For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions

by Richard Pitman

  They went behind the boxes, kept walking until they reached the perimeter fence, then followed it round to where Stonebanks waited. He was holding on to the railings. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked.

  ‘We took the scenic route, didn’t we Sean?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Any the wiser?’ Stonebanks asked.

  Frankie said, ‘One of Corell’s men is in there with, we think, at least one other person. There are two horses in a stable block at the back. One of them, or should I say the head of one of them, looks very like Angel Gabriel.’

  Stonebanks nodded. ‘Did you see the other person?’

  Frankie shook his head. ‘Heard glasses clink in a room. Couldn’t see through the window.’

  ‘It could be Monroe,’ Stonebanks suggested.

  ‘I think that’s not unlikely.’

  Frowning, Stonebanks stared at the moon. ‘We need a reason to get the police in.’

  ‘How about a positive identification of Angel Gabriel?’

  ‘That would help. How are you going to do it?’

  ‘I’ll call Maggie and ask her to drive down now.’

  ‘And shin over the fence?’

  ‘She could bring Jane,’ Sean said. ‘Jane can climb.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Frankie reached for his mobile.

  41

  Maggie sped south. Jane was beside her, one minute unable to stop talking, the next silent, biting her nails, which she hadn’t done since she’d turned seven. Maggie felt guilty for giving Graham two of those pills upon which he’d become so reliant, but she’d had to ensure he’d sleep soundly until she returned, which might not be until the early hours.

  Stonebanks met them as agreed outside the George in Lambourn. He introduced himself and they got into his car. The moon was high as they trekked through the woods, all three in dark clothing. Stonebanks lost his bearings, but Jane put them back on track when she saw the faint light from the house. Frankie and Sean had been back to the house twice. Little had changed. Pusey was still in his chair, although he was asleep. Vague sounds came from the room behind the frosted glass but no one had emerged.

  Frankie smiled at Maggie through the railings and Sean did the same at Jane. They received two very strained smiles in return.

  Stonebanks helped Jane up on his side and Frankie let her put her feet on his shoulders on the other. When she was safely on the ground, Sean reached to touch her arm, then her hair. Her gaze fixed on Frankie as her hand searched for Sean’s hand. He took it. Frankie said, ‘You’ll be in no danger, Jane. I won’t let anything happen to you.’

  She nodded. ‘You’ll be fine, Jane,’ Sean said.

  Frankie led them along the fence to the back of the house. When the stables came in view, he stopped and turned to the teenagers. ‘Just a thought - if it is Gabby, is he likely to make much noise when he sees you?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘He could. He might,’ she whispered nervously.

  Frankie thought about it. ‘If you stayed ten yards away to the side and I got him to stick his neck out of the box, would that be enough for you to tell?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Good. Let’s do that.’

  Two minutes later Frankie was again easing back the bolt on the middle door. The horse was waiting this time and his head came out as Frankie opened it, going all the way, so Jane could see him against the weak lights and get what help she could from the moon overhead. She squinted through the darkness then turned to Sean. ‘I need to get a bit closer.’

  ‘Get behind me then, crouch down so he doesn’t see you,’ he whispered.

  Jane crouched behind his shoulder, peeking over when she was five yards away. Frankie watched her; he could see only her right eye and forehead in the moonshine, and he saw a tear rise as she nodded her head. Gabby seemed to sense her, to smell her; he turned and whickered softly. Frankie stroked his nose then pushed slowly, Gabby’s hooves scraping the floor as he reluctantly backed away.

  Jane took a lot of persuading to get back in the car and return home without the horse. It was only when Sean agreed to leave and travel with her that Maggie was able to head north again in the hope they’d get back before Graham woke.

  The police were at Hewitt’s before midnight, but the plan was to try and do it peacefully, to wait until someone came out to feed the horses next morning. If they were being properly looked after, this should happen quite early, probably while it was still dark.

  By six a.m., there were six men inside the grounds; four were armed police, one was a special negotiator, the other was Frankie Houlihan. Concealed in the woods nearby were another dozen armed police. Frankie concluded that if Monroe was still carrying the rifle he’d used to threaten the Cassidys, he was going to be heavily outgunned.

  David Hewitt rose within minutes of his alarm clock beeping at six-thirty. He switched on the bedroom light and went to the toilet, then the bathroom. Under the shower, he was planning the day with some excitement. He’d been working long hours this past week and was close to a breakthrough in the project. It had taken a while for him to adjust to the presence of the Irishman in the house, but Pusey had treated it as a holiday, boozing and watching TV. Hewitt admitted to himself that Pusey’s overall laid-back approach had helped him calm down and refocus on the project. The threat of Monroe’s return, the demands he might make about the two horses, the possibility of the police suddenly turning up - these no longer dominated Hewitt’s thinking.

  He’d still have preferred not to have the horses there. Apart from the risk of sheltering kidnapped animals, they were too much trouble to look after. He knew Pusey had been told by his boss to make sure the horses stayed there. Hewitt concluded they had their own plans for making money out of them, but Pusey hadn’t laid a brush on either of them nor filled a water bucket.

  Dressed now, he hurried downstairs. Still, he thought, there was a good chance he was going to make a breakthrough in the next forty-eight hours. Then he could get away from them, away from this house, these woods, back to Marcia, to civilization.

  He went outside, pulling on a thick fleece jacket, leaving the door open behind him. The gravel rattled under his boots as he hurried toward the back of the house and the feed room. He stopped, remembering it was always best to get the empty water buckets out of their boxes first. As he reached for the bolt on Ulysses’ door, he heard someone speak behind him and his mind registered the slight tension in the voice. This is the police. We are armed. Stand completely still.’

  Hewitt had a sensation of this not happening, of watching a movie. He didn’t stand still; he turned around with a silly smile on his face. Two policemen in flak jackets and helmets had rifles pointed at his face. The taller one, his voice a higher note now, said, ‘Stand still! Don’t move!’

  A look of horror quickly replaced the smile on Hewitt’s face. His legs gave way and he slumped softly to the ground.

  Frankie came out from behind the stable block and hurried across to Hewitt. He said to the police, ‘It’s not Monroe.’ Both officers moved closer, their weapons still pointing at the unconscious Hewitt. From his position on one knee, Frankie raised a hand. ‘I think you better ease up, fellas. If he opens his eyes now he might die of shock.’

  ‘He might be faking,’ the taller one said.

  Frankie looked up at him. The big cop crouched quickly and frisked Hewitt, turning him roughly on his stomach to complete the job. Hewitt stirred at this and Frankie signalled to the police to back off a bit. ‘You OK?’ he asked Hewitt, making sure he filled the man’s vision as he turned again on his back and opened his eyes. Hewitt looked bemused. ‘I think you just fainted,’ Frankie told him. Hewitt blinked and sat up, his face level now with Frankie’s. ‘I’m a Jockey Club Security Department intelligence officer. Do you feel like talking?’

  Hewitt looked stunned and blurted out, ‘I didn’t steal the horses or the money!’

  ‘I know you didn’t. Do you know who did?’

  ‘Monroe.’


  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. He brought the horses here on Christmas Day. I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Has he contacted you in any way?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Honestly.’

  ‘Who else is here with you?’

  ‘A man called Pat Pusey.’

  ‘What’s your relationship with him?’

  Hewitt rubbed his eyes, tried to gather his thoughts. ‘None… none really. He’s here to… to sort of help his boss.’

  ‘To help him do what?’

  To look after me, I suppose. I’m doing some work for Mister Corell, that’s his boss, some important research work. I was getting worried about the behaviour of Gerry Monroe and Mister Corell sent Pusey to… to guard me, ‘

  Frankie looked round then turned again to Hewitt. ‘Where is Pusey now?’

  ‘In bed, I think.’

  ‘What time does he normally get up?’

  ‘Between nine and ten, depending on how he’s feeling.’

  Frankie smiled warmly at Hewitt. ‘You look very uncomfortable there and I need to ask you more questions. Is there somewhere we can go where Pusey won’t hear us?’

  Hewitt thought for a few moments. ‘We could go into the cellar. It’s just a few yards that way.’ Hewitt pointed to the centre of the house wall.

  ‘OK. Would you mind just sitting for a minute or two more while I brief my colleagues?’ Hewitt nodded. Frankie clasped his arm and smiled again. ‘Good man!’ Frankie straightened and walked back toward the house wall, motioning the tall cop to follow him. Frankie spoke quietly to him then went across to the perimeter fence.

  Ten minutes later, he was inside the damp cellar with Hewitt. Frankie sat on the corner of a heavy table littered with various pieces of rusting metal and old tools. A vice was fixed to the end opposite Frankie, cobwebs laced between its opened jaws. Hewitt stood a few feet in front of him, shivering every few seconds. A striplight cast a greenish glow on them. The tall cop stood by the inside of the door cradling his weapon.

  Frankie wasn’t making the headway he’d hoped to. After almost five minutes of questioning, Hewitt too was becoming frustrated. He said, ‘Look, Mister Houlihan, I cannot tell you what the project is! It’s a professional matter. I’m a scientist. I’m retained by Mister Corell to see the project through and confidentiality is a prerequisite to the success of it. I’m doing nothing illegal.’

  ‘You’re harbouring two horses that were kidnapped and a man who is a known criminal in Dublin. The man you admit is your paymaster is one of Europe’s biggest gangsters. You admit to paying money regularly to Monroe to bring live animals here for research purposes. Mister Hewitt, even if your project isn’t criminal in itself, all the other stuff is making you look very unlikely to be awarded the Upstanding Citizen of the Year medal. You may well find that the Crown Prosecution Service takes a more serious view of your behaviour than you seem to.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And, even if the police don’t prosecute you, Mister Corell is not going to be at all pleased with you when all this gets out. You may have seen the indulgent side of him so far. I know a child who can tell you of Mister Corell’s other projects, like the reaction of the sphincter when its owner is fixed to a snooker table with a hammer and six-inch nails. The project to test elasticity of the human body when dropped from two hundred feet onto concrete.’

  Hewitt stared at him, unblinking, as though in a trance. Frankie said, ‘I’m not kidding you, Mister Hewitt.’ Hewitt slowly shook his head. Frankie sighed and continued, ‘Look, I’m not too troubled about your project. And I believe you when you say you don’t know where Monroe is. But we really need your help in getting evidence on Corell. You tell me you’ve met him, that he’s happy to come here and talk to you. All you need to do is wear a little tiny bug and ask him the right questions.’ Hewitt buried his face in his hands and seemed to sag again. Frankie moved forward in support and helped him across to sit on an old wooden chest with steel bands on its lid and rope handles. ‘Are you alright?’ Frankie asked, softening his voice now. Hewitt hung his head, elbows on knees, hands still hiding his face.

  ‘Jesus God in heaven, what have I got myself into?’ he groaned.

  ‘You can get yourself out of it,’ Frankie said.

  Hewitt looked up. ‘I’m a scientist, man! And I’m a coward. I’ve never been in a fight in my life. Jesus, you saw me faint out there at the sight of a couple of guns. I thought Corell was a straightforward businessman. I thought I was being headhunted from the place I used to work. Do you think I’d be sitting here if I’d known how all this would turn out? My God, I won’t even be able to talk if I ever see Mister Corell again, won’t even be able to bloody breathe without shitting myself. You might as well ask me to fly in the air as try and deceive this man. Can’t you see that? Can’t you understand it?’ His arms were open in a pleading gesture; his expression was one of despair, of desperation.

  Frankie nodded. ‘I do see. I’m sorry.’ Frankie walked back and leant against the table again, rubbed his tired, gritty eyes and stood thinking for a while. He looked across at Hewitt and asked, ‘Has Pat Pusey ever met Gerry Monroe?’

  Hewitt shook his head wearily. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He asked me a lot of questions about Monroe, what he was like, what his background was, did I think he was dangerous. He’s never met him.’

  Frankie was silent again for a few moments, then said, ‘What do you want to do?’

  Hewitt looked up and Frankie saw hope mixed with fear. ‘I want to go home. I want to get my project stuff from the lab and go home.’ His voice was weak, like a child’s.

  Frankie stood up straight. ‘Come on then. Your project stuff will have to wait. You can come back for it, but if you want out of here now, I can fix that.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Police interview first, I think, but I can see no real reason, if you’ve been telling me the truth and I think you have, that you won’t be home soon. ‘Where is home?’

  ‘Norwich.’

  ‘Not that far.’ He reached for Hewitt’s arm and helped him up.

  ‘Seems a million miles. A lifetime away.’

  Frankie led him out of the cellar. The policeman followed, closing the door gently behind him. The first tinge of daybreak showed through. Frankie walked Hewitt toward the fence. ‘How are you at climbing railings?’ he asked.

  42

  Back at Stonebanks’s house, Frankie relished the mug of tea and bacon roll the big man put in front of him. The two other men in the kitchen were police officers; Trevor Prentice, who was in charge of the squad that had moved in to Hewitt’s place, and Kevin Wildman, the negotiator.

  Frankie had been impressed by Wildman when he’d been introduced in the early hours of the morning. The man had an air of quiet capability about him, confidence untainted by cockiness. In his mid-thirties, he was compact and fit looking. During the briefing that morning in Stonebanks’s house, Frankie grew more certain that they could pull off what they hoped. He knew that to do his job properly, Wildman would need to be cool, unflappable, a good actor. He seemed intelligent. He listened to the brief, asked only pertinent questions, made some notes.

  By the time Wildman climbed into the horsebox Stonebanks had arranged, Frankie told his two remaining companions that all they needed was a bit of luck.

  Wildman pulled up at the gates, lowered his window, stared aggressively up at the lens of the CCTV camera and leant heavily on his horn. Within two minutes, he saw Pat Pusey walking purposefully toward the gates. When he reached them, Wildman glared at him through the windscreen and stayed on the horn a few seconds longer, before jumping to the ground and walking cockily forward to face Pusey through the bars.

  ‘You Pusey?’ Wildman asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ Pusey was staring just as aggressively as Wildman. They were like boxers in a nose-to-nose. Wildman said, ‘I’m Gerry Monroe and you’ve got ten grand of mine and
two horses.’ Pusey seemed confused for a moment then hardened his eyes again. ‘Piss off, Monroe. You’re a day late and a dollar short.’

  ‘Open the gates, bog man, or your boss doesn’t get his project finished.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me. I’ve got Hewitt in the back. You ought to tell him not to go shopping so early in the mornings before his bodyguard’s up and about. Or maybe you should get your arse out of bed a bit quicker. Cut down on the old Guinness at night.’

  The slightly dazed look was back on Pusey’s face as he tried to figure out how to handle this. He said, ‘Let me see Hewitt.’

  ‘Let me see my ten grand. And let me in so I can pick up my horses.’

  ‘Your horses, is it? My arse! The horses you stole you mean! The horses you will not now be gettin’ back! ‘

  ‘Oh, I’ll be getting them back or you can explain to Corell how you managed to bugger up a year’s worth of work and an awful lot of investment.’

  Wildman saw the uncertainty begin to deepen in the Irishman. Pusey said, ‘Is Hewitt in the back of that horsebox?’

  ‘How do you think I knew you were here? Does anybody else know apart from Hewitt and Corell? D’you think Corell told me? Who else but Hewitt would know you fill yourself with Guinness every night and that you’re never out of bed before nine in the morning? Hewitt’s in the back with this week’s shopping including your two dozen cans of beer. Maybe that’ll make you open the gates.’

  Pusey looked angry. He moved closer to the gates and said, ‘Listen you cocky bastard, just ‘cos you nicked a couple of horses from some dopey trainer, don’t think you’re anywhere near my league. I’ve put bullet holes in fellas ten times tougher than you.’

  Wildman mimicked his accent. ‘Ahh now, don’t be givin' me all that old bollox your mate Gleeson did. Sure he was full of threats too. But at least he looked the part.’ He sneered as he spoke the last sentence.