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.’
CHAPTER 18
Samantha Jenkins placed steaming hot bowls of roast potatoes and vegetables in the centre of the dining-room table. She’d already sliced up the roast beef joint and carved slices for each plate. She’d set out four plates and wine glasses.
Emily Jenkins was already seated at the table after helping her mother in the kitchen all morning, and was now eyeing the food.
Samantha was just bringing in the gravy when Father Manuela appeared with Mark Jenkins at his side. Today was Sunday and Manuela was joining them for a traditional Sunday lunch.
Manuela glanced at the food on the table, and smiled but it didn’t reach his heavily-hooded eyes. They were a dull gun-metal grey, which always reminded Samantha of clouds in the sky as a storm was brewing. Manuela huffed as he sat his tall thin frame in the nearest chair. His salt and pepper-coloured hair was slicked back, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
‘Well, this looks and smells wonderful, Sam,’ Manuela said.
She smiled as she pulled out a seat for her husband. They all ate in silence after grace was said, helping themselves to food from the bowls. Emily helped her mother clear up afterwards while Manuela and Mark locked themselves away in the study.
‘When’s the funeral?’ Jenkins’s voice sounded weak.
‘It all depends on when his body is released to the family. Father Wainwright is still with the pathologists… At the moment, he’s their best piece of evidence – the police’s words, not mine, I hasten to add.’
Manuela took a seat in the old tatty red leather chair at Jenkins’s desk.
Jenkins poured a double whisky in a cut-crystal glass and offered it to Manuela, but he declined.
‘Any word from David yet?’ Jenkins said as he knocked back his drink in one mouthful.
‘Nothing. I’ve left him countless messages but…’ He trailed off and shook his head. ‘Father Hawthorne – David – has distanced himself, as you know.’
Manuela rubbed his forehead hard and a heavy silence hung in the air.
Jenkins sniffed trying to hold back tears but they started to fall, heavy and hot down his cheeks.
Manuela handed him a tissue from the desk in front of them. ‘Come, now,’ he said. He smiled, but once again, it never reached his eyes.
Jenkins dabbed at his brow, and nose. When he looked at Manuela, his eyes were red-rimmed. ‘It’s not just Malcom,’ he said, fighting back more tears. ‘I saw Chloe the same morning as Malcolm was kill—’
‘Chloe?’ Manuela said, cutting him off. His face grew red and what light there was in his eyes faded. ‘You spoke to her?’
‘I wanted to. She walked right past me when I was with Malcolm. Stared right at me, walked past like she’s above everyone else, above me.’ His mouth pulled into a grimace. ‘Bitch.’ He looked nervous and he lowered his voice. ‘Malcolm said he’d seen her around. Just days before…’ He gave a strangled cry and brought the tissue to his eyes again.
Manuela reached out his hand, grasped Jenkins’s shoulder. ‘She always was poison, you know that.’
Jenkins nodded.
‘You can’t think she had anything to do with this?’
Jenkins shrugged. ‘The way she was when she left us, the things she said. Those disgusting accusations she made against Malcolm and you?’ He shuddered. ‘Anything’s possible, isn’t it?’
Manuela’s face was stony. Chloe was always a thorn in his side. She always resisted…
Jenkins swallowed nervously when he saw Manuela’s cold reaction to his words. His face barely registered anything. He certainly didn’t rush to defend Malcolm or himself.
‘This isn’t the time to speak ill of the dead,’ he said, as if reading Jenkins’s mind.
‘Oh, no, of course not,’ Jenkins said. ‘I…’
He paused, then looked over his shoulder to make sure the study door was still closed.
‘I haven’t said anything to Samantha, but a detective came to see me at work.’
Manuela looked up, his face confused. ‘Whatever for?’
‘They say I was the last one to see Malcolm before he was… It was just a routine enquiry but it’s still shaken me.’ Jenkins lowered his head and sniffed back tears. ‘He was a good man. Who could do something like this? I can’t understand it, none of it.’
Manuela tried to think rationally, but kept seeing an image from his past that he’d tried so hard to bury. He thought he might be next in line for a visit from the police and it scared him. He rose from his chair.
‘Mark, I have things to do at the Manor. Please try not to think about Chloe or dwell on all of this. There are some very evil people in this world. There’s no use trying to make sense of it all. God will judge them. It’s not for us to intervene.’
Jenkins forced a smile and showed Manuela to the door. He was just putting on his coat when Emily appeared. She smiled sweetly, her natural blonde hair twisted in a loose ponytail. ‘Did you need a lift, Father?’
Manuela smiled at her but declined. He gave them his regards to Samantha and left.
***
Her local park was busy, the relentless heatwave showing no signs of ending, drawing people out in their droves.
Claire had to remain focused as she dodged around wayward toddlers, irritated mothers, and dog walkers, their pets straining at their leads, as she jogged around the outer path.
Circling the kids’ splash park, Claire pulled off her sunglasses, wiped the sweat that trickled from her forehead into her eyes, and
came to a stop beside a bench. She stretched her legs out, and tried to catch her breath.
She usually found that going for a run helped clear her head, but not today. And she was craving a cigarette. Claire silently promised herself when this investigation was over, she’d quit.
***
When Claire got home, and had showered, she headed into the kitchen, tying back her wet hair, smoothing it off her face. After making herself a drink, she picked up her BlackBerry from the kitchen counter and unlocked the screen.
She had one missed call, a voicemail and a text from Michael in response to her message to him the night before.
Hesitant, she listened to the voicemail. It was about the continued problems at Gladstone Court and Claire deleted the message halfway through listening to it.
Then she opened Michael’s text message.
I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. M
Claire tightened her grip on the phone. Was that it? She slammed the phone back on the counter top, and stared up at the kitchen cupboards on the wall.
Taped across the length of them were copies of the scene of crime photographs from Wainwright’s murder.
All in their vibrant bloody red hues, flesh and bone, twisted into some kind of macabre sculpture.
Reaching out, Claire ripped them from the cupboards and fought back the tears. When she’d finished only scraps of sellotape and fragments of paper remained.
She leaned on the countertop, breathless, and let the tears fall.
What was happening to her? Usually so controlled and at times stoic, everything now seemed to be closing in on her. She felt caged, the door unlocked, so easy to escape, yet she hadn’t the mental strength to do so.
She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and stared at the text message again.
Releasing a guttural scream, she hurled her mug across the room. It smashed against the far wall, cold coffee dripping down onto the fragments of china on the floor.
With her back now to the counter, Claire’s body gave way from under her, and she slid down, hitting the floor hard, jarring her back. Pain shot up her spine but it barely registered.
For All Our Sins: A gripping thriller with a killer twist (DCI Claire Winters, Book 1) Page 9
