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

‘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?’