T.M.E. Walsh - For All Our Sins

‘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.’