, his new employers.

  So on Sunday evening he sat down and wrote to the winning trainer, Martin Broxton, a Lambourn resident he’d never met. And he ended up telling this stranger the whole story of the romance from meeting at Cheltenham right up to Zuiderzie winning at Warwick. It was the first time since Kathy had died that he’d written everything down, just let it flow, and it gave him much more comfort than he’d expected from it. Reading over his words again, he smiled as he doubted he could send this to a stranger. Then he thought, Why not? Why not let someone know exactly what she meant to me? Someone who didn’t know her, who wouldn’t feel awkward about hearing all this.

  So he sealed the envelope and reached for his new Directory of the Turf for the address of Martin Broxton.

  15

  Gerry Monroe lived alone in a two-bedroom council house on the edge of Lambourn village. The second bedroom housed his computer, which sat on a desk he’d made from white pine. Every screw in the wood was flush, its slot at the same horizontal angle as its neighbour. Each surface was smoothly varnished, even the feet.

  Monroe used the computer to trawl the internet for crime stories and for playing simulated empire- building games. Since collecting the last horse from Culling’s place, he’d spent each evening searching the results pages of the Racing Post Online, checking Saturday runners. Using Timeform books, which gave a written description of the appearance of each horse, he tried to discover the identities of the horses he’d picked up from the vet.

  Four nights’ work produced a shortlist of nine. Frustrated, Monroe got up and paced the room. There was something lurking in his mind, the solution to this; he just couldn’t tempt it to the surface. He checked the time; he believed in being in bed before midnight except at weekends. It was ten to. He went into his bedroom. Twenty minutes later, on the edge of sleep, it came to him.

  Hurrying back to his computer he logged on again to the Racing Post site and went to the cuttings library. Any racehorse that died or was seriously injured had to be formally scratched from all its race entries. Monroe keyed in ‘scratchings’ in the search field. Within three minutes, his shortlist was down to four. Monroe returned to bed, smiling. His self-esteem was rising. So was his confidence.

  Next evening, Monroe went to Culling’s house and rang the bell. He’d heard the vet lived alone, and he was aware Culling had a reputation as a good, reliable, value-for-money operator. Other than this, he knew nothing about the man.

  The light came on in the hall.

  Monroe was just about to find out a bit more about Culling’s character. As the shadowy outline through the glass door grew nearer, the slaughter man took a breath, tensed his shoulders, then tried to relax; this was his own first big test.

  Culling looked surprised to see him. His eyes widened slightly but he didn’t speak. Monroe, hands in trouser pockets, smiled. ‘Hi, Mister Culling, hope y
ou didn’t mind me dropping by. I wanted to talk to you about those horses I’ve been picking up… on Sundays.’ It was almost imperceptible but Monroe saw him flinch and said, ‘I was hoping we could, eh, renegotiate the deal?’

  Culling tried a bluff. ‘Have you been drinking or something?’

  ‘I don’t drink much, Mister Culling, like to keep my wits about me if you know what I mean.’ Monroe’s smile had that glint of one-upmanship.

  They looked at each other for a few moments then Culling stepped back and opened the door wider. ‘Come in.’

  Culling led him to the conservatory at the rear. The vet didn’t like to give anyone access to any of the rooms he lived in. He’d had the conservatory built especially to accommodate visitors. It was a sort of sterile area; it held none of his belongings, gave no clue to his personality. There was a wicker couch and chair, each plumply cushioned, a smoky-glass-topped table and a single cactus plant in a big brown pot in the corner, no pictures, no reading material; one lamp with a weak bulb in the corner.

  He indicated that Monroe should sit on the couch. The vet sat in the chair, put his elbows on his parted knees and clasped his hands together. Monroe’s triumphant smile hadn’t changed. He said, ‘No, I won’t bother with a cup of tea, thanks.’

  Culling stared at him blankly, as though he hadn’t heard the remark. Monroe’s smile faded slightly. He said, ‘I wondered what the names of those horses were, the last four I’ve collected.’

  The vet shrugged. ‘Why?’

  ‘Professional curiosity.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘I think I can make some money if I know.’

  ‘How?’

  This wasn’t going to plan for Monroe. He said, ‘I came to ask questions Mister Culling, not to answer them.’

  The vet sighed tiredly and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I come to bury Caesar not to praise him,’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘No burials here, Mister Culling. I’ve got some resurrections planned, but no burials.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles, man.’

  Monroe, smiling, opened his arms. ‘You started it!’

  Culling shook his head. Monroe said, ‘Zuiderzie, Sauceboat, Kilkenny Lass and Broadford Bay.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘Those were the horses.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They all won the previous day. Unexpectedly. At a big price.’

  ‘And?’ Culling’s face was losing a bit of colour.

  Monroe cranked the smile up a few more watts. ‘And you were the vet in attendance at each of the courses. And each horse was dead within forty-eight hours of winning. And I was the man who killed them. And you were the man who took the big profit. And now I want a favour… Enough “ands” for you in there, Mister Culling?’

  Culling bowed his head. Monroe said, ‘I don’t want a cut of your take. I want you to get me access to the passport database for horses.’

  Raising his head the vet said, ‘Why?’

  Monroe got up, feeling properly superior now, not having to wait for permission from his social ‘betters’. He said, ‘Never mind why, I want a complete copy of the database of passports of all horses in the UK.’

  Frowning heavily, Culling watched him but didn’t reply. Monroe said, ‘Have it for me Monday and then you can get on with your business and I’ll get on with mine.’

  Culling nodded slowly. ‘OK. OK, I’ll get it.’

  ‘Good. I’ll call round. Same time.’ It was an order. ‘Aren’t you going to see me out?’

  The vet rose wearily and led him to the front door. Out on the step, breath white in the frosty air, Monroe said, ‘I’ll bet you I make more money than you do.’

  Culling looked puzzled, then said, ‘I’m sure you will, Mr Monroe. If you say so.’

  Monroe’s smile disappeared. He looked angry, hard. ‘Don’t patronize me, Culling. ‘How much do you want to bet that I have more money than you one year from now?’

  ‘Nothing! I don’t want any bet with you! ‘

  ‘Bet me! Bet me ten grand! Come on, you’ve got a head start. You’re a smart man with a degree and letters after your name. I’m a nothing, an ex-jockey, a slaughter man with half a brain. You’ll win, won’t you? Bet me!’ His voice was high and tense, ice blue eyes full of anger.

  Culling lowered his voice almost to a whisper. ‘Alright, I’ll bet you. You have a bet.’

  ‘Ten grand. One year from today. Money on the table. Whoever’s got the least gives the other ten grand. Right?’

  ‘Right. Right.’ The vet sounded suddenly exhausted.

  Monroe held out his hand. ‘Shake on the bet!’

  Culling reached slowly for his hand. They shook. Monroe pulled his hand away, sparks of rage still in his eyes. He raised a finger to face level and jabbed it toward the vet. ‘I’ll see you on Monday!’

  He marched away across the block-paved yard, shoulders swinging, head high, ambition and self- congratulation almost consuming him.

  16

  On the first Sunday in December, Frankie rose, as he usually did, not long after dawn. His shaving mirror offered him as concise a summary as any doctor could have about his sleeping habits. Pale complexion, dark rings below his red-veined eyes; a generally haunted and hunted look. Frankie paused to stare at himself then looked down, thinking that Kathy would have hated to see him like this.

  Bobby had been right, the new job had helped, and being with people was an advantage. Company had forced him to be as normal as possible, to be light-hearted when it was called for, to laugh from time to time, not to visit his troubles on others.

  But the demons kept at bay in the daylight swamped him after dark, careered around in his head like malicious burglars returning to a property where they knew access was always available, where they could torment the demented, helpless caretaker all night long with pictures and film shows of his past.

  Twenty minutes after daybreak he was dressed and sipping tea in the kitchen, standing by the window, watching the morning take shape. He ate some cereal and a piece of wholemeal bread and banana. He wasn’t hungry but felt he should try and look after himself for the sake of appearance. Afterwards, he cleaned up, washed the dishes, pulled on a thick fleece and his old brown tweed cap that Kathy always laughed at and went out to welcome the sun as it rose over the frosty fields and woods.

  Frankie returned just after nine and saw the message light flashing on his answerphone. It was Geoff Stonebanks, his colleague at the Jockey Club, asking Frankie to call him. They had their final day together on Friday. Frankie was now formally out on his own. He wondered, as he dialled the number, what the big man could want. It was the first time he’d ever called Frankie at home. Stonebanks answered on the second ring. ‘Frankie, hope I didn’t wake you?’

  Frankie managed to find a smile for that. ‘No, I was out. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. Listen, we’ve got a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Uh-uh?’

  ‘You know Ulysses?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Frankie knew him alright; Ulysses was the ante-post favourite for the Cheltenham Gold Cup.

  ‘He’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night, from his box at Jack Quigley’s. The kidnapper left a note.’

  ‘How much does he want?’

  ‘Quarter of a million.’

  Frankie wasn’t sure what questions he should be asking or how he should be reacting. ‘Who’s the owner?’

  ‘A man called Christopher Benjamin, a real fun guy. About as popular in racing as a sixteen-stone jockey.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I have. About ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Is he paying the ransom?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, but he’s of the definite opinion that as the police have no immediate solution to offer, we should be dumping all our other cases and getting his horse back for him.’

  Frankie sighed. ‘Sounds like a nice man to work
with.’

  ‘You bet. Can you meet me at Quigley’s place at noon?’

  ‘Surely. Near Wantage, isn’t it?’

  ‘About two miles north. Call me when you’re close and I’ll talk you in.’

  The ransom note for Ulysses had been written with a black indelible marker in block capitals on a plain piece of A4 paper. Stonebanks had already been to see the police, and they’d given him a photocopy of the note. YOU REFUSED AN OFFER OF £500,000 FOR YOUR HORSE THREE MONTHS AGO. IT SHOULD BE EASY FOR YOU TO PAY HALF THAT MUCH TO GET HIM BACK ALIVE. YOU HAVE FORTY EIGHT HOURS.

  Stonebanks had met the owner, Christopher Benjamin, once before. It had been obvious when Benjamin introduced himself that he did not recall that meeting. Stonebanks chose not to remind him. They stood in Ulysses’ empty box. Benjamin was impeccable in a light grey suit, white shirt, navy tie, polished shoes, the soles now ridged with a centimetre of reddish mud. In contrast, Ulysses’ trainer, Jack Quigley, looked haggard and weary, unshaven. Frankie felt sorry for him.

  They’d been over the story already with the police. The kidnapper had come in the night, poisoned the dogs, tied muffles (they reckoned, as no one had heard a sound) to Ulysses’ hooves and simply led him out of his box. Frankie had noticed how uneasy Quigley was, constantly trying to avoid catching the obviously angry eye of Christopher Benjamin who’d been sniping indirectly at him almost since they’d arrived.

  To no one in particular Benjamin would say things like, ‘The Gold Cup favourite. How can he simply be spirited away in the night?’ From a modern stable?’ and ‘How would people in normal business expect a valuable asset to be protected by those in charge of it? Is it right to rely on a few barks from a sleepy, vulnerable animal? Good God, surely not in this day and age.’

  And Frankie would cringe a bit for poor Quigley, who was defenceless and knew it. Many top horses would have twenty-four hour stable guards prior to running in a major race, but there wasn’t a trainer in the country who’d mount that guard four months before that event. OK, Frankie thought, maybe Quigley should have had some modern alarm equipment fitted but, as ever, hindsight was wonderful.