For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions

by Richard Pitman

  Pusey reddened quickly. ‘Ye think so? Well where d’ye think Brendan Gleeson is now? Gleeson did your ten grand in at cards on the boat - correction, Mister Corell’s ten grand. What d’ye think happened to him?’

  ‘What? He had to wash Corell’s dishes three nights running?’

  ‘He’s dead! I threw him off a twenty-storey block of flats. Three times.’

  Wildman sneered again. ‘Why? Did you miss the ground with the first two throws?’

  Pusey took a step back, put his hands on his hips and stood shaking his head. ‘You have got a death wish, Monroe.’

  ‘I’ve got a wish for my money and my horses, Mister Pusey. Now open the gates and go get the cash and I’ll give you back your scientist and ride into the sunset.’

  ‘No. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You’ll let Hewitt out of the van in the next two minutes then you’ll piss off and not come back. Have you got any idea in yer stupid head about how dangerous a man Kelly Corell is? This is a man who doesn’t really need people like me to handle people like you. Mister Corell will take great pleasure in doing it himself. He specializes in nailing men to snooker tables and I mean proper men, not boys like you. He cut open his own girlfriend from neck to crotch… these were people who just said something wrong to him. Can you imagine what you’re going to get for fecking up this project?’

  Wildman put up his hands in mock horror then slowly held them out so Pusey could see them. They were still and steady. ‘See how much I’m shaking? Listen to me, Pusey. I’m going to get back into that cab and start the engine. I’m going to reverse a hundred yards then come back as fast as I can. If you want to have gates that actually work, you better make sure they’re open. And if I hit them, you can take responsibility for what happens to Hewitt as he bounces around in the back.’ Wildman looked coldly through the gates then strode toward the cab and climbed in.

  He reversed quickly and changed gear. Pusey moved to the side and punched a code into the control panel. The gates swung silently open as Wildman accelerated. He went through and carried on to the stable block. Pusey followed, reaching in his jacket as he went and producing a pistol. Wildman jumped from the cab and went quickly toward the stable doors. ‘Hey, Monroe!’ Pusey called. Wildman turned to see Pusey pointing the pistol at his head. He stopped and slowly raised his arms.

  ‘That’s more like it, Mister Monroe. That’s more respectful. Actions speak louder than words sure enough.’ Smiling, he walked toward Wildman, stopping six feet in front of him. ‘I’m not hearing so much of yer lip now, big man?’ Pusey said.

  ‘I don’t talk so well with guns pointing at me. You should have let me see it back there and saved us a lot of time.’

  ‘Yer right, I should have. Now you are goin’ to open the back of that van and let Hewitt out.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or I’m going to blow your bollocks off.’

  Wildman shrugged. Pusey signalled him round, turning with him. ‘Open it.’

  He walked wide of Wildman to the rear of the box and watched him reach to undo the door mechanism. They swung open. Wildman hit the button to start the ramp lowering, then moved to the side. Pusey half-turned away to keep the gun trained on Wildman. As the ramp edge reached the gravel, Pusey glanced into the back of the box to see four police marksmen with rifles aimed at him. On the floor was a monitoring and recording machine.

  43

  Stonebanks had the pleasure of ringing the obnoxious Christopher Benjamin to tell him that Ulysses wasn’t dead after all and that the Jockey Club Security Department had retrieved his horse. When the owner recovered from the surprise, he told Stonebanks that his department had failed in its duty by not finding the horse within twenty-four hours of it being stolen, and he warned that Ulysses better be unharmed.

  Frankie set off north in the horsebox Wildman had been driving to deliver Angel Gabriel to the Cassidys. They knew he was on his way. Graham Cassidy, out of bed, shaved and fully dressed for the first time in weeks, stood at the window watching the road. After a short time, he had to ask Maggie to bring a stool from the breakfast bar. He eased himself onto it. ‘I can’t believe how weak my legs are,’ he said.

  ‘You haven’t used those muscles for a long time.’

  He went back to his vigil and his thoughts. He knew that Maggie sensed his wish to sit quietly, his need to try and find his way back into normal life. When the depression finally lifted, he knew the guilt would try hard to bring it back. He had to confront the fact that he’d failed Maggie, failed the family, the horses, the business just when he was needed most. He knew nothing of this would ever be cast in his face, but it didn’t ease the ache. Then there was the debt, the huge debt he owed Frankie Houlihan, a man with enough pain of his own, real pain and no family to support him, to see him through it. Frankie had not only held his own life together but Graham’s too, the whole family’s. There was a proper man. And here was he, a mental wreck, waiting for the real man to bring home his horse. His dream. His life.

  The children were outside scanning the road, listening for the horsebox. It was their shouts and screams that brought him off the stool. With Maggie at his side, he went out. Maggie told the children to come away from the entrance so the box could turn in. Jane, Sean and Billy all moved reluctantly, each walking backwards as the roof of the box came along the hedge tops.

  It turned in. Frankie straightened the wheel and smiled and waved. When he stopped, the children ran to the back of the box. Graham and Maggie stayed to greet Frankie as he jumped down from the cab and came toward them. Maggie stepped back, and Frankie realized she was putting her husband first. To Frankie, Graham’s face looked sad although he was working hard at a smile. He looked gaunt, pale, old. But he managed to open his arms as Frankie reached him and they embraced warmly, Frankie turning him as though in a dance. Neither spoke. Maggie watched as Frankie patted Graham’s shoulder gently.

  After a minute, Frankie stepped back, holding Graham by the arms. His eyes shone with happiness as he said, ‘Let’s get him out.’ Graham nodded. ‘Will you do it?’ Frankie said. ‘I’ll get the ramp down. You go up and lead your horse out, back where he belongs.’

  Maggie moved forward and hugged Frankie, briefly but warmly. ‘Thank you.’ She said quietly.

  Frankie squeezed her then broke away. ‘Let’s get Gabby.’

  The children helped with the doors and the ramp. Maggie stopped them from rushing up it. Graham stood at the bottom. Angel Gabriel’s head protruded from a stall set at right angles to the rear. The big horse glanced at his trainer, then turned his head away as though he’d fallen out with him. Graham smiled properly for the first time since Christmas Eve. He walked up the ramp. ‘Come on, you old bugger,’ he said, ‘we’ve got work to do.’

  44

  Two Garda officers flew over to interview Pat Pusey. They asked him if he would testify against Kelly Corell if they arrested him for the murder of his girlfriend. Pusey refused. They told him if he didn’t they’d make sure Corell got a copy of the tape of his conversation with Wildman. They added a plea- bargain offer in his own prosecution for the murder of Brendan Gleeson. Pusey accepted. Corell was arrested that night and charged with the murder of Mary Heaps.

  Twenty-three tissue samples from racehorses were found in Hewitt’s freezer. Each was labelled with the horse’s name and the date the sample had been taken. The six winners Culling had pronounced dead on his operating table were tested, and showed significant amounts of a ‘go-faster’ drug. After being charged with unauthorized experimentation on animals, and being shown a newspaper report on the arrest for murder of Kelly Corell, Hewitt gave the police details of his project.

  He’d been trying to become the first scientist to clone a racehorse. Corell had agreed to fund the research in the belief that clones of top-class horses would allow him to make a fortune in betting and that their subsequent careers at stud would bring in millions of pounds.

  Under the most severe pressure, Hewitt continued to in
sist that he had no knowledge of the whereabouts of Gerry Monroe.

  Frankie needed Monroe to get Culling fully on the hook. But despite national publicity about the return of Ulysses and Angel Gabriel, with frequent mentions of the reward and publication of Monroe’s picture, no one had come forward. Frankie had delivered what everyone else wanted out of this mess. He knew he was in serious danger of running out of time in getting what he wanted. All he had to go on was Hewitt’s evidence and the doped samples from horses Culling had treated.

  Stonebanks stuck to the cautious line he’d taken all along. ‘Frankie, what we know is that these horses were doped by someone when they won. They then took seriously ill back at the stables and Culling operated on them. They died on the operating table.’

  ‘Wrong, Geoff,’ countered Frankie. ‘Hewitt said they were alive when Monroe brought them in. He delivered them and took them away again the same day. So that’s one thing we do have Culling on.’

  ‘What we have his word against Hewitt’s. Whose would you take?’

  ‘I’d take Hewitt’s.’

  ‘Would a jury?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Even if they were alive when they left Culling’s place, I’m not quite sure what he could be charged with. What you really need to prove is that he doped them and I think that is going to be very, very difficult!’

  ‘OK, OK! If he doped them, where does he keep the stuff? If it’s at home then let’s try and get the police in with a warrant.’

  ‘I used up all my favours getting them to turn out at Hewitt’s place in the middle of the night armed to the teeth. We’re going to need a lot more evidence to get a warrant authorized for Culling’s place.’ Frankie shook his head and thought for a while. An idea came to him and he was just about to blurt it out then thought better of it. He said, ‘Look, why don’t I just pay Culling another visit on my own and see what he says? He’s a pretty nervous fella and he might just own up to it.’

  ‘Yes, or he might inject you with some of the stuff he gave the horses! ‘

  ‘I’ll take my chances, Geoff.’

  They staked out the entrance to Culling’s place. The vet had been on duty at Wincanton. Stonebanks spent the time trying to talk Frankie out of going on his own. They reached a compromise - to allow Frankie an agreed amount of time in the house. After that, Stonebanks would be coming in to find him.

  It was dark when Culling’s car nosed through the pillars and along the short drive. ‘Give me twenty minutes maximum, then come to the door.’ Frankie said. Stonebanks nodded in agreement. Frankie checked the micro-recorder in his inside jacket pocket was switched on.

  Culling was undoing his tie when he opened the door; the light shining from behind him on Frankie’s smiling face. The vet was in silhouette and Frankie couldn’t be sure if he looked shocked. ‘Sorry to call unannounced, Mister Culling. My boss and I have been waiting for you to come home.’

  Culling looked back out toward the road. Frankie said, ‘He stayed in the car. I’ll tell you why if you can spare five minutes.’

  The vet stared at him, cold-eyed, apprehensive. ‘I’m tired, Mister Houlihan. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Been a long season. For everybody.’ Frankie returned his cold stare.

  ‘What do you want?’ Culling asked.

  ‘I’ve got a proposal for you.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On keeping you out of prison.’

  Culling started closing the door. ‘Goodnight Mister Houlihan.’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Goodnight. I was told to try the easy way and I did. I’ll go and get my boss now and the police. See you again shortly.’ Frankie turned and started back across the gravel drive.

  ‘OK,’ Culling said. ‘Come in.’

  Frankie turned. ‘No thanks. It wasn’t me who wanted to give you the chance. My boss told me to do it and I did. You didn’t take it.’ Frankie started toward the gate again. He heard the vet hurrying after him, felt a hand on his arm. He stopped. Culling stepped in front of him, barring his way. Lights from the porch let Frankie see the film of sweat on the vet’s brow. He looked worried.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Culling said. ‘Please come in and tell me what your proposal is.’

  Frankie stared at him, pursed his lips, looked toward the gate again then turned slowly to walk back to the house.

  Culling lead him into the conservatory. ‘Would you like a drink?’ His voice was shaky.

  ‘No thanks. I just want to pitch this then I’ll have done what I’ve been told to do and I can get out of here.’

  Culling’s worried look deepened. He joined his fingers, steepled them in front of his still-buttoned jacket. ‘Please go on.’

  Keeping a note of distaste in his voice, Frankie said, ‘Sauceboat. Zuiderzie. Colonialize. Gallopagos. Kilkenny Lass. Broadford Bay.’

  Frankie watched Culling’s face grow paler. He continued, ‘You doped all of them to win. The drug you gave them had side effects, which suited you fine because you knew you’d be the very man the trainer would call. You brought them back here, pretended to operate, then told the trainers they’d died on the table. Monroe picked them up the next day, still alive. Unfortunately for you, he didn’t kill them right away. He traded them on to a scientist for experimental purposes. We have the tissue samples the scientist took. They’re pumped with dope.’

  The vet was pacing, his chin raised as though he was studying the glass roof. Frankie was becoming convinced now that he was confronting Kathy’s killer. He paused, knew he needed to concentrate on seeing this through before his emotions overcame him. He focused on keeping his voice cold, that note of distaste in it that was important to the plan. ‘Why aren’t you looking at me? Because you don’t need to, do you? You know the story, Mister Culling. You’re just waiting to see the order I’m going to tell it in.’ The vet didn’t reply. He kept walking. Frankie said, ‘Now we come to the bit that really makes me sick. I want you to know that before I tell you it. Despite what you’ve read about Monroe still being missing, we know where he is. Gerry Monroe’s holed up in a little village in the west of Ireland. Somebody higher up than me decided to do a deal with him. That’s how we got the two horses back. He’s repaid most of the money he stole too and he’s put you in the frame. That was the deal.’

  ‘Why would you let him go?’ Culling asked.

  Frankie stared at him, battling hard with his emotions now, trying to maintain an air of detachment. ‘I wouldn’t knock it until you’ve heard the proposal for you.’

  Culling cleared his throat and kept walking. Frankie said, ‘It wasn’t my decision to let Monroe go. He’s a thief and a bringer of misery. I can tell you the thinking behind it from higher up… Monroe stole a couple of horses and some money. He’s given them back. No big damage done to racing. But we know we have a vet out there doping horses. Major damage to racing if he carries on and gets caught. Damage can be minimized by Jockey Club Security catching him, keeping it in-house, saving the reputation of racing and therefore the industry. All very gallant, Mister Culling, don’t you think?’ Culling looked more thoughtful now. Frankie went on. ‘All just absolutely hunky-dory so long as the poor punters out there never find out what’s really been going on. If they did, they’d lose all faith in the product they spend five billion pounds a year on. No betting revenue, no levy payment to racecourses. No racecourses, no industry. So what do we do, Mister Culling? What do we defenders of justice at the Jockey Club do?’ He paused. Culling waited. Frankie went on. ‘We let criminals walk. Criminals like Monroe. Like you, Mister Culling.’

  Culling paced another two lengths of the floor then stopped. He turned to Frankie. ‘I think I grasp your proposal, Mister Houlihan, but please dot the i’s and cross the t’s.’

  Frankie didn’t find it difficult to put the necessary edge of anger in his voice. ‘Not my proposal, I want you to remember that!’ Culling nodded. ‘You write and sign a confession and a resignation letter. You serve out a month’s notice
during which you will be watched at all times on a racecourse by one of my colleagues. At the end of that month, you disappear from racing forever. If you try to come back at any point, the confession will be used against you.’

  Culling sat down in the chair opposite Frankie. ‘If all these things had happened and I signed a confession, how do I know you won’t take it straight to the police?’

  ‘For the reasons I’ve just told you. A call to the police from my boss and they’d be in this room now with me ready to charge you formally. We have a tape Monroe made of a conversation with you. We have his written evidence. The bottom line is we don’t need your confession. And I personally, as you might have picked up, do not give a toss if you don’t sign the confession. I’m all for doing it the hard way.’

  Culling joined his hands under his chin. He took a long unblinking look at Frankie, the said, ‘How much time do I have to decide?’

  Frankie looked at his watch. ‘Three minutes. No - how long would it take you to write a confession, maybe two minutes? That means you have one minute to decide, two to write.’

  Culling slowly bowed his head, rubbed his face. He stayed that way for a while then said, ‘If you knew why I did it, Mister Houlihan… ‘

  There it was. Here he sat. The man who had taken away the most precious thing Frankie had ever had, would ever have in a hundred lifetimes. And he was offering to explain why he did it. Again, Frankie forced himself to concentrate. He needed a signed confession. ‘I know why you did it - for money. Same as the rest of them’

  Culling bowed his head again. ‘No, it wasn’t like that! I’m dying, Mister Houlihan! I have a year or two to live, at most…’ He went on to tell Frankie of his terror of dying, of suffering the same fate as the last three generations of his family. He told him about the Everlasting Life Company, about the plans he’d had. Told him about ‘a bookmaker’ (not naming Breslin) and his payments. And Frankie’s anger grew. He thought it was all some intricately planned lie that Culling had concocted in advance in case he was ever found out.