For All Our Sins

CHAPTER 4

Michael had left the station as soon as he’d ended the phone call with Claire. The roads had been unusually empty for that time of day but the closer he’d driven towards the crime scene at St Mary’s, the heavier the traffic had become.

The hacks and ghouls are already out in full force, he thought as he flashed his warrant card at officers who waved him past the police tape.

A Beds and Herts Scientific Services Unit van came into view and Michael saw a SOCO clad in a white hooded bodysuit, police evidence bag in hand, standing next to it.

Michael exchanged a nod with him as he approached and entered the church.

He found Claire was waiting for him in the entrance.

Her ice-blue eyes studied him from head to toe with no subtlety, as she held out a sealed Tyvek paper suit for him, with overshoes and a face mask.

‘Have you eaten today?’ Claire said.

Michael stopped changing and eyed her suspiciously. Her own face mask was hanging below her chin, the hood of her suit covering her hair. Her face was serious.

He half laughed. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want you spewing up and contaminating my crime scene.’

Michael zipped up the bodysuit. ‘Nothing I’ve ever seen in this job has ever made me sick. Not even close.’

Claire’s mouth twitched and she gestured over her shoulder. ‘We’ll see… You’ve never seen anything like this before.’

She raised her hand for him to walk with her before he could ask what she’d meant.

‘The deceased is sixty-two-year-old Father Malcolm Wainwright. The pathologist thinks the time of death occurred within the last two hours. Photography and videoing have been done and the SOCOs finished twenty minutes ago with not a lot to show for it. I’ve got officers on a house-to-house as we speak and the press crawling up my arse.’ She paused. ‘Fucking parasites.’

Michael stared ahead over the tops of the pews.

There were four large lamps illuminating the area near the altar and he knew that was where the body lay.

As he drew closer he caught the glimpse of blood spatters on the flagstone floor, just before they turned into the aisle. He glanced back at Claire.

‘We think that’s the deceased’s. It’s possible these drops of blood fell from the murder weapon, which,’ she said, before he could speak, ‘we haven’t recovered yet.’

‘What was the cause of death?’

Claire stopped in her tracks. ‘That’s anybody’s guess right now, given the state of the body.’

‘What do you mean?’

Claire paused, and then gestured with her hand. ‘See for yourself.’

His eyes narrowed at her in frustration but he kept his mouth shut. He walked ahead, careful to keep to the plastic walkway created to avoid contamination and headed up the aisle.

As the body came into view primal instinct caught him.

Clasping a hand to his mouth he forced himself to swallow the lump of bile that had risen up his throat. His eyes watered at the acidic taste against his tongue.

His eyes darted around Wainwright’s naked and desecrated body, seeing glimpses of red, and pink, then spots of stark white bone.

He looked back over his shoulder at Claire.

She raised her eyebrows. Told you so.

She walked around the large pool of blood, her bodysuit rustling with each step. She crouched down at a distance and observed the body.

‘Whoever did this must have a strong stomach,’ she said as she pulled her mask back up. Michael pulled his own up over his nose and mouth to block out the smell.

Claire glanced up at him.

Michael couldn’t determine whether or not it was with pity or embarrassment; either way he knew he had to pull himself together.

He squatted down next to her. She glanced at him, her eyes narrowed as if to ask him if he was OK. He held her gaze.

‘Don’t spew.’

‘I’m fine.’

She gave him a slight nod, unsure whether to believe him or not, and Michael guessed she probably didn’t care how he was coping. She just wanted to wrap this up and return to the station.

‘We’ll know more when we get the pathologist’s report, but Wainwright may have died from asphyxiation.’ Claire let her words sink in for a moment.

‘I thought it was anybody’s guess?’

‘It’s our best guess so far, taking the discoloration of his face into account, although there’re no ligature marks on the neck.’

Michael stared at the wound to Wainwright’s abdomen. The tear was clean and deep. ‘What about the stab wound?’

‘It appears to have been inflicted first.’

The voice came from behind Michael and he quickly swivelled around and got to his feet.

A tall man in his mid-forties and dressed in an identical body suit stared back at him with curious eyes.

‘DS Michael Diego, this is Principal SOCO Jason Meadows,’ Claire said as she got to her feet.

Meadows gave Michael a faint smile. ‘Sergeant.’ Michael managed a small nod.

Claire now stood beside them both. ‘Why don’t you fill DS Diego in on what we know so far?’

Meadows smiled and pointed towards the long curtain of the confessional box to their right.

‘He was attacked in there. The blood spatter pattern on the curtain and the interior of the confessional would indicate a quick thrusting motion to the body.’

Meadows walked around patches of dried blood leading from the confession box towards the altar. ‘He must have crawled by himself towards the altar.’

‘He could’ve been dragged,’ Michael said.

‘Not likely, because of the spatter pattern,’ Meadows said. ‘If he was dragged you’d expect the blood to be smeared across the flagstones. The pattern here doesn’t indicate anything consistent with that.’

Michael shot a look towards Claire. ‘And the chest?’

‘This desecration of the chest, I’m relieved to say, happened after death,’ she said.

Leaning forward for a closer look, Michael controlled his composure.

Wainwright’s skin had been cut and pulled back carefully, exposing his chest cavity, slick with blood.

Michael stared hard, fascinated by the fusion of blood and muscle partially covering Wainwright’s ribcage. ‘And the instrument?’

‘Probably a scalpel or a knife similar in shape. Whatever was used had to be very sharp,’ Meadows explained. ‘Look at the clean lines. It would’ve cut through the skin and muscle like butter.’

Michael looked closer at Wainwright’s mouth, which appeared to be clenched awkwardly. His eyes squinted and he looked at Meadows.

‘Has anyone looked inside his mouth yet?’

‘Not yet. That’ll be the job for the pathologist at the PM.’

Michael then locked eyes with Claire, amazed no one else had seemed to notice the unnatural shape of the mouth. Claire pulled a blank expression before realising Michael’s intention.

‘You’re not doing it, Diego.’

‘The mouth looks unnatural.’

‘Does anything about this crime scene look natural to you?’ she said.

‘I’ll do it,’ Meadows said. He crouched down, careful to avoid touching the blood with his plastic overshoes.

A female SOCO approached and handed Meadows a long thin black torch. He flicked the switch, illuminating Wainwright’s face, then set the torch aside.

Placing the fingertips of his left hand on the top of Wainwright’s head, he carefully pulled apart the jaw with his right. The skin felt cool beneath his touch, despite the barrier of his gloves.

He gently pulled and Wainwright’s mouth began to open.

His lips, which had been glued together with his own blood, started to part, leaving strands of dried blood over the pale, almost translucent skin.

Meadows resisted the urge to gag as the smell of death wafted up through the dead man’s throat and into his face.

Just as he went to aim the torch light inside Wainwright’s mouth, Claire’s BlackBerry rang, the shrill ringtone making everyone in the church jump as the tense silence broke.

Meadows lost his grip on Wainwright’s face and it slumped back to one side, causing two of Meadows’s fingers to slide into the cold mouth.

Cursing under his breath, he shot Claire a hard stare as she reached inside her bodysuit and pulled the phone from her pocket.

She glanced at the caller ID, held up her hand as if to apologise, before yanking the mask over her head and rushing towards the entrance to the church. She answered the phone before she had even walked halfway from the body.

‘Winters,’ she barked.

Returning his attention to Wainwright, Michael watched Meadows take hold of the man’s head and resume his inspection, pulling open the mouth once again.

He lowered the torch and peered inside.

White teeth gleamed back, with only a few shiny metal fillings towards the back of the mouth to taint a fairly perfect set of teeth. There were a few cuts on the bloated tongue but something caught Meadows’s eye further down the back of the throat.

Michael heard Claire’s feet shuffle over the flagstones towards him.

‘Nothing wrong, I hope. Nothing that will get in the way of business, I mean,’ he asked, cocking his eyebrow in her direction. ‘Rough morning, as you put it.’

‘Piss off, Diego. Is there anything in there or are you just wasting our time?’

Meadows held out his hand in the direction of the female SOCO. ‘Tweezers please, Charlotte.’

She handed him a set.

Pushing the tongue out of the way, Meadows lowered the tweezers inside the throat until the metal lightly brushed against something solid. ‘There is something in there. Here, hold the light.’

Michael took it, holding it closer just as Meadows pulled out a silver object, with a couple of small wooden beads still attached to it. The light from the torch danced over the metal.

Claire leaned in closer as Meadows held it aloft. ‘It’s a cross,’ he said, as Charlotte held open a clear evidence bag. He dropped it inside. ‘I’m no expert but it looks like it’s from a rosary. That’ll explain what those other beads were that we found on the floor.’

‘Great,’ Claire sighed. ‘This changes the whole game.’

Michael stared at her, confused. ‘What do you mean, this changes the game?’

Claire stared at him and shook her head in frustration. She looked back at Meadows. ‘I think we’re done here. I’m going to need the Scene of Crime Report ASAP.’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector.’

Claire walked towards the entrance to the church and started to remove her bodysuit.

There was an uncomfortable silence between Michael and Meadows.

‘I think that’s your indication to follow her.’

Michael shot Meadows a dark look. ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’

***

After removing his own bodysuit, Michael followed Claire out into the street, where extra police had been drafted in to make sure no one in the massing crowd tried to breach the police cordon.

It had started to spit with rain, despite the heat, and Claire pulled out a packet of cigarettes. She offered Michael the pack, but he pushed her hand away.

‘What the hell was that about? I’ve told you before, don’t show me up like that. Respect. That’s all I want.’

Claire exhaled smoke towards Michael’s face, her eyes narrowing slightly. She plucked the cigarette from her mouth.

‘Do you really need me to spell it out for you, Diego?’

‘If it helps me understand why you felt like trying to make me look stupid, then yeah.’

Claire scoffed. ‘You make yourself look stupid, Diego, you don’t need my help.’

She took another drag on her cigarette.

‘We find a man – not just any man but a priest – murdered in his church with his chest cut open. Then to top that off, we find a cross inserted inside his throat. The beads attached to it suggest the pendant was snapped off while it lodged inside blocking his airways.’

She let the statement hang in the air a moment. ‘Why not leave it at the stab wound? The pathologist said that cut would’ve been enough for Wainwright to bleed to death. He would’ve been in excruciating pain, but that wasn’t enough for the killer.’

Claire pointed at Michael, cigarette firmly wedged between her fingers. ‘That’s anger in there, that’s what that is. We’re not dealing with just any murderer, not like we’ve faced before.’

She gestured towards the church. ‘Somebody wanted to send one big message, and not just to those who knew the victim. There’s a message especially for us.’

Michael nodded. ‘The cross is symbolic and more than just its association with the fact Wainwright was a priest.’

Claire expelled another plume of smoke. ‘And now you’re starting to think like someone who holds your rank.’

He avoided her eyes.

Claire had always been a hard case. With her natural bright blonde hair and tall ‘average’ figure, right down to her cold blue eyes that could rival the most ravaging of winter days, she could control any situation.

The well-known saying ‘It’s a Man’s World’ didn’t apply to her.

She’d worked her way up the ladder, fast-tracked to a DCI, taking down any man or woman who stood in her way. If you ever crossed her in some way, you’d better be watching your back, because you never knew when you just might need her help.

She was far from malicious but there was a darker side. Something anyone with half a brain knew not to tap into. Michael knew there were other things, something in her past that made her the way she was. He could sympathise if she’d let him; after all, he had similar demons from his past too. He just never got close enough to her to find out what hers was.

He sensed her childhood hadn’t been great, but he also knew it hadn’t been anything like the awful things you read about. Whatever it was, though, it was still affecting her now. That call she took in the church, the disappearing act all morning – the effects of it were clearly visible to him, despite the mask she tried hard to wear.

A person’s flaws can be someone else’s idea of beauty.

She had some steel in her, he’d give her that.

Claire’s ambition had got her this far and would bring her years of success, but it would also be the reason for her demise later in life if she wasn’t careful. He knew all too well.

He’d seen people fall from grace before.

For some reason it was this that had attracted him to her in the first place and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

***

Michael arrived back at Haverbridge station before Claire so he lit himself a cigarette and leaned back against his car. He undid the top button of his shirt, arched his neck, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Minutes later, he saw Claire’s silver Mazda enter the car park.

He met her gaze as she parked in the bay next to his. He watched her pulling her hands through her hair, securing it back into a ponytail with an elastic band.

He pulled open her car door. ‘It’s too hot today, huh?’

She shrugged off her suit jacket and tossed it over to the back seat. ‘Well, it is August.’

Michael muttered under his breath and shook his head. Claire gave him a sideways glance. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you, Diego?’

He looked at her briefly before returning his attention to his cigarette.

‘Why wouldn’t I like you?’ he said, as he tapped ash to the floor. ‘I mean you’re a fucking peach to work for, what with your take-no-prisoners attitude, bluntness and, let’s not forget my personal favourite, plain arrogance.’

She stared at him until he made eye contact with her. He shrugged. ‘Well, at least we know where we stand with each other,’ she said at length. ‘I don’t like you, you don’t like me, that much is clear, and it’s all out in the open… That’s quite a good basis for a working relationship. There’s no bullshit in-between, just black and white and straight down the middle.’

Michael dropped his cigarette to the floor, crushing it under his foot. ‘You’re anything but black and white.’ He saw her bristle. ‘You made it like this, Claire, not me.’

‘As I remember, you called wanting to end it.’

She swung her legs out of the car, pulled her bag onto her lap and began to rummage inside.

Michael looked at her as she leaned forward.

She was wearing a fitted light-pink sleeveless blouse. It clung to her body where she’d been sweating with the heat of the day in her suit jacket. A few of the top buttons had worked themselves undone and he could see the top of her bra.

He could remember how good she’d looked naked.

Claire found her BlackBerry and stood up to face him. She began checking her emails. She glanced at him. ‘You seemed eager to get rid of me anyway.’

‘You were too much of a control freak, Claire, let’s face it, and not to mention a married woman.’

‘Was a married woman. We’re talking past tense here and besides, we were never meant for anything other than a quick shag now and again when we had a break in the schedule.’

Michael held her stare. ‘Why do I get the feeling this hurt you a lot more than it hurt me?’

She broke eye contact and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about me, Diego…you weren’t that good.’

There was a long pause.

He thought it best to let her have this one. He hated arguing about who did what to who and when.

They’d had a brief affair six months ago and it was over after two months. Although it’d got very intense towards the end, they had to be realistic.

Claire had been married to another policeman based in Welwyn Garden City, some eight miles from Haverbridge. It would have been devastating for them both if they were found out.

It was Claire who finally broke the silence, tapping furiously on the buttons on the BlackBerry. ‘I think we have a lead already with the murdered priest.’ She slung the phone back into her bag.

‘What lead?’

‘We have the name and address of the last person believed to see Wainwright alive. Mark Jenkins, fifty-eight years old and a Religious Studies teacher at St Catherine’s secondary school.’

Michael exchanged glances with her and half laughed. He ran his right hand roughly back through his hair, and shook his head.

‘You want me to check him out, don’t you?’

‘I have other cases that need solving, Diego, and I have to see Matthews about you handing over the Hargreaves case to him this week.’

Michael shuddered at the mention of Matthews’s name. Like fingernails on a blackboard, the name cut through him to the bare bone.

‘It’s not that I don’t think you’re up to the case, Diego,’ Claire continued, studying his face. ‘I just need someone who can give this new investigation some insight. You told me once – fleetingly, I might add – that you had a religious upbringing. Your knowledge could prove crucial.’

He shook his head. ‘I haven’t attended church since I was a kid. I hated it. My mother forced me to memorise scripture to the point where I would have gladly torn my own eyes out if it meant I never had to read any of it again. I’ve erased it from my memory.’

‘Well, you’d better un-erase it.’

‘We always said that what happened wouldn’t affect us working together.’

Claire sighed. ‘Seriously, please don’t turn this into some…Diego-drama. I’ve got too much on my plate right now.’ Her BlackBerry rang again. She removed it from her bag and he caught the look on her face when she saw the caller ID.

‘Haven’t we all? We all have shit to deal with, Claire,’ he said, edging closer towards her. She pulled the BlackBerry from his line of vision, but made no attempt to answer the call. ‘Is this,’ he said, gesturing towards the phone, ‘the reason you were AWOL this morning?’

She avoided his eyes, glanced at the screen again and killed the call. A few seconds later, a voicemail alert broke the awkward silence between them.

‘Fuck’s sake…’ she said, gripping the phone tighter in a sweaty palm.

Michael leaned in too close for comfort. Claire pushed past him, BlackBerry now at her ear as she listened to the message. He watched her, mouth parting when he saw her getting back into her car.

‘Where are you going now?’

Claire squinted at the sun and reached for her shades. She started the engine and snapped her seatbelt in place, as Michael banged his hand on the window. ‘Claire!’

She wound down the passenger-side window, but didn’t speak.

‘Where are you going?’ he said.

‘I’ve got to run a quick errand.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I’ll be back in half an hour.’ She paused, then said, ‘Hour, tops.’

He moved back from the car as she began to reverse. He shouted after her. ‘What’s wrong?’

The car stopped reversing, and her face looked pained. ‘What’s wrong?’ she muttered. ‘The thorn in my side.’

CHAPTER 5

Haverbridge town centre was teeming with Wednesday afternoon shoppers enjoying the glorious sunshine. The Costa coffee shop was doing a roaring trade, with not a seat to be found at the metal tables and chairs scattered about outside.

Inside felt like a blazing inferno; the hot pastries and lattes combined with the heat of the day had many of its employees congregating behind the shop in the shade, just to find some form of relief.

A young male employee with Dean emblazoned across his name badge stooped to wipe down a vacant table. As he began to wipe the crumbs to the floor and remove the circle of coffee-ring stains, he glanced up, catching the flash of red in his peripheral vision.

Then he saw her, her red hair almost glowing in the sunlight like hellfire. She was small and slender, with very pale skin which was like porcelain.

Dean’s eyes followed after her, looking at her from the top of her head, past her light-green top, to tight low-slung jeans, to her simple black open-backed flats. She casually slung her large leather bag higher on her shoulder before disappearing in the crowd.

Mesmerised, Dean walked away from the table. He tried to keep her in his sights, but soon the fiery hair was lost in a sea of ordinary faces.

***

Amelia had known he was looking.

Why wouldn’t he? Most men did, and from past experience, so did women on occasion.

She smiled to herself as she opened her bag and caught sight of the red stain running the length of her thumb, smudged and flaky.

Blood really did get everywhere. She knew what happened could have been so different, less violence, less mess, less frenzied.

But then it would have been less enjoyable. Less fitting.

She raised her hand to her lips, and licked the blood from her thumb. Then she searched for her keys. She raised her security fob to the sensor on the heavy door and awaited the red glow from the panel before pushing the door and entering the communal halls.

She walked to the lift that would take her to her floor, which always smelt of urine and was decorated with some form of new graffiti each day.

Living above shops in the centre of town, sharing the area with drug dealers and users alike, was as good as it got. When she reached the doors to the lift she saw a large piece of white paper sellotaped roughly across the stainless steel and remembered the lift was out of order still.