For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions

by Richard Pitman

  After less than four hours’ sleep, Maggie was awakened by the first phone call congratulating her on her good fortune. The story had made the Sunday papers. Maggie hurried to the bathroom and wept quietly.

  After lunch on Sunday, Frankie went walking in the countryside around the hotel where lush, sheep- dotted pastureland covered the low swell of the hills. The weather was cold but fine and Frankie thought the sky looked a remarkably rich blue. He’d been out for an hour and his spirits had picked up considerably. Then he got a call from Bobby Cranfield.

  ‘Frankie, I’m sorry to trouble you on a Sunday.’

  ‘No problem, good to hear from you. Sorry about your horse getting stuffed yesterday.’

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing. You were on duty at Ascot yesterday, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you pick up anything unusual around that race?’

  Frankie thought for a few moments. ‘Not really… no. Nothing I can think of. Why?’

  ‘Well something wasn’t quite right about the way Colonialize won that race. He’s run against mine half a dozen times in the past and never got anywhere near him, yet he won yesterday as though he could have gone round again. I’ve been through all the formbooks; it wasn’t even his style of running to make all, he’s always been held up.’

  ‘Maybe that was the secret then,’ Frankie said. ‘Maybe the front-running tactics suited him much better.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Frankie noted the hesitation then deliberate pause before Bobby said, ‘He ran as if he’d been doped.’ Frankie’s inexperience made him ponder as he tried to gather his thoughts. He said, ‘Wouldn’t he have been dope-tested after the race?’

  ‘He was. We won’t get the results until next week but I’ll be awaiting them, as they say, with interest.’

  ‘And no doubt hoping that you’re wrong. The last thing we need’s a doping scandal.’

  ‘Dead right. Anyway, I also called to see how you were. I should have asked that first. Very rude of me.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m OK. Felt I had to get away from the cottage for Christmas, so I’ve found myself a nice quiet country hotel. If I can persuade Geoff Stonebanks to cover for me on Tuesday I’m going to stay here for a week and just unwind.’

  Bobby Cranfield sounded immediately concerned. ‘Frankie, you mustn’t spend Christmas on your own. Come and stay with us! We’d be absolutely delighted to have your company over Christmas.’

  ‘No thanks, Bobby. It’s very kind of you to offer but I really would rather be on my own.’ He could sense the frustration, the exasperation in Bobby but the older man restrained himself. ‘Well I understand, but Frankie, if you change your mind, promise you’ll call me.’

  Frankie smiled. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good. Good. Well, I’ll let you get on with your relaxation. Have a very happy Christmas.’ It was out before he realized how hollow it must sound but Frankie quickly put him at ease.

  ‘I will, Bobby, and I wish you and your family the same.’

  ‘Take care, Frankie.’

  As he pressed the ‘End’ button on his phone, the thing that had been niggling at his mind these past few minutes came through clearly; Compton Breslin. The bookie had been persistently offering longer odds against Bobby’s horse than anyone else. That could mean that Breslin simply didn’t fancy it or it could mean that someone had told him it was going to lose. And if Colonialize had been doped, not only had Breslin probably been told that the favourite would lose, there was every chance he’d have known that Colonialize would win.

  Frankie considered ringing Bobby straight back. Then he thought about how he’d often heard Breslin shouting odds about a fancied horse, although he’d never paid particular attention to whether those odds were longer than those offered by his competitors. Yesterday was probably no more than normal practise for the big bookie. Frankie decided he’d wait until the dope test results were through before deciding what to do about Breslin.

  The Welsh sky was still clear but a cold wind had got up. Frankie checked his watch, turned up his collar and headed back toward the hotel.

  22

  On Monday, the Racing Post carried the news of Maggie Cassidy’s half-million-pound book contract on page three along with a picture of Maggie and Angel Gabriel. Reading it over breakfast, Gerry Monroe cackled with glee. ‘Christmas has come early.’

  Frankie too read the Racing Post over breakfast, checking through all the comments from Ascot on Saturday and looking at the betting analysis to see if he could glean anything from the race Colonialize had won. There were no unusually large bets reported on the winner.

  Scanning through the rest of the paper Frankie noticed the piece on Maggie Cassidy and he found it heart-warming. She was a writer just like Kathy had been, albeit working in a different format. He held the page up better to catch the light from the big window behind his table; there was a resemblance to Kathy too in the woman’s looks. She wasn’t quite an older version, but she had the same shaped eyes and jaw line, and the same sort of mischievous look about her. The article went on to discuss Angel Gabriel’s prospects in the Grand National and suddenly the image of the dead Ulysses in the stream sprang to Frankie’s mind.

  He left an almost full cup of tea and went to his room for his diary. In it, he found the number of Jamie Robson, his colleague in the north-west. When he rang, he heard a message telling him that Jamie was away for Christmas and that all business calls should be directed to the Jockey Club Security Department in London.

  Frankie reached back into his briefcase and took out his Directory of The Turf telephone book. He found the Cassidy number and dialled; engaged. He tried for more than twenty minutes before getting through and was answered by an exasperated Maggie, who by now couldn’t help but laugh slightly as she said, ‘Hello, the Cassidy madhouse!’

  Frankie guessed that every time she’d put the phone down it had rung again. He said, ‘Is that Mrs Cassidy?’

  ‘It is she.’

  ‘We haven’t met, my name is Frankie Houlihan. I’m a racing intelligence officer with the Jockey Club Security Department.’

  ‘Oh, hello. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. Jamie Robson, who I think you probably know, would normally have rung but he’s away on holiday.’

  ‘Lucky him. I could do with one.’

  ‘Would it be possible to speak to your husband? I’m sorry to be so formal but it’s probably best if I speak to the licence-holder.’

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ Frankie could read the tone exactly and knew Maggie suffered from the same brand of fatalism as he did; if things were going outrageously well, then something bad was sure to come along.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all, just a sort of pre-emptive call on my part. Nothing really to worry about.’

  She hesitated then said, ‘Can you hold on? Graham’s out in the yard. I’ll just go and get him.’

  ‘Sure, and by the way, congratulations on your good news.’

  ‘Thanks. Thank you.’

  He heard the receiver being put down on a hard surface, and he waited for what seemed quite a long time before he heard footsteps approach and voices growing louder. A rattle again as the receiver was picked up; ‘Graham Cassidy. Can I help?’

  Frankie introduced himself and went through the same spiel as he had with Mrs Cassidy. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling, Mister Cassidy. I read the piece about your wife’s good fortune in the Racing Post, and thought it was worth mentioning to you that the department believes that the person who kidnapped and killed Ulysses a couple of weeks back may well, eh, strike again, to use a tabloid phrase.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Thanks. We hadn’t thought of that. Good point. I’m glad you rang.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ Frankie was relieved. He’d been unsure of the reaction he might get, and had thought that grannies and egg sucking might have been mentioned.

  The trainer said, ‘Is there, eh, an
ything in particular you’d recommend we do? Security-wise, I mean?’

  That caught Frankie out. ‘Well, it’s up to you really. I’m not familiar with the security you have in place at the moment.’

  ‘Not much, really. We’ve got some lights that come on automatically in the yard at night if anyone approaches. But to be honest we don’t pay much attention when they do. We’re usually sound asleep by ten.’

  ‘You’ve got no form of alarm system?’

  ‘Well, there’s one in the house but nothing in the yard. An alarm going off in the middle of the night would probably leave us with a stable full of nervous wrecks anyway.’

  ‘Do you keep the place locked at night?’

  ‘No, we’re too afraid to. Had a fire here about ten years ago and three horses were trapped in a locked stable. To be honest, I’d rather they were kidnapped than burned to death if a fire broke out.’ That left Frankie at a loss. ‘Well, maybe you should contact your local police crime prevention people and see if they can suggest anything.’

  ‘Good idea!’ Cassidy sounded pleased. ‘I’ll do that. I’ll give them a call.’

  ‘Fine. Well, I’ll let you get on with your celebrations.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. Thanks.’

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘And to you and yours, Mister Houlihan. Oh, do I need to take your number?’

  ‘You’re welcome to.’

  ‘Fine. I have a pen…’

  In the twilight of Christmas Eve, Jane Cassidy finished laying a bed of fresh straw in the box of the animal she’d known and loved for most of her life. She had clear memories of her four-year-old self, clutching her mother’s hand as she watched her father help the straining fat mare deliver the slippery sac of dark hair and legs that was to be christened Angel Gabriel and known to the family as Gabby. As mucus from the mouth of the foal dripped from her father’s fingers as he cleaned it to open the airways, Jane has said, ‘Has he been chewing gum, Dad?’ She recalled how her mum and dad had laughed.

  The racing public also loved Angel Gabriel for his spirit and his wonderful jumping. And Jane Cassidy loved him because he was all the things the public knew and more; gentle, intelligent and loving. When she’d been a child, it wasn’t unusual for her mother to find her asleep in his box, curled up in the straw between his metal-shod feet. He was also a constant in her life. He’d always been there, had never scolded her or fallen out with her or teased her. Gabby had always been glad to see her, no matter how foul a mood she might be in. He seemed to hear her footsteps as she approached and he’d give a small whinny of anticipation, then nuzzle her warmly as soon as she reached him.

  Jane forked the straw for the hundredth time, trying to make it level. A brand-new bed of this thickness was a rare treat. As with other yards, bedding was usually sifted each day and the droppings and wet straw removed. The remaining straw was simply topped up. But for Christmas, Angel Gabriel had a fresh, sweet-smelling cushion.

  She put the fork outside the box and unbuckled Gabby’s rug. Taking a stiff-bristled brush, she worked on his back and tail, cleaning away the wisps of straw and the dust; then to his mane, singing softly to him now, making his ears prick and swivel. ‘Silent night, holy night…’ Her voice was pleasant. The horse stood very still as though listening intently. ‘You like that one, do you?’ She asked and his ears flicked again. She spoke to him, ‘Remember, I’m going away soon. Going to Ireland for a while to see Poppy. She’s hurt herself. I’m going to help her get better. Be away for a while but Dad’ll look after you… Doesn’t Dad always look after you, eh? Don’t worry. Will you miss me? I’ll miss you. I’ll miss your smell, well, not your poo, I won’t miss that! And I’ll miss the warmth of you when it’s cold like this.’ She was crouching beneath him now, doing his underside, knowing he’d be nodding furiously as he always did when she brushed his belly.

  When she finished, she put his rug back on and filled his hay net and water bucket, then stood back and looked at him. ‘You’re all done up for the party season,’ she said and moved forward again and hugged his neck. ‘Happy Christmas, Gabby.’

  As the Cassidy family finished eating Christmas Eve dinner, strong winds were whipping over the Shropshire fields. Maggie Cassidy washed up, taking pleasure in hearing the gale outside and listening to Graham and the children talking at the table, safe and warm.

  The atmosphere was perfect. Everything was set for a proper, traditional Christmas. The tree glowed in the corner; logs burned in the big grate, warming the cushions in the inglenook. The dogs lay dozing on the rug and the family were in harmony. Even the horses were well. It was unusual not to have at least one animal down with something or other, but all were fit and healthy. December had brought three winners, a good bag for such a small stable. Graham was as happy as she’d ever known him. Above all, there was money in the bank and more on the way.

  Maggie stopped for a few seconds, just stood completely still to make sure she took in this moment. She forced her mind to concentrate on the meaning of it, the beauty of it; for she knew she would never get it back.

  Graham Cassidy had intended to keep the fire going until it was time for bed, but the wind blew with such a force outside that it funnelled gusts down the chimney, making the flames and smoke billow out dangerously over the hearth. Graham damped the fire down and decided to go and check on the horses.

  Travelling north on the M6, Gerry Monroe was losing time. The sides of the horsebox caught the crosswinds like sails, and anything above forty-five miles an hour saw him using all his strength to keep the box on the inside lane. Although he cursed constantly, he wasn’t too despondent. He knew the weather would be making so much noise around the yard, clattering every loose slate, screaming through each gap, setting every hanging thing swinging, that the trade-off was worth it. Unless Angel Gabriel spooked at it all, it should be an easy task to lead him out of the stable and away.

  23

  The storm battered Ballard Hall, Frankie Houlihan’s hotel hideaway, with all it could muster, but the solid oak doors and two-foot-thick walls shrugged it off without so much as a rattle or squeak.

  Yellow light shone from just one first-floor bedroom where Frankie lay listening to Faure’s Requiem on the bedside radio. He was feeling emotional. Not just because it was Christmas Eve and Kathy wasn’t with him. He’d just taken a call on his mobile from his sister, Theresa, who’d got the number from the message on his answerphone at home.

  She’d told him that all the family was well, including Mother. It had warmed Frankie’s heart to hear her voice, to hear her talk of their brothers and sisters. Theresa had tried to persuade him to call them all, wish them a merry Christmas. ‘Maybe next year,’ Frankie had said.

  He was up early next morning out running in the wet, shining countryside of the Welsh borders. When he returned to his room, he found a message on his mobile phone. It was from a grievously serious Graham Cassidy. ‘Mister Houlihan, I’m really sorry to be ringing you on Christmas Day but I’m afraid the worst has happened, as you warned. I’d very much appreciate a call whenever it’s convenient.’

  A seventy-five minute drive on almost-deserted roads took Frankie to the Cassidy place. On the way, he called Geoff Stonebanks and told him about the kidnapping. Stonebanks asked Frankie if he could handle it until the next day. He could tell that the big man was distressed about this happening on Christmas Day, but not half as distressed, Frankie thought, as the Cassidys would be.

  As he turned to go along the final rough road toward the Cassidy place, he felt guilty for feeling relieved that this had come up to break the melancholy, the monotony of these days. It was unfortunate that somebody had to suffer so his mind could be freed of self-pity for a day or two.

  The door was dark green with a diamond-shaped window so thick that the glass distorted the light and movement inside. Below the window hung a huge Christmas wreath, its foliage damaged from the battering the wind had given it. As he waited for a response to his brief press o
n the bell, Frankie could see the scratch marks the holly had made in the door’s paintwork.

  When Maggie Cassidy opened the door and saw him, she knew somehow who he was. The man with the nice Irish voice who’d spoken to her the other night. He hadn’t said anything yet, but she knew it was him. Just over six foot tall, she judged, slim, strong looking with thick dark hair, and eyes that were a vivid blue as the reflection of the pale sun on the glass caught them.

  ‘Mrs Cassidy?’

  She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Mister Houlihan. Please come in.’

  Frankie walked past her. The door opened into the kitchen. Frankie had seen so many of these kitchens now, with their big pine tables and Agas, their tiled walls hung haphazardly with pictures, framed and unframed; the deep windows, the brightness, the colour. Frankie had been at quite a few trainers’ houses and all of their kitchens looked pretty much the same, like the Cassidys’, although this one was the tidiest he’d seen. It was homely-looking but neat and very tidy. Frankie wondered if the Cassidys had a cleaner, although the ‘memory’ of Mrs Cassidy’s handshake a minute ago suggested she’d done plenty of hard work in her own life. When shaking hands with women, Frankie was sometimes embarrassed by the softness of his hands, which had never done manual work.

  Maggie closed the door and moved toward the table. ‘Please sit down, Mister Houlihan. The kettle’s just boiled if you’d like a cup of tea or coffee.’

  ‘A cup of tea would be nice.’

  She smiled. ‘Fine. You look like a milk and no sugar man.’

  ‘I am. I am indeed. I didn’t know it was so obvious.’

  ‘Ahh, it is. A slight turning down of the right eyelid at the corner. Always gives it away.’ She was smiling warmly and Frankie was beginning to wonder if he’d come to the wrong place. He watched her pour the hot water into a pale blue teapot. He liked her, as he had done when he’d seen her picture in the paper and when he’d spoken to her briefly on the phone. She seemed naturally friendly and at ease, confident. He liked confident women. Admired was a better word, Frankie thought, under the circumstances. It wasn’t right to like other women, that wasn’t the expression he was looking for. You could admire a woman for her achievements, and being confident these days was, he supposed, an achievement in itself.