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

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.