Cranfield drank more wine then said, ‘I want to ask a favour of you.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Frankie wondered what this multi-millionaire racehorse owner could want from him.
‘I want you to help us out at the Jockey Club.’
Frankie’s dark eyebrows moved closer together as he frowned quizzically. ‘Help you out of what?’
‘In the security department.’
‘Doing what and for how long?’
‘Working as an intelligence officer, an investigator.’
Frankie smiled, a forkful of fish halfway to his mouth. ‘You know, you should’ve waited a few seconds, Bobby. I always wanted to do what they do in the films when somebody’s so surprised at something over dinner they splutter food everywhere.’
‘See, my timing’s good. I’d have been in the line of fire.’
Frankie smiled. ‘Stop winding me up.’ And he ate.
‘I’m not, honestly. There’s a long-standing vacancy. They’ve interviewed for it twice and can’t get the right person. You’d be ideal.’
‘And how do you figure that one out?’
‘Well you used to be a police chaplain at one time, didn’t you?’
Frankie almost did splutter his food as he laughed. ‘You’re a case, Bobby. Now stop the kidding.’
‘I’m not kidding. I remember Kathy telling me you spent some time as a chaplain to the Royal Ulster Constabulary.’
Frankie, his eyes still creased from his smile, looked at Bobby Cranfield and could tell he was quite serious. ‘You’re really not kidding, are you?’
‘Really not. I think you’d do a great job for us.’
‘The RUC chaplaincy was a joke. It was a politically motivated request to the archbishop in Dublin by a friend of his in Belfast who wanted a favour. The RUC has a tiny minority of Catholic members. My appointment was supposed to show that it was a cross-religious group. I ended up with so little to do I trained for my HGV licence so I could drive the horses around for the mounted boys and keep busy. That was the best part of it, in fact.’
‘But didn’t you have training in police procedure as part of your chaplaincy, or whatever they call it?’
‘I did, but only to help me understand the lives of these fellas. It was hardly MI6 school.’
‘But you got the same training as a new police recruit would have?’
Frankie shrugged and put down his fork. ‘Well, a sort of sawn-off version, I suppose.’ Kathy was never far from his mind and she seemed suddenly to be with him now. He could hear her laugh and see her shake her head and say to him, ‘What a brilliant idea! What a great job! Go on, Frankie, take it, it’ll be fun!’
Cranfield saw the change in his features. ‘You’re sort of warming to this now, ain’t you?’
Frankie nodded slowly, reluctant to let Kathy go, wishing Bobby would disappear for a few minutes. And Kathy said to him, ‘And remember, you’re used to getting confessions out of people!’ Suddenly he felt happiness, a peace he’d thought he’d never know again. That gag was typical of Kathy and he knew somehow that it hadn’t formed in his own mind. He knew she was back with him in everything but body. His eyes filled. He thought quickly of Bobby, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable, but he found himself quelling the instinct to dab his eyes with his napkin.
Frankie drove away from Wincanton before the end of racing, with an appointment in his diary to meet the Jockey Club’s head of security in London next day; “just a formality” Cranfield had assured him. He pulled into the first layby, switched the engine off and sat staring at the darkening sky, willing Kathy to come back close to him the way she had done in box thirty-two. Willing it and wanting it almost like a drug. He concentrated, closed his eyes, recreated the conversation with Bobby in his mind, reached the same trigger point that had brought her to him. But she’d slipped back to the perimeter; he could see her there, waving reassuringly and he heard her say, ‘Don’t worry Frankie, I’ll come back whenever you need me most. I’ll always be here with you, watching over you, loving you. But live your life. Live your life!’
‘I don’t want to,’ he said quietly, his face contorted, his throat sore from the constriction of grief, from trying not to cry. And he tried to say ‘not without you’. His lips formed the words but his throat choked them to silence. Kathy receded, faded, still waving. She didn’t turn away, just faded. ‘Come back, Kathy!’ he managed to say, although he felt his throat closing completely and the pain was intense. Then all the dams burst at once, convulsing his body as though the car had been seized by some earthquake, and Frankie’s throat opened and out came a sound, a cry, so primal, so vital that he would always remember it with wonder. It was a sound he could not have created and it finally uncorked the well. In the deepening rainy gloom, Frankie writhed and wept and moaned, his limbs moving, out of control, hands trying to still his rolling head. It felt as though it went on for a long time and toward the end he began to feel himself emptying, draining of all emotion, of all movement and sound until he lay slumped in the seat like a boneless bag of flesh.
The ordeal exhausted him, purged him. Unable to move, he became aware of the deepest peace he’d ever known. Peace beyond what he’d believed possible. Peace so complete that it crossed his mind that he might have died or was dying and that this was the out-of-body experience he’d heard tell of. His eyes closed, slowly, in the way of a toddler when exhaustion overcomes him while he’s playing. Frankie was vaguely aware of his breathing, much slower and deeper than he’d ever known it. He slipped into a blessed sleep.
Frankie spent the first two weeks in his new job learning about procedure. They teamed him with Geoff Stonebanks, who’d been a racing intelligence officer for ten years. Among other things, Jockey Club Security was responsible for providing guards at every racecourse to help prevent unauthorized access to the stables. These guards were employed on a part-time basis. The team of intelligence officers, six of them including Frankie, were full-time employees.
Geoff Stonebanks was as competent and cynical as his colleagues. He was an ex-policeman who lived in Lambourn. He’d moved there when he got the Jockey Club job because he thought that living in the racing village, with his ear as close to the ground, would prove an advantage. But he’d soon learned that the place seethed with rumour and counter-rumour. He’d long ago given up the notion that every stable lad was a potential mole of any reliability.
The worthwhile informants ran to single figures only, although Stonebanks had good relationships with all of them. When Stonebanks heard he was going to be ‘inducting’ Frankie Houlihan, he didn’t relish the prospect. He thought even less of it when he heard Frankie’s background. The fact that he’d been a priest didn’t trouble him. But when he was told of Kathy’s death, he felt awkward about spending a couple of weeks with Frankie.
Stonebanks had a reputation as a good listener. But it was a skill he’d worked hard at and one he preferred to lock up in his briefcase at the end of his working day. He lived quietly with Caroline, his wife of twenty years; they seldom socialized, and before he met Frankie, Stonebanks was worried that the ex-priest might want to extend their relationship beyond working hours. The man was due some sympathy, no doubt. But Stonebanks wanted to keep everything purely professional. So he felt some relief when a smiling Frankie Houlihan, dressed in a black suit and crisp white shirt, was introduced to him by their boss, Robert Archibald, on the morning of the first Monday in November.
They shook hands, and Stonebanks liked Frankie immediately for the openness of his face and the way he held himself when Stonebanks knew he must still be grieving, and nervous about the new job to boot. And he envied Frankie his comparative youth and slim, fit look. Stonebanks had been fighting a battle against being overweight for years and found it hard to get clothes to hang properly on his sixteen-stone frame. He smiled and said, ‘Welcome to the craziest goldfish bowl in the so-called leisure industry.’
Frankie returned the smile. ‘And are we swimming or throwing
in the food?’
Stonebanks admired his quick wit. ‘Depends how clean the tank is. Mostly, we chase our own tails.’
Frankie’s induction was to continue by way of his meeting each of the three investigators who were not London-based. He’d spent a day at Plumpton with Gordon Drewery, two days up north at Carlisle and Ayr with Jamie Robson, and his final trip was to Warwick to meet Jack Webster, who was responsible for the Midlands. On his way to the track on what was the coldest Saturday of the season so far, a coughing and spluttering Webster called him to say he was dying with a cold and was very sorry but he wouldn’t be there. Frankie said, ‘Don’t worry; we can meet some other time. Is there anything I can do at Warwick to help you?’
‘You can tell Julie on the bar in members’ to bring me a hot toddy after racing.’
Frankie smiled. ‘I’ll pass on the message.’
Frankie had been racing mad for years, and one of his ambitions had been to visit all fifty-nine British racecourses. He chalked up a new one with Warwick. This was his first visit and he thought it an attractive little course with a good atmosphere. As the first race came nearer and the crowds built steadily, Frankie wandered around, introduced himself to the stable guards and chatted a while with them, had a cup of tea and a sandwich in the members’ bar and wondered which of the four serving girls was Julie if, indeed, she wasn’t simply a figment of Jack Webster’s imagination.
This was the first time since he started the new job that he’d been to a racecourse unaccompanied. He found himself seeing everything with new eyes compared with when he used to come racing as a spectator. Every huddled group in the bar was now made up of potential conspirators; stable lads leading their charges out of horseboxes all seemed shiftier than he could ever remember. Who was that prosperous-looking man speaking to Crosby Allen, the bookie? They looked up to no good.
Frankie thought about it as he sipped tea, and found himself smiling at his own ridiculous thoughts. Still, he supposed that every new employee in any business was mentally primed like this in the early weeks. He wondered how long it would take to become as cynical as Stonebanks and the others.
Kathy was never far from his mind. When Frankie looked carefully through the Warwick racecard as he finished chewing his sandwich, his eye stopped at Zuiderzie, the horse Kathy had fallen from at Cheltenham the day he had met her. The impact of seeing the name stunned him. He stared at it as though it were the only thing that existed. It had been more than two years since he’d seen the horse, and many of the things that had happened since suddenly cascaded through his mind.
Miles Henry had phoned Frankie a few times after Kathy’s death and sent flowers and a card. But looking at the racecard Frankie remembered that Miles was no longer training Zuiderzie, nor was the horse owned any more by Bobby Cranfield. After falling with Kathy at Cheltenham, Zuiderzie had lost his confidence over fences and his next few runs had been over hurdles. Frankie noted that today’s race was a handicap hurdle, and that Zuiderzie was very low in the weights. The racecard form commentary told him that the horse hadn’t won for more than three years. He was 33/1 in the betting forecast.
Come race time, Frankie made his way to the paddock. There was Zuiderzie, belying his eleven years and prancing around like a two-year-old constantly working the bit in his mouth and shaking his head until the metal jangled. He looked smart in his apparently new, dazzling scarlet rug with embroidered trainer’s initials. Frankie leant over the rail as Zuiderzie danced past, tugging at the reins held by a smiling young blonde girl whose scarlet fleece matched her charge’s rug. ‘Hello, you old rogue,’ Frankie said. The horses ears pricked and he turned his head slightly. Frankie smiled sadly.
As the bell went for the jockeys to mount, Frankie made his way back to the grandstand, uncertain whether his heart felt heavy or light. He was glad of this tangible connection with Kathy. So much time since the funeral had been lived in his head; memories, emotions, regrets, fears. Nothing to grasp. Nothing solid to grapple with or embrace. Now here was the horse that had brought him together with this wonderful, beautiful woman. And he felt her near him, sensed her presence. Not as close as the first time but comforting nonetheless. He smiled.
The PA boomed out the message that they were off. Frankie Houlihan raised his binoculars and watched Zuiderzie lead all the way and win by fifteen lengths. When he lowered those binoculars, tears spilled from the small rubber eyecups and left stains on his white shirt.
Belinda Cassell had only been in racing two months, and the seventeen-year-old was so thrilled with the victory of ‘her’ horse Zuiderzie that she hadn’t shut up about it since rushing out madly to welcome the horse back in.
Belinda was his groom, and she just knew that if she looked after another thousand horses in her career she’d never ever forget this beautiful chestnut gelding, her first winner. Willie Creaney, the box-driver, had been charmed by her reaction at first (he fancied her anyway) but her non-stop chirruping on the way home was wearing him down and he was sympathizing in advance with whoever ended up as her husband.
Some racing people believe that a horse knows when it’s won. In the back of the swaying box, Zuiderzie didn’t feel at all special. He was shivering and sweating heavily.
When they reached the yard and Willy Creaney pulled the ramp down, he saw the horse and ran into the house to ring the vet. Peter Culling took the call on his mobile and told him he’d be there as soon as possible. Culling checked his watch and said to himself, ‘Bang on time. Remarkable stuff. Remarkable.’
He smiled and accelerated toward Lambourn longing for a blue flashing light to stick on his car roof.
14
For a horse who, like Sauceboat, had supposedly died on Peter Culling’s operating table the previous night, Zuiderzie was looking remarkably well when Gerry Monroe picked him up on Sunday morning.
The trip to Hewitt’s place up the hill was getting so familiar now that Monroe recognized individual potholes in the road approaching the house. And there was Hewitt at the end of the drive as ever. Monroe was growing increasingly curious as to what the man was doing with these horses. The temptation to drive the box away after dropping Zuiderzie then creep back to the house on foot was strong, but Hewitt paid well and Monroe needed the money. If he was caught prowling around, he might lose the ‘contract’ or get another visit from Gleeson.
Later, on the journey to the slaughterhouse with the now drowsy animal, Monroe’s mind went back to Hewitt’s oft-repeated plea for a quality horse; he was thinking it was about time he did something about it. He knew nothing of the quality of the horses he’d already brought, didn’t even know their names. He’d just collected them through his normal contacts. Their names and racecourse abilities had been of no interest to him. He assumed that if any famous horse were to be put down it wouldn’t be himself who’d be pulling the trigger. Anyway, he’d be sure to read about such casualties in the Racing Post.
Four of the horses he’d ferried up to the big house had come from Culling’s place. The vet had made a point of not being there when Monroe called (it dawned on him now that it had always been a Sunday morning when he’d picked them up after being contacted by Culling on the previous evening) and the horses, unusually in his trade, had seemed perfectly sound, quite healthy. When he got home, Monroe logged on to the Racing Post site on his PC and started doing some research.
The bookie, Compton Breslin, was not cut out for rambling or any other country pursuit, and the sight of his twenty-stone frame in wax jacket and plus-fours, leather walking boots polished to a shine, made Peter Culling snigger. The vet had insisted he’d only deal with Breslin on his terms and this was one of them; Breslin would never meet him in a public place or telephone him. After a coup, they’d meet in these woods halfway between Lambourn and Newbury, walking casually toward each other and passing in silence if anyone else came into view.
The vet would always be there first and try to make his way up an incline to force the fat bookie to climb tho
se final hundred yards. By the time Breslin reached him, he’d be panting and sweating heavily. This Sunday afternoon was no different, and Culling hated him for the way he neglected himself, eating and drinking as though heart disease didn’t exist. As though you were here forever and guaranteed good health.
At forty-three, Culling was convinced he himself would die soon. His father had been dead at forty- five, his paternal grandfather at forty-four. His maternal grandfather had died on the eve of his fiftieth birthday. Hearts. All of them faulty, diseased hearts. The thought of his male ancestors being freely allowed to breed, to pass on these genetic time bombs, would often drive Culling into a terrible rage.
Why couldn’t humans be under some control? Why couldn’t it be like the world of the thoroughbred, where the constant quest in breeding was to eliminate imperfections? How could his father be so selfish as to sire children knowing his own father had died so young, knowing his own heart was nothing but a clutch of quickly decaying valves?
If Hitler had won the war, he would have weeded out these people and he, Peter Culling, forty-three-years-old and wifeless and childless because of his own commitment to stop this Culling line of useless men who could not keep their hearts beating past their mid-forties, would never have been born. How, wondered Culling, can God put a child on this earth to grow up relishing each day, loving the sunshine and the women and the good life? How could he give someone such a tremendous appetite and ecstatic enjoyment of the fine things and then make him face the fact that it was all going to be taken away at a ludicrously, ridiculously young age? What kind of God is that?
Well, Culling was going to try and defy God and beat his father and his grandfather and all the other weaklings in the family line. He was going to try to live again through cryogenic refrigeration. Culling’s own medical background confronted him with the strong argument against the likely realization of such an ambition, but his logic in pursuing it was that if it didn’t work he’d be no worse off. On the positive side, he knew of the giant strides medicine had made in his own lifetime. It might take them a hundred years to bring him back, but what was a century against eternity?
For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions Page 6
