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.’
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.
She sighed, heading towards the door leading to the stairwells. As she pushed the glass door open she remembered the day she first came here to view the flat.
It had been another hot day not unlike this one, and she’d deliberately worn a low-cut top and a short low-slung skirt to distract the estate agent when they discussed the monthly rent.
As planned, he’d taken the bait.
All men are weak…
He would tell the landlord she accepted the monthly rent but he would ‘fix the books’, as he put it, and she would pay less.
‘It will be our little secret of course,’ he’d said.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Mr Brown,’ Amelia had replied in her sweetest of voices.
He’d extended his hand once again, eyes narrowed. ‘Call me Adrian, I insist.’
Amelia had almost reached the top of the stairs and she shuddered, recalling the events that had taken place that afternoon.
She turned to face another door leading to the second floor of flats, and pushed it half-heartedly, the hinges squeaking.
The