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‘He didn’t abuse me, if that’s what you’re implying,’ Chloe snapped.
‘So what could someone possibly do to have made you leave home? Just because he had different views to you? There are thousands of teenagers out there who don’t agree with their parents – hell, I was one of them. That’s life, but I think it goes beyond that.’
‘Why do you care?’
Claire paused, kept her face neutral. ‘Humour me.’
Chloe sighed.
Music and cheering could be heard from the stage area up the hall. She wished she was back out there fleecing the men for all they were worth. Anything sounded better than being here, facing this woman with her cold eyes and hard stare.
‘Ever since I can remember,’ she said, ‘Dad was preaching his faith daily. Not just when we needed to hear it but over trivial things. I can remember him grounding me when I ate an extra slice of bread. He made me watch all these films about third-world poverty.’
She sneered at the memory.
‘It ranged from things like that, to keeping me a prisoner when I wanted to go out, especially if it was a boy I wanted to see. He’d shout at me, calling me a whore for Satan, shit like that.’
She paused.
‘With Dad, it’s all about control. If he can’t get inside here,’ she said, tapping a finger against her temple, ‘he’ll attack you here.’ She lowered her hand to her heart. ‘I never let him get close enough to do any real damage and in some ways, that just made him worse. It was and always has been his way or no way.’
An uncomfortable feeling washed over her body. ‘Then of course there was the Manor house which we spent a lot of time in. It brought out the worst in him and me.’
‘Manor house?’
Chloe pulled a face of disgust as she remembered. ‘Yeah, Shrovesbury Manor, owned by Father Manuela…disgusting man. A lot of children at the local parishes attend there for what my father called “extra direction in the fulfilment of divine enlightenment”.’
She looked at Claire. ‘I refused to go when I was older.’ She let out a mock laugh. ‘Oh, Daddy loved that… A woman, thinking for herself and disobeying him?’ She shook her head. ‘That was never a good thing. It was like brainwashing and something about all of it didn’t feel right.’
Claire shifted in her seat. ‘In what way didn’t it feel right?’
‘It just…didn’t. The atmosphere was horrible. I still have flashbacks. I remember other children used to tell stories, rumours really. Some of us were scared of Father Manuela. There’s also this Chapel that he had built in the grounds, and the other kids used to scare us younger ones with stories of children going missing there. I never believed that…at least I kept telling myself I didn’t… Father Wainwright was there a lot of the time as well,’ she added, watching Claire’s reaction.
Claire stared hard at Chloe.
She didn’t know how much of this was truth and how much was just the ramblings of a bitter young girl trying to score points against her father. After all, who was going to believe an exotic dancer against men of the cloth? And besides, Mark Jenkins had a very good reputation in the community, as did Father Wainwright.
Something didn’t sit right about any of this or the circumstances of Wainwright’s death. Claire had known this from the start.
She threw Chloe a curve ball. ‘What about the foster children?’
Chloe shot her a surprised look. She was caught off guard by the question, and Claire saw the dread that appeared in her eyes.
‘How’d you know about them?’ Chloe’s voice croaked from the back of her throat.
‘It flagged up on various systems.’
‘Then you don’t need me to tell you about them.’
‘Most of the information’s missing. A lot of data was lost when social services merged various software.’
Chloe’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Can’t you ask my father?’
Claire stared at her in silence. This was a tried and tested method for her. She knew the pressure would entice Chloe to talk. She would feel obliged to. After an intense minute, Chloe sighed, giving in.
‘Mum and Dad took in foster children to try and make up for me being such a failure in their eyes.’
‘They said that?’
‘They didn’t have to. I saw it on their faces every day.’ A tear began to slowly roll down her cheek. She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, smearing her make-up.
‘Did they experience the same treatment from your father?’
Chloe wiped her nose and tried to pull herself together.
‘They fostered three children. I have nothing to do with them and I don’t know where they are. I was never close to them. After all, they were there to replace me, someone else for Dad to mould into the perfect child.’
She paused to think, searching for a memory she’d tried hard to lock away. ‘I was almost six when they got the first kid, Stephen. He was with us for less than a year. Dad thought he could “save” him or whatever,’ she said, shaking her head, embarrassed by her own words.
‘He left soon after he hit sixteen anyway, couldn’t take the religion either. I was only young but I think he was like Dad’s experiment or something. He’d been passed from foster home to foster home since he was very young. He had issues. Dad got another kid just before Stephen left, called Emily. She might still be with them.’
Claire was making additional notes. She knew about Mark Jenkins’s foster children, but only the basics of their ages and where they’d come from.
Anything else she could pick from Chloe’s scarred mind was a bonus. She didn’t know if any of this would be relevant but she was in need of a lead…and a potential motive for the death of Father Wainwright. She looked up at Chloe, who was now staring at her feet.
‘You said there were three foster children?’
‘The third was Amelia. She came to us almost as soon as Stephen did. Weird kid.’
‘Why weird?’
Chloe pulled at the locket hanging on the chain around her neck, and bit her lower lip, smearing what remained of her lipstick on her teeth. ‘She’s like a lot of kids taken into care. Fucked up,’ she said at length.
Claire wrote the names of the Jenkins household on her notepad in large capital letters and drew lines between them with the word Connection?
She had enough information on them for now at least. She could tell Chloe was more than uncomfortable talking about them. She made the decision to move on.
‘What was your father’s relationship like with Father Wainwright? Were they close friends?’
‘Yeah, I’d say so. He came to the house at least once a week – Mum made him Sunday dinner after the ten o’clock service was over. Greedy bastard always had seconds,’ she said, the memory disgusting her. ‘Like I said, he was at the Manor often as well.’
‘Did you like him?’
Chloe’s eyes narrowed.
‘In your opinion what type of man was he? He was in a position of trust and had regular involvement with your family. Did you resent him?’
Chloe had every reason to hate Father Wainwright.
He hid a lot of secrets.
She thought about the day he was murdered. If this detective checked, she’d see she didn’t have an alibi. That might stir up old tensions, uncover barely healed wounds.
Chloe had a split second to decide which card to play.
She smiled and her eyes met Claire’s. ‘I resent what he represented, but that’s my father’s fault, not his, I guess.’
Claire looked at her sceptically but wrote down her words before folding her pad closed.
***
Claire shook Joe Carter’s extended hand. She had all she needed from Chloe for now and was now eager to leave Paradis as soon as possible. Judging by Carter’s body language, it was a feeling shared.
He followed her out of the club, trying to act normally around his clients. He saw Claire to her car outside and tried not to look agitated.
‘I hope Chloe’s not in any kind of trouble, Chief Inspector?’
Claire was expecting this question and looked at him, smiling. ‘Not at all. I’m just making some routine enquiries, that’s all.’
She reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out her card and handed it to him. ‘I gave Chloe my card but I’d like to leave one with you, just in case she misplaces hers.’
Carter studied the card briefly and forced a nod.
He waited until she’d driven out of sight before folding the card in half, ripping it to pieces, and letting them fall, curling and fluttering along the pavement in the gentle evening breeze.
CHAPTER 17
Music raged from flat number 15. The constant thudding baseline from the stereo seemed to rattle the doorframe to the very core.
The huge Rottweiler was pacing the living-room floor, staring at its owner, who was fast asleep on the sofa, the remote control for the television sliding from his hand before thudding onto the exposed floorboards.
The dog padded over to his owner’s hand, sniffed before licking it and whimpered gently. A long trail of drool was hanging from its huge jaw, its pink tongue hanging at one side, panting.
Ashe Miller’s body suddenly jerked, waking him from his slumber as he fell in his nightmare, just catching himself before he fell off the sofa.
The dog barked at him, as he balled his hand into a fist and rubbed his eyes hard. He glanced up at the television, still set on mute as he’d left it.
He shifted his stocky body from the sofa with a grunt and pushed the dog away when it tried to jump up at him on its hind legs. ‘Get down, Clyde.’
Ashe staggered to the bathroom, Clyde in hot pursuit, bounding alongside him, his tail wagging.
Ashe stared at his reflection in the mirror hanging over the small wash-basin and stuck out his tongue. It had a nasty-looking white coating on it, and he pulled a face of disgust.
He leaned in closer to the mirror, pulling at his cheeks, examining his eyes.
His pupils were like saucers. His shock of jet-black hair stood up on end, making him more scarecrow-like than ever. His brown eyes looked like hollow black pits, with dark circles underneath.
He sniffed at his reflection and ignored the sudden knocking at his door. He could just about hear it over the stereo, and as it continued, Clyde began to bark again.
Ashe poked his head around into the living room and stared at the door. He glanced down at his clothes: a faded olive green T-shirt and black boxer shorts.
The knocking continued and Ashe glanced through the spyhole. He banged his forehead hard against the door in frustration and cursed under his breath.
It was another resident and all Ashe knew was that they lived above him.
He threw open the door and stared at the man in front of him, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. Ashe’s arms were outstretched, gripping either side of the doorframe.
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ said the man, his voice raised over the din of the stereo. ‘It’s nearly midnight and I’ve to get up for work in five hours.’
Ashe shrugged his shoulders. ‘How is that my problem?’
The man frowned, taking a step forward. He was taller than Ashe but at least ten years older.
Ashe may have been quite short for a man, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in girth. His T-shirt pulled against his stocky frame, a mixture of muscle and fat caused by too much alcohol.
Still, the man squared up to Ashe and uttered some profanity before hearing a snarl.
Looking down he saw Clyde at Ashe’s side, his teeth bared, ready to strike at the first command. The man looked back at Ashe who grinned, grabbed the collar around Clyde’s neck and yanked him back.
‘He wants to play,’ said Ashe. ‘Shall we see who wins?’ Clyde barked, his jaws and teeth smashing back together, drool splattering over the floor.
The man backed off, pulling his dressing-gown tight around his body. ‘If you could turn the stereo down, I’d appreciate it.’
Ashe made a gesture of a salute. Clyde pulled forward as the man rushed back up the stairs to his floor. Ashe yanked his collar hard, bent down and tried to soothe him with hushed words. When Clyde had calmed down, he licked Ashe’s face, and followed him back inside the flat.
Ashe stopped his CD from playing and replaced it with another one. He hit the play button, turned the volume up higher and grinned before returning to the bathroom.
He found his stash of skunk hidden in a small bag inside an aftershave cap, still attached to a half-empty bottle.
He went back into the living room, slouched on the sofa and reached for the bottle of whisky on the coffee table.
He knocked back a few swigs of the amber-coloured liquid from the bottle and flicked stations on the silent television. He nodded his head to the pounding rhythm from the stereo, and rolled his joint.
***
It was an hour later when Ashe awoke again, still sitting on the sofa. Clyde had gone to his bed in the kitchen and Ashe realised the CD had ended.
So what was that banging noise that’d woken him?
He sat up, listened, and realised someone was knocking on his door again.
He slumped back into the sofa, hand rubbing his forehead. His head was pounding and he struggled to see.
The knocking continued.
Getting up, he stumbled towards the door and peeked through the spyhole. All he could see was red.
He blinked his eyes tighter, then opened them wide as he moved away from the door, deciding whether to open it or not.
Someone knocked harder on the door again and, with anger rising in his gut, Ashe retrieved his baseball bat from the bedroom. He came charging back and yanked the door open with force.
‘You’ve got a death wish, mate!’
He blinked harder as his vision tunnelled.
The neighbour he’d been expecting was replaced with a young woman, around his age with flowing red hair and piercing green eyes.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘What are you after this time?’ He stood aside and let her in. He looked her up and down before closing the door after her. ‘I’m out of cash, so if you want paying like last time, I’ll have to owe you,’ he sniggered childishly. ‘You can tie me up this time, if you want.’
The dog snarled at her as she moved to the middle of the living room.
‘Quiet, Clyde. You know she’s dope.’
She eyed the dog with defiance, staring into his eyes, which provoked him further. He barked, splattering more drool on the floor. He looked ready to attack her.
She felt the knife against her leg inside her jeans pocket. She squatted down to the dog’s level. She smiled as she outstretched one arm, beckoning him towards her.
A concerned look flashed across Ashe’s face. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t do that, he’s pretty hyper right now.’
His words were sluggish, which meant the timing couldn’t be more perfect for her. ‘You saw me the other day, didn’t you.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘You overheard what you shouldn’t have.’ she said, turning her head to glance at him over her shoulder. ‘That’s your problem, isn’t it? Always listening behind doors, lurking in shadows…’
Ashe tried to remain poker-faced.
The dog snarled again. ‘You should go,’ Ashe said at length.
‘But I’ve not stroked Clydie-baby yet,’ she said, returning her attention to the dog. The knife seemed to burn through the fabric of her jeans, right through to her skin. ‘Come on, Clydie-baby… I’ve brought you a treat.’
Stokebrook Secure Hospital NHS Trust, Buckinghamshire 2011
Amelia stared down at the identification tag fastened loosely around her wrist. She looked around the room that had been her prison for the past three years and longed for the pain and the charade to end.
Stokebrook Secure Hospital is a high security psychiatric hospital in the Buckinghamshire countryside. It houses two hundred patients who have been detained under the Mental Health Act 1983 for mental illness, severe mental impairment or psychopathic personality disorders.
Amelia Williams fell into the latter category and was housed in the Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder Unit (DSPD). This is the second hospital of its nature in England alongside Rampton Secure Hospital in Nottinghamshire.
Three years ago, Amelia had attempted to murder a man who she claimed had tried to rape her. She’d been found unfit to plead in a trial and had been placed at Stokebrook for her own safety and that of the general public.
It’d been little consolation to Amelia that she’d escaped trial and a prison sentence. She’d pulled off the perfect act, making doctors and psychiatrists believe she had a personality disorder and was therefore not aware or responsible for her actions.
In reality Amelia had always known exactly what she was doing. She just didn’t care that she enjoyed her thirst for violence.
But being in Stokebrook hadn’t been plain sailing like she’d envisaged. Locked up with others like her in nature (or worse) and having to maintain her act was starting to take its toll.
Amelia was tired.
And restless.
Every time she closed her eyes she could still see the images of the past. A bloody staircase. A broken body at the bottom, close to death.
She’d heard the screams many times in her head, night after night, relentless. Sometimes she thought back and wondered whether she’d done the right thing in keeping quiet about what had happened. Then she’d think about her long-term plans, once she was out of here. She’d been right then and was right now. Hers and God’s revenge would be sweet.
She’d used her time wisely.
And now she wanted out.
She looked at the woman opposite her. Volunteer Melanie Steward, who had been talking away while Amelia had pretended to listen, was now smiling at her.
Stokebrook had a patient befriending scheme that had worked to Amelia’s advantage. Volunteers under the scheme were allowed to visit patients who otherwise had no contact with the outside world. Trained and given a thorough Criminal Record Bureau check, they were then closely matched with a patient.
Rules were strict and volunteers were warned about the potential to be taken in by the manipulative nature of some patients.
Melanie Steward had already fallen at that first hurdle two years ago, although she didn’t know it yet.
‘Am I boring you?’ Mel said.
Amelia looked away. ‘Did you bring it?’
Mel’s hands twitched nervously. ‘Is that all you wanted? I thought you liked my company?’
Amelia tried to sound convincing. ‘I do but I hoped you’d help me.’
‘And I said I would, whatever you want, no matter if it’s against the rules.’ Mel’s hand swept across the bed and clasped Amelia’s. ‘I never thought that meeting you would make me feel this way… I’m breaking all the rules, Amelia. You helped me realise what I’ve always wanted.’
Amelia looked away. Mel blushed, believing Amelia’s gesture was out of modesty at knowing the love Mel held towards her.
The reality was much darker.
Amelia was repulsed by her.
After the first few visits from Mel, Amelia knew the woman was a homosexual. A fact that had at first seemed to be a setback had presented itself as another opportunity.
No stranger to being intimate with women, Amelia had played Mel like a pro.
A few well-planned questions and the chance to move physically closer to Mel had told Amelia all she needed. Melanie Steward was trapped in a loveless marriage with a man she couldn’t bear to be touched by and the look in Mel’s eyes had told Amelia that she was more than a little attracted to her.
‘Amelia, I…’ Mel trailed off and got up from her chair. Amelia’s eyes widened as Mel began to raise her long skirt.
Not again, Amelia thought. She pushed herself further into the bed when she saw Mel’s hands disappear inside her knickers.
Amelia closed her eyes tight. She heard the sound of tape ripping across bare skin.
‘Here,’ Mel’s voice quivered. ‘I brought it for you.’
Amelia inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as she eyed the intricate cut-glass statue of the Virgin Mary that’d previously been taped against Mel’s inner thigh. Anything made from prohibited materials or sharp objects was strictly forbidden but Mel had broken yet another rule to please her.
Mel handed the statuette over and Amelia turned it over in her hands. The figure was just four inches long but was exactly what she’d asked for. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘Really?’ Mel beamed. ‘I’m so pleased. It fitted the exact description you gave me.’
‘Nobody suspects anything?’
‘No, I was careful, just how you showed me.’
Amelia leaned forward and kissed Mel softly on the lips. ‘You won’t regret this… You’ll come back later?’
Before Mel could reply, her breath caught in her throat as Amelia grabbed the pendant around her neck. ‘What’s this?’ Mel saw the change in Amelia’s eyes. She looked at the small fabric rose at the end of a fake gold chain.
‘Don’t you like it?’
Amelia’s mind took her back to the Rose Garden at Shrovesbury Manor.
Rebecca…
She held back tears as the face from her past appeared before her, like it always did. Firstly, as a beautiful mirage of messy brown hair with wide dark eyes. Her face bore a few freckles which made her look younger than her sixteen years.
Then came the vision Amelia always dreaded, as the pretty face was replaced by a twisted mess of blood and smashed bone. Rebecca’s once full light-pink lips now reduced to a menacing grimace of dried blood and events of unspoken evil.
Amelia ripped the chain from Mel’s neck, making her gasp, her hand reaching for her neck. Amelia threw the chain into her face. ‘Get rid of it.’
Mel was stunned. She avoided Amelia’s eyes and looked around the room. She caught sight of the small shelf filled with a few books from the hospital library. Her eyes landed on a particular title. She knew many pages inside had been drawn over in red pen, many passages underlined or crossed out.
She’d helped Amelia do it herself.
Now she felt the twinge of regret deep in her gut as she read the gold writing down the spine of the book.
It read Holy Bible.
***
It was almost 8:30pm when Amelia heard the lock turn in the door.
Mel was early.
More importantly, she’d pulled off their plan thus far without any major problems.
Mel’s face was ashen, her eyes dark and puffy as though she’d been crying. She had a small bag clasped tightly to her chest. She closed the door but didn’t speak.
Amelia got up from the bed. She reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Mel’s ear and felt her flinch under her touch. Amelia’s eyes narrowed, forcing Mel to look at her. ‘Is everything in place?’
Mel’s voice sounded hoarse when she spoke. ‘I managed to bribe security to let me in this late and he agreed not to check the bag.’
Amelia smiled.
George, the night security guard, had been easy enough to bribe. Amelia had managed to pay him a midnight visit herself in exchange for him allowing Mel access into the building discreetly by the side trade entrance.
All men are weak, she thought. It’d come easy for her to manipulate but she saw it’d been much harder for Mel.