Love M J Arlidge and Angela Marsons? Don’t miss For All Our Sins – the addictive new serial-killer crime novel from T M E Walsh.

When DCI Claire Winters is called to the brutal murder of a priest, it’s clear the victim’s death was clearly prolonged, agonising…and motivated by a fierce desire for revenge.

Allowing the killer to remain on the streets isn’t an option…but chasing a murderer with no leads was never going to be easy. And the closer Claire gets to the family of the victim, the more complex things become.

Soon, Claire finds herself in a race against time to connect the dots between a host of devastating secrets. And then the killer strikes again…

For All Our Sins introduces DCI Claire Winters – a hero to rival DI Helen Grace and DI Kim Stone.

For All Our Sins

T. M. E. Walsh

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © T. M. E. Walsh 2015

T. M. E. Walsh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474038072

Version date: 2018-06-27

TANIA (T. M. E.) WALSH began writing full time after becoming a casualty to the recession in late 2008. She successfully self-published the first two novels in the DCI Claire Winters series in 2013, and both appeared in the various best-selling Amazon Kindle charts before being picked up by HQ Digital in 2015. In 2011 Tania was the winner of the Wannabe a Writer competition sponsored by Writing Magazine and judged by Matt Bates, the Fiction buyer for WHSmith Travel.

Although writing now takes up most of her time, Tania has previously produced digital artwork that was published on a DVD-ROM for ImagineFX magazine’s FXPosé section twice in the early and latter part of 2007, which has been published worldwide. Tania is currently working on a new standalone novel and a third book in the DCI Claire Winters series. She lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and young daughter. You can follow her at tmewalsh.com, facebook.com/tmewalsh or @tmewalsh.

Thank you to the team at HQ Digital, especially my editor, Clio Cornish. You have contributed so much to help shape this novel to be the best it possibly could be. Thank you for championing the DCI Claire Winters series from the start.

Thank you to all the other authors from the HQ Digital family. What a talented and supportive bunch you are!

Further thanks must go to my Mum and Dad, for everything they have done and continue to do, to support me and my writing. To my husband, Daniel, for supporting our little family, allowing me to write full time.

And finally, thanks to my good friend, and literary guardian angel, Willow Thomas. You’ve been there since the first draft. Your unwavering support and sense of humour have kept me going, and for all you have done for me, I will be eternally grateful.

For Daniel and Eden

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Endpages

About the Publisher

The room smelled of blood, so thick that she could almost taste it…

CHAPTER 1

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

Amelia scarcely heard the words escape her mouth as she crossed herself and clasped the rosary tighter in her hands.

The little dark-red wooden beads didn’t give her the strength they once did. As she stared at the silver cross that dangled between her fingers, she knew her traditional faith in God had died a long time ago and part of her felt like a fraud.

From inside the confessional, Father Malcolm Wainwright shifted his weight awkwardly, but never broke his concentration. He continued to remain silent, awaiting the inevitable confession.

But the confession never came.

The silence felt as though it would swallow him whole. He turned his head slightly, peering through the ornate carvings of the wooden partition, but could see little in the darkness.

His eyes were not what they used to be but he could just make out the outline of her face, and where the light crept through the small cracks in the wood, he saw the most beautiful shade of red hair. Like fire, it seemed to reflect in his eyes, flecks of light dancing across his iris.

‘Take your time, my child. Trust in God.’

Amelia closed her eyes, squeezed her rosary, but remained silent.

Then she turned to face him, her hands placed flat against the partition, her fingertips poking through the spaces in the wood.

The cross on the rosary was swaying back and forth against the wood, like a crude attempt at Morse code.

Wainwright saw her eyes for the first time as a stray beam of light caught the brightest shades of green, the colour of a turquoise sea.

Her eyes started to mist as she brought her face closer, her breathing heavy, her lips just inches from his face.

‘Do you remember the girl, Father?’ Her voice rasped from within her throat as her demeanour changed.

Wainwright frowned as Amelia contorted her body, until she was pressed against the wooden partition.

‘You remember, Father? She tried to tell, to cry for help.’ Her voice began to rise. ‘There were times you could’ve stopped it. All the pain she suffered… You had the chance to set her soul free, but instead you did nothing.’

Wainwright felt the air in the room change, and for the first time in all his years in the ministry, he felt what could only be described as fear.

What could I have done?

Amelia saw the recognition flicker across his eyes. Her mouth pulled into a grin, her eyes knowing. ‘There’s blood on your hands, Father. Can’t you smell it, feel it on your skin?’

Wainwright snapped.

‘You’ve mistaken me for someone else,’ he said, trying to control his voice. ‘I want you to leave immediately and…’ He trailed off as he heard someone approach the curtain to his compartment.

The last thing Wainwright saw was the flash of light against the steel of a slim blade as the curtain was pulled aside, just seconds before the knife tore through his robes and sliced through his withered skin.

Pain ripped through every muscle in his body. As blood soaked through his garments, he swore he could feel his soul screaming for release.

Looking up to see his attacker he saw only the woman, now standing in front of him. Her hair was like fire with the glow of sunlight cascading through the stained-glass windows behind her.

She grasped his hair, slammed his head back against the confessional, and brought her face closer to his. Despite the pain in his body, he could smell her sweet perfume so vividly.

‘You remember this face, Father.’ Her lips were just inches away from his. ‘Do you remember these eyes? My voice?’

Wainwright tried to scream but blood pooled in his throat, a thick taste of copper.

He knew her. And he silently damned her to Hell.

His eyelids fluttered involuntary as the energy began to drain from his body.

‘What does it feel like to hurt, Father? The pain you feel is nothing compared to the years of torment you let be inflicted on the innocent. Too many years you’ve kept that secret that stops you from sleeping at night.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s blood on your hands, priest…you shouldn’t have helped him that day.’

Tears pricked Wainwright’s eyes. How does she know? There were only three there that day…and the other.

Amelia took the cross hanging from her rosary and pressed it hard against his dry lips.

Wainwright’s eyes widened, begging in silent prayer for forgiveness.

‘For all the years you’ve preached your poison, and for the tormented souls who will never be free from your idea of faith, I shall unite you with God, and He will decide the punishment for your soul.’

Wainwright tried to fight her off as she forced the cross past his lips and into his throat. Much stronger than she appeared, Amelia pushed his jaw up hard, and pulled on the rosary beads until they broke free.

They scattered to the floor, dancing over the flagstones, as he began to choke.

His lungs felt like they were on fire, desperate for air. He fell to his knees, his hands reaching up and clutching at Amelia’s clothes.

She stepped back and watched him crawl after her, one hand at his throat and the other reaching out, silently begging.

Amelia’s face was resolute as he wheezed and spluttered, his face turning vivid shades of blue and purple. He collapsed face down, his forehead hitting the flagstones hard. His eyes felt heavy. He let them close, as his breath slowed to a whisper.

Wainwright’s last thoughts were not of his childhood or a fond trip down memory lane. They were of a moment in a not so distant part of history.

Yes, Wainwright remembered her.

He also remembered a large oak staircase bathed in blood and a door closing, containing the screams within. Even now he knew it was too late to repent and change the fate of his soul.

He recalled a quote he’d read once. Something that had stayed with him all this time, scratching away in the back of his mind: The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.

Subconsciously, Wainwright had always known that one day his past would come back to haunt him.

Now the time had come, he welcomed it with open arms.

CHAPTER 2

Ice-blue irises pulled tight leaving the pupils the size of a pin prick as she stared skyward, hand raised to her brow, useless against the might of the sun’s rays.

Detective Chief Inspector Claire Winters felt a shiver shoot up her spine, like icy skeletal fingers scraping against her skin, despite the heat of the day. It was early morning, but the temperature on the dash of her car had said it was close to 24 degrees already.

Her shirt was sticking to her back underneath her suit jacket like a second skin. The air was muggy, close, pulling at each breath she took, yet despite this she still felt like ice, right down to her bones.

A feeling of dread pulled at her inside as she lowered the sunglasses from the top of her head, back down on her face.

She stared at the door ahead, the entrance to the looming tower block opposite her. A place she’d just left. A place she hated. A place that had become more somewhere to call home than her house several miles out of Haverbridge.

Claire’s mind drifted to dark thoughts. They came thick and fast lately. Like a nightmare that didn’t end after she woke each morning. It continued long through the days. Sometimes it threatened to swallow her whole.

Sometimes Claire wondered if perhaps that’d be easier.

Just let all the fight be torn out of her and scattered to the wind, until all that remained was an empty shell.

Wouldn’t that be too easy?

She felt her BlackBerry vibrating inside her trouser pocket. She’d turned the ringer off whilst she’d been inside the building, inside that wretched flat that housed someone she’d long since come to loathe and love in equal measure.

She glanced at the screen, her grip tightened on the phone resting in her palm. Her finger hovered over the Answer button.

How easy it would be to just throw it away, forget her job, forget this life. Forget everything that’d passed and start again.

This is not you, she told herself. He does not define who you are, what you do, what comes next. She glanced up at the tower block again as she answered the call.

Take back the control.

‘DCI Winters,’ she said. Her lips were dry, cracked, sore. She touched her fingers on her free hand to her bottom lip, pulled them away. Tiny dots of blood were on her fingertips.

‘Guv?’ said Detective Constable Gabriel Harper at the other end of the phone.

Claire snapped back to the here and now. She’d detected something in his voice that was different. Whatever he was going to say, wasn’t going to be good.

‘What is it, Gabe?’

There was a drawn-out pause. Claire could hear his breathing. It was far from normal. A new sensation gripped at her insides. She bit down on her bottom lip, made herself turn away from the tower block.

‘What’s wrong, Harper?’ she said as she crossed the road towards where she’d parked her car earlier, a steely edge returning to her voice.

She heard Harper’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Guv, this isn’t something I can explain over the phone.’ He paused. ‘We need you back now, something’s happened at one of the local churches. Reports are coming in about a woman collapsing outside St Mary’s, completely covered in blood…someone else’s, not her own.’

CHAPTER 3

The coffee was like lava over his tongue, scorching the roof of his mouth, but for Detective Sergeant Michael Diego there were worse things in life than bad coffee.

With his unwashed hair and two-day-old stubble, he was still a handsome man, but the insomnia suffered last night through to the early hours of this morning was taking its toll before the clock had struck nine this morning.

He’d been out the office for a few hours, and now that he was back in time for lunch, he didn’t feel like working.

Haverbridge had that effect on him. Nestled in the county of Hertfordshire, the large town was fast becoming a haven for outsiders and, despite the recession, a construction haven.

Just thirty miles north of London, Haverbridge was attracting people from all walks of life and, being somewhat averse to change, Michael barely raised a smile at the prospect of more investment in his home town, despite the prosperity it could bring.

He hated what was overflowing from the London boroughs. He liked the old, hated the new.

Modernisation was something he was reluctant to adapt to. Like Haverbridge Police Station’s CID room, situated on the second floor in a modern part of the building.

It was a recent extension to the original building that’d been updated and refurbished despite impending government cuts, and although it was fairly spacious, Michael always felt claustrophobic in it.

He knew it was something that came from an experience rooted deep in his past.

Something he didn’t like to dwell on. He tried to push it from his thoughts.

He turned to glance around the room, and sipped his coffee.

The walls were lined with maps, photographs and notes for ongoing inquiries, including several pictures from the case he was investigating. He saw the photograph of the suspect involved, whose eyes looked like they would burn holes in Michael’s flesh and carve his name on his soul.

Pushing the thoughts from his head, his eyes swept over the room again. There were groups of desks broken up in sections for detective constables, sergeants and inspectors, and behind floor-to-ceiling glass wall partitions was Detective Chief Inspector Claire Winters’s office.

Her lair.

There she could keep an eye on him, watch his every move.

But not today. Not so far anyway. In fact he didn’t know where half the people were right now for that matter. Harper had been rushing off to his car when Michael had reached the station, something too urgent to wait.

It wasn’t Harper that bothered him anyway. It was Claire.

He hadn’t even caught a glimpse of her, which, whilst it was unnerving, pleased him somewhat. He conceded that he was just too tired to fight with her today, although part of him still enjoyed the banter.

He walked back to his desk and slumped down in his chair. He flicked the switch on the old desk fan beside him. It blew warm air at his face but it was better than nothing.

He grinned to himself. All the money that’d been spent on this new office, with air con, and it chooses one of the hottest days in August to break down. Change wasn’t always for the better.

He pressed the plastic cup to his lips, drinking the rest of his coffee in one go. He crushed the cup in his palm and, aiming it at the wastepaper basket, he threw it. The crushed cup hit the rim then fell on the floor.

Shit.

He needed sleep. Quality sleep, not just a few captured hours while working a case in the early hours of the morning, while living off a diet of caffeine and cigarettes.

Michael looked at his reflection in the window next to him, which overlooked the station’s car park.

He looked terrible, even by his own standards.

Dark circles created the illusion of crescent moons under his brown eyes, and the corners of his mouth were turned down in a fixed sorrowful pout.

He returned his gaze to his desk, which was cluttered and stacked high with paper and files. There were dirty coffee-ring marks on the wood and month-old dust congregating around his computer monitor and keyboard.

Michael hated computers.

Computers were for the ones who were no more than a number on the payroll system. Michael was more than that and he knew it, and he had no time for modesty. Not in this job.

He was disturbed from his thoughts by the vibrating of his mobile phone in his pocket.

He glanced at the caller ID.

Claire Winters. So much for not locking horns with her today.

He sighed and tried to ignore it. After the call failed to divert to his voicemail, he decided to answer it.

‘Where have you been, Diego?’

In a bad mood, as per-fucking-usual…

‘Sorry, Guv, I’ve been out of the office for a bit and I’ve been ignoring my phone, trying to catch up on work.’

‘Well you’d better pull your finger out your arse and get down here. I’m on Ryder Way, St Mary’s church.’

Michael paused, rubbing his eyes hard as a headache began to emerge, crossing over his forehead. The blood in his ears began to pound. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We found a body.’

‘Claire, I’m working on the Hargreaves case, do I really need to be down there?’ He heard her sharp intake of breath and cursed himself in his head.

That was not the attitude to show the Guv right now, or ever.

She could bust your balls just by giving you one icy look from her emotionless blue eyes. He awaited the inevitable lashing of her tongue.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve had a rough morning. Don’t be another pain in my arse.’

Michael paused. ‘Where have you been anyway?’

‘It’s…it’s personal.’

‘Something wrong? You can tell me.’

She paused, part of her wanting to offload her frustrations of the morning, but then her resolve hardened. ‘What are you, my therapist? Just drop what you’re doing and get down here.’

He bristled at her words, his shoulders locking up. He lowered his voice so the next words out of his mouth came in a forceful hiss. ‘I can’t just drop everything. I’ve been working flat out and I’m this close,’ he said, miming a small distance between his thumb and finger, despite knowing she couldn’t see, ‘from getting the lead we’ve been after. The Hargreaves case needs—’

‘Fuck the Hargreaves case,’ she cut in, her patience waning. ‘I’ll reassign it to Matthews.’

Michael was silent, his face twisted. His eyes wandered back to the picture on the wall he’d studied earlier.

Gavin Hargreaves was a local thug, dealer and complete thorn in his side.

He was a man who’d been in and out of police custody for years, served a prison sentence for a drug-related offence, but this hadn’t deterred him. He carried on with his little enterprise, controlling Haverbridge’s seedy underbelly, and he’d just been accused of a serious assault.

Trouble was there were no witnesses and little evidence of Hargreaves’s involvement. If they wanted Hargreaves away for a long time, they had to gather more evidence than they had already but it was a shitty investigation.

No one would put the finger on Hargreaves, such was his power and the fear he exerted over those in his pocket. Even local gangs feared him.

Michael had been working the Hargreaves case for two months now and had no intention of letting it go to anyone, especially not DI David Matthews.

Claire sensed his anger in the silence. She let him stew a few more moments before she gave a half smile.

‘Trust me, Diego, you’ll want to take this one. Right up your street.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ he said, beginning to lose patience.

‘When was the last time you went to church?’

‘Why?’

She paused then said, ‘The deceased was a priest.’

CHAPTER 4

Michael had left the station as soon as he’d ended the phone call with Claire. The roads had been unusually empty for that time of day but the closer he’d driven towards the crime scene at St Mary’s, the heavier the traffic had become.

The hacks and ghouls are already out in full force, he thought as he flashed his warrant card at officers who waved him past the police tape.

A Beds and Herts Scientific Services Unit van came into view and Michael saw a SOCO clad in a white hooded bodysuit, police evidence bag in hand, standing next to it.

Michael exchanged a nod with him as he approached and entered the church.

He found Claire was waiting for him in the entrance.

Her ice-blue eyes studied him from head to toe with no subtlety, as she held out a sealed Tyvek paper suit for him, with overshoes and a face mask.

‘Have you eaten today?’ Claire said.

Michael stopped changing and eyed her suspiciously. Her own face mask was hanging below her chin, the hood of her suit covering her hair. Her face was serious.

He half laughed. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want you spewing up and contaminating my crime scene.’

Michael zipped up the bodysuit. ‘Nothing I’ve ever seen in this job has ever made me sick. Not even close.’

Claire’s mouth twitched and she gestured over her shoulder. ‘We’ll see… You’ve never seen anything like this before.’

She raised her hand for him to walk with her before he could ask what she’d meant.

‘The deceased is sixty-two-year-old Father Malcolm Wainwright. The pathologist thinks the time of death occurred within the last two hours. Photography and videoing have been done and the SOCOs finished twenty minutes ago with not a lot to show for it. I’ve got officers on a house-to-house as we speak and the press crawling up my arse.’ She paused. ‘Fucking parasites.’

Michael stared ahead over the tops of the pews.

There were four large lamps illuminating the area near the altar and he knew that was where the body lay.

As he drew closer he caught the glimpse of blood spatters on the flagstone floor, just before they turned into the aisle. He glanced back at Claire.

‘We think that’s the deceased’s. It’s possible these drops of blood fell from the murder weapon, which,’ she said, before he could speak, ‘we haven’t recovered yet.’

‘What was the cause of death?’

Claire stopped in her tracks. ‘That’s anybody’s guess right now, given the state of the body.’

‘What do you mean?’

Claire paused, and then gestured with her hand. ‘See for yourself.’

His eyes narrowed at her in frustration but he kept his mouth shut. He walked ahead, careful to keep to the plastic walkway created to avoid contamination and headed up the aisle.

As the body came into view primal instinct caught him.

Clasping a hand to his mouth he forced himself to swallow the lump of bile that had risen up his throat. His eyes watered at the acidic taste against his tongue.

His eyes darted around Wainwright’s naked and desecrated body, seeing glimpses of red, and pink, then spots of stark white bone.

He looked back over his shoulder at Claire.

She raised her eyebrows. Told you so.

She walked around the large pool of blood, her bodysuit rustling with each step. She crouched down at a distance and observed the body.

‘Whoever did this must have a strong stomach,’ she said as she pulled her mask back up. Michael pulled his own up over his nose and mouth to block out the smell.

Claire glanced up at him.

Michael couldn’t determine whether or not it was with pity or embarrassment; either way he knew he had to pull himself together.

He squatted down next to her. She glanced at him, her eyes narrowed as if to ask him if he was OK. He held her gaze.

‘Don’t spew.’

‘I’m fine.’

She gave him a slight nod, unsure whether to believe him or not, and Michael guessed she probably didn’t care how he was coping. She just wanted to wrap this up and return to the station.

‘We’ll know more when we get the pathologist’s report, but Wainwright may have died from asphyxiation.’ Claire let her words sink in for a moment.

‘I thought it was anybody’s guess?’

‘It’s our best guess so far, taking the discoloration of his face into account, although there’re no ligature marks on the neck.’

Michael stared at the wound to Wainwright’s abdomen. The tear was clean and deep. ‘What about the stab wound?’

‘It appears to have been inflicted first.’

The voice came from behind Michael and he quickly swivelled around and got to his feet.

A tall man in his mid-forties and dressed in an identical body suit stared back at him with curious eyes.

‘DS Michael Diego, this is Principal SOCO Jason Meadows,’ Claire said as she got to her feet.

Meadows gave Michael a faint smile. ‘Sergeant.’ Michael managed a small nod.

Claire now stood beside them both. ‘Why don’t you fill DS Diego in on what we know so far?’

Meadows smiled and pointed towards the long curtain of the confessional box to their right.

‘He was attacked in there. The blood spatter pattern on the curtain and the interior of the confessional would indicate a quick thrusting motion to the body.’

Meadows walked around patches of dried blood leading from the confession box towards the altar. ‘He must have crawled by himself towards the altar.’

‘He could’ve been dragged,’ Michael said.

‘Not likely, because of the spatter pattern,’ Meadows said. ‘If he was dragged you’d expect the blood to be smeared across the flagstones. The pattern here doesn’t indicate anything consistent with that.’

Michael shot a look towards Claire. ‘And the chest?’

‘This desecration of the chest, I’m relieved to say, happened after death,’ she said.

Leaning forward for a closer look, Michael controlled his composure.

Wainwright’s skin had been cut and pulled back carefully, exposing his chest cavity, slick with blood.

Michael stared hard, fascinated by the fusion of blood and muscle partially covering Wainwright’s ribcage. ‘And the instrument?’

‘Probably a scalpel or a knife similar in shape. Whatever was used had to be very sharp,’ Meadows explained. ‘Look at the clean lines. It would’ve cut through the skin and muscle like butter.’

Michael looked closer at Wainwright’s mouth, which appeared to be clenched awkwardly. His eyes squinted and he looked at Meadows.

‘Has anyone looked inside his mouth yet?’

‘Not yet. That’ll be the job for the pathologist at the PM.’

Michael then locked eyes with Claire, amazed no one else had seemed to notice the unnatural shape of the mouth. Claire pulled a blank expression before realising Michael’s intention.

‘You’re not doing it, Diego.’

‘The mouth looks unnatural.’

‘Does anything about this crime scene look natural to you?’ she said.

‘I’ll do it,’ Meadows said. He crouched down, careful to avoid touching the blood with his plastic overshoes.

A female SOCO approached and handed Meadows a long thin black torch. He flicked the switch, illuminating Wainwright’s face, then set the torch aside.

Placing the fingertips of his left hand on the top of Wainwright’s head, he carefully pulled apart the jaw with his right. The skin felt cool beneath his touch, despite the barrier of his gloves.

He gently pulled and Wainwright’s mouth began to open.

His lips, which had been glued together with his own blood, started to part, leaving strands of dried blood over the pale, almost translucent skin.

Meadows resisted the urge to gag as the smell of death wafted up through the dead man’s throat and into his face.

Just as he went to aim the torch light inside Wainwright’s mouth, Claire’s BlackBerry rang, the shrill ringtone making everyone in the church jump as the tense silence broke.

Meadows lost his grip on Wainwright’s face and it slumped back to one side, causing two of Meadows’s fingers to slide into the cold mouth.

Cursing under his breath, he shot Claire a hard stare as she reached inside her bodysuit and pulled the phone from her pocket.

She glanced at the caller ID, held up her hand as if to apologise, before yanking the mask over her head and rushing towards the entrance to the church. She answered the phone before she had even walked halfway from the body.

‘Winters,’ she barked.

Returning his attention to Wainwright, Michael watched Meadows take hold of the man’s head and resume his inspection, pulling open the mouth once again.

He lowered the torch and peered inside.

White teeth gleamed back, with only a few shiny metal fillings towards the back of the mouth to taint a fairly perfect set of teeth. There were a few cuts on the bloated tongue but something caught Meadows’s eye further down the back of the throat.

Michael heard Claire’s feet shuffle over the flagstones towards him.

‘Nothing wrong, I hope. Nothing that will get in the way of business, I mean,’ he asked, cocking his eyebrow in her direction. ‘Rough morning, as you put it.’

‘Piss off, Diego. Is there anything in there or are you just wasting our time?’

Meadows held out his hand in the direction of the female SOCO. ‘Tweezers please, Charlotte.’

She handed him a set.

Pushing the tongue out of the way, Meadows lowered the tweezers inside the throat until the metal lightly brushed against something solid. ‘There is something in there. Here, hold the light.’

Michael took it, holding it closer just as Meadows pulled out a silver object, with a couple of small wooden beads still attached to it. The light from the torch danced over the metal.

Claire leaned in closer as Meadows held it aloft. ‘It’s a cross,’ he said, as Charlotte held open a clear evidence bag. He dropped it inside. ‘I’m no expert but it looks like it’s from a rosary. That’ll explain what those other beads were that we found on the floor.’

‘Great,’ Claire sighed. ‘This changes the whole game.’

Michael stared at her, confused. ‘What do you mean, this changes the game?’

Claire stared at him and shook her head in frustration. She looked back at Meadows. ‘I think we’re done here. I’m going to need the Scene of Crime Report ASAP.’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector.’

Claire walked towards the entrance to the church and started to remove her bodysuit.

There was an uncomfortable silence between Michael and Meadows.

‘I think that’s your indication to follow her.’

Michael shot Meadows a dark look. ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’

***

After removing his own bodysuit, Michael followed Claire out into the street, where extra police had been drafted in to make sure no one in the massing crowd tried to breach the police cordon.

It had started to spit with rain, despite the heat, and Claire pulled out a packet of cigarettes. She offered Michael the pack, but he pushed her hand away.

‘What the hell was that about? I’ve told you before, don’t show me up like that. Respect. That’s all I want.’

Claire exhaled smoke towards Michael’s face, her eyes narrowing slightly. She plucked the cigarette from her mouth.

‘Do you really need me to spell it out for you, Diego?’

‘If it helps me understand why you felt like trying to make me look stupid, then yeah.’

Claire scoffed. ‘You make yourself look stupid, Diego, you don’t need my help.’

She took another drag on her cigarette.

‘We find a man – not just any man but a priest – murdered in his church with his chest cut open. Then to top that off, we find a cross inserted inside his throat. The beads attached to it suggest the pendant was snapped off while it lodged inside blocking his airways.’

She let the statement hang in the air a moment. ‘Why not leave it at the stab wound? The pathologist said that cut would’ve been enough for Wainwright to bleed to death. He would’ve been in excruciating pain, but that wasn’t enough for the killer.’

Claire pointed at Michael, cigarette firmly wedged between her fingers. ‘That’s anger in there, that’s what that is. We’re not dealing with just any murderer, not like we’ve faced before.’

She gestured towards the church. ‘Somebody wanted to send one big message, and not just to those who knew the victim. There’s a message especially for us.’

Michael nodded. ‘The cross is symbolic and more than just its association with the fact Wainwright was a priest.’

Claire expelled another plume of smoke. ‘And now you’re starting to think like someone who holds your rank.’

He avoided her eyes.

Claire had always been a hard case. With her natural bright blonde hair and tall ‘average’ figure, right down to her cold blue eyes that could rival the most ravaging of winter days, she could control any situation.

The well-known saying ‘It’s a Man’s World’ didn’t apply to her.

She’d worked her way up the ladder, fast-tracked to a DCI, taking down any man or woman who stood in her way. If you ever crossed her in some way, you’d better be watching your back, because you never knew when you just might need her help.

She was far from malicious but there was a darker side. Something anyone with half a brain knew not to tap into. Michael knew there were other things, something in her past that made her the way she was. He could sympathise if she’d let him; after all, he had similar demons from his past too. He just never got close enough to her to find out what hers was.

He sensed her childhood hadn’t been great, but he also knew it hadn’t been anything like the awful things you read about. Whatever it was, though, it was still affecting her now. That call she took in the church, the disappearing act all morning – the effects of it were clearly visible to him, despite the mask she tried hard to wear.

A person’s flaws can be someone else’s idea of beauty.

She had some steel in her, he’d give her that.

Claire’s ambition had got her this far and would bring her years of success, but it would also be the reason for her demise later in life if she wasn’t careful. He knew all too well.

He’d seen people fall from grace before.

For some reason it was this that had attracted him to her in the first place and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

***

Michael arrived back at Haverbridge station before Claire so he lit himself a cigarette and leaned back against his car. He undid the top button of his shirt, arched his neck, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Minutes later, he saw Claire’s silver Mazda enter the car park.

He met her gaze as she parked in the bay next to his. He watched her pulling her hands through her hair, securing it back into a ponytail with an elastic band.

He pulled open her car door. ‘It’s too hot today, huh?’

She shrugged off her suit jacket and tossed it over to the back seat. ‘Well, it is August.’

Michael muttered under his breath and shook his head. Claire gave him a sideways glance. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you, Diego?’

He looked at her briefly before returning his attention to his cigarette.

‘Why wouldn’t I like you?’ he said, as he tapped ash to the floor. ‘I mean you’re a fucking peach to work for, what with your take-no-prisoners attitude, bluntness and, let’s not forget my personal favourite, plain arrogance.’

She stared at him until he made eye contact with her. He shrugged. ‘Well, at least we know where we stand with each other,’ she said at length. ‘I don’t like you, you don’t like me, that much is clear, and it’s all out in the open… That’s quite a good basis for a working relationship. There’s no bullshit in-between, just black and white and straight down the middle.’

Michael dropped his cigarette to the floor, crushing it under his foot. ‘You’re anything but black and white.’ He saw her bristle. ‘You made it like this, Claire, not me.’

‘As I remember, you called wanting to end it.’

She swung her legs out of the car, pulled her bag onto her lap and began to rummage inside.

Michael looked at her as she leaned forward.

She was wearing a fitted light-pink sleeveless blouse. It clung to her body where she’d been sweating with the heat of the day in her suit jacket. A few of the top buttons had worked themselves undone and he could see the top of her bra.

He could remember how good she’d looked naked.

Claire found her BlackBerry and stood up to face him. She began checking her emails. She glanced at him. ‘You seemed eager to get rid of me anyway.’

‘You were too much of a control freak, Claire, let’s face it, and not to mention a married woman.’

‘Was a married woman. We’re talking past tense here and besides, we were never meant for anything other than a quick shag now and again when we had a break in the schedule.’

Michael held her stare. ‘Why do I get the feeling this hurt you a lot more than it hurt me?’

She broke eye contact and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about me, Diego…you weren’t that good.’

There was a long pause.

He thought it best to let her have this one. He hated arguing about who did what to who and when.

They’d had a brief affair six months ago and it was over after two months. Although it’d got very intense towards the end, they had to be realistic.

Claire had been married to another policeman based in Welwyn Garden City, some eight miles from Haverbridge. It would have been devastating for them both if they were found out.

It was Claire who finally broke the silence, tapping furiously on the buttons on the BlackBerry. ‘I think we have a lead already with the murdered priest.’ She slung the phone back into her bag.

‘What lead?’

‘We have the name and address of the last person believed to see Wainwright alive. Mark Jenkins, fifty-eight years old and a Religious Studies teacher at St Catherine’s secondary school.’

Michael exchanged glances with her and half laughed. He ran his right hand roughly back through his hair, and shook his head.

‘You want me to check him out, don’t you?’

‘I have other cases that need solving, Diego, and I have to see Matthews about you handing over the Hargreaves case to him this week.’

Michael shuddered at the mention of Matthews’s name. Like fingernails on a blackboard, the name cut through him to the bare bone.

‘It’s not that I don’t think you’re up to the case, Diego,’ Claire continued, studying his face. ‘I just need someone who can give this new investigation some insight. You told me once – fleetingly, I might add – that you had a religious upbringing. Your knowledge could prove crucial.’

He shook his head. ‘I haven’t attended church since I was a kid. I hated it. My mother forced me to memorise scripture to the point where I would have gladly torn my own eyes out if it meant I never had to read any of it again. I’ve erased it from my memory.’

‘Well, you’d better un-erase it.’

‘We always said that what happened wouldn’t affect us working together.’

Claire sighed. ‘Seriously, please don’t turn this into some…Diego-drama. I’ve got too much on my plate right now.’ Her BlackBerry rang again. She removed it from her bag and he caught the look on her face when she saw the caller ID.

‘Haven’t we all? We all have shit to deal with, Claire,’ he said, edging closer towards her. She pulled the BlackBerry from his line of vision, but made no attempt to answer the call. ‘Is this,’ he said, gesturing towards the phone, ‘the reason you were AWOL this morning?’

She avoided his eyes, glanced at the screen again and killed the call. A few seconds later, a voicemail alert broke the awkward silence between them.

‘Fuck’s sake…’ she said, gripping the phone tighter in a sweaty palm.

Michael leaned in too close for comfort. Claire pushed past him, BlackBerry now at her ear as she listened to the message. He watched her, mouth parting when he saw her getting back into her car.

‘Where are you going now?’

Claire squinted at the sun and reached for her shades. She started the engine and snapped her seatbelt in place, as Michael banged his hand on the window. ‘Claire!’

She wound down the passenger-side window, but didn’t speak.

‘Where are you going?’ he said.

‘I’ve got to run a quick errand.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I’ll be back in half an hour.’ She paused, then said, ‘Hour, tops.’

He moved back from the car as she began to reverse. He shouted after her. ‘What’s wrong?’

The car stopped reversing, and her face looked pained. ‘What’s wrong?’ she muttered. ‘The thorn in my side.’

CHAPTER 5

Haverbridge town centre was teeming with Wednesday afternoon shoppers enjoying the glorious sunshine. The Costa coffee shop was doing a roaring trade, with not a seat to be found at the metal tables and chairs scattered about outside.

Inside felt like a blazing inferno; the hot pastries and lattes combined with the heat of the day had many of its employees congregating behind the shop in the shade, just to find some form of relief.

A young male employee with Dean emblazoned across his name badge stooped to wipe down a vacant table. As he began to wipe the crumbs to the floor and remove the circle of coffee-ring stains, he glanced up, catching the flash of red in his peripheral vision.

Then he saw her, her red hair almost glowing in the sunlight like hellfire. She was small and slender, with very pale skin which was like porcelain.

Dean’s eyes followed after her, looking at her from the top of her head, past her light-green top, to tight low-slung jeans, to her simple black open-backed flats. She casually slung her large leather bag higher on her shoulder before disappearing in the crowd.

Mesmerised, Dean walked away from the table. He tried to keep her in his sights, but soon the fiery hair was lost in a sea of ordinary faces.

***

Amelia had known he was looking.

Why wouldn’t he? Most men did, and from past experience, so did women on occasion.

She smiled to herself as she opened her bag and caught sight of the red stain running the length of her thumb, smudged and flaky.

Blood really did get everywhere. She knew what happened could have been so different, less violence, less mess, less frenzied.

But then it would have been less enjoyable. Less fitting.

She raised her hand to her lips, and licked the blood from her thumb. Then she searched for her keys. She raised her security fob to the sensor on the heavy door and awaited the red glow from the panel before pushing the door and entering the communal halls.

She walked to the lift that would take her to her floor, which always smelt of urine and was decorated with some form of new graffiti each day.

Living above shops in the centre of town, sharing the area with drug dealers and users alike, was as good as it got. When she reached the doors to the lift she saw a large piece of white paper sellotaped roughly across the stainless steel and remembered the lift was out of order still.

She sighed, heading towards the door leading to the stairwells. As she pushed the glass door open she remembered the day she first came here to view the flat.

It had been another hot day not unlike this one, and she’d deliberately worn a low-cut top and a short low-slung skirt to distract the estate agent when they discussed the monthly rent.

As planned, he’d taken the bait.

All men are weak…

He would tell the landlord she accepted the monthly rent but he would ‘fix the books’, as he put it, and she would pay less.

‘It will be our little secret of course,’ he’d said.

‘I can’t thank you enough, Mr Brown,’ Amelia had replied in her sweetest of voices.

He’d extended his hand once again, eyes narrowed. ‘Call me Adrian, I insist.’

Amelia had almost reached the top of the stairs and she shuddered, recalling the events that had taken place that afternoon.

She turned to face another door leading to the second floor of flats, and pushed it half-heartedly, the hinges squeaking.

The once brightly painted wood, now a grimy shade of brown, had been vandalised again. The frosted glass window had been smashed for the second time in two weeks and there was additional coloured graffiti climbing the length of the door frame.

Amelia wandered further along the corridor, hearing a dog bark from behind the door of flat fifteen, not unlike any other day, but it made her jump nonetheless.

Although keeping animals in the flats was prohibited, she knew that tenant had probably struck a deal with Adrian to keep him sweet.

Besides, considering what she’d seen, no one with any common sense would confront the tenant about the noise level from the dog. Most people draw the line at suicide.

After walking past a few more doors, Amelia rested her head against her own, not wanting to enter. After a few moments of staring at the heavily soiled brown carpet beneath her feet, she forced her key into the lock and quickly turned it.

She pushed the door open and kicked off her shoes before dumping her bag down on the kitchen table. She pulled a chair out from under the table, went to the fridge, retrieved a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass, before returning to the table and taking a seat. She took a long drink from the large glass and stared around at her tiny living area.

The walls were painted a neutral colour throughout the flat, with plain light-coloured carpets. She had a small red two-seat sofa in the corner facing a small portable television set. Her battered coffee table had seen better days, but it’d been a bargain purchase from a charity shop in the centre of town.

Her thoughts were broken by the thudding of a stereo above her head, which seemed to shake the ceiling to a continuous beat.

Sighing, she opened her bag, her breathing suddenly rapid as she zipped apart the soft leather. She found the blister pack of small white pills, popped one out and swallowed it dry.

The stereo above her head pounded harder and Amelia checked her watch. Soon she would welcome the distraction of the music above; it would give her something to focus on and forget where she was and what she was doing.

During her life, Amelia had learnt how to detach herself from her body and imagine she was somewhere else.

Today would be no different.

Glancing at her watch again, she headed towards the bedroom. She began to remove her clothes, folded them neatly and placed them on the cream-coloured duvet in front of her. She drew the dark-red curtains, blocking most of the light from the room, which now cast black-red shadows across her face.

She hoped it would be in the dark this time, and then she wouldn’t have to keep her eyes open and pretend she wanted to be there.

As was routine, she pulled back the duvet and slid between the sheets. She shivered at the coolness of the fabric against her skin. As the bed began to warm with the heat of her body, it offered little comfort while she waited.

Then she heard a key turn in the front door.

The hinges whined as the door swung open then closed softly. She heard shoes being removed and slung carelessly, thudding on the floor. She heard the heavy footsteps approaching the bedroom door, hesitating before the door was pushed open.

A shaft of light broke the shadows in the room and she closed her eyes tight, pretending to be asleep. The door shut and someone moved closer to the bed and Amelia tried to sneak a look beneath her thick eyelashes.

She saw a tall shadow move around the foot of the bed and peek through the curtains.

He is so afraid of being caught…and I wish he would be.

The figure at the curtain pulled the material shut and then wandered back around the bed towards the light switch.

Amelia winced at the sudden break in the darkness, her eyes trying to adjust as she slowly opened them, seeing him looking at her.

‘I told you I want the lights on. That was the agreement,’ said Adrian.

‘Your agreement. Not mine,’ she spat as she rolled over to face towards the window.

Adrian smiled as he removed his navy suit jacket, placing it over the back of a chair. He unbuttoned his light-blue shirt.

Amelia glanced over her shoulder towards him. She could tell he’d recently visited the tanning salon, judging by his golden tan. His hair looked freshly styled too, glued into place with expensive hair gel. His fingernails were also well groomed and his fingers set off with expensive rings.

Amelia hated what money could do to people. She hated the way Adrian paraded himself around with his expensive suits and fast cars. She hated the way he could talk his way into people’s heads and convince them to part with vast amounts of money for a new home. He would even take extra money from people and keep it for himself, despite his high pay grade and commission perks. She hated this and she hated him.

Her thoughts were broken when she saw him remove his underwear, and then approach the bed.

‘I haven’t got long today. I have a viewing to do at three,’ he whispered as his hand clasped her shoulder.

Amelia lay back and detached herself from the moment.

Robotically she spent the next twenty minutes making the right moves and noises in the right places before he finished, dressed, then left as quickly as he’d arrived.

***

After Amelia had scrubbed herself so hard her skin almost bled, she had towelled off and sat on the bed staring at her phone in one hand and Adrian’s business card in the other.

After she’d put in a call to Adrian’s office and hung up, she drafted a text message to send to the name listed only as ‘G’ in the contacts list.

Made the call. Will let you know when it’s done… A

She hit send.

Amelia knew the plan set for her and knew she’d have no trouble executing it to its full exquisite potential. She only hoped that when it came down to it, she had enough self-control not to cut too deep.

CHAPTER 6

The light from the sun beating down on her head flashed across the black plastic of her sunglasses as she tilted her head towards the sky.

Drawing the last pull on the cigarette pinched tightly between her fingers, Claire exhaled a stream of smoke from between parched lips, and felt as if her very being was becoming more withered with each step she took.

She glanced down at the butt of the cigarette, stopped in her tracks and flicked it to the ground. She watched it roll into the gutter, joining the rest that had been discarded near the entrance of Gladstone Court.

Claire cocked her head skyward once again.

Her second visit here today in such a short space of time. Someone’s idea of a sick joke. Was this all her life was meant to be from now on?

The old council block loomed above, the dull redbrick cutting an ominous shape through the bright blue sky.

To Claire, coming here meant putting on a brave face. It meant trying to cast aside the memories of the past, if only temporarily. It meant casting away the pain she had tried to bury for all these years.

She fumbled in her bag for the separate keyring she deliberately kept away from her main set. It was an attempt to, symbolically at least, keep this part of her life, the one inside the building, from clashing with the other.

Her fingers felt like ice as she clasped the fob and pulled it from her bag. She swiped it over the sensor on the wall beside her and the front door to the building gave an audible click and a green light flashed on the panel.

Grasping the handle, Claire yanked it and went inside.

As usual the lift was out of order, so she took a slow walk up the stairs to the fourth floor. The air on this level was stale. The large windows on this floor, at this time in the afternoon, allowed direct sunlight through the thin single-glazing glass. The heat generated was relentless and Claire popped open another button of her shirt.

There were two flats on this side of the building, and Claire now stood in front of the second one and steeled herself inside.

She pushed her spare key into the lock…

CHAPTER 7

Another viewing with a client had gone well and Adrian had negotiated an unfair price on behalf of another greedy landlord taking full advantage of the housing crisis for another shitty little studio flat.

Another successful day for some.

Adrian sauntered through the office leaving his usual sense of arrogance and pride wafting in invisible lines behind him.

He made himself a coffee before heading back to his office. He unlocked his PC screen, taking a sip of his coffee while he checked his diary for the afternoon. He scrolled down the page in front of him, and then paused, his gut tightening.

He glanced at his watch.

It was after 3:30pm and Amelia Williams would be there in ten minutes according to his diary. Confused, Adrian shouted to his PA through the closed door rather than ring her using the internal phone.

‘Mary!’

He could hear her rushing up from her seat. Mary slid her head around the door, her long brown curly hair falling around her face, which always reminded Adrian of a poodle crossed with a King Charles spaniel. Her big blank brown eyes stared back at him.

‘Yes, Adrian?’

He pointed to the screen. She glanced at it and pulled a face.

‘Why is she booked to come and see me in ten minutes? This appointment wasn’t in my diary this morning.’

Mary flushed. ‘Sorry, Adrian. She called up this afternoon and said she needed to talk to you. I tried to speak with you but you were busy on a conference call.’ She paused and looked upset. ‘She was very forceful. I just booked her in. I meant to tell you but…I guess I forgot. I’m sorry.’

Adrian cursed under his breath. He turned and waved her away and she scurried out of the room.

Before Adrian had a chance to think, his phone rang. It was the main reception calling and Adrian pulled a face as he picked up the receiver.

‘Adrian Brown…OK…I’ll send Mary.’ He hung up and rested his forehead in his hands. He was dreading what might come next.

He asked Mary to prepare some coffee after she had seen Amelia to his office and asked that she not disturb them. Mary soon returned carrying two steaming cups. She watched bright green eyes follow her as she placed a coffee cup in front of Amelia on Adrian’s desk, before passing her a sideways glance of disapproval.

This amused Amelia.

Clearly the buck hadn’t stopped with her and who knew how many women Adrian had cheated.

She glanced up towards Adrian and his eyes met hers, studying her face intensely. Amelia waited until Mary closed the door to his office before smiling at him. She reached for her coffee and took a sip.

‘You may want to keep that one. She makes quite good coffee.’

He shook his head. ‘Why are you here? We’re not supposed to meet like this.’

‘There’re lots of things we shouldn’t be doing but that hasn’t stopped you.’

Adrian’s lips pulled upright into a grin. His eyes wandered from her face towards her shoulders, noting the thin white camisole top that hugged her delicate body. Her hair fell roughly tousled around her face, with tendrils touching the tops of her bare arms.

‘Still, we shouldn’t be meeting here at the office like this. You draw too much attention and unwanted questions. I don’t make it a habit to meet tenants privately in my office.’

‘Just screw them, then?’

‘Only you.’

Adrian watched her eyes, which seemed to him to be a darker shade of green today. It made him uneasy and restless.

‘Why are you here? You saw me a few hours ago. Why not say something then?’

Amelia lowered her cup back onto his desk, her eyes never leaving his. ‘You were rather pre-occupied at the time.’

‘I’m a busy man. Spit it out, I don’t have time for games.’

‘But you play them so well.’ She leaned forward, her hair framing her pretty face in a wild red glow.

Adrian cursed under his breath but still he stared longingly at her.

At length, Amelia got up from her chair and walked around the desk to stand behind his chair.

Her hands pressed down hard on top of his shoulders.

Her fingers curled, clawing him in her grasp.

Adrian felt her nails dig into his flesh.

CHAPTER 8

By the time Claire had driven back to the office, she tried to look as if the last forty minutes hadn’t happened.

She sat in her car in the station car park, pulled her sunglasses off, and tossed them on the dash. She peered into the rear-view mirror. She dabbed around her eyes with her fingertips, removing any smears of make-up before heading into the station.

As she walked into CID, DI David Matthews was on her as soon as she was through the door.

‘Guv,’ he said, too loudly, in her ear, enough for her to glance across the room to where Michael was sitting, watching them closely.

‘Guv, can I have a word?’

She gave a curt nod, and he followed her through to her office, shutting the door behind him. As Claire sat down in her chair, she risked another glance at Michael. She had a perfect line of sight to his desk through the glass partition walls of her office.

He was rifling paperwork on his desk, and then peering at his computer screen, pretending to be busy.

Claire knew he was watching them, watching her.

Every single move.

‘Have a seat, Matthews,’ she said as she booted up her computer. He sat in one of the chairs opposite her desk and just smiled. Claire raised her eyes to meet his. ‘Why are you grinning at me like a Cheshire cat?’

Matthews leaned forward, clasping his hands together and rested them on her desk. ‘The Hargreaves case?’ he said. ‘I got your email. Thought now would be a good time to go through everything.’

Claire glanced towards Michael’s desk again. He wasn’t there. She felt herself relax a little.

She found herself smiling back at Matthews, her ice-blue eyes glowing in amusement. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. You wanted to work the Hargreaves case and now I’m making you SIO, we’ll discuss the details tomorrow, with Diego.’

She paused and considered her next words carefully.

‘And before you ask, Diego didn’t take it too well – about Hargreaves – so do me a favour and don’t rub his bloody nose in it. I’m working the Wainwright murder with him. The last thing I need is him resenting me any more than he does already.’

Matthews was beaming. His dark-brown eyes looked out of Claire’s office, across the incident room to the work station he shared with the other underdogs – mainly the DCs in his eyes. He shouldn’t even be sitting near them. He was meant for better things.

He wanted Claire’s crown and this was his big foothold on the ladder.

He leaned forward, his floppy brown hair falling around his eyes. He brushed it back with his left hand and offered his other to Claire. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

Claire stared at his hand then reluctantly shook it. ‘Just don’t let me down… Don’t make me regret this.’

Business and pleasure didn’t mix, Claire knew that, and she’d learnt the hard way. The last thing she needed was people talking about her and Matthews and she couldn’t afford to be showing any favouritism.

‘I need results on the Hargreaves case. I’ve got DSI Donahue breathing down my neck and the press aren’t exactly painting a pretty picture about us at the moment,’ she said, her eyes lowered. ‘They’re calling the whole investigation a farce. No justice for the families…the usual.’

Her eyes met his.

He nodded. ‘Not a problem, Guv. I won’t let you down.’

Claire gestured for him to leave. ‘I’ll be holding you to that.’

After Matthews had left, Claire’s BlackBerry rang.

She saw the screen. Chose to ignore it. When the call diverted to voicemail, she switched the phone off.

***

Michael headed outside the main building, lit himself a cigarette and walked towards the designated smoking area. He leaned up against the wall and exhaled a stream of smoke.

He closed his eyes.

‘You look like shit.’

Michael opened his eyes and saw the familiar grin of DC Gabriel Harper standing a few feet from him.

Michael allowed himself a small smile. ‘Love you too, Gabe.’

‘It’s just an observation, mate,’ he said, now standing beside him. ‘Got one to spare?’ he said, nodding towards Michael’s cigarette.

Michael offered him the pack and lighter from his pocket. Harper lit one, and gave Michael a prod in the arm as he handed it back.

‘What’s been going on with you?’

Michael shrugged. ‘The Hargreaves case. I’ve worked my arse off on it, and it’s drained me.’

Harper squinted, the sun hurting his eyes. ‘And now Matthews is taking it on.’

Michael shot him a look. ‘I wasn’t aware that was common knowledge yet.’

‘It wasn’t until, like, five minutes ago, when he waltzed out the Guv’s office, smug grin on his face, and made a big show of collecting the Hargreaves files.’ He gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Wasn’t very subtle, mate.’ He paused. ‘I’m gutted for you, if I’m honest. The one chance we had to get Hargreaves once and for all and you could’ve nailed him. Now, I’m not so sure…’

Michael plucked the half-smoked cigarette from between his lips and chucked it to the ground.

‘You’d better keep that to yourself, Gabe,’ he said, brushing past him on his way back into the building.

CHAPTER 9

Amelia turned the key and let herself into her flat. She reached for her mobile phone which she’d left on the kitchen worktop and dialled the number she knew off by heart.

Calling G flashed across the screen before she put it to her ear. It seemed an eternity but finally her call was answered.

‘Is it done?’ the voice said.

‘It is. He won’t be bothering me any time soon, but I get the feeling it won’t be the last time we’ll be dealing with him.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I used my…persuasive charms.’

There was a long pause.

‘You didn’t hurt him, did you?’

‘Just a scratch… Did I do wrong?’

‘No, but we must focus on our goal.’

‘He’ll keep up the rent-side of the deal. He won’t get my body in return, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

The quietness on the line told Amelia this was pleasing news.

‘When can I see you?’ she said.

‘Soon.’ There was another long pause. All Amelia could hear was soft breathing on the line.

‘I loved you, since the moment you first came into my life. Remember that.’

Amelia bit her bottom lip hard. Every time she heard those words it all but stopped her heart right there and then. ‘I know,’ she said at length.

The phone clicked before going dead.

Amelia placed her phone back on the counter top and took the flick knife from her pocket, pulled back the blade and smiled.

***

Adrian Brown looked down at his blood-soaked shirt sleeve.

Bile began to rise in his throat, but he suppressed the urge to vomit. He applied pressure to the wound, fighting back the urge to scream.

He doubled over in pain, and blood seeped through his fingers.

He remembered the look on Amelia’s face as she’d plunged the knife into his upper arm, and how her other hand had pressed firmly over his mouth as he had screamed.

He’d felt like he would pass out but he had fought against it when they had heard Mary approach the office. Under duress he’d told her through the door that he was fine.

He’d waited with bated breath until he’d heard footsteps leading away, Mary’s curiosity shot down in an instant.

He’d sighed and shut his eyes.

When he had looked back at Amelia, her attention was on the blood seeping through his shirt. His gaze had followed down to her right hand, fingers gripping the handle of the knife firmly, her knuckles white. In that moment he had tried to think back to where it had all started to fall apart.

Then she had wrenched the blade from his arm.

Her eyes had never left his as she wiped the knife clean with a tissue. The perks he’d got from their financial agreement were over. She’d made that crystal clear.

He waited until she’d left his office before removing his tie and securing it tightly around his shoulder, pulling it tight. He then put his suit jacket on. He would wait half an hour before risking going to A&E.

He waved Mary away when she tried to enter his office. She looked hurt but he didn’t care.

Amelia had been a worthwhile distraction at the time but now she was a threat, an inconvenience.

She had to be dealt with as quickly and discreetly as possible.

CHAPTER 10

It was just after nine the next morning and Michael sighed at the No Smoking sign on the door in front of him. He dropped the remainder of his cigarette on the floor, crushing it under his foot. He exhaled the last dreg of smoke from his dry lips, pushed open the main door and entered the reception area of St Catherine’s.

He felt the eyes of the middle-aged receptionist burning into his body as he approached the glass window at the front of the reception booth.

Looking behind her he could see other workstations and a main office at the back with a sign on it.

‘Can I help you?’ she said, brushing an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. Michael noticed how, although her face was lined and her hair was showing signs of grey, she was not an unattractive lady. He forced a smile and maintained direct eye contact with her.

‘Detective Sergeant Michael Diego,’ he said, showing her his warrant card.

He saw her stiffen.

He was used to that response as soon as people found out what he was. ‘I need to speak with the Head, if he’s around.’

‘He is a she, and rather busy this morning. You should have made an appointment.’

He’d been anticipating this response. ‘Tell her it’s important. Tell her it’s in relation to a murder inquiry.’

The woman froze.

‘I’ll wait right here until she’s ready to see me,’ he said, taking a seat in one of the chairs in the waiting area. ‘Oh, and I take my coffee black, one sugar, thanks.’

The receptionist bristled but headed towards the office behind her. After five minutes she reappeared with a mug of coffee and handed it over, handle facing away from him deliberately. He smiled, wincing inwardly at the heat burning his fingers.

The receptionist forced a smile. ‘Miss Wallis will be with you soon. Until then, please wait here. We don’t allow visitors to wander around the school unescorted.’

***

Miss Wallis was a mature lady, Michael noticed, as she approached him twenty minutes later. She had grey hair which was immaculately kept at shoulder length. She wore a long black skirt with a matching suit jacket. Her glasses sat low on her nose, and she pushed them higher before extending her hand to him.

‘Sergeant Diego? I’m Linda Wallis, what can I do for you?’

Michael rose from his chair and took her hand, noticing how firm her handshake was. He smiled at her but was met with a cold hard stare, her eyes studying him with caution.

Michael released her hand and slid his own back into his trouser pocket.

He grew aware of the receptionist’s eyes on them both.

‘Perhaps we should speak in your office, Mrs Wallis.’

‘It’s Miss.’ Linda paused before extending her arm towards her office. ‘This way, please, Sergeant.’

Linda’s office was small and static. Everything was formal and had its place: a small bookcase filled with educational books, a rather dull-looking print of something Michael recognised as by Henri Matisse, and a very bare-looking desk with only a few essential pieces of stationery.

Linda sat behind her desk but Michael waited until she motioned him to one of the two large blue upholstered chairs in front of her desk.

‘Forgive me if we skip the pleasantries, Sergeant, but I have a school to run, and I don’t take too kindly to people who demand to see me without making an appointment first.’

Linda let the statement rest in the air for a few moments, making Michael stir in his chair before continuing. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate that I’m a very busy woman.’

She pulled her lips into a forced smile. Michael could tell she was the kind of employer to defend her colleagues to the end. In his experience, closing ranks was typical of teachers and quite frankly, he didn’t have a lot of time for them.

‘Miss Wallis, I must apologise for not making an appointment first but this is an urgent…delicate matter. I’m investigating a murder that took place yesterday in St Mary’s church.’

Linda stared at him, her face hardening. ‘I heard about that… I fail to see how I can help you.’

‘It’s not you I’ve come to see. I must speak with one of your teachers, a Mr Jenkins. I believe he teaches RS here.’

‘I’m well aware of his credentials, Sergeant Diego. What concerns me is why you would wish to speak to him.’

Michael knew this wouldn’t be a walk in the park.

‘He’s believed to have been the last person to see the deceased alive.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. This bitch is stalling…

‘He may be able to offer some crucial information, clues to the identity and whereabouts of the killer.’ He gave her a few moments to take in his words. ‘I need to speak with him now.’

‘Impossible. He’s teaching. I will not interrupt and have the students gossiping about why an officer came into their classroom to question their teacher. Surely you must understand the sensitivity of the situation?’

Michael had anticipated this, but he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He smiled at her. ‘I understand, but nevertheless I must speak with him. Here in your office will do just fine.’

Linda knew arguing would get her nowhere, but had every intention of showing her reluctance. ‘This is unheard of. You could’ve waited until the end of the school day,’ she said before rising from her desk. ‘Follow me.’

***

Michael walked at a reasonable distance behind Linda, looking around at his surroundings, taking note of everything before dismissing it again in a blink of an eye.

He followed her down a corridor, then climbed two flights of stairs, before she turned to him just outside a classroom. Michael saw the small glass window in the classroom door and guessed her intention.

‘Please stay away from the door, Sergeant.’

He tipped his head. ‘Absolutely.’

A deep crease furrowed in the middle of Linda’s brow. She turned and peered into the classroom.

Mark Jenkins stood at the front of the class, reading from a textbook, occasionally looking around the class, picking on anyone who didn’t appear to be paying attention.

Michael stole a quick glance through the window, and guessed the pupils were about fourteen to fifteen years old. A few of them in the front rows caught his gaze.

They stared at him. He then heard Jenkins’s voice rise in anger. The students flinched and returned to their textbooks. Jenkins’s face suddenly turned towards the door and Linda motioned to him.

Michael didn’t miss the hard frown on Jenkins’s face. He turned to the class and barked a command. The students began rummaging in their bags, pulling out notepads. Jenkins waited a moment, making sure they were progressing with his task before heading towards the door.

Once he’d shut the door behind him, he eyed Michael with suspicion. His cold light-green eyes reminded Michael of a fish he’d caught once while fishing with his father when he was seven.

Mark Jenkins was a man of average height, with thinning light-brown hair. He was dressed in a slightly eccentric suit, the colour made up of different chequered shades of brown, complete with tie and waistcoat. He looked ridiculous and Michael could picture the kids ripping the piss behind his back.

Jenkins turned to Linda, his face confused. ‘Who is this?’

Linda looked uncomfortable, trying to find the right words.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Diego, Haverbridge CID,’ Michael said, cutting in, showing his warrant card. ‘I need to speak with you regarding the murder of Father Malcolm Wainwright at St Mary’s church yesterday afternoon.’ His voice sounded almost robotic, as if the words had been rehearsed a thousand times before.

Jenkins looked stunned. He mouth opened and a small voice from somewhere within him tried to escape.

Michael’s face dropped. ‘You didn’t know?’

Jenkins shook his head in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand. I just spoke to him only yesterday.’

Michael looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to find out like this.’ Jenkins’s eyes were on his but seemed to be looking through him. ‘As painful as this is, I need to speak with you. You’re believed to be the last person to see him alive.’

Jenkins felt his voice catch in his throat. He raised a tightly curled fist to his mouth and bit it, fighting back tears. ‘Tell me this is a mistake. How can he be dead?’

Linda reached out her hand and placed it on Jenkins’s shoulder. ‘Come, Mark, let us go back to my office and talk.’

She turned to glare at Michael, her eyes narrowed into slits.

***

Jenkins looked like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes. His face was ashen, his eyes appeared translucent and dead to the world. His bony fingers were clasping a steaming cup of tea, but still his skin was like ice.

He sat in a chair in Linda’s office, his shoulders hunched, face lowered, staring at the floor, looking physically diminished in stature and poise.

Linda sat behind her desk, her face visibly saddened by Jenkins’s appearance. She gazed at him sympathetically with her hands clasped as if in a silent prayer.

Michael was sitting back in the same chair as before but had angled it slightly towards Jenkins. He had his notepad resting on his crossed legs, his pen poised, waiting for the right moment to begin asking his questions.

‘I understand that Father Wainwright and you were very close friends, Mr Jenkins. I can’t imagine just how hard this must be for you.’ Jenkins looked up through his eyelashes and glared at Michael.

‘You should be out there locking up whoever did this, not sitting here interrogating me.’

‘This isn’t an interrogation, Mr Jenkins. It’s believed you were the last person, besides the murderer, who saw Father Wainwright alive yesterday. Can you tell me what time this was and the circumstances that surrounded the meeting?’

‘It wasn’t a meeting,’ Jenkins snapped. ‘I was out in town and I happened to bump into him.’

Michael glanced at Linda while making notes. ‘You were not at work yesterday?’

‘Free period.’ Jenkins caught Linda’s disapproving glance. Michael guessed free periods should be spent planning lessons, not shopping.

‘What time was this?’

Jenkins rubbed his forehead with his hand and his eyes narrowed. He looked Michael straight in the eye. ‘I had a free period at ten. I saw Malcolm about half-past. We spoke about the up-and-coming service on Sunday and that was it. I got back here at about eleven-fifteen.’

He turned to Linda.

‘Yes, I was slightly late back to take my next class. That’s my only crime.’

Michael paused, and glanced up at Linda. She looked irritated but it appeared to pass quickly. She leaned over and placed a comforting hand on Jenkins’s shoulder. He gave a hard smile, and looked back at his now empty cup, still clasped firmly in his hands.

Michael was weighing up his explanation.

Wainwright had been murdered at approximately 11:30am on Wednesday morning. His body had been discovered around an hour later by his housekeeper, who had dialled 999 immediately before being taken to hospital herself with shock. They had a witness who saw Jenkins with Wainwright at the times Jenkins had stated.

He had a pretty tight alibi.

‘How did he die, Sergeant? Did he suffer?’ Jenkins’s voice was abrupt.

Michael leaned back in his chair. ‘His suffering was brief. It was over quite quickly, I believe.’

Jenkins sat open-mouthed, his eyes welling up once more. ‘You believe it was quick, but you don’t know for sure, do you?’

‘Nothing is certain until we receive the pathologist’s report. I’m sorry I can’t be more precise.’

Michael looked down at his notepad. There was an awkward silence that seemed to last an eternity before Jenkins wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, and rose from his seat.

‘Are we finished now? I have classes to teach.’ He placed his cup on Linda’s desk.

‘I’m sending you home, Mark. I wouldn’t expect you to stay after hearing this. In fact, take tomorrow off as well. We’ll see you Monday, assuming you feel up to it of course.’

She smiled at him and he nodded, placed his hand on hers and mouthed the words, ‘Thank you.’

Then he turned to face Michael.

‘If it’s all right with you, Sergeant, I’d like to be with my family. Malcolm was a dear friend and my family knew him well. My wife and daughter will be very upset.’

Michael nodded, closing his notepad. Linda helped Jenkins from her office and out to his car.

Michael watched them from the office window. He noted that the receptionist had brought Jenkins’s things from his classroom: a dull brown overcoat and a tan briefcase. Michael wondered what secrets he kept in there. He watched Jenkins tremble as he climbed into his old Volvo.

When Linda returned, Michael was already on his feet. He extended his hand towards her. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Wallis. I hope I may have your cooperation again should we require any further assistance.’

Taking his hand firmly, Linda narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary, do you, Sergeant?’

He held on to her hand when she tried to release it from his. ‘All the same…’

Linda stared at her hand in his, and then her eyes rose to meet his stare. She smiled reluctantly. ‘You may rely on me if needed.’

CHAPTER 11

Michael spent the rest of the day feeling disillusioned with everything that had happened in the last few days. He’d returned to the station after his talk with Jenkins, and kept his head down, avoiding Claire and Matthews as much as possible.

That became impossible by late afternoon, when Claire summoned him to her office along with Matthews to discuss the Hargreaves case, and when Michael officially handed everything he’d worked so hard on over to Matthews, he felt the resentment building up inside him.

The only consolation was that he caught the look on Claire’s face when she was less guarded. He saw the sadness in her eyes when he caught her looking at him.

Maybe she wasn’t doing this to him out of some petty personal vendetta after all. In any case, he didn’t wait around to find out. By the time he left her office, he gathered his things from his desk, told Harper he could be contacted on his mobile, ignored the advice to clear it with Claire first, and headed out of the station.

The drive home seemed to pass in a blur.

When Michael parked in the street about four houses from his own, he released the seatbelt and rested his head against the steering wheel.

A loud bang against the windscreen made him jolt upright.

‘Sorry!’

It took him several seconds to register what had happened. Then he saw Robby, the kid from next door, holding a football which had hit his car, with his mates beside him, laughing.

Michael got out from his car and allowed himself a small smile.

‘Sorry,’ Robby said again. ‘I kicked it too hard.’

‘No worries,’ Michael said, and headed towards his house.

Once inside, he glanced out the window. Robby and his friends were moving on, walking in the direction of the local park. They were good kids and in this town, that made a change.

Michael was fond of Robby. He saw a lot of himself in the kid, despite the fact their childhoods couldn’t have been more different.

Robby’s mother was a kind woman who worked every hour God sent to make sure her son had all the things he deserved in life. She kept a clean and tidy house, safe and warm. Michael knew this first hand because she’d invited him in a few times for a coffee. She was around his age and he knew she had a soft spot for him, but he wasn’t attracted to her in a romantic way.

The wonderful childhood Robby had was a stark contrast to his own.

Michael’s mind drifted back to one particular memory.

His mother.

She’d been wearing the same dirty clothes for a week. Her hair was tangled, her lips scabbed and sore, her soul torn.

She’d just kicked out another worthless boyfriend and the house looked ransacked, dirty, unloved.

A sad place to be, to exist.

He remembered that they were facing eviction. At the time he’d had no idea what that meant. He’d just wanted his mother to stop crying, something that rarely happened.

There were always tears in their strained existence.

There were no sweet bedtime stories, no teddy to clutch against his young skin to offer comfort from the monsters that were literal, not something imagined.

He remembered the song she used to sing to him.

A beautiful melody that would quickly dwindle into a sorrowful lament.

‘…My breast is as stone, my breath smells earthly strong; And if you kiss my cold clay lips, your days they won't be long…’

Then his mother would kiss him, a cool caress on his lips. It wasn’t the tender kiss that should come from a mother’s love for her child, nor was it born from passion – a sinister unnatural incestuous longing.

Michael closed his eyes.

He heard his mother’s voice in his head, and for a moment he was back there, in that old house, a mere child. He could feel the gentle vibrations of her breath against soft innocent skin, as she leaned over him.

‘…The stalk is withered and dry, sweetheart, and the flower will never return. And since I lost my own sweetheart, what can I do but mourn?’

There was death in her voice. The nightly ritual for her became something entirely different to him, but it was never something he could accurately explain.

‘…When shall we meet again, sweetheart? When shall we meet again?…’

Later he found out that this was an old English folk song. It was about a man who mourns his true love. When the spirit of his lost love complains she cannot rest, he begs a kiss. She tells him it would kill him and he should be content to be alive.

It took Michael about ten years from the last night she sang it to him to realise this nightly ritual was really about his mother’s loss of his father, who had died suddenly aged thirty, while she still carried Michael in her womb. She’d never recovered from it and longed for a way out.

The melancholy that surrounded his mother had threatened to swallow them both whole, and all of it born from her own tormented mind.

Michael’s eyes flicked open.

His mouth was dry and his eyelids were heavy.

He’d tried to erase this memory altogether, but it was as if it was to be forever etched on his soul.

He gazed from the window again. He watched Robby disappear from view.

The sound of his phone ringing brought him back to the here and now. It was Claire.

He didn’t need her messing with his head any more today.

He killed the call.

CHAPTER 12

Claire stared at the screen of her BlackBerry. The call she’d placed moments before had diverted to voicemail too quickly, not leaving much time to ring, so she knew Michael had hung up on her.

She’d spent the day organising her team, and compiling everything they knew about Father Wainwright, and after the draining experience at Gladstone Court, she was exhausted.

She walked out of her office and surveyed the incident room, eyes landing on the photographs on the opposite wall of the room. Photographs of Wainwright were spread out across it, pinned together like some twisted jigsaw, the pieces yet to match smoothly. It was a gruesome collection showing one of the worst traits that lurked inside the rarest of individuals.

Claire had seen some violent crime scenes before, but she was entering uncharted territory with this one.

She checked her BlackBerry in case there was anything from Michael.

Nothing. No email, no text.

No explanation.

She knew it was handing the Hargreaves case over that’d got him pissed at her, something she expected would be the case. But still she wondered if the underlying issue ran much deeper, more personal than either he or she were comfortable to admit to.

‘Guv,’ DC Harper said, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Gabe,’ she said, trying to shake the sadness from her.

‘CCTV picked Wainwright up in Toralei’s restaurant the night before he was murdered. With his housekeeper.’

Claire exchanged a look with Harper. ‘Do many priests go to dinner with their housekeepers, I wonder?’ she said, voice dry.

‘I’m still getting over the fact priests can afford housekeepers.’

Claire smiled. ‘He’s got no dependants, invested his money well…’

‘I’m still having a hard job seeing it.’

Claire’s BlackBerry pinged from inside her pocket. She reached for it, saw a new text message had come through.

Sorry. Bad time to talk. I’ll email you later.

Claire frowned at the words.

‘You all right?’ Harper said.

‘It’s Diego.’

‘I take it he’s no longer MIA?’ he said, smiling.

The BlackBerry pinged again. Claire flushed.

xxx M xx.

‘Give us five minutes, will you, Gabe?’ She walked away before Harper could answer.

CHAPTER 13

It was around 7:30pm when Claire returned home. She was tired and pissed. Michael couldn’t be reached and she was having a hard job explaining his disappearing act to her superiors let alone to her team.

She was eager to leave the office and forget about him for a few hours if she could.

She pulled up the driveway to her detached house in the sleepy village of Hexton, just outside of Hitchin, approximately a half-hour drive from Haverbridge.

Claire knew how lucky she’d been in working her way to the top. Being fast-tracked to a DCI by the age of thirty-seven was definitely something to be proud of and made others envious. Her success was reflected in her appearance and personality. Her home was no different.

She lived in a four-bedroomed house that looked like something out of a Homes & Gardens magazine, with its bay windows and the old country feel about it.

She had of course added some modern elements over time and had had a large extension and double garage built just a few years ago, even though she didn’t seem to spend much time there of late.

Coming home was just a means for her to freshen up and catch some sleep. There seemed little time in her life for much else.

She stifled a yawn as she turned the key in the door and let herself in. She stepped over the day’s mail, which was sprawled across the mat, and kicked off her shoes and went to the kitchen.

She flicked the light switch and dumped her bag on the kitchen table, as the spotlights came to life above her head. She found the last of the supply of ready-meals in the freezer and put it in the microwave, then retrieved the mail.

She flicked through it: some pizza leaflets, a water bill, a letter from her mother Iris and a small white envelope with just her name, printed by a computer, on the front.

She frowned, inspecting either side of it with suspicion.

It had obviously been hand delivered.

She carefully opened it and pulled out a thin piece of paper, folded in half. Her eyes narrowed as she folded it back and read the contents, which had also been typed on a computer.

What revelation lies within the beauty of a rose? With its thorns sharp yet perfume so bewitching, you must breathe in the scent, be it foul in its reason for being.

Claire frowned as she took in the words. She repeated the whole verse in her head and out loud, trying to make sense of it.

She heard the microwave finish, and headed back to the kitchen. She left the letter on the table and dished up her food, the scent of the shepherd’s pie making her mouth water. She realised then that she hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, which would explain her terrible headache.

She shovelled most of the food into her mouth before returning to the table. She poked at the rest of it with her fork while reading the letter again. Ten minutes passed and she ran out of patience. She slammed her fork down on her plate and screwed the letter up and put it in the bin.

Putting it down to nothing but kids playing a prank, she went upstairs to change.

***

Claire tied her dressing-gown tight around her waist as she returned to the kitchen. She pulled out her BlackBerry, notepad and her personal file she’d already compiled on Wainwright.

She poured herself a glass of wine, then headed for the living room, collapsing on the cream-coloured sofa. She sat for several minutes, sipping from her glass, before checking her BlackBerry for any new emails and found there were three new messages.

There were several missed calls and voicemails relating to what had happened at Gladstone Court the previous day.

She certainly didn’t need the stress of it right now. That visit she’d tried hard to conceal to Michael had zapped her energy. She longed for the day that she could wash her hands of the whole sorry mess.

Claire deleted the call list and the voicemails without listening to them properly.

She drained the last of her wine from the glass in one large mouthful and she looked across at the one photograph of herself with both her parents, which sat on a bookshelf in the corner. It was taken when she was first in uniform. On that day, even her father had managed to behave himself and her mother had managed to curb her bitter tongue.

They were both still married then, although Claire never really understood why.

They hated each other.

But still, it had been all smiles that day.

Claire drew her attention back to her work. She checked through her emails.

The first was from Michael saying he’d spoken with Mark Jenkins, who would be providing a statement, but he’d discuss it with her tomorrow. He’d sent it shortly after he had disconnected her call earlier.

The second was from Matthews, thanking her again for letting him take over the Hargreaves case.

Claire grimaced as she read it. Pull your tongue out of my arse, Matthews.

It hadn’t been a difficult choice to reassign the Hargreaves investigation to Matthews. Claire knew it was a case below what Michael should be working on, despite Matthews’s seniority over him. Michael was wasted on this one.

She often thought he should’ve been recommended for Inspector, before Matthews, despite his ego.

She remembered the third email and deleted Matthews’s message from her account before opening the final one. It was a reminder about the up-coming Charity Ball being held in a few weeks’ time in Covent Garden at the Mayflower Hall.

Claire winced as she read it was a ‘plus one’ event.

The dress code was black tie and the ladies were expected to wear stunning evening dresses as well as meet and greet with the Mayor of London. This part didn’t faze Claire – she’d met the Mayor before – but the thought of turning up without a special guest in tow did.

Her thoughts drifted back to Michael.

She knew she’d been out of line towards him lately but couldn’t help herself. They had too much history between them for it ever to be normal again. She thought back to the moment she’d first met him and how she’d fallen completely in lust with him.

She’d resented being married from that moment on but it’d been a few years after that first meeting before they’d struck up an affair.

Now it was over and Claire knew she had to push him from her mind, no matter how reluctant she was.

She put the BlackBerry aside and began reading over her notes.

All she had to go on so far with regard to Wainwright’s murder was Mark Jenkins. He’d been the last to see him alive. She read over her notes thoroughly; Jenkins was married with one biological child but had previously fostered three other children. One called Emily still lived with him, but the other two had since moved on leaving no forwarding addresses. There was no documented reason as to why they had left and Claire thought it strange. They seemed to have vanished.

Then of course there was his biological child.

What was Jenkins like behind closed doors?

She thought about this for a few minutes before making a call to the station. DC Gabriel Harper answered the phone at the other end.

‘Harper, it’s Winters. Just a shot in the dark here but can you run a name for me? Chloe Jenkins. See if anything comes up?’

‘Didn’t you go home already?’ he asked.

Claire sighed. ‘You know how much I enjoy taking my work home with me.’ Harper laughed as he typed the information into his computer.

‘Right…we have a Chloe Jenkins. Twenty years old, lives at 52 Boston Court, Haverbridge West. She was brought in last year for minor drug offences but released with a caution.’ Harper paused. ‘Is that who you’re after?’

Claire wrote down the address. ‘Anyone listed as next of kin?’

‘No. No one listed.’

Claire had thought as much. She rang off and glanced at the clock opposite her; it was 9:00pm Tomorrow morning she’d pay Chloe Jenkins a visit, but for now tiredness was overcoming her.

It was only while brushing her teeth that Claire remembered the letter from her mother that she’d not opened. She retrieved the letter from downstairs and opened it when she eventually climbed into bed.

When her parents had divorced Claire’s mother had emigrated to Spain. The only time Claire saw her was when she came back to England, which was only when absolutely necessary. Even when Claire had gone through her own divorce she’d only come over once.

Hardly the doting mother.

Instead, Iris wrote to Claire at least once every two months, since she didn’t believe in emails or text messages. Even the ability to pick up the phone was alien to her, and Claire wondered why she defended Iris so much whenever her father launched into a tirade of abuse about her.

Claire frowned as she skimmed over her mother’s delicate handwriting. This letter was nothing more extraordinary than usual.

It read predictably; her mother asked about her work and hoped she wasn’t doing too much all at once. She enquired about Simon, Claire’s ex-husband, and if there was any possibility of them at least becoming friends again. No chance there, Claire sniffed. Then she asked the one question Claire dreaded: how was her love life?

Groaning out loud, Claire tossed the letter onto her bedside cabinet and switched off the light.

CHAPTER 14

It was 9:30am when Claire arrived at Boston Court the next morning. She’d overslept but it didn’t bother her too much, considering all the late nights she was beginning to notch up.

She glanced up at the twenty-odd-storey tower block in front of her. It looked depressing, with its grey brickwork and dirty-looking windows. The parking area didn’t look like somewhere Claire felt comfortable leaving her Mazda either, even if very briefly.

She saw a group of teenage boys dressed in hoods and baseball caps kicking a ball around and up against the wall of the block. They were right in front of the entrance. Claire sighed inwardly and headed towards them.

One of the teenagers looked up, staring at her as she approached. He nodded to his friend, who turned and spat on the floor in front of Claire, narrowly missing her boots. She paused and looked up at him, but the youth just stared back with a vacant expression on his face.

‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

The youth squared up to her. ‘Mind your fucking business.’ His friends laughed.

Claire shoved past him. ‘You kiss your mother with that mouth?’ she said as she walked inside the block.

‘Only yours, love,’ came the cocky reply. Claire ignored him.

There was a main corridor leading to a stairwell but she decided to take one of the two lifts in front of her. She went into the nearest one and immediately a waft of urine hit her. She held her hand to her nose and looked at the panel listing the floors. It had some sort of clear beaded slime covering it. On closer inspection she deduced that it was spit, and fresh.

She swore when she saw the button for floor ten, flats 50-53, was covered in it. Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she wrapped it around her finger before pressing the button.

When she reached the tenth floor she noticed the smell of urine followed her to flat 52. She knocked on the door and noticed it was decorated with a red graffiti tag.

A few minutes passed before she knocked again, harder this time, but still there was no sound of movement.

Then the lift behind her opened, making her jump. A young girl, no more than sixteen, appeared pushing a pram, which was laden with shopping bags. She was struggling to get the pram out of the lift, and the doors began to close.

Claire rushed over to help and noticed that the girl was heavily pregnant. The girl looked at her and smiled.

‘Thanks. Can’t wait until I don’t need this pram any more.’

Claire gestured towards her stomach. ‘Looks like you’ll need it for a while yet.’

The girl glanced down at her stomach, pulling her top down over her. She pulled a face. ‘Yeah, worse luck.’

Claire faked a smile. She saw the girl go to open the door to flat 53 and her eyes flashed instantly. ‘You don’t happen to know the girl who lives here, do you?’ she asked, pointing over her shoulder to flat 52. ‘I’ve knocked but I’m not sure if someone’s in or not.’

The girl glanced up. ‘The Jenkins girl.’ She nodded. ‘Yeah, I know her.’ Claire waited for any further information but it was not forthcoming.

‘Well, is she in or does she work during the day?’

The girl looked Claire up and down. She was nervous. ‘Why? What you want with her?’ Claire held out her warrant card and the girl’s eyes widened. She began fishing out her keys from her bag. ‘You might’ve said you were filth.’

Claire looked her up and down but stayed silent.

‘Usually I can guess you lot straight away.’ She avoided Claire’s eyes. ‘Chloe works nights. She’s probably sleeping.’

The girl shrugged and opened her front door, manoeuvring the pram inside. Claire helped her when the wheels caught against the door frame. The girl smiled and nodded a thank you. She began to close the door but Claire caught it with her hand and pushed it back.

‘Sorry, it’s important that I speak with her. Do you know where she works?’ The girl paused and stared at Claire, unsure of her motives. ‘I asked you a question.’

The girl sighed. ‘I don’t know if I should say really.’ Claire shot her a hard look. The girl was trying her patience. The look prompted the girl to cooperate. ‘She’s one of them dancer girls.’

‘Dancer girls?’

‘She’s a stripper.’ The girl’s demeanour came over all superior. ‘She, you know, prances around in front of men who’re married and should know better.’

The girl seemed to have an afterthought.

‘It pays real good money apparently. I could do that, you know, I don’t wanna live on benefits forever.’ She glanced down at her stomach and frowned. ‘’Course, no one’s gonna pay for me to shake this thing around, not when I’m this big.’

Claire knew there was an exotic dancing club in town but had no idea what it was called or where it was exactly.

‘Do you know the name of the club she dances at?’

The girl thought for a moment. ‘It’s behind the leisure complex somewhere and I think it’s called Paradis or something like that. His father used to go there a lot,’ she said, gesturing to the toddler in the pram. ‘One of the reasons we split up.’

Claire knew she could find out more back at the station so she thanked the girl and headed for the lift. Since their conversation, someone had called the lift a few floors up.

A sly smile spread across the girl’s face. ‘I remember the way he used to look at Chloe.’

Claire glanced towards her as she pressed the button to call the lift back down. ‘I’m sorry?’

The girl’s eyes met hers, something in them this time that was different from before. ‘My ex,’ she said. ‘He used to give Chloe this look when he saw her. He still lived here with me, but that didn’t stop him flirting. He was wasting his time though.’

The lift arrived at their floor, and the doors pinged open. ‘Sounds like you’re well shot of him,’ Claire said as she entered the lift.

‘She’d never have looked twice at him,’ she said, voice smug. ‘She only shags girls.’

Claire just looked at her as the lift doors closed. She pressed the button for the ground floor, and shook her head. Chloe’s sexual preference didn’t bother her, but her choice of job did. She’d only been in a strip club once, and that was to arrest a suspect.

It hadn’t been a pretty sight.

As Claire exited the building she saw the youths had moved on, and she walked back to her car. As she approached the Mazda she noticed one of her brake lights had been smashed.

You little fuckers.

She looked around but knew the youths could be anywhere, so she climbed in her car and drove back to the station.

CHAPTER 15

Claire’s office was quite large but cluttered with filing cabinets and chairs, making it appear smaller. She’d left the blind up the night before, so the early morning sun had flooded the office with intense light, leaving the room stifling.

Claire placed her coffee on the desk, opened the window wide, and then lowered the blinds. She picked at her nails, waiting for her computer to bring up the internet.

She accessed Google and typed “Paradis” in the search box. She hit enter and it brought up lots of links. She glanced down the page and saw the link to the main website.

She looked through the glass partitions.

The incident room was busy. She doubted anyone would need her for the next ten minutes or so. She felt embarrassed at what she was about to look at.

She clicked the mouse and a half-naked lady popped up on the screen, accompanied by dance music, as the menus for the website dropped down in a fancy animation, followed by a swirling title appearing on the screen in the shape of green ivy.

It formed the words ‘Welcome to Paradis’ and pulsated on the screen. The woman had changed position and was now holding a red apple, about to bite into it seductively.

Claire cocked an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

Just then Michael pushed his head around the door. Claire glanced at him then back at the screen, looking flustered.

‘Is now a bad time to compare notes?’ he asked. Claire tried to turn the volume down on the monitor. Michael frowned then walked towards her. ‘What’s that shit?’

She tried to turn the monitor off before he saw the screen but he grabbed her hand as she went to hit the standby button. He saw the half-naked lady with the apple.

He looked at Claire.

‘Whatever you’re thinking, Diego, you’re wrong.’

Michael held up his palms in defence. ‘Hey, it’s your lifestyle choice, not mine.’

‘Piss off, it’s work-related. Mark Jenkins’s daughter works there.’

Michael sat in the chair opposite her and swung back on it. ‘Jenkins has children? He doesn’t strike me as the type.’

Claire clicked on the link to the ‘How to find us’ page on the website and brought up a map. ‘Have you ever been to Paradis?’

‘No. Not my thing… You didn’t answer my question.’

She avoided his eyes, feeling the weight of his stare. She hated this tension between them. Every time they were together it was there, even when she tried to forget they had never been anything but work colleagues. She wanted to bury her head in the sand, and hope everything would sort itself out.

Claire sighed and rubbed her forehead.

‘Chloe Jenkins is the only biological child. He used to foster children and they left the family, for unknown reasons. Their whereabouts is unknown. I think it’s strange, and it might be nothing, but I think it’s a good idea to see Chloe and ask her about her upbringing. I need some more background on Jenkins before I rule him out as a suspect.’

Claire highlighted the page of directions and hit the Print button. Her printer whirred into life next to her and produced the page. She picked it up and shoved it towards Michael. He glanced at it.

‘Want to check it out with me later?’

Michael looked again and shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’m not working late tonight anyway.’

He passed the page back to her. He noticed her staring at him.

‘It’s Friday night…you remember Friday nights, don’t you? Going out drinking too much, dancing like a moron and trying to pull someone, then regretting it the next day with a massive hangover?’

Claire rolled her eyes. She remembered how much she loved his playful side and she smiled inwardly at the thought. She took a sip of her coffee, closed the web page and brought up her emails. Nothing new had come in since last night.

‘What did you find out from Jenkins yesterday?’ she asked, still looking at the monitor. ‘Team briefing before lunch, but I’d like a heads-up.’

Michael opened his notepad. ‘Not a lot. Head teacher wasn’t very obliging either. I got the impression she was glad to see the back of me.’

Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought you’d be used to that by now.’ Michael glanced at her. She was provoking him. He ignored her throwaway comment.

‘Anyway, he seems a very stern teacher. I certainly didn’t like him, really cold eyes,’ he said, shivering at the thought. He glanced over a few more pages. ‘He seems well-liked by the head of the school though and, more importantly, he has an alibi. He was teaching when Wainwright was killed around 11:30am.’

He snapped his notepad shut.

Claire sat back in her chair and picked up her stapler, flicking the spring back and forth. ‘I still want to see his daughter,’ she said at length. ‘I’ll get Gabe to try and pick up Jenkins on the CCTV from Town Centre management ASAP.’

Michael nodded in agreement, and got up to leave. As he reached the door, he turned to face her, grinning.

‘I’ll think of you watching the ladies thrusting their crotches at you this evening. Never know, you may enjoy it, batting for the other team,’ he said, before ducking out the door as the stapler came hurtling towards his head.

CHAPTER 16

Chloe Jenkins ran her tongue along her upper lip, tasting the thick red lipstick painted expertly along her fleshy Cupid’s bow.

The overhead lights flashed in various sequences as she wrapped her slender leg around the metal pole and swung her body a quick 360, ending by casting her legs out and sliding to the floor in an expert ‘splits’ finish.

She awaited the inevitable jeering that accompanied her signature move, and tonight they seemed louder than usual. She stared at the black tribal design tattooed on the inner wrist of her right arm. She focused in on it, helping her drown out the surroundings like she did every time she performed.

A loud jeer broke into her thoughts.

Smile. Entertain. Repeat.

She turned, smiled at the row of men who edged closer to the stage runway, watched by the careful eye of the club’s security.

She grabbed the pole with one hand, using it to pull herself up, her legs sliding back together slowly until she was upright, teetering on her six-inch high heels.

The music changed tempo and the bass line rose, accompanied by the strobe light. Chloe began to strut down the runway in time to the music, the gold locket she never removed swinging with each movement.

She tried to count how many bank notes were stashed inside her red G-string. She lost count at £100, when she caught the eye of a woman watching her, standing with her manager across the room at the bar.

They were staring at her and exchanging conversation every now and again.

Chloe tried to concentrate, finished off her routine and picked up her discarded bra before leaving the stage, as other girls took her place.

She rushed down the corridor backstage, pulling her bra back on. When she reached her dressing room, a small box-room with battered furniture, she pulled out the notes from her underwear to count her earnings.

She heard her manager Joe Carter enter the room without knocking. Chloe certainly didn’t have anything he hadn’t seen before. He walked towards her, when she didn’t look up.

He stood close, staring at her reflection in the mirror opposite them.

His dark-brown eyes narrowed.

He stared at the tattoo on her wrist. He’d asked her about it once, in general conversation, comparing his own ink to hers. She had withdrawn into herself in an instant, shutting him out, so he never asked her again.

His eyes moved over her, taking in every inch of her long blonde hair hanging down her small skinny body and then back to her blue heavily made-up eyes.

Eventually Chloe raised her eyes to their reflection.

He stood so close to her that she could smell the stale scent of cigarettes, and feel the coarseness of his black jumper against her arm.

Unable to stand the closeness, she stashed the cash into her handbag and turned to face him.

‘Am I in trouble?’

‘What’ve I told you girls about not bringing shit to the club, Chloe?’

She looked confused, her eyes narrowing as she looked into his. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Then why is there fucking pig filth sitting in my office asking to speak to you?’ he spat, leaning in closer to her face.

Chloe sank backwards, her face twisted. ‘No fucking idea.’ She saw the doubt in his eyes. ‘Joe, it’s the truth.’

‘She ain’t here for nothing, is she?’ He leaned in closer and she could almost taste the alcohol on his breath. ‘Get it sorted or you’re sacked.’

***

‘Mind if I smoke?’ Chloe said, pulling out a cigarette from the carton with her lips. Now fully dressed in casual clothes, and sitting in Carter’s office, she faced the harsh cold eyes of DCI Claire Winters.

Claire tipped her head towards the No Smoking sign on the door behind her.

Chloe rolled her eyes and reluctantly replaced her cigarette. She sat with her legs crossed, her foot tapping in the air, her mind going over the last few weeks trying to find a reason why she was here, her job at risk.

After a few minutes of silence and Claire’s frozen stare she found her voice. ‘You gonna tell me why you’re here? I hope you realise you’ve pissed off Joe. He doesn’t want you lot in here, unless you’re paying.’

Claire smiled. She knew there were a few men on the beat who visited the club and paid for the odd private dance or two. She couldn’t understand what was so attractive about these women. Most looked malnourished, hungry for their next drug fix, and Chloe looked no different with her dyed blonde hair and tired expression. The girl had the usual signs Claire was used to seeing: the vacant expression, hollow eyes and the yellowing teeth from years of smoking.

Claire noted the track marks twisting their way up Chloe’s skeletal arms, one scar partially hidden, the pinky-coloured line disappearing though a black tattoo. The rest showed signs of obvious attempts to camouflage them with make-up. She thought about what could’ve happened to this girl, the only biological child of Mark Jenkins.

Chloe saw Claire’s eyes hover over the scars on her arms, and folded them quickly.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Claire Winters, Haverbridge CID. I’m investigating the murder of Father Malcolm Wainwright yesterday afternoon.’

Chloe barely flinched. ‘I heard about him. What’s that got to do with me?’

‘We have a witness who states that your father, Mark Jenkins, was the last person to see Wainwright alive.’

Chloe leaned her head back against her chair. ‘So? I have nothing to do with my father and haven’t since I was seventeen. I left home because I hate him.’

Claire looked up in surprise.

‘Does that shock you?’ Chloe looked down at her fingers and started picking the chipped red varnish from her fingernails, not waiting for an answer.

Claire’s voice was flat. ‘Not much shocks me in my line of work.’

She studied Chloe’s face, feeling a little sorry for her. Here was a girl who somewhere along the way became lost and felt she had to leave her family. Claire thought about what her parents would’ve wanted for her. A decent job, a nice boyfriend, and good prospects and hopes in life.

‘Chloe, I understand you’ve obviously had a tough time and I know you felt you had to leave home. I’m interested in the reasons why.’

Fighting back tears, Chloe raised her eyes and studied Claire’s face carefully.

Why should I trust you? Chloe had nothing to do with her family any more and with good reason.

But what harm could there be in talking to this woman?

‘I left home because I couldn’t take the religious shit any more,’ she said under her breath, barely audible, but Claire understood. It was what she’d expected to hear.

‘Go on.’

‘What do you want to hear? My life story from my earliest memory or the day I decided to leave?’

‘Let’s talk about the day you decided to leave. At seventeen, you must’ve been scared. Leaving home is hard for anyone financially and emotional for you. How have you supported yourself?’

‘I moved in with my boyfriend at the time. He worked and offered to support me until I got a job waiting tables. The pay was crap, and I was always told I had a good body and a pretty face, so a friend recommended here. Soon I had enough money to rent the flat I’m in now.’

‘Tell me about why you left.’

‘I told you. I wouldn’t swallow Dad’s religious bullshit any more.’

‘Help me understand. Are you saying you clashed about your beliefs or does this go deeper than that?’

Claire was becoming impatient; she wasn’t used to playing the sympathy card and it wasn’t getting her any further. She knew Mark Jenkins was involved in this case somehow. Whether it was directly or indirectly, she knew something about him and his family didn’t ring true.

‘He didn’t abuse me, if that’s what you’re implying,’ Chloe snapped.

‘So what could someone possibly do to have made you leave home? Just because he had different views to you? There are thousands of teenagers out there who don’t agree with their parents – hell, I was one of them. That’s life, but I think it goes beyond that.’

‘Why do you care?’

Claire paused, kept her face neutral. ‘Humour me.’

Chloe sighed.

Music and cheering could be heard from the stage area up the hall. She wished she was back out there fleecing the men for all they were worth. Anything sounded better than being here, facing this woman with her cold eyes and hard stare.

‘Ever since I can remember,’ she said, ‘Dad was preaching his faith daily. Not just when we needed to hear it but over trivial things. I can remember him grounding me when I ate an extra slice of bread. He made me watch all these films about third-world poverty.’

She sneered at the memory.

‘It ranged from things like that, to keeping me a prisoner when I wanted to go out, especially if it was a boy I wanted to see. He’d shout at me, calling me a whore for Satan, shit like that.’

She paused.

‘With Dad, it’s all about control. If he can’t get inside here,’ she said, tapping a finger against her temple, ‘he’ll attack you here.’ She lowered her hand to her heart. ‘I never let him get close enough to do any real damage and in some ways, that just made him worse. It was and always has been his way or no way.’

An uncomfortable feeling washed over her body. ‘Then of course there was the Manor house which we spent a lot of time in. It brought out the worst in him and me.’

‘Manor house?’

Chloe pulled a face of disgust as she remembered. ‘Yeah, Shrovesbury Manor, owned by Father Manuela…disgusting man. A lot of children at the local parishes attend there for what my father called “extra direction in the fulfilment of divine enlightenment”.’

She looked at Claire. ‘I refused to go when I was older.’ She let out a mock laugh. ‘Oh, Daddy loved that… A woman, thinking for herself and disobeying him?’ She shook her head. ‘That was never a good thing. It was like brainwashing and something about all of it didn’t feel right.’

Claire shifted in her seat. ‘In what way didn’t it feel right?’

‘It just…didn’t. The atmosphere was horrible. I still have flashbacks. I remember other children used to tell stories, rumours really. Some of us were scared of Father Manuela. There’s also this Chapel that he had built in the grounds, and the other kids used to scare us younger ones with stories of children going missing there. I never believed that…at least I kept telling myself I didn’t… Father Wainwright was there a lot of the time as well,’ she added, watching Claire’s reaction.

Claire stared hard at Chloe.

She didn’t know how much of this was truth and how much was just the ramblings of a bitter young girl trying to score points against her father. After all, who was going to believe an exotic dancer against men of the cloth? And besides, Mark Jenkins had a very good reputation in the community, as did Father Wainwright.

Something didn’t sit right about any of this or the circumstances of Wainwright’s death. Claire had known this from the start.

She threw Chloe a curve ball. ‘What about the foster children?’

Chloe shot her a surprised look. She was caught off guard by the question, and Claire saw the dread that appeared in her eyes.

‘How’d you know about them?’ Chloe’s voice croaked from the back of her throat.

‘It flagged up on various systems.’

‘Then you don’t need me to tell you about them.’

‘Most of the information’s missing. A lot of data was lost when social services merged various software.’

Chloe’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Can’t you ask my father?’

Claire stared at her in silence. This was a tried and tested method for her. She knew the pressure would entice Chloe to talk. She would feel obliged to. After an intense minute, Chloe sighed, giving in.

‘Mum and Dad took in foster children to try and make up for me being such a failure in their eyes.’

‘They said that?’

‘They didn’t have to. I saw it on their faces every day.’ A tear began to slowly roll down her cheek. She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, smearing her make-up.

‘Did they experience the same treatment from your father?’

Chloe wiped her nose and tried to pull herself together.

‘They fostered three children. I have nothing to do with them and I don’t know where they are. I was never close to them. After all, they were there to replace me, someone else for Dad to mould into the perfect child.’

She paused to think, searching for a memory she’d tried hard to lock away. ‘I was almost six when they got the first kid, Stephen. He was with us for less than a year. Dad thought he could “save” him or whatever,’ she said, shaking her head, embarrassed by her own words.

‘He left soon after he hit sixteen anyway, couldn’t take the religion either. I was only young but I think he was like Dad’s experiment or something. He’d been passed from foster home to foster home since he was very young. He had issues. Dad got another kid just before Stephen left, called Emily. She might still be with them.’

Claire was making additional notes. She knew about Mark Jenkins’s foster children, but only the basics of their ages and where they’d come from.

Anything else she could pick from Chloe’s scarred mind was a bonus. She didn’t know if any of this would be relevant but she was in need of a lead…and a potential motive for the death of Father Wainwright. She looked up at Chloe, who was now staring at her feet.

‘You said there were three foster children?’

‘The third was Amelia. She came to us almost as soon as Stephen did. Weird kid.’

‘Why weird?’

Chloe pulled at the locket hanging on the chain around her neck, and bit her lower lip, smearing what remained of her lipstick on her teeth. ‘She’s like a lot of kids taken into care. Fucked up,’ she said at length.

Claire wrote the names of the Jenkins household on her notepad in large capital letters and drew lines between them with the word Connection?

She had enough information on them for now at least. She could tell Chloe was more than uncomfortable talking about them. She made the decision to move on.

‘What was your father’s relationship like with Father Wainwright? Were they close friends?’

‘Yeah, I’d say so. He came to the house at least once a week – Mum made him Sunday dinner after the ten o’clock service was over. Greedy bastard always had seconds,’ she said, the memory disgusting her. ‘Like I said, he was at the Manor often as well.’

‘Did you like him?’

Chloe’s eyes narrowed.

‘In your opinion what type of man was he? He was in a position of trust and had regular involvement with your family. Did you resent him?’

Chloe had every reason to hate Father Wainwright.

He hid a lot of secrets.

She thought about the day he was murdered. If this detective checked, she’d see she didn’t have an alibi. That might stir up old tensions, uncover barely healed wounds.

Chloe had a split second to decide which card to play.

She smiled and her eyes met Claire’s. ‘I resent what he represented, but that’s my father’s fault, not his, I guess.’

Claire looked at her sceptically but wrote down her words before folding her pad closed.

***

Claire shook Joe Carter’s extended hand. She had all she needed from Chloe for now and was now eager to leave Paradis as soon as possible. Judging by Carter’s body language, it was a feeling shared.

He followed her out of the club, trying to act normally around his clients. He saw Claire to her car outside and tried not to look agitated.

‘I hope Chloe’s not in any kind of trouble, Chief Inspector?’

Claire was expecting this question and looked at him, smiling. ‘Not at all. I’m just making some routine enquiries, that’s all.’

She reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out her card and handed it to him. ‘I gave Chloe my card but I’d like to leave one with you, just in case she misplaces hers.’

Carter studied the card briefly and forced a nod.

He waited until she’d driven out of sight before folding the card in half, ripping it to pieces, and letting them fall, curling and fluttering along the pavement in the gentle evening breeze.

CHAPTER 17

Music raged from flat number 15. The constant thudding baseline from the stereo seemed to rattle the doorframe to the very core.

The huge Rottweiler was pacing the living-room floor, staring at its owner, who was fast asleep on the sofa, the remote control for the television sliding from his hand before thudding onto the exposed floorboards.

The dog padded over to his owner’s hand, sniffed before licking it and whimpered gently. A long trail of drool was hanging from its huge jaw, its pink tongue hanging at one side, panting.

Ashe Miller’s body suddenly jerked, waking him from his slumber as he fell in his nightmare, just catching himself before he fell off the sofa.

The dog barked at him, as he balled his hand into a fist and rubbed his eyes hard. He glanced up at the television, still set on mute as he’d left it.

He shifted his stocky body from the sofa with a grunt and pushed the dog away when it tried to jump up at him on its hind legs. ‘Get down, Clyde.’

Ashe staggered to the bathroom, Clyde in hot pursuit, bounding alongside him, his tail wagging.

Ashe stared at his reflection in the mirror hanging over the small wash-basin and stuck out his tongue. It had a nasty-looking white coating on it, and he pulled a face of disgust.

He leaned in closer to the mirror, pulling at his cheeks, examining his eyes.

His pupils were like saucers. His shock of jet-black hair stood up on end, making him more scarecrow-like than ever. His brown eyes looked like hollow black pits, with dark circles underneath.

He sniffed at his reflection and ignored the sudden knocking at his door. He could just about hear it over the stereo, and as it continued, Clyde began to bark again.

Ashe poked his head around into the living room and stared at the door. He glanced down at his clothes: a faded olive green T-shirt and black boxer shorts.

The knocking continued and Ashe glanced through the spyhole. He banged his forehead hard against the door in frustration and cursed under his breath.

It was another resident and all Ashe knew was that they lived above him.

He threw open the door and stared at the man in front of him, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. Ashe’s arms were outstretched, gripping either side of the doorframe.

‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ said the man, his voice raised over the din of the stereo. ‘It’s nearly midnight and I’ve to get up for work in five hours.’

Ashe shrugged his shoulders. ‘How is that my problem?’

The man frowned, taking a step forward. He was taller than Ashe but at least ten years older.

Ashe may have been quite short for a man, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in girth. His T-shirt pulled against his stocky frame, a mixture of muscle and fat caused by too much alcohol.

Still, the man squared up to Ashe and uttered some profanity before hearing a snarl.

Looking down he saw Clyde at Ashe’s side, his teeth bared, ready to strike at the first command. The man looked back at Ashe who grinned, grabbed the collar around Clyde’s neck and yanked him back.

‘He wants to play,’ said Ashe. ‘Shall we see who wins?’ Clyde barked, his jaws and teeth smashing back together, drool splattering over the floor.

The man backed off, pulling his dressing-gown tight around his body. ‘If you could turn the stereo down, I’d appreciate it.’

Ashe made a gesture of a salute. Clyde pulled forward as the man rushed back up the stairs to his floor. Ashe yanked his collar hard, bent down and tried to soothe him with hushed words. When Clyde had calmed down, he licked Ashe’s face, and followed him back inside the flat.

Ashe stopped his CD from playing and replaced it with another one. He hit the play button, turned the volume up higher and grinned before returning to the bathroom.

He found his stash of skunk hidden in a small bag inside an aftershave cap, still attached to a half-empty bottle.

He went back into the living room, slouched on the sofa and reached for the bottle of whisky on the coffee table.

He knocked back a few swigs of the amber-coloured liquid from the bottle and flicked stations on the silent television. He nodded his head to the pounding rhythm from the stereo, and rolled his joint.

***

It was an hour later when Ashe awoke again, still sitting on the sofa. Clyde had gone to his bed in the kitchen and Ashe realised the CD had ended.

So what was that banging noise that’d woken him?

He sat up, listened, and realised someone was knocking on his door again.

He slumped back into the sofa, hand rubbing his forehead. His head was pounding and he struggled to see.

The knocking continued.

Getting up, he stumbled towards the door and peeked through the spyhole. All he could see was red.

He blinked his eyes tighter, then opened them wide as he moved away from the door, deciding whether to open it or not.

Someone knocked harder on the door again and, with anger rising in his gut, Ashe retrieved his baseball bat from the bedroom. He came charging back and yanked the door open with force.

‘You’ve got a death wish, mate!’

He blinked harder as his vision tunnelled.

The neighbour he’d been expecting was replaced with a young woman, around his age with flowing red hair and piercing green eyes.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘What are you after this time?’ He stood aside and let her in. He looked her up and down before closing the door after her. ‘I’m out of cash, so if you want paying like last time, I’ll have to owe you,’ he sniggered childishly. ‘You can tie me up this time, if you want.’

The dog snarled at her as she moved to the middle of the living room.

‘Quiet, Clyde. You know she’s dope.’

She eyed the dog with defiance, staring into his eyes, which provoked him further. He barked, splattering more drool on the floor. He looked ready to attack her.

She felt the knife against her leg inside her jeans pocket. She squatted down to the dog’s level. She smiled as she outstretched one arm, beckoning him towards her.

A concerned look flashed across Ashe’s face. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t do that, he’s pretty hyper right now.’

His words were sluggish, which meant the timing couldn’t be more perfect for her. ‘You saw me the other day, didn’t you.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘You overheard what you shouldn’t have.’ she said, turning her head to glance at him over her shoulder. ‘That’s your problem, isn’t it? Always listening behind doors, lurking in shadows…’

Ashe tried to remain poker-faced.

The dog snarled again. ‘You should go,’ Ashe said at length.

‘But I’ve not stroked Clydie-baby yet,’ she said, returning her attention to the dog. The knife seemed to burn through the fabric of her jeans, right through to her skin. ‘Come on, Clydie-baby… I’ve brought you a treat.’

Stokebrook Secure Hospital NHS Trust, Buckinghamshire 2011

Amelia stared down at the identification tag fastened loosely around her wrist. She looked around the room that had been her prison for the past three years and longed for the pain and the charade to end.

Stokebrook Secure Hospital is a high security psychiatric hospital in the Buckinghamshire countryside. It houses two hundred patients who have been detained under the Mental Health Act 1983 for mental illness, severe mental impairment or psychopathic personality disorders.

Amelia Williams fell into the latter category and was housed in the Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder Unit (DSPD). This is the second hospital of its nature in England alongside Rampton Secure Hospital in Nottinghamshire.

Three years ago, Amelia had attempted to murder a man who she claimed had tried to rape her. She’d been found unfit to plead in a trial and had been placed at Stokebrook for her own safety and that of the general public.

It’d been little consolation to Amelia that she’d escaped trial and a prison sentence. She’d pulled off the perfect act, making doctors and psychiatrists believe she had a personality disorder and was therefore not aware or responsible for her actions.

In reality Amelia had always known exactly what she was doing. She just didn’t care that she enjoyed her thirst for violence.

But being in Stokebrook hadn’t been plain sailing like she’d envisaged. Locked up with others like her in nature (or worse) and having to maintain her act was starting to take its toll.

Amelia was tired.

And restless.

Every time she closed her eyes she could still see the images of the past. A bloody staircase. A broken body at the bottom, close to death.

She’d heard the screams many times in her head, night after night, relentless. Sometimes she thought back and wondered whether she’d done the right thing in keeping quiet about what had happened. Then she’d think about her long-term plans, once she was out of here. She’d been right then and was right now. Hers and God’s revenge would be sweet.

She’d used her time wisely.

And now she wanted out.

She looked at the woman opposite her. Volunteer Melanie Steward, who had been talking away while Amelia had pretended to listen, was now smiling at her.

Stokebrook had a patient befriending scheme that had worked to Amelia’s advantage. Volunteers under the scheme were allowed to visit patients who otherwise had no contact with the outside world. Trained and given a thorough Criminal Record Bureau check, they were then closely matched with a patient.

Rules were strict and volunteers were warned about the potential to be taken in by the manipulative nature of some patients.

Melanie Steward had already fallen at that first hurdle two years ago, although she didn’t know it yet.

‘Am I boring you?’ Mel said.

Amelia looked away. ‘Did you bring it?’

Mel’s hands twitched nervously. ‘Is that all you wanted? I thought you liked my company?’

Amelia tried to sound convincing. ‘I do but I hoped you’d help me.’

‘And I said I would, whatever you want, no matter if it’s against the rules.’ Mel’s hand swept across the bed and clasped Amelia’s. ‘I never thought that meeting you would make me feel this way… I’m breaking all the rules, Amelia. You helped me realise what I’ve always wanted.’

Amelia looked away. Mel blushed, believing Amelia’s gesture was out of modesty at knowing the love Mel held towards her.

The reality was much darker.

Amelia was repulsed by her.

After the first few visits from Mel, Amelia knew the woman was a homosexual. A fact that had at first seemed to be a setback had presented itself as another opportunity.

No stranger to being intimate with women, Amelia had played Mel like a pro.

A few well-planned questions and the chance to move physically closer to Mel had told Amelia all she needed. Melanie Steward was trapped in a loveless marriage with a man she couldn’t bear to be touched by and the look in Mel’s eyes had told Amelia that she was more than a little attracted to her.

‘Amelia, I…’ Mel trailed off and got up from her chair. Amelia’s eyes widened as Mel began to raise her long skirt.

Not again, Amelia thought. She pushed herself further into the bed when she saw Mel’s hands disappear inside her knickers.

Amelia closed her eyes tight. She heard the sound of tape ripping across bare skin.

‘Here,’ Mel’s voice quivered. ‘I brought it for you.’

Amelia inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as she eyed the intricate cut-glass statue of the Virgin Mary that’d previously been taped against Mel’s inner thigh. Anything made from prohibited materials or sharp objects was strictly forbidden but Mel had broken yet another rule to please her.

Mel handed the statuette over and Amelia turned it over in her hands. The figure was just four inches long but was exactly what she’d asked for. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘Really?’ Mel beamed. ‘I’m so pleased. It fitted the exact description you gave me.’

‘Nobody suspects anything?’

‘No, I was careful, just how you showed me.’

Amelia leaned forward and kissed Mel softly on the lips. ‘You won’t regret this… You’ll come back later?’

Before Mel could reply, her breath caught in her throat as Amelia grabbed the pendant around her neck. ‘What’s this?’ Mel saw the change in Amelia’s eyes. She looked at the small fabric rose at the end of a fake gold chain.

‘Don’t you like it?’

Amelia’s mind took her back to the Rose Garden at Shrovesbury Manor.

Rebecca…

She held back tears as the face from her past appeared before her, like it always did. Firstly, as a beautiful mirage of messy brown hair with wide dark eyes. Her face bore a few freckles which made her look younger than her sixteen years.

Then came the vision Amelia always dreaded, as the pretty face was replaced by a twisted mess of blood and smashed bone. Rebecca’s once full light-pink lips now reduced to a menacing grimace of dried blood and events of unspoken evil.

Amelia ripped the chain from Mel’s neck, making her gasp, her hand reaching for her neck. Amelia threw the chain into her face. ‘Get rid of it.’

Mel was stunned. She avoided Amelia’s eyes and looked around the room. She caught sight of the small shelf filled with a few books from the hospital library. Her eyes landed on a particular title. She knew many pages inside had been drawn over in red pen, many passages underlined or crossed out.

She’d helped Amelia do it herself.

Now she felt the twinge of regret deep in her gut as she read the gold writing down the spine of the book.

It read Holy Bible.

***

It was almost 8:30pm when Amelia heard the lock turn in the door.

Mel was early.

More importantly, she’d pulled off their plan thus far without any major problems.

Mel’s face was ashen, her eyes dark and puffy as though she’d been crying. She had a small bag clasped tightly to her chest. She closed the door but didn’t speak.

Amelia got up from the bed. She reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Mel’s ear and felt her flinch under her touch. Amelia’s eyes narrowed, forcing Mel to look at her. ‘Is everything in place?’

Mel’s voice sounded hoarse when she spoke. ‘I managed to bribe security to let me in this late and he agreed not to check the bag.’

Amelia smiled.

George, the night security guard, had been easy enough to bribe. Amelia had managed to pay him a midnight visit herself in exchange for him allowing Mel access into the building discreetly by the side trade entrance.

All men are weak, she thought. It’d come easy for her to manipulate but she saw it’d been much harder for Mel.

Amelia kissed her cheek. ‘This’ll be over soon.’

It was like Mel hadn’t heard her, and was locked away inside her own mind. ‘All our life’s savings… Twenty-five years we’ve been married. Frank will be devastated when he realises what I’ve done.’

‘You’re in a loveless marriage, Mel. It’s time you found happiness.’ She kissed her on the lips passionately, tasting the sweetness of her mouth. When she withdrew, Mel was crying. ‘I’m your future now. You don’t have to fear what happens next.’

Mel pushed her away. ‘I don’t know if I can live a life on the run.’ She tried to wipe away her tears as quickly as they fell. ‘I love you, Amelia, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do this. I thought I was but I was wrong. How can this be right?’

Amelia shushed her as she drew her into her body, comforting her as a mother does a child. Mel let herself fall into the embrace and they lay back on the bed.

‘It’s right because God says it is,’ Amelia said. ‘He’ll forgive an act of true love, of true justice.’ She closed Mel’s eyes with her fingertips.

Mel sniffed back tears. ‘God doesn’t agree with us, what we are. What we do to each other.’ She reached out for Amelia’s body.

Amelia smiled as her lips brushed against Mel’s ear. ‘I wasn’t talking about us.’

Mel felt the change in Amelia’s body. When her eyes opened, Amelia had already retrieved the fragment of broken glass she’d concealed inside the mattress earlier.

Mel’s eyes narrowed in confusion then fear as Amelia brought it up to her left eye.

It was what remained of the Virgin Mary statue.

‘What’re you doing?’

Amelia pushed her weight against Mel’s chest and sat astride her, knees pinning Mel’s arms down hard against the bed.

‘I’m sorry I’ve had to smash this, Mel, after you took all the trouble to sneak it in, but how else was I going to do this?’

Mel felt bile rise in her throat as the realisation hit her. The last two years had been nothing but a lie.

‘God had a plan for me from the moment I was born. I’ve used my time to plan His dream and now it’s time for me to put all His words into practice.’

Mel’s eyes locked onto the Bible on the shelf but was too stunned to speak.

‘You must understand none of this is personal.’ Amelia leaned closer to look into Mel’s eyes. ‘He wants revenge and only I can do this.’

Mel felt her voice catching in her throat as she spoke. ‘Who wants revenge? Revenge for what?’

‘God…talks to me. But He’s stopped. There’s no more guidance He can give me unless I get out of here. Don’t deny the will of God, Mel. You were sent to help me. This was God’s plan for you. He sent you to me. Sacrifice yourself for me and there will be a place for you in Heaven despite the sins you’ve committed by lying with women and committing adultery.’

Amelia clamped her hand down over Mel’s mouth as she went to scream, drowning out the sound before she could call for help.

She brought the glass back to Mel’s eye, so close that her eyelashes flicked the glass tip each time she blinked.

‘I’ll give you something to really scream about if you don’t shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch,’ Amelia hissed, her mask slipping.

At that moment Mel saw just what really lurked underneath the beautiful face that she’d grown to love and her eyes circled the room, desperate for a way out.

She saw the panic button near the door and tried to throw Amelia from her but Amelia’s knees dug harder into her arms.

‘I want you to know that every touch, every kiss and every word was a lie. Every time I touched your body, every time I made you forget the sadness in your life meant nothing to me but a means to an end. Every time I made you cry out for me…all lies. Nothing was real.

‘Know this… I scrubbed myself until I bled after each and every time you touched my skin. I faked every cry of pleasure but now it’s my turn. I want to make you scream…for your life.’

Each and every moment Mel had shared with Amelia came into the forefront of her memory and it made her feel sick. The reality of Amelia’s words had taken hold of her body, but now the heartache was giving way to the adrenaline that now ran through her body.

The survival instinct began to kick in and Mel pushed all her emotional pain deep inside her body.

She blinked hard, tried to think clearly.

She was heavier than Amelia. She could use this to her advantage. With one surge forward she bucked her body forward, throwing Amelia from the bed.

The sound of Amelia’s head hitting the floor was sickening.

Mel scrambled from the bed.

She stood, her heart pounding, staring at Amelia’s limp body blocking the door. Her only hope of escape.

The glass was still in Amelia’s hand and she edged closer, bent down and snatched it away before jumping back.

She stared at Amelia’s body again until she was satisfied she was unconscious and edged towards the door. As she reached for the handle a leg rose up and kicked her hard in the ribs, knocking the wind from her.

She fell to the floor, doubled up in pain. Through her tears she saw Amelia pulling herself up from the floor and cradling her head.

Then Amelia stared down at her.

Mel swung the glass wildly, trying to fend her off, but Amelia was soon down on her like a lioness against its prey. She wrenched the glass from Mel’s hand and brought it down hard into her throat.

Mel’s eyes were wide as she spluttered, shots of blood gurgling from the wound.

Amelia stood above her, her eyes cold, looking down at Mel’s now outstretched arm.

She picked up the leather bag Mel had brought with her. Inside there were bundles of notes, £10,000 in cash, a brown wig, a purse and Mel’s security card that opened the hospital doors in the secure areas.

Amelia frowned. She cast her eyes back to Mel. ‘You didn’t pack my change of clothes?’

Mel’s eyes were beginning to look glassy, but still they twitched.

A silent ‘fuck you’.

Amelia reached down, grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her head up. ‘You forgot them, didn’t you?’ Mel blinked hard and Amelia let her head drop back to the floor and kicked her hard in the gut. ‘You stupid cunt.’

Mel barely made a sound.

Realising she’d have to improvise, Amelia grabbed the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around Mel’s head, covering her face and neck. She then started to remove Mel’s clothes, careful not to get any more blood on them than there was already.

Soon Mel stopped moving and blood soaked through the white sheet.

Amelia stripped from her nightwear and put on Mel’s clothes: a thin purple jumper and black skinny jeans that hung off Amelia’s body. Not ideal but it was necessary.

She looked down at Mel’s body.

She knew there was a toilet across from her room which had a safety mirror in it. She dragged Mel’s body to the other side of the bed, so it was unseen from the window in the door.

She searched her trouser pockets and pulled out a five-pound note, a hair band, and a set of house keys. She removed Mel’s shoes and pulled them on. They were a size too big and they rubbed the backs of her heels as she walked to the door.

She switched off the light and slowly opened the door, checked the corridor was clear and ran into the toilet opposite her.

Inside the small toilet was a wash-basin and the safety mirror.

Amelia stared at her reflection. Her hair was tousled in a wilder mess than usual. She found the hair band and pulled her hair into a rough ponytail. She picked up the wig.

Mel had shoulder-length brown curly hair. She’d had a wig custom-made with a view to helping Amelia escape by posing as herself. At a quick glance, no one would’ve questioned her. But in Mel’s haste to please, she hadn’t quite thought about how she would’ve got out herself. There had never been a time when she’d doubted Amelia’s words.

A mistake that’d proved fatal.

Amelia pulled the wig over her ponytail, adjusted it, then stared back at her reflection.

Not bad.

Her eyes fell to the front of the jumper.

She used some water to dab off the spots of blood around the collar and shoulder. There was little she could do, and she gave up as the blood smudged to a dark-coloured stain. Against the purple fabric it wasn’t too noticeable and at this time of night, there would be few staff and security around to stop her. Government cuts had led to staff shortages, which worked nicely in her plan.

She took a deep breath and stepped out into the corridor, Mel’s bag slung over her shoulder, security pass swinging on the lanyard around her neck.

She walked quickly.

She kept her head down low as she passed each security camera mounted up high on the walls. It’d just be George manning them tonight and Mel had seen to him to buy his silence.

The bright white corridors seemed to wind on forever, but soon she came to the first set of security doors.

She held Mel’s pass over the sensor pad and breathed a sigh of relief as it beeped and the door clicked open. She navigated two more doors until she came to the side trade entrance Mel had used to enter the building.

There was no one there.

George had left his post.

Once outside, Amelia found herself in the visitors’ car park, partially lit in the darkness.

She still had Mel’s keys with her but taking her car was out of the question. She headed towards the security booth that would be the last barrier she had to pass before reaching the road ahead into Stokebrook village high street.

As she approached the booth, she saw it was occupied as expected.

She dipped her hand into her pocket and felt the tip of the shard of glass she’d retrieved from Mel. She pressed the edge against her fingertip.

The man in the booth watched as she approached the pedestrian walkway with some curiosity.

It was George.

***

Amelia had been free for half an hour, climbing over fences and running over farmland, George’s blood mixed with Mel’s on her jumper.

Stokebrook village was surrounded by farmland and a wood, and Amelia had passed at least two other sleepy hamlets in the last half hour. Despite the isolation, she’d been careful to keep to the fields that ran behind the hearts of the villages.

She paused for breath behind a wooden outbuilding on some farmland.

The night was silent with only the light of the moon to illuminate her surroundings. She was tired from running and needed somewhere to sleep. She peeked inside the unlocked outbuilding.

There was nothing but hay inside, and although it smelt musty she curled up in the middle of it, pulling it all around her so she was hidden.

Using Mel’s bag as a pillow, she rested her head and closed her eyes.

***

It was almost 7:00am when she awoke the next day to the sound of her stomach growling.

She was starving.

She rolled over and pulled out strands of hay that had caught in her hair. She sat up and pain surged through her skull. She grabbed the back of her head, rubbing it.

She inspected her fingers and saw dried flaky blood. She realised she’d cut her head when Mel had pushed her to the floor.

Ignoring the pain, she peeked outside and saw that morning dew had soaked the grass and a low mist still hung in the hills ahead of her. She was cold from the lack of food and proper clothes. She walked a few minutes down a small country lane to try and get her bearings.

She came across a small cottage with some clothes hanging on a washing line. She crept as quietly as she could and felt the fabric. Everything was damp from being left out overnight, but Amelia didn’t care.

She grabbed a child’s pink baseball cap, tracksuit bottoms, a top and zip-up fleece from the line. She ran behind some dense bushes and pulled off Mel’s now grass-and-mud stained clothes and changed into the stolen ones.

The elasticised tracksuit bottoms fitted her fairly well, but the top drowned her. She pulled the fleece on, which fitted more snugly, before pulling the cap down low, obscuring her face with the peak. It was too tight, but not noticeably so.

She stood quietly for a while and could hear traffic somewhere in the distance, and wondered whether to risk hitting the main roads or not.

The hunger in her stomach made the decision for her.

After walking for half a mile she saw the main road through the trees, the cars zipping past in a blur. She saw a road sign for a service station and followed through the fields that ran alongside the main road until she saw the Welcome Break services ahead.

She walked through the car park towards the main entrance. No one seemed to notice her dressed as she was, and she blended in with the crowds of people resting in the many eateries.

She could smell the strong scent of fast food, burgers, fried breakfasts and muffins. Her stomach growled as she made herself walk past and towards the small WHSmith ahead.

She couldn’t afford to be noticed by anyone. It would be less of a risk to blend in a fast-moving queue. She grabbed some water, crisps and a few chocolate bars and paid.

Soon she was ripping the wrappers from the chocolate and stuffing them into her mouth without really chewing, before washing it back with the water.

She was sitting in the picnic area away from most of the cars, gripping Mel’s bag tighter, thinking of the money inside that would help her on her journey for revenge.

She looked around and saw the pay phone.

She had less than a pound in coins, but didn’t want to risk going back into the services complex. She put all the coins in the slot and dialled the number she’d committed to memory, and waited.

‘Hello?’

Amelia almost cried at the sound of his voice. Her eyes shut tight.

‘It’s me…I need your help.’

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