She shuddered at the memory of the young woman they’d found, sleeping rough on the Cromer streets. She was perfect, with her fair complexion, slight build, with long flowing red hair, greasy and hanging in limp tendrils across her face, hiding the sadness of her eyes, the light having long since left them.
Plied with alcohol and drugs, she’d put up no resistance when they’d both smothered her with the woman’s own grotty pillow, one of her only processions.
After they’d changed the woman’s clothes, Chloe had flinched when they’d dropped her body into the sea, the darkness of the rough water swallowing her whole, the strong currant dragging her out along with the other discarded rubbish.
Chloe had told herself she’d done this woman, whoever she was, a great service, ending her misery once and for all.
Even after this, all she’d risked for her, Amelia had still raced back into Stephen’s arms.
From that day on, Chloe distanced herself from their memory for the most part.
She’d got away with her secrets intact.
Amelia and Stephen were now gone.
Very soon, Chloe would be too.
***
Claire was tapping out a beat on the steering wheel, in time to the bassline of the song playing out on the radio. For the first time in weeks she felt content. Happy, even.
As she was about to take the turning towards Hexton she changed her mind. She drove through Haverbridge and on to Harwood Park Crematorium in Stevenage.
She parked the car and glanced at her phone. There was one new text message from a number she didn’t recognise.
I hope one day you’ll see it in your heart to visit me.
Claire stared at the words, confused at first, then realised there was only one person it could be from.
Her father.
She wondered how he could’ve got her new number, then realised it must have been the new carers that’d passed it on when Claire had updated her contact details with them, weeks after Manuela was arrested.
She held the phone in her palm, thumb hovering between reply and delete.
She took a deep breath and held it. When she released it again she hit the delete button.
She pocketed the phone and headed towards the row of plaques she had visited frequently over the last few months.
She counted along each one until she came to the one she used to dread seeing.
She reached her fingers forward and traced the lines, twists and curls of the inscription.
In loving memory of Michael Diego.
That was all Claire could bring herself to write when she’d dealt with the aftermath of his death.
Michael had no living relatives that could be traced, not even his real mother. Claire couldn’t bear to see him laid to rest in a pauper’s grave, despite what he’d done.
She’d deliberately not used his real name; she simply couldn’t bring herself to. In her eyes he was still her colleague, once her friend and lover, and that was how she would remember him, despite everything.
She stood there deep in thought, and was only disturbed by the sudden wind which picked up around her.
She looked towards the trees that surrounded the perimeter and pulled her cardigan tightly around her. She squinted at the line of trees when she thought she saw a blaze of red hair behind them.
Amelia’s red hair.
After watching for several minutes she thought back to the nightmares she’d suffered with for many a night, deprived of sleep for the first few months since Amelia had taken Michael’s life.
She remembered a quote she’d once read by George Eliot.
Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
Claire took a slow walk back to her car, and committed herself to finally accepting Michael’s death. Accepting, but never forgetting, she took comfort in the fact that in time the pain would ease.
As she sat in her car and stared out towards the trees, the red hair she thought she’d seen faded to black in her mind – Amelia forgotten, damned in her own personal Hell, without her Guardian.
Where she belonged.
Still reeling from For All Our Sins? Keep reading for an exclusive sneak-peek at the Principle of Evil, book two in T M E Walsh’s addictive DCI Claire Winters series…
‘He got inside my head. He twisted it, danced around in it, leaving nothing behind but bad memories and bloody footprints.’
31st October
She tasted the earth, the dead leaves, and the damp as she crawled on her belly.
The bitter wind rose. It raged through the trees like something possessed, scattering the last remaining dead leaves that had once clung to the skeletal branches. Shivering uncontrollably, she pressed her body harder to the ground, willing it to open and swallow her whole.
Don’t let him see me from here.
Was she hoping or praying? She didn’t know anymore.
God hadn’t been with her when she needed Him the most, not for a long time. Not since the accident. Nothing had come to ease her grief then and nothing would come now. Why wait for some divine intervention to carry her from this wretched place? She could only rely on herself, and look where that had got her. There wasn’t any hope of escape. Not now. The gash on her ankle had seen to that. Nothing left now except the time before he killed her.
He’d desecrate her body but not her soul. A soul that had already been ripped to shreds and lain broken, slowly dying a piece at a time since the day of the accident. The day her life broke down into nothing meaningful, just something wretched, languishing in self-pity.
The man who was tracking her would be following the trail of blood, seeping from the wound on her ankle. For all she knew, he could be standing right behind her now, watching in silence, waiting to strike the final blow. The great calm before the storm.
Her bruised ribs prevented her from rolling on her back. She sucked in a deep breath against the dank earth, soil creeping inside her mouth, between parched lips. She dug her fingers in deep, nails raking through the mud.
She pulled.
Just a little further towards the bushes. I can make it. I have to. Ignore the pain.
Then she heard it. She froze with the fright and the possibility that death was coming even sooner than imagined. She wondered if it was delirium or if the noise close behind her was as real as the hot tears falling down her face.
No, the sound of crushing twigs was much closer now. It was as real as the heat of his breath now upon her neck.
He appeared almost from nowhere, creeping through the oily blackness.
He was determined.
He would kill her.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose, gooseflesh puckering her skin. There was a moment there in the darkness when she thought he might speak to her. She heard his sharp intake of breath … but nothing more. She hadn’t the courage to look into his cold dark eyes again. The weight of his boot pressed down on her neck, burying her face deeper into the soil.
Sweet Jesus, just let this be over quickly.
He stooped down close, replaced his boot with an icy hand. She braced herself. Her eyes squeezed shut when she felt the sharp tip of the blade, the cold edge of steel.
She felt no hurt at first, just a forceful punch to the neck.
Then came the pain.
She felt her warm blood pouring down her neck, onto the ground, drenching the earth. Then the rain came. Icy fat droplets, pattering over her bare skin.
As her mind took her beyond the pain, spiriting her away high above the violence below, the last thoughts that ran through her head were of her husband and their two children.
She could see them clearly, as alive now as they had been a year ago. They were playing in the cornfield behind the house where she had grown up. A year without them had felt like an eternity, but she knew they had always been with her and would be until the very end.
Isabelle and Jasmine, my beautiful girls. And Anthony. I’ve missed you all so much. I’m coming back
to you.
The vision of her husband blurred with reality but she was sure he was walking towards her, hand reaching out, lips greeting her with a smile. Her fingers splayed and ached for the touch of his skin, just as the darkness carried her away.
CHAPTER 1
1st November
‘It’s your time.’
He stood watching her from the street corner, icy rain soaking him to the bone. He could have gone back to his car, chosen another night, but no matter how hard reason pleaded with him, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Everything about her disgusted him. The way she walked, the way she dressed, the way she talked.
Everything.
To him, her whole life was just a game determined by how much someone was willing to pay for her. The fact she was now with child complicated things, but also gave further justification to carry out what he’d planned for her.
Nola Grant stood at the side of the road. Her lanky, painfully thin frame cut a sombre stance under the street lamp. The fluorescent light cast shadows across her face but strangers could still see her wide-eyed vacant stare. She was tall and her bones jutted out at sharp angles, which were further exaggerated by her tight-fitting clothes.
She wore a low-rise, sleeveless top, no coat despite the cold, flaunting her many tattoos. The ink covered nearly all the flesh up both arms, and also found its way over her left shoulder and down onto her breast. Her light-brown skin made the faded designs appear more muted in colour, but still made her stand out more than the other girls. Many men seemed intrigued to know just where else she had been scarred by the tattooist’s needle.
As a car pulled to a stop in front of her, she bent her head to see inside the open window. The harsh night made her even more eager to get away, to seek shelter from the rain that grew heavier by the second.
A price was quickly agreed, and the man across the road saw her disappear inside the car. He wondered how far gone she was with child, spawned by an unknown faceless punter. He hazarded a guess at no more than eleven weeks, since her belly showed no signs of swelling.
He sighed as the car pulled away into the unforgiving night and something inside spurred him on. He charged across the road, giving chase. The driver put his foot down before he could get close enough.
The man stood staring after the lights as they grew smaller by the second. He would have to make his move later, and promised himself that she would not leave him until he knew she was ready and she’d earned the right of safe passage.
*
Inside the car, Nola lit up a rolled cigarette, relishing the small amount of warmth and comfort it gave her. The sickly scent of cannabis swirled into the punters face and his mouth pulled into a hard line of disgust. He took one hand off the wheel, violently plucked the cigarette from her mouth, and discarded it out the window.
Nola risked a sideways glance at his face but stayed silent. He had paid for submissive and she had agreed to play the part in his twisted fantasy, no questions asked. As she sat in the passenger seat, rainwater dripping from her tightly curled hair, she was indifferent when the car turned down a dark lonely side street.
Deep down she had never felt any shame in the fact that sometimes she enjoyed this job. The fact she now carried another life inside her never even crossed her selfish mind and had no bearing on her decisions. Little did she know, or could have ever imagined, just how quickly this was about to change.
*
It was nearly midnight when she was pushed from the car as it parked up outside the back entrance to a nightclub down another dark side road. She hit the concrete, landing hard on her knees, cutting holes in her leggings.
The car door slammed shut behind her and tyres screeched on the wet tarmac. She pulled herself up, but fell forward onto her hands, feeling the raw sting as the surface cut her flesh. As if to add insult to injury, the heavens opened once again, and large drops of rain engulfed her.
‘You fucking prick!’ she screamed, as the car’s headlights disappeared into the darkness. She looked up to the night sky, but saw no moon. It had been raining heavily since early October with no signs of letting up. The bleak weather was in keeping with her mood.
She pulled herself to her feet, teetering on her thin high heels. She winced as a sharp surge of pain ran up through her groin. Nola was hurt, inside as well as out. If she hadn’t needed the money so bad, she’d never have got into that man’s car.
She inspected the grazes on her knees through the holes in her leggings, and then held her hands out in front of her. The falling rain stung the cuts on her palms, and she tucked both hands under her armpits. She was trying to get her bearings when she suddenly felt she was not alone.
‘Are you OK?’
The calm voice came from the darkness. Nola whipped her head around and saw a man approach her through the torrent of rain.
‘I saw what happened.’
Wary, she took a few steps back and the man slowed his pace, holding out his hands to calm her. ‘It’s OK. I just wanted to check you were all right.’
She searched his face, but it was hard to make anything out in the shadows.
She felt a flicker of recognition as she looked into his eyes and listened to his well-spoken, controlled voice, but it quickly passed. He wasn’t from Haverbridge, not this part anyway. She could see it in his clothes, the way he held his head high, the way he carried himself.
Cars whipped past down the main street several yards away, tyres cutting through puddles. Shrieks from those caught in the downpour rang out in the distance and the smell of fast food filled the air, carried on the wind, down towards them.
Nola longed to be anywhere but here with this man.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he said, venturing forward.
She took a step back. ‘Stay away.’
‘I just want to help.’
‘And I said stay the fuck away.’
‘But you’re hurt.’
She stepped back again and looked for an exit. There was none. He was blocking any hope of getting to the busy street ahead. ‘Let me help you, please.’ His voice sounded gentle enough.
‘I don’t need your help,’ she spat. ‘I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches.’
He looked away, deep in thought. Her eyes never left his face. ‘I … I can pay you.’
‘What?’ Her face twisted. ‘Thought you were offering me help?’
‘I am, but since you seem reluctant to accept my help at face value, I thought I’d offer you something you weren’t used to turning down.’
Nola’s face screwed up with disgust. ‘Just fuck off,’ she said, her arm waving him away. She edged around him but he blocked her path.
‘You misunderstand me. I meant I’ll pay you if you let me help you.’ He reached out and lightly touched her arm.
‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Please, I just want to help.’
‘Fucking weirdo,’ she said, pushing him aside.
‘Nola, please.’
She froze. The weight of his stare was crushing. ‘How’d you know my name?’
He smiled, stepping closer, drawing his arm around her shoulders. ‘I know many things … Let me help you.’
*
It was a welcome relief, as she slipped down lower into the hot bath water. The man, who said his name was Aaron, had taken her back to his home and tended her wounds, fed her well, and explained how he’d watched her for some time now and felt he had to help her. Nola had thought it was creepy at first but the pull of a hot meal and a bath had been too great for her to dwell on it too much.
‘Didn’t think men like you existed,’ she sighed as he handed her a bottle of shampoo. ‘I usually only meet two kinds: stupid or fucked up.’
He smiled, for appearance sake, and went to leave her in peace.
‘Wait,’ she said, sitting up in the bath. ‘Would you mind?’ She held the shampoo bottle towards him. He looked down at her, his face blank. Only a few soapy bubbles covered her modest
y, and he felt embarrassed. Eventually he nodded. He lathered up the liquid in his hands as he perched on the edge of the bath.
When he massaged the shampoo into her hair, he felt her shoulders relax underneath his touch. He realised that no matter how much mental and physical torture this whore could endure, deep down, when it came to it, at every opportunity she would use her body to her advantage. It made him sick. Still, it was this flaw that had made it easier for him to lure her into his house.
Stupid bitch.
Nola had no knowledge of his actions behind her, and he was free to cover her nose and mouth with the chloroform-soaked cloth he’d concealed inside his trouser pocket. She whipped her hands back, scratching at his arms as he held the rag tighter against her face, until she became limp, sliding deeper into the bath water.
He dragged her body from the tub and let her fall, her limbs hitting the cold tiles, hard.
Nola Grant was not destined to drown in her own filth. All he knew was that she would be tested and she alone would decide the outcome. He would make her responsible for either her life or her death.
His face remained resolute as he dried her body and pulled her clothes on roughly, disgusted by her thin nylon underwear.
*
He barely struggled down the stairs to his basement; she was so light to carry. Once he had shackled her wrists, he looked down on her sleeping face and pushed stray strands of wet hair away from her eyes. In another life, she might have been pretty. Maybe she would have made her parents proud. Yes, maybe in another life. For now at least, Nola was going nowhere.
As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked back. His eyes did one final sweep of the room, then her body, before switching out the light and locking the door behind him.
CARINA™
ISBN: 978 1 474 03807 2
For All Our Sins
Copyright © 2015 T. M. E. Walsh
Published in Great Britain (2015)
by Carina, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For All Our Sins: A gripping thriller with a killer twist (DCI Claire Winters, Book 1) Page 38