For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions

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For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions Page 19

by Richard Pitman


  ‘God forbid,’ said Stonebanks, shaking his head. ‘So finding out what happened to Zuiderzie after he was put down is a key factor, you’re right.’

  ‘So what about Martin Broxton? Do you think it would be safe to talk to him upfront?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Straight as a die, Broxton. No problem there at all. You’d just need to be careful not to make too big a thing of it or word will get out that something is cooking. Just take it easy with him, tell him it’s a routine check on horses that, eh, what can we say…? Did you mention that Zuiderzie won on the day he was put down?’

  ‘That’s right. I was there. He absolutely hacked up after leading all the way. Won at a big price.’ Stonebanks stared at him for what seemed a long time then put down his coffee mug and started massaging his jaws. ‘Won easily and very unexpectedly at a big price and the next day he’s dead?’ Frankie nodded slowly. Stonebanks said, ‘Have you checked his dope test?’

  Frankie shrugged, open-handed. ‘No. Should I have?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just seems odd.’

  ‘Now you mention it, I remember noticing how on his toes Zuiderzie was in the paddock that day, which was very unlike him. Kathy always used to say how docile he was, how laid-back. I just put it down to some class of rejuvenation or something since he’d left Miles Henry and joined Broxton’s yard. If it had been a positive dope test, we’d have heard about it by now, surely?’

  Stonebanks got up and went to the phone. ‘Somebody might have heard about it, but it wouldn’t necessarily have made its way back to us. Let me call the lab boys.’

  Fifteen minutes later, he got a call back from Newmarket with the result of Zuiderzie’s Stratford dope test. ‘Thanks,’ he said and hung up, then turned to Frankie. ‘Negative. I suppose that makes it easier to go and talk to Broxton. We don’t have to worry about him being involved in anything.’

  ‘Are you coming along?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘No, it would seem over the top then. He might get suspicious. Why don’t you just make it look like a social visit? You mentioned you’d exchanged letters, no reason for you not to drop by and introduce yourself, reminisce about old times, get him talking about the horse.’

  ‘Good idea, Geoff. Good idea.’

  When Frankie called Broxton, the trainer seemed happy to hear from him and invited him for breakfast and to watch some schooling next morning.

  Frankie and Martin Broxton got on well, and chatted about racing in general and their respective careers. It was after breakfast as Broxton showed him round the yard that Frankie brought the subject back to Zuiderzie, saying, ‘It must have been a real shock to lose him after he’d won his first race for you.’

  ‘We couldn’t believe it, Frankie. It happened so soon after it too. He’d just got home and we had to call the vet out. It must have started on the journey back. The poor bugger was standing there shaking like he was made of metal and somebody had hit him with a hammer. Shaking like a bloody tuning fork, he was. Culling operated on him that night, within an hour, in fact, but just couldn’t save him.’

  ‘Culling’s your vet?’

  ‘That’s right. Good man. Good vet. If Peter Culling couldn’t save him, nobody could.’

  ‘And what was Mister Culling’s verdict? What killed him?’

  ‘Aggravated colic, I think he called it. The non-aggravated version is bad enough, I can tell you. I don’t want to see this other type again.’

  ‘Pity the owner.’

  ‘Yes, and his lass. Zuiderzie was Belinda’s first winner. She’s still not over it. Still keeps a lock of his mane in her locket.’

  ‘Poor girl. So did the owner take him home, have him buried?’

  ‘Nothing so romantic, I’m afraid. There ain’t too many can afford to do that these days. We let the vet dispose of him through the local knacker’s man, helps pay a bit off the final bill.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  Broxton smiled as they stopped by the box in the corner of the yard, and a big brown intelligent head appeared over the top of the door. The horse sniffed at his trainer’s shoulder and began nuzzling him. ‘Never mind,’ Broxton said, ‘here’s the next serving of hope, the thing that keeps us all going. Frankie Houlihan, meet this year’s Triumph Hurdle winner, Barabbas. Barabbas, meet a man with very good connections!’ Frankie smiled and reached to stroke the big nose.

  Frankie returned to discuss things with Stonebanks before ringing Culling to arrange an appointment. Stonebanks said he’d known the vet for years and although he seemed quite a reclusive individual personally, he had no reason to believe he was anything other than a hard-working vet. He was properly licensed, long serving and he covered a number of racecourses in an official capacity as well as running his own business in Lambourn.

  When Frankie rang and introduced himself, he felt that Culling had been thrown and that the vet had been shocked too when he’d mentioned that he wanted to come and speak to him about Zuiderzie. Culling had tried to cover his reaction by claiming he was on his mobile giving emergency advice and could he call Frankie back in a few minutes? So Frankie gave him his mobile number and sat in Stonebanks’s kitchen waiting for the call. He and Stonebanks probed and twisted what they had so far to see if they could squeeze anything more from it.

  Then Frankie remembered what he had to do. ‘Geoff, we’ve got to find some way off keeping that horse at Joe Ansell’s above the ground and in decent shape.’

  Stonebanks looked puzzled for a minute the said, ‘Ahh, you’re right.’

  ‘Not exactly the easiest thing to store, is it?’

  Stonebanks shook his head. ‘You can say that again. He’ll need to be frozen or he’ll be stinking in a week. What’s happening with him where he is?’

  ‘Joe Ansell’s put him in a cold room he uses but that was just to allow him to be able to work with the cuts and stuff. I don’t think he’s got anywhere he can actually freeze the body.’

  Stonebanks looked thoughtful, then said, ‘I know a guy who has a big meat processing plant. He might have some sizeable units there. I’ll give him a call.’

  33

  Culling couldn’t stop sweating. It was chilly in the conservatory where he paced the tiled floor, wide- eyed, unable to calm himself or control his thoughts. They were onto him. Everything was crumbling, about to collapse, all that he’d worked so hard for this past year. He was so, so close to finalizing everything, to getting to America, to his own Promised Land and now this. The Jockey Club Security Department. Jesus, what had tipped them off? Why Zuiderzie? Oh, but that was the way they worked, wasn’t it? They’d have the evidence for all of them but they’d just pursue one case, the only one they were surest of, one was all they needed.

  He loosened his tie. Suddenly the image of the fat, sweating bookie, Compton Breslin, came to his mind, and he hated to think of himself in the same state as that slug used to get into when he’d made him climb the hill. What about Breslin? Had the security people approached him? Had he given them some sort of tip-off? Or had Monroe finally opened his mouth? There was no reason why he should. Come to think of it, there was no reason in Breslin’s case either. He’d had a call from the bookie just the other day to see when the next one was planned.

  Well there’d be no next one now. God, he’d promised there’d never be a next one if only he could get away with this. A conviction would see him turned back at the barrier at any US airport, deported as a criminal. Culling made himself stop and sit down in the wicker chair. He held his head in his hands, gripped his cheeks in clawed fingers that pressed white islands into his sweaty, flushed face. He had to stop panicking and make himself think rationally.

  OK, worst-case scenario. They know I’ve put all the horses down. They know all have won at a big price the same day. They know the dope tests came up negative. The horses can’t be tested again. But let’s say Breslin has opened his fat mouth and said he’s paid me money.

  But why? Why kill the golden goose and all that? No reason unless
Jockey Club Security have nailed him for something else and he’s offered me as a sacrificial lamb.

  I could leave now, head for the States, sell the house to get the last bit of money I need. But they have an extradition treaty; I’d just be brought back humiliated… Unless I could manufacture an early death. Something that wouldn’t poison my system, jeopardize my chances of being revived…

  Culling got up and hurried to his library.

  After half an hour waiting for the vet to return his call, Frankie said to Stonebanks, ‘How far is Culling’s place?’

  ‘A couple of minutes’ drive.’

  ‘Will you take me there now?’

  ‘Think that’s wise?’

  ‘He sounded awful flustered by my call, promised to call back in a few minutes.’ Frankie looked at his watch. ‘That was half an hour ago.’

  Stonebanks hauled himself out of his chair. ‘OK, let’s go.’

  They drove past the vet’s place first. Through the gates, Frankie could see a green estate car on the gravel in front of the bungalow.

  ‘Is that his car?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he’s still at home. Park up somewhere, Geoff, would you? And wait for me.’

  ‘No problem.’ Stonebanks pulled over.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The big man switched off the engine, unclipped his seatbelt and turned to smile at Frankie and give a small salute. ‘Good luck!’

  ‘If I’m not back in quarter of an hour, come in with all guns blazing.’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  As Frankie got out and walked the short stretch of pavement to the gates, he smiled and shook his head. He realized Stonebanks’s tone of voice and knowing smiles meant that he thought Frankie was going off the deep end, that he was willing to let him make his own mistakes.

  He rang the bell beside the brass plaque that said Peter H. Culling MRCVS. He heard Culling’s footsteps coming down the hall and saw the rippled outline through the bubbled glass door. He was slightly smaller than Frankie but looked fit; mid-forties, maybe, thinning sandy hair and a quizzical look in his hazel eyes. He had a book in his right hand, hanging by his side, and he wore brown corduroy trousers and an open-necked white shirt. ‘Can I help?’ he asked.

  Frankie smiled and held out his hand. ‘Frankie Houlihan, Jockey Club Security Department. Thought I’d save you a call as you were so busy.’ Frankie could almost see the vet’s brain whirring as he tried to force a smile and decide what to say. He masked things by raising the hand with the book in it, then apologizing and turning back inside to put the book on the table in the hall. When he came back to shake Frankie’s hand, he looked a little more composed but the wideness in his eyes was still there.

  ‘How do you do?’ he asked. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t get back to you. Had a problem with one of the private, non-racing clients I handle. Got his horse away in Ireland with him hunting and wanted some advice on the phone, so I’ve had my head buried in some reference books since you called. I do apologize. Please come in.’

  Frankie followed him down the hall. ‘No problem, I thought something must have cropped up and I didn’t want to go ringing you again if you were still on the mobile.’

  They went into the conservatory. Frankie said, ‘I don’t mind waiting, you know. Please finish what you were doing and I’ll sit here a while and enjoy the peace and quiet.’

  ‘Not at all. Crisis over. I was just double-checking something. Please sit down. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. I really don’t want to keep you. It’s no big deal. I just wanted to try and find out a few things about a horse I believe you treated.’ Frankie sat in a deep, wicker-framed, well-padded floral chair.

  Culling stayed on his feet, pacing slowly. ‘Ah yes, you mentioned on the phone, it was Zuiderzie, wasn’t it? Poor bugger. I always feel worse for the lad, you know, when we lose a horse. They’re closer to them than anyone.’

  ‘Indeed. It’s a hard business.’ Frankie was learning quickly that with nervy people like Culling it often paid to ask no questions and just let them babble on trying to fill the silence. He sat smiling at the vet.

  Culling kept pacing. He said, ‘I remember Martin’s box-driver calling me. The horse was in a really bad state when I got there, shaking and shivering. Shocking sight. I got him here as soon as I could and opened him up. Thought it was a twisted gut. If you catch them quick enough, sometimes you can save them but I’m afraid it wasn’t to be. Died on the table, poor bugger.’

  Frankie nodded, looked like he shared the vet’s care and concern. ‘He’d won that day, as I remember.’

  Culling looked straight ahead now and quickened his pacing. When he spoke, Frankie noticed the pitch of his voice had increased slightly. ‘Yes, that’s right, he did. Even more unfortunate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean for the connections. Just back to winning form, you know, then for that to happen. Most unlucky.’

  ‘Would you have taken a blood sample before operating?’

  ‘No. No time for that, I’m afraid.’

  Frankie said nothing. The silence was broken only by Culling’s footsteps on the stone floor.

  Frankie said, ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He stopped now and looked at Frankie.

  Frankie shrugged slightly. ‘Did you call the knacker’s man in?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Of course.’

  ‘And who do you use?’

  ‘Forgive me, but may I ask what exactly it is that you’re trying to establish?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t go into too much detail just now. It’s to do with something completely separate that the department is working on. We thought there just might be a link somewhere.’ Frankie sat forward, elbows on knees and lowered his voice slightly. ‘To be perfectly honest, it’s not a racing problem as such, it’s to do with the illegal exporting of horse meat to Europe. Our friends in Whitehall have asked us to help out. As if we didn’t have enough to do! ‘

  Culling seemed to relax. He returned Frankie’s smile. Frankie said, ‘So who’s your knacker’s man?’

  Culling suddenly looked troubled again. He backed slowly toward the chair opposite Frankie’s and sat down. It was his turn now to lean forward, elbows on knees, expression pained as he shook his head. ‘Look, this is really embarrassing for me. I’m, eh, I’m in a bit of a spot.’

  Frankie nodded encouragingly, still smiling. ‘If I can help you out, I will.’

  ‘Well, you see, I don’t call the knacker’s man direct, I use one of his employees who’ll turn out any time, day or night and, well, to be honest, he pays me a bit better than his boss does.’

  ‘So he’s moonlighting?’

  ‘I suppose he is. Ask no questions, hear no lies.’ He opened his hands in explanation or apology, Frankie wasn’t sure which.

  ‘So can you give me a name?’

  The vet massaged his freckled cheeks. Frankie said, ‘I’ll make sure you are kept out of it if anything comes of this.’

  Culling, head still bowed, raised his eyes toward Frankie. ‘Can you guarantee that?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘His name is Gerry Monroe.’

  34

  It was almost midnight when Frankie left Canary Wharf and the office of the Racing Post newspaper. He drove north much faster than he’d normally have done, unable to keep the adrenaline coursing through his body away from his accelerator foot. He’d had a good day. A bloody good day, even if he said so himself. He’d learned a lot about his job and about people and how to handle them, and it excited him. He felt more powerful than he’d ever done as a priest. Much more.

  Back then, people believed he could grant them eternity in heaven through absolving sins. That suddenly seemed like nothing compared to what he felt he could do now. He’d been dead right about Culling; spot on. He knew the man was involved in something. OK, the vet wouldn’t have made the best poker player in the world, but Fr
ankie had got him on the hook and played him like an expert. Back in the car with Stonebanks, a triumphant Frankie had drummed on the dashboard and said with delight, ‘Know when I knew I had him? When he didn’t ask why I had asked about taking a blood test before the operation! Why on earth would I have asked that? Why didn’t he question it?’

  And Stonebanks had agreed and congratulated him, and asked where they went next. Well here was where they went next, corroboration. He’d called Maggie Cassidy and she’d promised to wait up although Graham was still bed-bound.

  It was two-thirty in the morning and pitch-black on the final run to the Cassidy place. Through the trees and gaps in the hedges, he saw, as he drove, the light coming from the kitchen windows and the sight warmed him. Turning into the drive he thought he caught Maggie in his headlights as she stood at the window, arms folded, watching, waiting. Excited as he was at the news he had to give her, he decided it was best, at this stage, not to mention that he thought the horses might still be alive. Monroe was almost certainly the kidnapper; he had picked up Zuiderzie, Zuiderzie looked very like Ulysses, but it wasn’t certain yet that his theory was correct. And if Zuiderzie was a fake Ulysses then which horse had Monroe used to stand in for the corpse of Angel Gabriel?

  He cut the engine in the hundred yards or so before the door and coasted up, the steering wheel suddenly heavy in his hands as the power steering was lost. He didn’t want to wake Graham or young Billy. As he got out of the car, Maggie was already in the open doorway of the house. She smiled as he closed the car door softly and put his finger to his lips as he mock-tiptoed across the drive to the house. She laughed quietly. ‘You look like a drunk trying to creep in and not wake his wife.’

  ‘I feel drunk, with power!’ he said and Maggie was surprised when he hugged her warmly. They went inside. Embers in the grate still gave off a good heat, and Maggie took his jacket and hung it up as he sat by the fire.

  ‘Whiskey?’ she asked.

 

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