For All Our Sins: A gripping thriller with a killer twist (DCI Claire Winters, Book 1)

by T. M. E. Walsh

Chloe frowned, her hand slowly hovering above the file. She opened it and saw the photograph stills.

  All colour drained from her face.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’

  ‘It’s not what it looks like.’

  Claire nodded, gave a mock-laugh. ‘Right, OK.’ She picked up a photograph, waved it in front of Chloe’s face. ‘So why don’t you start telling me what this isn’t?’

  Chloe risked another look at the photographs.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Joe took me to dinner.’ Her eyes found Wainwright’s face in the photograph. She swallowed hard. ‘And there he was.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Bold as fucking brass, sitting there, not a care in the world.’

  Claire tapped the file. ‘This is about fourteen hours before Wainwright was killed.’ Chloe wiped her eyes, smudging her make-up even more. ‘So?’

  ‘So?’ Claire’s eyebrows raised. ‘I’m not too keen on coincidences. You must know why I’m here?’

  Chloe bristled, sitting upright in her chair. ‘Shouldn’t you be doing this at the station? Making it official?’

  Claire remained poker-faced.

  ‘Because the fact you’re here,’ she said, leaning forward, an arm now on the desk, ‘and not hauling my arse down there, tells me you’ve got fuck all.’

  Claire pulled the photographs back across the desk, scooped them up and pushed them back into the file.

  ‘Amelia Williams,’ she said.

  ‘That name again,’ Chloe said, tired of hearing about it. She rubbed the tattoo on her wrist as she spoke.

  ‘Tell me what you know, Chloe,’ Claire said, the tiredness evident in her voice.

  Chloe looked back at her. ‘You’re asking me if I think she had anything to do with any of this, what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Chloe lowered her eyes and sighed. She clutched and then pulled at the locket around her neck, sliding it around the chain, nerves getting the better of her.

  Suddenly, she wasn’t so cock-sure, and realised she was out of her depth.

  ‘You know, I really didn’t think she was serious.’

  Claire sat rigid in her seat.

  ‘Serious about what?’

  ‘Before all this I didn’t think it was relevant. She always did say things like that and never followed through. I just took her to be full of crap.’ Chloe looked agitated.

  ‘You must tell me what you know.’ Claire made no attempt to mask her impatience.

  Chloe looked at her and shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you here.’ She looked hard into Claire’s eyes. ‘And if he’s with her on this I want protection.’

  Claire frowned and got up from behind the desk. She stood in front of Chloe and folded her arms. ‘I don’t understand. What protection?’

  ‘You know what I’m asking…’ She gestured with her hands as she searched for the right word. ‘Like on TV.’

  ‘You mean witness protection.’

  Chloe nodded, wrapping her arms around her small body, shivering a little despite the heat.

  ‘You’re going to have to give me a good enough reason, Chloe. What do you know? Are you saying you know who committed these murders?’

  Chloe gave a small nod. Claire squatted down next to her chair, so they were at eye level. ‘All of them?’ When Chloe didn’t respond, Claire grabbed her shoulders, turning her towards her. ‘Chloe!’

  ‘Father Wainwright!’

  Tears had already begun to well in her eyes, her mascara smudging underneath her eyes. ‘And if I’m right, and I hope to God I’m not, but if I am,’ she said, looking Claire directly in the face, ‘Father Hawthorne isn’t safe.’

  CHAPTER 62

  Amelia tucked her hair underneath her black baseball cap before creeping through the shadows to the garden at the rear of the guest house. She saw one bedroom light on and a light in the reception hallway for guests to find their way around should they return later than the landlady was willing to stay up.

  Father David Hawthorne was staying here, this much she knew, but in which room was the burning question. She returned to the front of the guest house and tried the main door. It opened and she crept inside, listening out for anyone in the foyer.

  Hearing just a faint sound of a television set, she headed further inside and saw the reception desk ahead of her. It’d been fitted recently and did not look in character with the rest of the surroundings.

  The guest house used to be a large family home but had been converted some years ago. The décor was of yellowing beige and cream, and Amelia thought the two stars the AA had awarded it on the sign outside was being more than generous.

  She climbed over the reception desk and found the reservation book. She scrolled through the names, running her finger down the page until she found Hawthorne’s and his room number.

  She was just in time. Hawthorne would be checking out later today and returning up north. She looked at her watch.

  00:30am.

  The wall behind the reception desk was a partition built using frosted glass blocks, which separated the guest area and the landlady’s living room.

  Amelia could see the shimmering light of a television set behind it. Her heart began beating faster as she strained her ears to listen for any movement.

  Hearing nothing but the faint voices coming from the television, she swallowed hard and climbed up the stairs towards Hawthorne’s room.

  The stairs beneath her feet creaked in several places and she tried to distribute her weight. When she reached the top she saw there was now no light coming from any of the rooms on the landing and she was in total darkness.

  She switched on her small torch and shone the light on each door, checking the room numbers. She walked carefully along the landing and followed a hallway which led further towards the back of the building.

  A light flicked on in the room opposite her, and a dull yellow illuminated her feet from underneath the door.

  She froze and held her breath when she heard the creaking of floorboards and the sound of the occupant going to their en-suite. After a minute or so, the light switched off and once again there was silence.

  Exhaling slowly, she began to move again and shone her light on the door in front of her. The number ten stared back at her, which meant Hawthorne’s room should be beside her. She looked and realised the final two rooms were right at the end of the corridor ahead of her.

  She edged closer, careful not to make a sound above a whisper as she stood in front of room number eleven.

  Reaching out, she slowly turned the door handle and pushed gently. The door didn’t budge. Hawthorne had locked the door before turning in for the night.

  The hotel still used the traditional lock and key rather than a swipe system to access the rooms, and Amelia crouched down, shining her torch through the keyhole.

  The key wasn’t in the lock on the other side.

  She held the torch between her teeth and pulled out the lock-pick set secured to her waistband. She selected the correct picks and quietly thanked the man who’d once taught her how to pick just about any lock. The same man whose life she’d nearly taken once.

  The reason she’d been sent to Stokebrook.

  After a few minutes, she felt the pins move and the lock opened with a small click. She secured the picks, switched off the torch and slowly turned the door handle, slipped inside, and closed the door behind her.

  She saw him in his bed, breathing heavily.

  Amelia’s eyes had become more focused in the dark, and the full moon outside added some much-needed light as it filtered through a pair of cheap thin curtains.

  She edged closer to the bed, drawing out the knife from her inner jacket pocket. Hawthorne was wearing just his underwear and was lying on top of the sheet, the duvet cast aside.

  She raised the knife and leaned over him, her hand hovering over his mouth. Just as she knelt next to him, the bed dipped and his eyes sh
ot open.

  Hawthorne had little time to react as she straddled his chest, pinning him down, clamping her hand against his mouth. He started to struggle and she brought the blade up close to his eyes, his body freezing with fear in an instant.

  ‘One sound and I open up your throat. Understand?’

  His eyes were fearful and he nodded slowly, searching her face.

  He could see the outline of her hair, which had worked its way loose from under her cap. He saw the faint hue of red.

  He had no time to take in anything more. Her fist caught him unawares, as it struck his face squarely in the middle. He felt a fine mist spraying his face and a sharp pain through his nose before darkness consumed him.

  CHAPTER 63

  Chloe sat in a small room just off from the incident room with her head in her hands, bent double, arms propped on her thighs.

  Although she’d come willingly, she still felt uncomfortable, and with the heat, a headache was growing around her temples and the back of her head.

  Claire sat opposite her with only a battered-looking table between them, observing her closely.

  She looked at Chloe’s fingers, raked back through her hair, and noticed how bitten down her nails were. She saw traces of chipped nail polish, red clumps clinging to her cuticles, and a nasty-looking bruise under one of her thumbs.

  ‘That looks nasty,’ she said when Chloe looked up.

  She glanced at her thumb and shrugged. ‘Comes with the job.’

  ‘I could help you, Chloe.’

  ‘You mean if I help you, you’ll help me.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Chloe looked to be contemplating the thought when Stefan walked in and placed a plastic cup of tea on the table in front of her. He took a seat beside Claire and folded his arms and looked at Chloe.

  She looked back into his eyes, then at Claire, in confusion.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Stefan Fletcher. He’s assisting in the investigation,’ Claire said, seeing the reluctance in Chloe’s face. It occurred to her that although Chloe had trust issues, this was clearly magnified by the presence of men.

  ‘It’s OK. He’s safe to talk in front of,’ she said, glancing at Stefan, as he shifted his weight, uncomfortable. Chloe scanned both their faces, then nodded at him.

  ‘Tell us what you meant about knowing who killed Father Wainwright.’

  Chloe wrapped her hands around the plastic cup of tea, still feeling cold in the stuffy room, and looked up from beneath her eyelashes.

  ‘You should be out protecting Father Hawthorne.’

  ‘You mean David Hawthorne,’ Claire said. ‘He’s not a priest any more.’

  Chloe ignored her. ‘He could be dead now for all you know.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve said that, but as yet I’ve heard nothing from you that can convince me. You need to tell me everything, Chloe. Tell me what you meant about Amelia.’

  Chloe sat back in her chair. ‘If I tell you, you’ll protect me?’ She paused and watched their faces. ‘Otherwise I’m keeping quiet.’

  Claire looked at her with some curiosity. ‘Even if that meant another death?’

  Chloe stared back at her, contemplating her answer first before she spoke. ‘If it came to saving my life over his, so be it.’ She looked at Stefan, her face serious. ‘I know what they’re capable of.’

  Claire shot Stefan a look, to find he was looking back at her, confused, but also a little chilled by her remarks.

  ‘Who are they?’

  Chloe took a sip of her tea before telling them what she knew.

  ‘Amelia, as I told you before, is fucked up. Living with us just helped fuel it with the religious bullshit, and her friendship with Stephen, Dad’s first foster kid. I knew there was something weird about her from the start and although most of the time I blew her off for playing up to the fact she was different, sometimes I knew what fear felt like when I looked into her eyes.

  ‘The thing you have to understand with Amelia is the art of not being sucked in by her.’

  She lowered her eyes and shrugged. ‘Sure, she’s beautiful… She’s small and delicate, almost like a china doll, so many people said when she was first introduced to our church.’ Her eyes flicked back to Claire’s. ‘I knew different though. She’s strong. Powerful. I knew never to cross her even then, in the early years.’

  ‘And you think she murdered Wainwright?’ Claire said.

  ‘I know she did. They both did.’

  ‘Both? I’m sorry, I don’t follow,’ said Stefan.

  ‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ She took it in turns looking at them, back and forth, exasperation in her eyes. ‘Amelia and Stephen… She called him Stevie. They grew very close, despite the short time before he left us. He looked out for her. I guess I should’ve too but I was jealous of her.

  ‘I was never good enough for my parents, so they tried replacing me. I kept my mouth shut, even when I guessed she was seeing him later on as she grew older. Dad banned her from any contact with him. They blamed him for leading her astray. She used to say the priests were cruel to her and when she was sixteen she told me she planned to leave because of something they did. Something they had to pay for.’

  ‘What kind of something?’ Claire said, leaning forward.

  ‘She wouldn’t say. She just said it was bad.’

  ‘Did this occur around the time Rebecca Turner went missing?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said slowly. ‘How’d you know about that?’ Claire ignored her and pressed further.

  ‘What else did Amelia tell you?’

  ‘She told me her Guardian would help her.’

  ‘Guardian?’ asked Stefan.

  Chloe nodded at him. ‘That’s what she started calling Stephen. She used that as a code name when others were around in case anyone overheard her. She told me God had come to her in a dream and told her to send The Three to Him, so that they may be punished for their sins. She truly believed God had chosen her.’

  Claire exchanged bewildered looks with Stefan, and wasn’t sure if he was buying Chloe’s story.

  ‘Who are The Three?’

  ‘Wainwright, Hawthorne and Manuela. She said God wanted their souls.’

  Chloe then buried her face in her hands and started crying. Stefan reached out his hand and placed it on her shoulder, but she carried on sobbing.

  ‘I’m so sorry! I should’ve told you when Wainwright was murdered. I knew it had to be them once I found out about his mutilation, but I was scared.’

  ‘Did she tell you in detail how they would murder them?’ Stefan said.

  ‘Not exactly. She told me she was planning to leave us and then bide her time before they carried it out.’

  Claire swore and said, ‘Do you know how much time you’ve wasted?’ Chloe avoided looking into her eyes. ‘Amelia’s linked to six other separate murders.’ She watched Chloe’s face and the sight of shock and sadness was genuine.

  ‘I didn’t know!’

  Claire was losing patience. ‘Stop crying!’

  Stefan held his hand up at Claire, and she folded her arms tightly as Stefan knelt down to Chloe’s eye level.

  ‘Did she explain anything about what they intended to do in detail? Why a rosary?’

  Stefan’s voice was soft and it made Chloe look at him properly for the first time. To her his face seemed soft, gentle, not what she was used to by a long shot.

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, smudging her make-up. He handed her a tissue and she blew her nose.

  ‘She said he’d choke on his faith, be lynched like Christ, and she’d prepare his body to release his soul.’

  Stefan looked at Claire. ‘Michael was right about the deaths being symbolic.’

  ‘She planned on doing this to all three,’ she said, rising from her chair. ‘We need to find Hawthorne and fast. Get DC Harper, tell him to watch over Chloe, then I need you to get hold of Jane; I need a report on her findings at Shrovesbury and the landscapers
for the gardens right now.’

  Stefan nodded and began to help Chloe from her chair when Claire held out her arm quickly, stopping him. ‘Wait.’

  She made Chloe look at her.

  ‘Why has she waited this long? She was sixteen when she told you all this.’

  There was a long pause. Chloe remembered the promises Amelia had made her that were ultimately broken, the secrets she told her to keep, to take to the grave. After what Amelia had done, the feelings and misery she’d stirred and brought to Chloe’s life, there was part of her that wanted to reveal everything. Their affair, the choices Amelia had made between her and Stephen.

  Everything.

  It was about time she lifted some measure of weight from her mind, regardless of the danger. She’d been quiet for far too long.

  Chloe shrugged. ‘I heard a rumour she ended up in hospital.’

  ‘An accident?’

  Chloe shook her head. ‘A secure hospital,’ she said, standing up again. ‘But as I said it was just a rumour.’

  CHAPTER 64

  Hawthorne awoke to a pain in his nose and jaw. His eyes opened and bright light made him turn his head away, his eyes screwing shut again. When he dared to reopen them he did it gradually, peeping through his eyelashes.

  He didn’t see anything other than the room he’d spent the last several days in, and he tried to rub his face, but found his hands were tied behind his back.

  He tried to talk but there was something wedged into his mouth and secured with tape on the outside over his lips. He realised he was still on the bed and tried to heave his body onto his side but before he could move very far, he felt strong hands grip him by the shoulders.

  He winced in pain as his full weight crushed his hands underneath him, and his nostrils flared, trying frantically to draw air into his lungs.

  It was then that he saw her clearly for the first time.

  He instantly recognised the face and burning eyes as she stood at the foot of the bed, dressed in translucent overalls, naked underneath. He saw that the hood struggled to contain her wild hair.

  His eyes shot around the room and to the bag she’d worn on her back, now cast aside by the door.