For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions

by Richard Pitman

  The tears rose once more.

  Frankie and Stonebanks were in a basement bar off Oxford Street in London. Frankie had formally debriefed his own boss, Robert Archibald, and had his reassurance that there was nothing more he could have done. ‘You went beyond the call of duty,’ Archibald had said. ‘There can be no criticism of you or of the department.’

  Frankie was telling Stonebanks how guilty he felt at not being there when the gunman had come in.

  Stonebanks said, ‘Why? What do you think you could have done?’

  ‘I don’t know. What would you have done?’

  ‘With a hunting rifle in my face? Probably started crying for my mummy.’

  ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’

  ‘I’m trying to make you wake up and smell the coffee! This guy knew what risks he was running. He’s just added armed robbery to kidnap and the killing of at least one horse. Do you seriously think he wouldn’t have used that gun if you’d been there and tried to stop him? He’ll get twenty years if they catch him and he knows that. Does he seem the type that would have just handed over the gun if you’d asked him? Or maybe you felt you could have rushed him or something daft like that? How quickly can you cross a room? Faster than a bullet? And if he shot you, do you think he’d have left the Cassidys alive? Come on, Frankie, there was nothing you could have done, even if you’d been there.’ Frankie drank some beer and stared at the door. He knew Stonebanks was right; he’d just needed to hear it, needed to know that it was nothing to do with incompetence or lack of will, lack of courage. And he realized how petulant and self-pitying he must have sounded. What had Maggie thought? He felt he’d run off with his tail between his legs. Was that how she had seen it? And what about Kathy, watching from above, how had it looked to her?

  ‘Look at the upside,’ Stonebanks said, ‘you’ll have the whole department behind you now.’

  Frankie frowned quizzically. ‘That’s an upside?’

  Stonebanks laughed. ‘That’s my boy!’ He raised his glass in mock salute and Frankie did the same. ‘At least the Cassidys have had a look at this guy now, heard him speak, saw him move. What has it added to the picture?’ asked Stonebanks.

  Frankie sat back, legs stretched, hands in his lap, eyes to the ceiling. ‘I don’t know. Graham said he had the build of a jockey. He compared him to Derry Callaghan, remember him?’

  ‘I remember him well.’

  ‘Graham said that was who he reminded him off. Short and stocky, looked like he’d run to fat eventually but very fit looking, strong…’

  ‘He was right, Derry did run to fat. He’s about fifteen stone now.’

  ‘Do you keep any sort of picture file of past jockeys?’ Frankie asked.

  Stonebanks shook his head. ‘We issue them with licences, keep files on their medical histories and disciplinary records but no pictures as far as I know. Anyway, I thought he had a motorcycle mask on?’

  ‘He did but Maggie said his eyes were very blue. Sky-blue. Very striking.’

  ‘Lenses.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘He was probably wearing coloured lenses. He’s been pretty smart so far. If all he was showing were his eyes, you can bet he wouldn’t be doing it knowing they were such a distinctive feature.’

  ‘Maybe. But I wouldn’t mind trying. What about the Racing Post? They’d have pictures of jockeys going back years. We could go and have a look there.’

  ‘We could, if you’ve got a few years to spare. I think they file all their pictures by name rather than profession.’

  ‘But surely their pictures will be on computer? They must have some sort of subheading for files?’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll check in the morning.’ Stonebanks stretched wearily.

  ‘That’s twice you’ve said “in the morning” and now you’re yawning. Are you dropping some class of a hint here?’

  Stonebanks smiled. ‘You’re a fine detective, Frankie. With those powers of observation, you’re sure to catch this guy.’

  ‘Come on, Geoff, it’s only half-ten!’

  ‘Come on yourself! I’ve got to drive to Lambourn.’

  Frankie smiled. ‘I know you have. I’m only kidding. Thanks for your help and for your company.’

  ‘Thanks for the beer. You staying much longer?’

  Frankie sighed. ‘Nah. Guess I’d better go home too.’

  A slight tension filled the pause that followed, then Stonebanks said, ‘You’re welcome to come back with me.’

  Thanks. I’ll be fine. I need to face the hoovering and washing and cooking at some point. It might as well be tonight.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  Stonebanks smiled. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘You will. Drive carefully.’

  30

  Apart from when they were asleep, Sean Gleeson and Jane Cassidy spent most of their time together. Uncle Fergus had let Sean ride some work and Sean found that sitting on a racehorse was everything he’d imagined it to be and more. It had made him rue his youthfulness and wish for the next five years to pass in a night.

  They’d ride out in the mornings and again in the afternoon, no matter the weather. In between, they’d sit with Poppy, and Sean would tell tales of what the children in Dublin got up to and how the pony races were organized. They’d groom and feed the horses, and Sean would talk about the races he’d win when he became a jockey but as much as he tried to shut out the other world, Sean was growing increasingly anxious to find out what had happened to his father. But any time he said that, Jane would go mental, demanding to know how he could care what happened to such a horrible man, and Sean would regret then having told her some of the bad things his father had done.

  The schools were due to re-open in a few days. Uncle Fergus had already been dropping hints to that effect. Nobody would care if Sean never turned up at school, but he’d been away from it too long. He wanted to have the education for after his riding career. He was aware most jump jockeys didn’t last much past their mid-thirties and just wanted to be sure he could do something else.

  But returning to school meant returning to St Joseph’s Mansions. Jane had argued that it didn’t. They’d been sitting in the hay barn, in a huge chair they’d made of bales. First, she said that he could go to Poppy’s school. But Poppy attended a private school - that cost money. ‘Well,’ she’d said with her usual confidence, ‘we can find another school near here.’

  ‘That’s a long way from Dublin city,’ Sean said.

  ‘You can move in here, with Uncle Fergus. Pay for your keep by working with the horses.’

  ‘That would be just grand,’ Sean said. ‘But how would Uncle Fergus feel about it and what would we tell the school people? There’s all that stuff about legal guardians and everything, and I don’t want that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I want it, I want to be here. This has been the best week of my life and I’d love to stay here, but you’ll have to go home soon yerself.’

  ‘I can sort that. I can move here. You know I don’t get on with my mum anymore.’

  ‘Maybe. But I still have things to do, Jane.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Find out where me da is. And me ma, too.’

  And Jane crossed her arms and furrowed her brow in the same way Sean had come to know so well. He wasn’t looking forward to saying goodbye.

  Frankie took the call on his mobile just after eight in the morning. It was Stonebanks. ‘Sorry Frankie, but it looks like they found the Cassidys’ horse. He’s dead.’

  ‘Where? When?’

  ‘Outside the main entrance to Cheltenham racecourse, would you believe? The head groundsman found him when he arrived about half an hour ago.’

  Shocked, Frankie sat in the car, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘Shot and mutilated,’ Stonebanks said. ‘Very similar to Ulysses, so I hear.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Stonebanks, sur
prised.

  ‘Has anyone told the Cassidys?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘I’ll call them.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive. I’ll call now. If I wasn’t so far so south I’d go and tell them personally.’

  ‘Drive up. Call them, then drive up. I know how close you are with them.’

  ‘What good would it do? I’d be better off here now, trying to catch this, this…’

  ‘Bastard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are other things. You can check in with the police there. Maybe you’ll pick something up from them. Get yourself on the move. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘OK. Thanks, Geoff.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Frankie pulled the car over, parked by the edge of the wood and sat looking down at the small screen on his mobile. The Cassidy number was programmed in. He scrolled to it and pressed ‘send’. Maggie answered.

  ‘Maggie? It’s Frankie Houlihan.’

  ‘Hello Frankie. How are you this morning?’

  ‘I’m well. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Coping.’

  He wished she hadn’t said that.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘More bad news, I’m afraid. They think they’ve found Gabby. He’s dead.’

  ‘Ohhh.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Maggie.’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s alright.’ He could hear the shock in her voice.

  ‘I’m heading up to you now, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘I should be there by noon.’

  ‘Good. Good. I’ll tell Graham.’

  ‘See you later then.’

  ‘Yes. Bye.’

  He cursed silently as he put the phone into its cradle - then it rang again. It was Maggie. ‘Frankie, how did he die?’

  He drew a breath. ‘He was shot, I think.’

  ‘So he wouldn’t have suffered?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Maggie, no,’ he lied. The horse had been mutilated. It was highly likely that happened after death, Frankie thought; there was no way this guy would have wanted to try and keep a pain-enraged horse still enough to shoot it through the head. But Frankie couldn’t be certain that there had been no suffering at the hands of this lunatic.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘That’s not so bad then, is it?’ She sounded completely stunned.

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘OK. Take care on your journey.’

  ‘I will.’

  As he drove north, he thought about the way people’s lives worked out. There they’d been on the run-up to Christmas, the happiest of families. The Grand National favourite was safe in his box and in the post was a cheque that would make them secure for life, then bang. All gone. In tatters. He thought of his own misfortune and that of many of the parishioners he had served over the years. And he thought about justice and about God and could make no real sense of either.

  Maggie and Graham decided to try and keep the news from the children until Jane returned the following week. It would mean asking Fergus to try and make sure Jane didn’t see any newspapers or TV for a couple of days. They’d need to do the same with Billy, but that wouldn’t be so hard as he spent most of his time trying to think up new inventions or playing computer strategy games. Luckily, he was still off school so none of his mates would alert him, although she’d need to screen his calls. Maggie rang Fergus who seemed devastated by the news, and agreed to try his best to keep it from Jane.

  The Racing Post editor told Frankie Houlihan he’d be happy to help with the picture library, but that it was probably going to take a week to get it in the shape he needed it. Frankie thanked him and booked a day to go and scan through all the pictures with Maggie. He was still with the Cassidys. He’d travelled to Cheltenham with Graham who formally identified Angel Gabriel; Frankie found it a harrowing experience.

  The horse had been so badly mutilated that Graham broke down in tears in front of Frankie and the clerk of the course. Frankie had seen many people cry and recognized the racking sobs of true shock and grief as he tried to comfort the trainer. The embarrassed clerk made comments about how terrible the whole thing was, and Frankie helped Graham back to the car before returning for an official interview with the man who had found the dead horse.

  On the way back north, Graham, red-eyed, turned to Frankie. ‘Frankie, let’s not tell Maggie what he did to him.’ Graham barely recognized the sound of his own voice, the croak through the tightness in his throat.

  ‘Of course not. No, it’s best to keep it between us.’

  ‘Yes. Definitely.’

  They travelled in silence for a while, Graham staring glassy-eyed at the road and seeing nothing. ‘What about the press?’ he asked. ‘Will there be pictures in the papers?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I asked the clerk of the course to make sure nobody took any pictures. The police will want to take some for their files, that’s all.’

  ‘Good.’ Graham bowed his head and said quietly, ‘We can’t even bring him home… They’d see what a mess he’s in…’

  ‘Don’t be worrying about that. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve been a tower of strength. I don’t know what the family would have done without you, I really don’t.’

  ‘Ahh come on now, you’re a great family. This has been a terrible, terrible thing but you all have the strength to get over it, to help each other.’

  Graham shook his head and let out a long sigh. ‘Jane will be inconsolable. My God…she’s going to be completely devastated. She’ll insist on having him home. She’ll want him buried in the paddock. Oh Jesus!’ Graham covered his face with his hands and started weeping again.

  Frankie took a hand from the wheel and reached across to touch Graham’s shoulder, to squeeze it softly. ‘I’ll sort something out, Graham, I promise. I know some good vets. I’m sure we can get one to work on Gabby, to get him cleaned up and his wounds fixed so you’ll be able to bring him home.’

  Graham nodded, face still covered, sobbing. ‘If you, if you could…’

  They drove on, and after five minutes Graham had recovered and composed himself. He apologized for breaking down.

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s perfectly natural, so it is. The grief’s better out.’

  ‘I just couldn’t believe it,’ Graham said. ‘After he’d taken the money, I honestly thought we’d get him back. What on earth is the point of killing him? I thought he just came to the house to get the money to reduce the chances of the police catching him. What in the name of God did he stand to gain by killing Gabby afterwards?’

  ‘I don’t know, Graham. I really don’t. It just makes me glad that you didn’t try and tackle him the other night, because it’s obvious now, if it wasn’t before, that you’d have been tackling a madman.’ They talked about the police and their effectiveness, about the mug shots Graham had sat through for hours with nothing to show for it. Then they travelled in silence for a while until Frankie, driving, was aware of Graham turning purposefully toward him as he spoke; ‘I want to do everything I can to help you catch this man. Apart from what he’s done to Gabby, which I think I could kill him for, I want Maggie to get her money back. I want that more than anything else.’

  Frankie considered saying that he was sure Maggie wasn’t that worried about the money, but he knew that it wouldn’t make Graham feel better so he just nodded. ‘I’ll put everything I can into catching him, Graham. My boss has already told me we have the backing of the full Jockey Club Security Department.’

  ‘So what are the chances?’

  ‘Depends on how solid our suspicion is that he might be an ex-jockey. If he is, and he doesn’t wear contact lenses, our chances might be very good indeed.’

  When Frankie brought Graham back home, Maggie asked no immediate questions. The shock and misery were etched in her husband’s lined, grey face. Maggie realized t
hat this man she’d known and seen almost every day for over twenty years was old now - old and tired and defeated. Alongside him, sympathetic and patient as ever, stood Frankie Houlihan, young still, and strong, with most of his tribulations to come, she thought. She went to her husband and hugged him. His head rested heavily on her shoulder and his hands barely linked at the small of her back. He started sobbing quietly. She looked at Frankie and knew he could see the pain in her eyes as he slowly raised a hand to chest height and backed away to slip quietly outside.

  Frankie hated this feeling of helplessness. This was the second time he’d experienced it - the thug taking their money from under their noses had been bad but this was worse. He’d taken much more than money from Graham Cassidy. He’d taken his vitality and his dignity, his hopes and dreams, and there had to be something Frankie could do about it, there had to be.

  He walked to the bottom of the drive. It was a gloomy day and away across the patchwork of fields, Frankie could see dark swathes of rain sweeping over the countryside. Turning up the collar of his coat, he went left at the end of the drive and walked along the hedge-lined road. He concentrated on emptying the emotion from his mind, tried to think logically and make some sense of what had happened.

  The kidnapper was no fool; the way he’d conned the police over the pick-up proved that. It was almost certain that there was a reason behind everything he’d done. So why kill a horse if he’d been paid, a horse that was of no use to him? In killing it, he was killing his own chances of ever being paid a ransom again. And why the mutilation? It was senseless and this man didn’t seem the type to do senseless things. Whether or not he was an ex-jockey whose picture was on file, there had to be something in his behaviour to work on. Rather than assuming, as they’d done in the last twenty-four hours, that the man was simply a violent lunatic, maybe the assumption should be that everything he did made sense to him.