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

by T. M. E. Walsh

Then he saw the scalpel in her hand.

  The blade gleamed under the overhead light, and he tried to scream, but felt the brute force behind her fist laid bare across his jaw.

  Amelia’s eyes watched him squirm in pain, no emotion in her face.

  ‘Don’t do that again.’

  She crouched beside the bed.

  His eyes frantically searched her face when she placed the scalpel beside him. She produced the rosary and dangled it in front of his face, watching his eyes follow the small cross attached to the line of beads.

  ‘These were your favourites.’

  Hawthorne recognised them instantly.

  He remembered giving them out to all the children in his congregation at Christmas each year. He tried to speak, but his words were muffled against the gag. Amelia leaned forward towards his mouth.

  ‘What’s that? Can’t quite hear you,’ she said, cupping her ear.

  He struggled again, trying to speak. She stared at him, then picked up the scalpel, holding it to his throat.

  ‘I’m going to remove your gag. If you scream,’ she said, brushing the blade against his throat, ‘I’ll bury this inside you. Understand?’

  Hawthorne was frozen, his limbs seeming to grow heavier, the weight of his body cutting the circulation to his arms and hands. Somehow he managed to nod his head, his eyes watching her every move.

  She used one hand to pull away his gag and braced herself as he drew in a large gulp of air and spluttered. After a few seconds of rapid breathing, he mustered up the strength to speak.

  ‘Amelia… My child, why?’

  Her mouth pulled into an unattractive line. ‘As you can see, Father, I’m no longer a child.’

  His head began to shake. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ she said, pressing the scalpel harder against his skin, making him flinch. ‘I’ll give you a clue.’ She leaned in so close to his face, he could feel the soft mist of her breath against his skin. ‘She had curly brown hair, dark eyes, about 5ft 6 and was rather pretty.’

  Her voice was teasing as she moved the blade across his throat and up towards his ear. She caught the look in his eyes: sadness, fear and a cold realisation of what was to come.

  ‘Ahh,’ she said, shifting her weight off his chest a little. ‘The penny dropped.’

  Tears began to well in his eyes and his voice croaked when he spoke. ‘I…I didn’t hurt her.’

  ‘But you let them get away with it!’ she screamed into his face.

  ‘I tried to stop them! I tried to make it right.’ His voice grew more desperate when he saw her shaking her head. ‘Amelia, please. See reason, for the love of God!’

  She rammed the gag back inside his mouth, choking him. He tasted bile against his tongue.

  ‘I lost my faith in God that day! I couldn’t understand why He let her die and not me. That’s when He came to me, telling me she had to die for all your sins and that I had to send you all to Him so that there could be real justice. Now I believe again: in a different God than the one you preach about.’

  Hawthorne tried to speak again and she ripped the gag away, her eyes wild with hatred.

  ‘I can help you, Amelia! Please listen to me. This is not what God wants. I was kind to you, I tried to support you, but you refused my help. Let me help you now.’

  The words meant nothing. She no longer wanted to hear him.

  She drove the scalpel into his flesh, dragging the blade across his abdomen. As he screamed, she rammed the rosary inside his mouth. He tried to fight her, his teeth biting at the flesh on her hands, grazing her knuckles.

  She flinched at the pain but pushed her fingers further down his throat, until she felt his body convulse, his gag reflexes kicking in.

  She forced his bottom jaw up hard and ripped the end of the rosary apart. The cross on the end was now firmly lodged in his throat and, like Wainwright had done, he started to asphyxiate.

  He rolled around on the bed, pulling at his bonds. He stared down at the gash, blood leaking from his belly. His eyes silently pleaded with her, and he tried to scream, the sound almost animal-like.

  Amelia clamped her hand down against his mouth, drowning him out.

  And she stayed there, staring into his eyes, watching every last drop of life ebb away, until it was gone and his body was still.

  She removed her hand and stared at his bloody spit smeared on her palm. In disgust, she wiped it over the grey hairs on his chest.

  Picking up the scalpel once again, she listened for any signs of movement from the rooms outside.

  Satisfied no one had been disturbed, she made the next cut into his aged skin, and relished the sight, as the blade slipped easily through the tissue.

  CHAPTER 65

  It had only taken a brief call to locate Hawthorne. Claire had rung Father Manuela as soon as she’d left the station. She’d stressed the urgency to him without revealing what she’d learnt from Chloe, and after he’d told her Hawthorne was due to leave tomorrow morning, she only had a small window of time to find him.

  She’d arranged for officers to head to the Newport B&B and driven ahead.

  She plugged in her hands-free kit and connected to the B&B, and waited with bated breath as the phone began to ring. She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel in frustration.

  ‘Come on, pick up.’

  She knew she was taking a chance with this. She also knew she couldn’t afford not to take Chloe seriously. With a bit of luck this all meant nothing and she’d find Hawthorne alive and well, annoyed that he’d been woken from a peaceful night’s sleep, otherwise no harm done.

  She was about to hang up when a voice of a lady sleepily answered the phone.

  ‘This is DCI Claire Winters, Haverbridge CID. You have a guest staying with you by the name of David Hawthorne.’

  There was a slight pause at the other end before she heard an answer.

  ‘Is this some kind of joke? There’s a law against nuisance callers, you know.’

  ‘Listen to me! You have a guest staying there, David Hawthorne. You need to wake him and don’t let him out of your sight until I get there.’

  The lady the other end shook her head. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Stop talking to me and go wake him up! He could be in danger.’ Claire made the landlady jump and she dropped the receiver.

  Claire heard it hit against the floor with a clunk followed by frantic movement. Then the line went dead.

  Shit!

  Claire turned off the main road and into a residential area. She looked at the sat-nav and saw she had approximately four miles until the destination.

  She put her foot down.

  ***

  Sally Parker had run the Newport B&B since 1996, after the death of her mother, proprietor before her. Never in her seventeen years since she came into ownership had she ever had the police at her door.

  Sure, she’d experienced difficult guests over the years, but the most serious of these incidents had involved insects investing an en-suite bathroom.

  Claire’s call hadn’t even shaken Sally and she headed to reception, wrapping her pink moth-eaten dressing-gown around her more than ample body. She found her diary and scanned the bookings.

  She had to shut her eyes hard and open them again wide, fighting back sleep. She rubbed her eyes and groaned.

  She’d fallen asleep in her old chair while watching repeats on the television and was still not fully alert. She ran her finger over each name, squinting without her glasses, and sighed.

  She didn’t make a habit of remembering her guests’ names unless absolutely necessary, and was about to give up, but decided to put her glasses on and read over the names again.

  The second time she struck lucky.

  Mr D Hawthorne, written in scruffy blue biro – room eleven.

  ‘So you do exist.’

  She sniffed, not sure what to do. She wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t a prank of some kind. She decided to head upstair
s, making sure she grabbed the torch from under the reception counter.

  She flicked the switch and the light came on but then winked out again. After hitting it a few times, then wriggling the batteries, she finally got the light to remain on and she started up the narrow stairs.

  It was nights like these that Sally wished she wasn’t so tight and had invested in air conditioning. The air felt thick and heavy as she walked quietly along the corridor by torchlight, and she could feel herself sweating through her dressing-gown.

  When she reached room ten, she stopped and shone her light up the hall until she saw the number eleven staring back at her.

  There was no light coming from underneath the door, and she hesitated before walking over to it and listening with her ear to the wood.

  She heard nothing, not even the sound of heavy breathing that comes from someone in a deep slumber.

  She turned the handle and to her surprise it gave a little.

  It wasn’t locked, which was unusual for guests, at night-time especially. She opened the door a little and whispered Hawthorne’s name in the darkness.

  No response.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  She opened the door a little more, shone the torch inside the room and frowned.

  The light illuminated patches of dark red on the carpet and the bed sheets. She followed the stains that led towards the en-suite.

  A slow realisation began to flow through Sally’s body, and she felt the sweat on her body cool, making her shiver.

  She reached her hand around the door frame and switched on the light.

  CHAPTER 66

  Stefan sat facing a reluctant Jane, as she popped a couple of pills in her mouth and washed them down with warm water. She sighed, and when she realised he was watching her, she grimaced.

  ‘Headache… Claire gave me a few days to compile this information. Why does she need it now, tonight? I’d just got into bed when you called.’

  Stefan sat down next to her, the fluorescent lights overhead casting dark circles under his sleepy eyes. ‘You know Claire,’ he said, pulling the files she’d laid out in front of her closer for inspection.

  ‘Where is she, then, if this can’t wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘Hopefully securing Hawthorne. He could be in danger.’

  He opened a file. The first page showed a letter on headed paper, with a company’s information laid out in a green design and logo. ‘Connor’s Landscaping,’ he read aloud. ‘“Dear Constable Cleaver, we thank you for your letter”…’ He continued reading to himself. When he’d finished he looked up at her.

  ‘They landscaped the gardens at Shrovesbury in 2007?’

  ‘That’s what it says.’

  ‘It breaks down all the work done in each segment of the grounds.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Stefan looked over the details laid out again and shook his head. ‘This isn’t right. Can’t be right.’ Jane watched him, then grew tired of waiting for him to explain himself.

  ‘You’ve lost me, Fletch.’

  Stefan looked up at her.

  ‘There’s no mention of the Rose Garden. It was added later.’

  CHAPTER 67

  Claire pulled her car into the driveway, narrowly missing two parked cars outside the B&B.

  She saw that every light inside was on, shining from the windows. The front door was wide open and a young woman was sitting on the doorstep, a mobile phone attached to her ear.

  She was hunched over, wearing a small camisole and bed-shorts, her other arm wrapped tightly around her middle. She was speaking into the phone, rushing her words, completely unaware of Claire’s presence.

  As Claire headed to the entrance, she saw a middle-aged man emerge from the building, almost tripping over the girl on the doorstep. He barely noticed as he stumbled outside, his feet bare against the gravel, his hand cupped over his mouth.

  Claire’s eyes widened. I’m too late…

  ‘Oh my God,’ the man said, as he stumbled further down the drive, almost bumping into her. He looked at her, his eyes full of fear. ‘Don’t go inside.’ He placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘We’ve called an ambulance and the police. There’s nothing more we can do.’

  Claire shrugged his hands from her and pushed past him. ‘I am the police,’ she said over her shoulder, and stepped through the front door.

  She looked around and heard commotion coming from above. Her eyes travelled towards the stairs as she heard a woman screaming.

  Then came the sound of other people running around the landing overhead.

  Claire closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  She didn’t have to see upstairs to know what had been discovered. She was about to ascend the stairs when she heard the sirens in the background, drawing closer.

  Just then two more people came running down the stairs, a man in his late twenties and a woman a good few years older. They passed Claire, shock etched upon their faces. Claire reached for the man’s arm.

  ‘Hey!’ Her fingers gripped around his shoulder. He looked back at her and shook his head.

  ‘You should wait outside with us.’

  ‘Where’s the landlady?’

  The man’s face froze and he lowered his eyes. ‘She’s still upstairs… Room eleven… She won’t stop screaming.’ He shrugged off Claire’s hand and ran through the front door.

  Claire could hear the dull sound of someone moaning, like an animal in pain, and began climbing the stairs. When she reached the top, she saw nearly all the doors to the guest rooms were wide open, as if people had left in a hurry and not bothered to collect their things.

  She followed along the landing and didn’t need to check the door numbers; she followed the wailing ahead of her.

  As she approached room eleven, she saw the lights were on, illuminating the trail of blood spattered over the carpet.

  Then she saw Sally sitting in a heap on the floor outside the bathroom. Her shoulders were slumped forward and she was shaking, her face staring at the floor.

  When she heard Claire approach, she looked up. Her eyes were caked in wet mascara, which rolled down her cheeks. She tried to speak, but her voice croaked and was inaudible.

  Claire entered the room with caution, avoiding the blood, and didn’t disturb anything as she drew closer. Sally threw her arms outwards towards her, making her jump.

  ‘No!’

  Claire stopped dead in her tracks. She paused, her eyes wandering towards the bathroom.

  ‘You don’t want to see this.’

  Claire looked at her and hesitated, but only for a moment before turning her head and peering behind the door.

  Claire had seen her fair share of gruesome crime scenes but this fact still didn’t stop her from dreading dealing with each one.

  This time was no exception.

  As she came face to face with Hawthorne’s mutilated body, she looked away.

  As she could have foreseen, his chest had been cut open, exposing bone. His tongue hung sideways from the corner of his mouth, bloated and blue.

  His eyes bulged.

  Claire knew asphyxia was the cause of death before the mutilation and she knew when they inspected his mouth there would be a small cross lodged inside his throat.

  Wainwright had been found on his back on the church floor, with no attempt made to move him into any kind of position.

  Ashe Miller had been mutilated in the same way, albeit with subtle differences, but again he was found on his back, with no attempt having been made to rearrange his broken body.

  Hawthorne was different.

  Claire knew what she’d seen but still her eyes forced her back for a second look.

  She stared at the body in the bath, hanging from the shower rail, the arms outstretched and secured by rope at each wrist.

  The legs hung down but Hawthorne was too tall for them to hang inside the bath. Instead they hung outside, over the top, tied together at the ankles. A sliver of what was left of the rosary beads h
ung from his mouth.

  Blood dripped to the floor.

  There was no mistaking the symbolism of the rudimentary cross.

  Claire sank inwardly.

  The feeling was unbearable.

  She looked back at Sally, who was crying but without tears, like she’d cried herself dry.

  Heavy footfalls on the stairs jolted Claire back to reality. She turned and saw ambulance staff race across the landing towards her.

  As they faced the mess in the bathroom, they paused, open-mouthed in shock and revulsion.

  CHAPTER 68

  It was early when Claire called the team briefing. She’d had little sleep, maybe a few hours at best, but had still managed to make it into the station. She stared at the wall ahead of her, charting dates and suspects, bodies and links.

  The faces of death stared back at her, their bloody mouths fixed in cruel smiles, as if taunting her.

  Ashe Miller’s in particular caught her attention; nothing more than a deep red hole, the blood looked like a broad smile not too dissimilar from a clown’s at a children’s tea party.

  She shook the thought away from her, and when she glanced at Adrian Brown’s black corpse, a detailed close-up of his face, she started to fear that maybe she was out of her depth.

  Stefan was suddenly beside her, his eyes studying her face. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ She turned to look at him. ‘You look like you haven’t slept. I can take over if you want?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’

  She turned to face her team and waited – their cue to be silent. Just as she was about to begin, Michael entered the room and mouthed a quick ‘sorry’ in her direction, before taking a seat beside Stefan. She frowned at him and took another moment before she spoke.

  Stefan leaned in to him, and whispered, ‘Your head’s for the chopping block if you’re not careful.’ Michael looked at him, his eyes narrowing. ‘Just giving you the heads-up, mate.’ Michael shifted uneasily in his seat.

  Claire explained Hawthorne’s death for all present. She pointed out the link to Wainwright and his death, along with Ashe Miller. She handed out a few copies of the photographs taken by the SOCOs at the scene.