For All Our Sins. T.M.E. Walsh
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incident room was busy. She doubted anyone would need her for the next ten minutes or so. She felt embarrassed at what she was about to look at.
She clicked the mouse and a half-naked lady popped up on the screen, accompanied by dance music, as the menus for the website dropped down in a fancy animation, followed by a swirling title appearing on the screen in the shape of green ivy.
It formed the words ‘Welcome to Paradis’ and pulsated on the screen. The woman had changed position and was now holding a red apple, about to bite into it seductively.
Claire cocked an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
Just then Michael pushed his head around the door. Claire glanced at him then back at the screen, looking flustered.
‘Is now a bad time to compare notes?’ he asked. Claire tried to turn the volume down on the monitor. Michael frowned then walked towards her. ‘What’s that shit?’
She tried to turn the monitor off before he saw the screen but he grabbed her hand as she went to hit the standby button. He saw the half-naked lady with the apple.
He looked at Claire.
‘Whatever you’re thinking, Diego, you’re wrong.’
Michael held up his palms in defence. ‘Hey, it’s your lifestyle choice, not mine.’
‘Piss off, it’s work-related. Mark Jenkins’s daughter works there.’
Michael sat in the chair opposite her and swung back on it. ‘Jenkins has children? He doesn’t strike me as the type.’
Claire clicked on the link to the ‘How to find us’ page on the website and brought up a map. ‘Have you ever been to Paradis?’
‘No. Not my thing… You didn’t answer my question.’
She avoided his eyes, feeling the weight of his stare. She hated this tension between them. Every time they were together it was there, even when she tried to forget they had never been anything but work colleagues. She wanted to bury her head in the sand, and hope everything would sort itself out.
Claire sighed and rubbed her forehead.
‘Chloe Jenkins is the only biological child. He used to foster children and they left the family, for unknown reasons. Their whereabouts is unknown. I think it’s strange, and it might be nothing, but I think it’s a good idea to see Chloe and ask her about her upbringing. I need some more background on Jenkins before I rule him out as a suspect.’
Claire highlighted the page of directions and hit the Print button. Her printer whirred into life next to her and produced the page. She picked it up and shoved it towards Michael. He glanced at it.
‘Want to check it out with me later?’
Michael looked again and shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’m not working late tonight anyway.’
He passed the page back to her. He noticed her staring at him.
‘It’s Friday night…you remember Friday nights, don’t you? Going out drinking too much, dancing like a moron and trying to pull someone, then regretting it the next day with a massive hangover?’
Claire rolled her eyes. She remembered how much she loved his playful side and she smiled inwardly at the thought. She took a sip of her coffee, closed the web page and brought up her emails. Nothing new had come in since last night.
‘What did you find out from Jenkins yesterday?’ she asked, still looking at the monitor. ‘Team briefing before lunch, but I’d like a heads-up.’
Michael opened his notepad. ‘Not a lot. Head teacher wasn’t very obliging either. I got the impression she was glad to see the back of me.’
Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought you’d be used to that by now.’ Michael glanced at her. She was provoking him. He ignored her throwaway comment.
‘Anyway, he seems a very stern teacher. I certainly didn’t like him, really cold eyes,’ he said, shivering at the thought. He glanced over a few more pages. ‘He seems well-liked by the head of the school though and, more importantly, he has an alibi. He was teaching when Wainwright was killed around 11:30am.’
He snapped his notepad shut.
Claire sat back in her chair and picked up her stapler, flicking the spring back and forth. ‘I still want to see his daughter,’ she said at length. ‘I’ll get Gabe to try and pick up Jenkins on the CCTV from Town Centre management ASAP.’
Michael nodded in agreement, and got up to leave. As he reached the door, he turned to face her, grinning.
‘I’ll think of you watching the ladies thrusting their crotches at you this evening. Never know, you may enjoy it, batting for the other team,’ he said, before ducking out the door as the stapler came hurtling towards his head.
Chloe Jenkins ran her tongue along her upper lip, tasting the thick red lipstick painted expertly along her fleshy Cupid’s bow.
The overhead lights flashed in various sequences as she wrapped her slender leg around the metal pole and swung her body a quick 360, ending by casting her legs out and sliding to the floor in an expert ‘splits’ finish.
She awaited the inevitable jeering that accompanied her signature move, and tonight they seemed louder than usual. She stared at the black tribal design tattooed on the inner wrist of her right arm. She focused in on it, helping her drown out the surroundings like she did every time she performed.
A loud jeer broke into her thoughts.
Smile. Entertain. Repeat.
She turned, smiled at the row of men who edged closer to the stage runway, watched by the careful eye of the club’s security.
She grabbed the pole with one hand, using it to pull herself up, her legs sliding back together slowly until she was upright, teetering on her six-inch high heels.
The music changed tempo and the bass line rose, accompanied by the strobe light. Chloe began to strut down the runway in time to the music, the gold locket she never removed swinging with each movement.
She tried to count how many bank notes were stashed inside her red G-string. She lost count at £100, when she caught the eye of a woman watching her, standing with her manager across the room at the bar.
They were staring at her and exchanging conversation every now and again.
Chloe tried to concentrate, finished off her routine and picked up her discarded bra before leaving the stage, as other girls took her place.
She rushed down the corridor backstage, pulling her bra back on. When she reached her dressing room, a small box-room with battered furniture, she pulled out the notes from her underwear to count her earnings.
She heard her manager Joe Carter enter the room without knocking. Chloe certainly didn’t have anything he hadn’t seen before. He walked towards her, when she didn’t look up.
He stood close, staring at her reflection in the mirror opposite them.
His dark-brown eyes narrowed.
He stared at the tattoo on her wrist. He’d asked her about it once, in general conversation, comparing his own ink to hers. She had withdrawn into herself in an instant, shutting him out, so he never asked her again.
His eyes moved over her, taking in every inch of her long blonde hair hanging down her small skinny body and then back to her blue heavily made-up eyes.
Eventually Chloe raised her eyes to their reflection.
He stood so close to her that she could smell the stale scent of cigarettes, and feel the coarseness of his black jumper against her arm.
Unable