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

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.