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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

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