Frankie walked on, vaguely aware of the sound of his feet on the fine gravel and the wind in the trees. He decided to start with the biggest puzzle of all: why kill Angel Gabriel? The killing of Ulysses was slightly more understandable as no ransom had been paid but, having said that, the deadline the killer had given for the money was ridiculously short, almost as though he hadn’t wanted to be paid, as though he actually preferred to kill the horse.
Now, if he was depraved in some way, he could simply kidnap horses and kill them without running the risk of telephone calls and police involvement. Then there was the dumping of Ulysses in a stream - why? It must have been a hell of a lot of trouble to get that horsebox or trailer into position to place the body. The drag marks on the ground showed that he’d had to use some form of winch to get the horse properly into the water; why hadn’t he just winched it out and dumped it in a field?
And why hadn’t he left it in a public place, as he’d done with Gabby? It was as if he hadn’t wanted Ulysses found for a long time, yet he’d taken the opposite tack with Gabby. Frankie couldn’t figure it out. He walked for twenty minutes then turned back as the rain shadows moved nearer and the wind rose.
In the kitchen, Maggie Cassidy sat alone, smoking, sipping cooling coffee, trying to block everything out. A knock at the door made her jump. She put down her cigarette and opened the door. Frankie stood there, dark hair and pale face framed against the gathering storm clouds. She said, ‘Come in. No need for you to knock.’
Frankie took the step up into the kitchen and she closed the door quietly. She saw him look around the empty room. ‘Graham’s gone to bed. I think it’s all finally hit him.’
Frankie unbuttoned his coat. ‘Poor fella. The strain’s been terrible on all of you this past week.’ Maggie clicked the kettle switch. ‘Take your coat off, I’ll make some tea.’
They sat in silence for a while, cradling the hot mugs. Then Maggie said, ‘Will you stay for a few more days, Frankie?’ She hoped it hadn’t sounded like a plea. She couldn’t gauge what he was thinking as he looked at her but she knew he was going to decline.
He said, ‘I want to get back, Maggie, and get working on this. I want to find this man. And… and I think you should have time on your own with the family to come to terms with all this, if you don’t mind me saying.’
She reached for another cigarette. ‘I’m not sure I want to come to terms with it now. After he took the money, I was confident we’d get Gabby back.’ She lit the cigarette, drew hard on it and rested her head on her right hand as she exhaled. She looked suddenly tired. ‘I never thought what we’d do if we didn’t get him back. Didn’t prepare for it. And now it’s happened so suddenly, I don’t know what to do. It’s sort of the end of everything. I just wondered if you could stay with us for a while.’
‘To save you from facing up to things?’
She looked at him. It was the first time he had ever been blunt with her and she couldn’t decide if he’d done it deliberately or had just put it awkwardly. ‘Yes. I suppose that’s part of it.’
‘Maggie, I feel useless here. I feel I’ve been useless to you all throughout this and I want not to be useless.’
‘You’re not, don’t be silly. You’ve been a great friend and a great help.’
‘But I didn’t stop him stealing your money or your horse. I didn’t do my job properly, and I want a chance to try and make amends because I think we can catch this fella.’
‘It wasn’t your responsibility. You did all you could. You even phoned to warn us to be careful. It was our own stupidity that cost us Gabby.’
‘And half a million pounds.’
She nodded.
‘Well I’d like to try and help get it back,’ Frankie said. ‘I’ve arranged a meeting soon for you to look at some pictures and they might just throw up a good clue. And if I can get my brain working properly, I think there’s some sense to be made out of all the mad stuff that’s gone on.’
‘So you’re going back to London?’
He nodded. ‘London, Lambourn, wherever I need to go to feel I’m actually doing something, to feel I’m working.’
She looked at him. ‘I’d like to feel I was doing something too. I’d like to help.’
‘Fine. I think it’ll do you good. Maybe you could start by doing what I’m doing and concentrate on trying to think like this fella. Try to put yourself in his shoes and come up with a good reason for what he’s done. Assume he’s smart and emotionally stable. Have you a pen and paper?’
She went to a small plastic pot that stood on the windowsill and picked out a pen. Then she opened two drawers before pulling out a dog-eared writing pad. Bringing it to the table she scribbled lightly to get the ink running. Frankie said, ‘Right, let’s go back to the very start.’
31
On the 6th of January, the abattoir Monroe worked in was due to reopen after the Christmas break. He had twenty-four hours to carry out the next stage of his plan. He regretted his haste now in dumping the carcass so publicly at Cheltenham. His motive had been to have the horse found quickly, to confuse the police if possible, making them wonder whether it was a kidnapper or a psycho of some kind they were dealing with. And he had to admit to himself that he’d done it to illustrate his power too, to have owners and trainers all over the country wondering if they were going to be next.
But he’d forgotten to check Cheltenham for CCTV. Although he’d arrived there at three o’clock in the morning, there was a chance that the system, if they had one at the gates, had been switched on. It was a remote possibility and the fact that it had been so dark made it even more unlikely that he’d have anything to worry about. But if the horsebox had been filmed, Monroe reckoned he could turn it to his advantage.
He booked the horsebox on the last ferry to Dublin on the 4th of January. Once on board, he hid in the cab until the hold had been secured, then settled on the padded bench seat to wait out the journey. The silver-coloured suitcase containing the half-million pounds was beside him. He stroked the surface, liking its dimpled, steely feel, and he was glad he’d bought the best to hold the money, his money now, money that was just the beginning. He passed the time counting the bundles then secured them again as the ship slowed and turned to enter the harbour. He shut the case in the overhead locker.
It was dark when he drove off the ferry. His journey was to be one he’d last made as a child when his grandparents had a farm overlooking Laura Lake in County Leitrim.
Monroe had spent a long summer holiday there by the lake. Running down the hill from the farm and diving into the cold blue water. That steady, gradual slope, that deep water was what was drawing him back there now. That and the knowledge that Laura Lake was one of the few in Ireland with a road bordering most of the shore.
His grandparents long dead, Monroe knew the old farm lay deserted and partly ruined. Tree branches swept and scratched the horsebox. Slumbering water birds woke and flew off. Monroe wrestled the wheel to full lock and turned up the hill, then entered by the top driveway. Along past the front of the old house then a right turn to face the moonlit lake at the foot of the bottom driveway.
Another advantage of being about thirty feet above the lake was that he could easily see headlights. The lake road was in poor repair and little used, but Monroe waited until after midnight to maximize his chances of going unseen.
He took a heavy flashlight from the overhead locker and climbed out. Cloud obscured the moon and he could see little outside the flashlight beam, which he trained on the slopes leading to the water’s edge. He knew from his childhood swimming days that the shore side water was fairly shallow but he remembered only too well his grandfather’s warnings about how deep it got after you reached the end of ‘the shelf’.
He only had to make that shelf. The box would keep going and drop beyond it. The final depth was more than sufficient to swallow the big vehicle forever. The rocky ground running down to it was steep enough to give the horsebox the necessary momentum, but
the road was narrower than he’d remembered it. The real risk was going to be in getting the box nose on to the drop-off point, then inching it past its centre of gravity. Once it started toppling, a quick jump clear and he was away.
Monroe set two rocks at the road edge to guide him then he returned to the box, lowered the ramp and rolled his Kawasaki out. He took the suitcase from the overhead locker and left it beside the bike, which he’d fitted with false number plates. He got back in, started the engine and sat for a few seconds. Did he really want to risk someone happening by, catching the silver suitcase in his headlights and stopping to investigate? He jumped down again and brought the suitcase back into the cab, conscious of how loud the clattering engine sounded in the rural darkness. He’d have to hurry. He released the handbrake.
He reached the marker rocks.
Just the final few inches forward now into the water. The wheels on the uneven bank caused the box to lurch sideways. Monroe gripped the suitcase handle with his left hand and opened the door with his right. It swung closed again. Once more, he tried. It closed again. He let go the case and put the handbrake on, then he pushed the door open wide until it fixed on its struts and held. Now he released the handbrake, grabbed the suitcase, and as the box moved he turned quickly to jump clear. But as the left front wheel dropped over the edge, the door swung violently inwards as Monroe was halfway out; the metal frame hit the crown of his head, fracturing his skull and knocking his unconscious body back into the cab.
The front bumper broke the cold, dark waters at forty-three minutes past midnight. Two minutes later, the moon found a gap in the clouds and glinted on a patch of oil on the surface of Laura Lake. It was the only sign that anything had happened, and the small slick was already dispersed by the wind and the choppy waves.
32
After leaving the Cassidys, Frankie spent the next couple of days travelling between Lambourn and London, having brainstorming sessions with Stonebanks and other colleagues. The racing intelligence officers based around the country promised him they’d mine all possible contracts to try and find the smallest lead. He rang Joe Ansell, the vet who was trying to repair Angel Gabriel’s mutilated body. His assistant asked if Joe could call back in a while. Frankie knew Joe had been working hard since the carcass had been delivered. The wounds would hasten decomposition, and Joe was restricted to doing his cutting and stitching in what amounted to a makeshift cold storage unit at the Horseracing Forensic Laboratory in Newmarket. Joe had promised the horse would be ready to go back to the Cassidys by the end of next week.
Frankie called Maggie to find out how they planned to handle the burial. He first asked about Graham and the children.
‘Graham hasn’t left his bed since he came back from Cheltenham,’ Maggie told him. ‘All he does is sleep. The doctor says it’s a combination of shock and depression, and that the medication will steadily bring him out of it.’
‘Poor fella. You should have Gabby home by the weekend. That might help him, eh? I’m just waiting for Joe Ansell to call me back with confirmation. Will Jane be back by the weekend?’
Maggie sighed. ‘If I can get her away from Sean.’
‘First boyfriend?’
‘First proper one. Seems a real character. Fergus likes him too.’
‘Sounds an interesting kid.’
‘To say the least!’
‘What about Billy, how’s he been?’
‘Oh, Billy won’t change! Spends most of his time in his room on the computer. Still trying to dream up get-rich-quick schemes.’
‘Like the Hot Harrow?’
‘He told you about that?’
‘He did. Among others. He’s a good boy. Be a millionaire one day.’
‘Huh!’
‘Don’t knock it. They say an ounce of perseverance is worth a pound of talent.’
‘Who says? I’ve never heard anyone say that.’
‘You just heard me.’
‘And I think you made it up! ‘
‘I probably did. It’s good to hear you sounding a bit brighter.’
‘Oh, nil desperandum and all that.’
‘Give Graham and Billy my best. I’ll see you at the weekend.’
‘Look forward to it.’
The cottage in the woods felt as though it had been deserted for ages, much longer than the time Frankie had actually been away. He laid his bag on the bedroom floor and began to unpack, stopping to open the windows, then reaching round to the outside of the pane to scrape off the wet leaves stuck to the glass. The place smelt damp and stale, felt cold and unwelcoming. He hadn’t the will to set about it the way he knew he should to try and put some warmth and life back into it, and as he stared through the open window to the trees beyond, he realized that the wish to keep this as a proper home had died with Kathy.
But he had nowhere else to go, and he needed a base. He knew that he also needed to discipline himself, push himself to do the chores that had to be done. So he changed into his old jeans and the red sweater Kathy had liked and he set about cleaning and tidying, airing and washing, and he found that the busier he became, the more his spirits lifted.
The worktop area in the kitchen closest to the door was where he tended to dump things; letters, bills, the contents of his pockets, his watch, and as he sorted through the collection he found the letter he had meant to answer, the one from Zuiderzie’s trainer, Martin Broxton. As he picked the letter up, his mobile rang.
‘Frankie? It’s Joe Ansell.’
‘Hello, Joe! Thanks for calling me back.’
‘No problem. I wasn’t far from the phone when you rang, but I was just trying to be absolutely certain about something I’d found before I spoke to you. Just left the horse a minute ago.’
‘Angel Gabriel?’
‘Well, yes, the one who’s supposed to be Angel Gabriel.’
‘Supposed to be?’
‘I’ve just spent over two hours removing dye from his head. Underneath the dye this horse has a lovely white star.’
‘White? White hair?’
‘What do you think, white corduroy?’
‘Angel Gabriel had no white on him.’
‘That’s why this horse isn’t Angel Gabriel.’
When Frankie finished the call, he stood staring out of the window, trying to gather his thoughts. What the hell was this guy up to? Was Angel Gabriel still alive? If so, what did this madman plan to do with him? He already had the ransom money. Broxton’s letter caught his eye and he picked it up again. The picture of Zuiderzie in the paddock at Stratford came back to him, followed immediately by the picture of the corpse of Ulysses. He recalled thinking how alike both horses were.
Running upstairs, Frankie grabbed his diary and skipped through, checking the date he’d gone to Warwick against the date of the first kidnap - close, very close. He ran back downstairs and took his Directory of the Turf from the shelf to find Martin Broxton’s details. Halfway through dialling the Lambourn number Frankie stopped. Was his inexperience and over-excitement making him act stupidly? Maybe something was going on, but he shouldn’t discount the fact that Broxton himself might be involved. A call to Stonebanks would be much more sensible.
On the way to Stonebanks’s place, Frankie considered ringing Maggie Cassidy and decided against it. The last thing they needed, especially Graham, was to have their hopes dashed a second time. Best to wait until he had something more solid. Then he remembered he’d have to ring, have to tell them something. They were expecting the corpse for the burial within the next couple of days. He’d told Joe Ansell he’d come back to him. It was almost certain they’d need to preserve the corpse now, pending a criminal investigation. He’d sound out Stonebanks.
Stonebanks was working from home, something he tried to do a couple of days a week. He wore a pair of black chinos and a grey polo shirt; it was the first time Frankie had seen him without a collar and tie. Stonebanks nursed his coffee, clutching a mug with his initials on. He said, ‘You think both horses are stil
l alive?’
‘I think they could be,’ Frankie said, trying to contain his excitement, to appear calm and professional.
‘And the horse we dragged out of the water was Zuiderzie?’
‘That’s right. I think he put him in the stream as part of the mutilation process. Remember how decayed the skin was where he’d been lying in the water?’
Stonebanks nodded. ‘And the horse Joe Ansell’s got isn’t Angel Gabriel?’
Frankie nodded, finding it hard now to mask an almost childish triumphalism; it was shining in his face. ‘If you’re right here, Frankie boy, you’ve made a major name for yourself! Now talk me through it and I’ll try to pick some friendly holes in it.’
Frankie put down his cup and settled forward, elbows on knees. ‘If I’m right and yer man has just found lookalikes for these horses, what’s to stop him finding a couple more that are alive and racing and putting these top horses in as ringers in their place? What a killing he’d make on the betting side!’
Stonebanks said, ‘It’d be a damn sight harder to find lookalikes that good when the horse had to be left alive, if you see what I mean? I accept that a distraught owner, expecting to see his horse dead, wouldn’t look that closely at a mutilated body but it would be different on the racecourse; much tougher.’
‘Fine, but let’s assume, for the moment, that the horse’s connections are in on the scam too.’ Stonebanks shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Ulysses and Angel Gabriel are young enough for him to be able to wait a year or so to get things right, and if he did, he’d make an awful lot more out of the bookies than from ransom payments.’
‘And who’d be training these horses in the meantime, keeping them reasonably fit and happy?’
‘Not a big problem, is it? If I’m right and he’s got hold of the carcass of Zuiderzie then there’s every chance that he’s in the business just now. He might even be a trainer rather than an ex-jockey.’
For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions Page 18