For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions

by Richard Pitman

  Stonebanks shook his head slowly. Frankie sat forward across the low table, elbows on knees, hands clasped gently, head tilted, almost priestly again. ‘Geoff, I was there that day. The horse looked very geed-up in the paddock, which was unlike him, he led from start to finish and was never in danger; his usual style was to be held up. He got back to the yard in a muck-sweat the likes of which the trainer had never seen before. Culling’s called out and two hours later the horse is dead on the operating table, then on its way to the dog meat factory in Monroe’s knacker’s van. No chance of any further dope tests then, is there? The evidence has been destroyed. And if it has gone for dog meat there’s going to be a few surprised dog walkers out there when their little Scottie whizzes past a couple of greyhounds after eating his dinner!’

  Stonebanks smiled, shaking his head again. ‘You and your blarney make a good-sounding case of it, Frankie, but in the end it really is nothing but speculation. You’ve had a couple of good results and you think you can suss everything now. No offence!’ Stonebanks held out his hand, open, at arm’s length in conciliatory gesture. ‘I’m not having a go, Frankie, it’s just that the confidence you get from being right once or twice can make you think you’ve got the whole world worked out. Believe me, I’ve done it.’

  Frankie wasn’t upset. ‘OK, Geoff, fair comment but just keep an open mind yourself.’

  Stonebanks held up his glass in a toast, smiling. ‘Always do, Frankie boy. Always do!’

  As Frankie pulled up outside Winterfold Cottage next morning his mobile rang; the screen told him it was Bobby Cranfield. ‘Bobby, how are you?’

  ‘I’m in great form, Frankie. Good to hear you sounding so well.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘I just wanted to say how delighted I am personally at the progress you’re making in this kidnapping case. You’ve been a bloody revelation! ‘

  ‘Team effort, Bobby, team effort.’

  ‘Ah, modesty forbids, as ever!’

  They talked for a while about the case, then Bobbie invited Frankie to his box at Ascot the following Saturday. ‘You must join me in the box, you cried off last time when that horse of mine got stuffed, remember Arctic Actor?’

  ‘I do remember. You fancied him strongly that day.’

  ‘Thought he couldn’t get beat - but never mind, he runs again on Saturday and we’re even more confident. You must come along, Frankie, have a day off, you bloody-well deserve one!’

  ‘Bobby, it’s very kind of you to ask. Can you just let me see how this week pans out? Can I give you a call maybe on Wednesday?’

  ‘Sure, of course you can. You know where I am.’

  ‘Good… Good.’ Something was niggling at Frankie’s mind, causing him to lose concentration.

  ‘Fine then,’ Cranfield said, ‘I’ll let you get on.’

  ‘Yes… Bobby… what was the name of the horse that won the race yours got beat in, can you remember?’

  He laughed. ‘It’s burned in my brain, old boy! Cost me a fortune that day. He was called Colonialize.’

  ‘That’s right, I remember now. Do you still think he was doped to win that race?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Something I’m working on. Could turn out to be nothing, but you just reminded me of that day you called me.’

  Cranfield hesitated. ‘I know it might have seemed a bit over the top at the time, Frankie, a bit sour grapes maybe, but I did do a lot of thinking before making that call. I know the dope test turned out negative and that sort of finished it in my mind, but if you’re asking if it was a calm assessment at the time then the answer is yes.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  ‘Can you say any more at the moment?’

  ‘Not really. I’ll call you when I can.’

  ‘Well tell me about it when I see you on Saturday.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to make it, Bobby, thanks.’

  ‘See you then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Frankie sat staring through the windscreen. Colonialize had won that race in the exactly the same manner Zuiderzie had won his, bolting off from the start, leading all the way, and coming home unchallenged at a big price to upset a hot favourite. Frankie remembered walking through the ring that day and marvelling at the fat bookie Compton Breslin laying over the odds on Arctic Actor, taking fistfuls of money without flinching or shortening the price. Excitement grew in Frankie as he called Stonebanks’s number.

  ‘Geoff, get hold of one of your books and tell me who trains Colonialize.’

  ‘What the hell are you up to now, Frankie?’

  ‘Just tell me, Geoff!’

  ‘I don’t need a book. Tony Moffat trains him not three hundred yards away from where I’m standing.’

  ‘Have you got Tony’s number?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Stonebanks came back with the number.

  ‘Thanks. Call you back in a minute.’

  Moffat’s wife answered and it took a couple of minutes before the trainer came to the phone. Frankie introduced himself. Moffat said he’d heard about him. Frankie said, ‘Sorry to be making a business call on a Sunday, but I wanted to ask you about that horse that won at Ascot for you, Colonialize. Have you anything else planned for him soon?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mister Houlihan. The horse died on the operating table the night he won at Ascot.’ The elation made it difficult for Frankie to find a tone of commiseration. ‘Oh, I’m really sorry, what happened?’

  ‘Horse arrived home shaking like he was sitting on a pneumatic drill, and sweating so bad there was a pool of water under him. I called the vet out right away and he did his best. Some form of aggravated colic apparently.’

  ‘That’s a real shame, I’m sorry. Who did the operation to try and save him?’

  ‘Peter Culling.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know him. Well I’m sorry, real bad luck.’

  ‘Was it something in particular about the horse, Mister Houlihan?’

  ‘No, not really. One of the big wigs has some hare-brained notion about establishing patterns for horses who win at grade one courses, load of nonsense. You know what they’re like.’

  ‘I do, er, yes, I know what you mean.’

  ‘Anyway, I hope you have better luck for the rest of the season.’

  ‘Me too. Thanks.’

  When Frankie rang him back, Stonebanks wasn’t that impressed. ‘Frankie, who else would the guy call but his vet? The fact that it happens to be Culling could be purely coincidental.’

  ‘How coincidental, Geoff, come on! The guy’s a one-man practice; he works for the Jockey Club on course a hell of a lot. How many trainers can he realistically have on his books? A handful at most and now two of those, that we know of, maybe even more, have lost horses where he’s been officiating at the course and also carried out the operations. Isn’t there some rule that they must register dead horses?’

  ‘They only need to let Weatherbys know for administration purposes so the horses can be scratched from future engagements.’

  ‘Where can I get a list of those scratchings?’

  ‘Call Charlie Cooke at Weatherbys tomorrow, he’ll sort you out with those.’

  ‘Only one problem; as I recall, Colonialize was too thin to be passed off as Angel Gabriel. Still, it doesn’t blow any holes in my theory. Monroe would have lots of these horses through his hands, not just the ones he got from Culling.’

  ‘True, but you’re going to need some sort of solid evidence apart from the resemblance between Zuiderzie and Ulysses.’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m working on it. Once I get this list of scratchings and make a few more calls, I’ll go and see Culling again. Hey, you know the dope test sample from Zuiderzie; would that carry any sort of chemical ID for the horse himself?’

  ‘Like a blood sample does? I don’t know. It must have some sort of DNA imprint, I suppose. Even if it did, you’d need something to compare it with either from Ulysses or Zuiderzie and neither’s around.’


  ‘I was thinking that we might ask the forensic boys at Newmarket to go back to where we found the horse’s body. Remember we had to drag him up the bank of that stream? There’s bound to be pieces of loose flesh still around that these guys could find to analyse.’

  ‘Could be. Could be, Frankie. It’s been a few weeks but with the type of equipment they have, they may well be able to get something.

  ‘Will you ask them?’

  ‘Sure, but you’re still going to need something else if the urine sample’s no good. That sample might have been flushed away by now.’

  ‘Geoff, will you stop saying you all the time? It’s us, remember. We’re in a team here. I’m not trying to win any prizes on my own.’

  The pause was at Stonebanks’s end this time. ‘You’re right. Or should that be we’re right? I’ll get on with my end of things, O Master.’

  Frankie chuckled. ‘Do that. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  Uncle Fergus dropped Jane and Sean off in Dublin at ten in the morning, promising to return and pick them up at five that afternoon. Jane had persuaded him to let them have the day out together so Sean could show her the sights. She’d badgered Sean into agreeing to go back with her after they’d spent the day trying to find news of his father. It was cold and clear, and as they made their way through the streets, Jane wished that it was sight-seeing they had come for. She wanted to spend time with Sean away from the farm. Being in the city together made her feel like they were a proper couple in a proper relationship.

  She knew Sean hadn’t been himself since last night. He was edgy and had gone quiet. Normally she couldn’t shut him up. As they crossed the Liffey on O’Connell Bridge, she said, ‘How far is it, Sean?’

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘How far’s not far?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes maybe.’

  She took his hand and stretched her legs a bit to match his pace. She noticed a wariness in Sean that hadn’t been there since the night they’d met. He was constantly looking around, scanning the faces of the people, especially those coming toward them. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m lookin’ out for Pat Pusey and I don’t want to see him.’

  ‘The man at Dun Laoghaire?’

  ‘The same.’ Suddenly he turned left. ‘Come on!’ He pulled her along.

  ‘What’s up? Did you see him?’

  ‘No. But there’s more chance of it if we go all the way up O’Connell Street. We’ll go the back way.’ They turned left into Gardiner Street, which was busy but didn’t seem to Jane as prosperous as O’Connell Street. She was nervous. After the tales of home Sean had told her, she expected the streets to be derelict with hollow-eyed men peering at them from doorways. She decided he must have exaggerated everything. They were so close to the centre of the city.

  Sean hurried her across the road to Railway Street. The further along that street they went, the fewer people they saw. Graffiti marked the walls and pavement. Halfway along, Sean nodded toward a block of flats on the left, St Mary’s Mansions. ‘That’s where Corell left his girlfriend after he cut her up.’ Jane gripped his hand more tightly.

  The flats on the right looked grim. Some houses were boarded up. Scruffy, snotty-nosed, coatless children played in the cold gutters. The day itself seemed to Jane to lose its sharpness, its brightness. She thought of how lucky she was. She was missing her family, even Billy. She’d rung home most days, lifting the phone each time with hope, desperate for good news about Angel Gabriel.

  She knew that Sean, too, travelled in hope. She wished she hadn’t said those nasty things about his father. Nobody could help what their parents were, and for all he’d been bad to Sean and his mother, Jane could understand how Sean still felt something for him and worried about him. She looked across at him and saw how tense he looked. He let go her hand, apparently to button his jacket, but Jane noted that he conveniently forgot to take it again.

  At the next junction, they stopped. Sean pointed at the flats across the road in Killarney Street. ‘Joseph’s Mansions,’ he said. She stared. It looked to her like some sort of prison building; metal sheets covered all the windows, graffiti was everywhere. The railings surrounding the block were rusted and dirty, and the strip of grass behind them was overgrown. In the bare branches of a tree was the twisted frame of an old bicycle.

  Sean looked quickly around him then said, ‘Come on!’ He ran across the road. Jane followed. They hurried toward the arched entrance and went in, but Sean put a hand out to stop her before they left the cover of the arch and entered the quadrangle. He peeked out to the left; he didn’t know who might be at the flat. It would be dead unlucky to find Pat Pusey or another one of Corell’s men there at this time of day, but it was best not to just run right in.

  The place was silent. He stepped cautiously into the quadrangle. Jane followed. She stood and looked around, feeling like she was in a deserted prison yard or one of those terrible concentration camps when the war had ended. Almost every door and window was blocked with thick metal sheeting. A huge puddle of dirty brown water held the wreck of a child’s tricycle, a burst football and a flotilla of papers and polystyrene packaging. The only sign of human life was a string of washing running diagonally between the corners of the flats across to her. To her right, a few pigeons paced the dirty tarmac. Four huge rusty bins like vats stood in a row below the overhanging first-floor balcony. Signs fixed to the walls by Dublin Corporation disclaimed all responsibility for injury to any person venturing further.

  Sean said, ‘I think we’re OK. Come on.’ They moved toward a doorway in the centre of the row to their left and started up the stairs, the urine stench as offensive as Sean remembered it. Jane said, ‘Ugh, that’s horrible.’ Turning the corner to go to his door, Sean met Kevin, the only other boy still living there.

  ‘Shoggy! Where’ve you been?’ Kevin said.

  ‘On my holidays in Switzerland.’

  ‘Have ye just come back ‘cos yer da’s dead or are ye stayin’?’

  What was left of Brendan Gleeson lay on a slab in the morgue. His body, stretched out, took up just a few inches of vertical space. The bones and vital organs had been almost pulped. After throwing him screaming off the roof of a twenty-storey block of flats, Corell’s men had gone back down for the body and had done the same thing twice more. The mashed corpse had lain there in full view for hours - the people knew better than to report anything. The man who stole from Kelly Corell had to be left on display until the police happened by.

  37

  Frankie and Stonebanks stood together in Stonebanks’s study. They watched in silence as the fax machine slowly rolled out the list from Weatherbys of all horses that had been scratched from races in the past six months because they were dead. The machine beeped and stopped; Frankie carefully tore the sheet of paper and brought it to the table. There were fifty-seven horses on it. Frankie could have had the list an hour previously, but he’d asked Charlie at Weatherbys to place a tick beside each horse that died after a victory last time out. Apart from the two they knew of, there were four more. The name of one of them stopped Frankie’s breathing. He froze completely, the paper in front of him at arm’s length. Stonebanks watched him then reached for the list, taking it from Frankie’s fingers. He looked at the six ticked horses, then, puzzled, at Frankie. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Frankie stared at him. Stonebanks said, ‘Jesus, you look like somebody just hit you with a hammer. What’s up?’

  ‘He killed Kathy,’ Frankie said. ‘Sauceboat. That was the horse she rode.’ Shock had anaesthetized him. He spoke in monotone. Stonebanks looked again at the list. He reached for his formbook, skipping quickly through the pages to check the other horses that had been ticked. Each had won at a big price after leading all the way, the same as Zuiderzie and Colonialize had done, and like those two, were trained in Lambourn. Stonebanks looked across at Frankie. ‘I know the trainers and I know the vet…’

  Frankie waited.

  Stonebanks said, ‘Cull
ing.’

  Frankie linked his fingers, elbows askew on the table, and looked down. At least there was some reason to it now. His mother had been wrong, there’d been no punishment from God for what he’d done; no deliberate punishment at least, no grabbing back of a life in return for his desertion. Somebody had killed her. A man. Not God. Not his mother. Not Frankie. An evil, greedy man had killed his wife.

  Frankie stood up. ‘Let’s go and see Culling now.’ He spoke evenly although some emotion was back in his voice.

  Stonebanks watched him. ‘Not a good time, Frankie. We need to look at all the angles.’

  Frankie pulled his jacket on. ‘Won’t take us that long to get there.’

  ‘Frankie, sit down and think for a minute. Supposing Culling did operate on these two, supposing it was on the day they won, supposing Monroe picked up both corpses, it doesn’t incriminate Culling. He could claim it was all simply coincidence.’

  ‘Geoff, come on! This fella killed my wife and you’re telling me to sit down and think! Get real! What is there to think about?’ Frankie leant forward holding out his open hand, as though trying to make Stonebanks understand how simple this was.

  ‘Frankie, whoah, slow down! You’ve just had a shock that would stop a bloody train and you want to go haring off. What kind of state is your mind in? Try and take a step back for a minute and look at the situation, will you? I’m sorry for you, I really am, but I can’t just let you go after Culling right now. You’ve got a pretty personal interest now for a start, don’t you think? Uh?’

  Frankie stared at him silently.

  Stonebanks said, ‘Do you seriously think you’re fit to do your job objectively right now? Because that’s what you need to do. We’ve probably got enough to get the police in. Why don’t we do that?’

  ‘A minute ago you were saying it could all be coincidence, Geoff - make up your mind.’

  Stonebanks looked flustered at that. ‘If it is, let the police dig deeper.’

  ‘If it is, or appears to be, the police won’t bother digging deeper or they’ll botch it the way they did with the kidnap! I’m not saying I, Geoff, not I, I, I! Don’t you think I know inside myself how I’m reacting to this? I know when I’m calm and I know when I’m able to do my job. I’m saying us, let’s you and me go to Culling’s place. The betting is that these horses were doped to win, the dope sample switched by Culling on course, then the horses killed by him so they couldn’t be tested again if anyone became suspicious in the few days after each race. For goodness sake, I told you that Bobby Cranfield called me the day after Colonialize beat his horse at Ascot, the day after, before all these suspicions blew up! He said then that he thought the winner had been doped! ‘