as she took in the words. She repeated the whole verse in her head and out loud, trying to make sense of it.
She heard the microwave finish, and headed back to the kitchen. She left the letter on the table and dished up her food, the scent of the shepherd’s pie making her mouth water. She realised then that she hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, which would explain her terrible headache.
She shovelled most of the food into her mouth before returning to the table. She poked at the rest of it with her fork while reading the letter again. Ten minutes passed and she ran out of patience. She slammed her fork down on her plate and screwed the letter up and put it in the bin.
Putting it down to nothing but kids playing a prank, she went upstairs to change.
***
Claire tied her dressing-gown tight around her waist as she returned to the kitchen. She pulled out her BlackBerry, notepad and her personal file she’d already compiled on Wainwright.
She poured herself a glass of wine, then headed for the living room, collapsing on the cream-coloured sofa. She sat for several minutes, sipping from her glass, before checking her BlackBerry for any new emails and found there were three new messages.
There were several missed calls and voicemails relating to what had happened at Gladstone Court the previous day.
She certainly didn’t need the stress of it right now. That visit she’d tried hard to conceal to Michael had zapped her energy. She longed for the day that she could wash her hands of the whole sorry mess.
Claire deleted the call list and the voicemails without listening to them properly.
She drained the last of her wine from the glass in one large mouthful and she looked across at the one photograph of herself with both her parents, which sat on a bookshelf in the corner. It was taken when she was first in uniform. On that day, even her father had managed to behave himself and her mother had managed to curb her bitter tongue.
They were both still married then, although Claire never really understood why.
They hated each other.
But still, it had been all smiles that day.
Claire drew her attention back to her work. She checked through her emails.
The first was from Michael saying he’d spoken with Mark Jenkins, who would be providing a statement, but he’d discuss it with her tomorrow. He’d sent it shortly after he had disconnected her call earlier.
The second was from Matthews, thanking her again for letting him take over the Hargreaves case.
Claire grimaced as she read it. Pull your tongue out of my arse, Matthews.
It hadn’t been a difficult choice to reassign the Hargreaves investigation to Matthews. Claire knew it was a case below what Michael should be working on, despite Matthews’s seniority over him. Michael was wasted on this one.
She often thought he should’ve been recommended for Inspector, before Matthews, despite his ego.
She remembered the third email and deleted Matthews’s message from her account before opening the final one. It was a reminder about the up-coming Charity Ball being held in a few weeks’ time in Covent Garden at the Mayflower Hall.
Claire winced as she read it was a ‘plus one’ event.
The dress code was black tie and the ladies were expected to wear stunning evening dresses as well as meet and greet with the Mayor of London. This part didn’t faze Claire – she’d met the Mayor before – but the thought of turning up without a special guest in tow did.
Her thoughts drifted back to Michael.
She knew she’d been out of line towards him lately but couldn’t help herself. They had too much history between them for it ever to be normal again. She thought back to the moment she’d first met him and how she’d fallen completely in lust with him.
She’d resented being married from that moment on but it’d been a few years after that first meeting before they’d struck up an affair.
Now it was over and Claire knew she had to push him from her mind, no matter how reluctant she was.
She put the BlackBerry aside and began reading over her notes.
All she had to go on so far with regard to Wainwright’s murder was Mark Jenkins. He’d been the last to see him alive. She read over her notes thoroughly; Jenkins was married with one biological child but had previously fostered three other children. One called Emily still lived with him, but the other two had since moved on leaving no forwarding addresses. There was no documented reason as to why they had left and Claire thought it strange. They seemed to have vanished.
Then of course there was his biological child.
What was Jenkins like behind closed doors?
She thought about this for a few minutes before making a call to the station. DC Gabriel Harper answered the phone at the other end.
‘Harper, it’s Winters. Just a shot in the dark here but can you run a name for me? Chloe Jenkins. See if anything comes up?’
‘Didn’t you go home already?’ he asked.
Claire sighed. ‘You know how much I enjoy taking my work home with me.’ Harper laughed as he typed the information into his computer.
‘Right…we have a Chloe Jenkins. Twenty years old, lives at 52 Boston Court, Haverbridge West. She was brought in last year for minor drug offences but released with a caution.’ Harper paused. ‘Is that who you’re after?’
Claire wrote down the address. ‘Anyone listed as next of kin?’
‘No. No one listed.’
Claire had thought as much. She rang off and glanced at the clock opposite her; it was 9:00pm Tomorrow morning she’d pay Chloe Jenkins a visit, but for now tiredness was overcoming her.
It was only while brushing her teeth that Claire remembered the letter from her mother that she’d not opened. She retrieved the letter from downstairs and opened it when she eventually climbed into bed.
When her parents had divorced Claire’s mother had emigrated to Spain. The only time Claire saw her was when she came back to England, which was only when absolutely necessary. Even when Claire had gone through her own divorce she’d only come over once.
Hardly the doting mother.
Instead, Iris wrote to Claire at least once every two months, since she didn’t believe in emails or text messages. Even the ability to pick up the phone was alien to her, and Claire wondered why she defended Iris so much whenever her father launched into a tirade of abuse about her.
Claire frowned as she skimmed over her mother’s delicate handwriting. This letter was nothing more extraordinary than usual.
It read predictably; her mother asked about her work and hoped she wasn’t doing too much all at once. She enquired about Simon, Claire’s ex-husband, and if there was any possibility of them at least becoming friends again. No chance there, Claire sniffed.
