Guilty Conscious, Oliver Davies [small books to read TXT] 📗

Mills whistled. “Dreaming big there, sir.”

I took the address in my hand, sipping at my coffee and directing him to the right part of town.

We ended up in what was, in both of our estimations, a very posh area. For starters, it was gated, and we rolled along a wide road, lined with neatly trimmed lawns and giant houses, some of which had pillars, none of which even suggested being joined. We both leant forward in our seat, in disbelief that places like these were even in the city. Shows how much sightseeing we actually do.

“How many of these places do you think have pools?” Mills asked.

“Too many of them. Stupidly rich,” I muttered. Anyone who had an outdoor pool in England clearly had more money than sense. You’d only get to use it two months of a year, what was the point? Other than avoiding perverts and child’s piss in the public ones, I supposed.

All the houses looked eerily similar, down to the gardens, with the only differences being the odd make of car or a much, much older house that the rest of them must have been built around. Everything was clean, very clean and whilst it seemed to be the perfect picture of sensibility and good manners, the very place people like us would never need to be called out to, where the only crime would be someone pissing off the neighbourhood council, I hated it. There was no character, no history, no difference. Just house after house, boring, cream coloured, neatly trimmed and hugely unexceptional, apart from the sheer size of them.

We pulled onto a long, smooth driveway up to one of the houses that did have pillars outside. Also outside, tending to the front garden, was a woman wearing big gardening gloves and the sort of bonnet the Queen is often seen wearing. She looked up, secateurs in hand, as we pulled to a stop by the front door and walked over, basket nestled in the crook of her elbow. She was a pretty woman, a few years older than us, and I recognised her from the picture in Edward’s room.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” she asked with a polite smile.

“Are you Mrs Vinson?” I asked. “Edward Vinson’s mother?”

“I am,” she confirmed, still smiling sweetly.

With a great amount of sorrow and sympathy, I pulled my warrant card out, holding it her way. Her face fell slightly, eyes twitching, but she plastered the smile back on.

“We’re here to talk to you about your son, Mrs Vinson.”

“What’s he done this time?” She sighed in a fondly exasperated type of way. “Come on in, gents. I’ll fetch my husband, shall I?”

“I think that would be best,” I agreed.

She led us to the house, into the large, tiled foyer with a large chandelier above our heads. The staircase swept around the room, the walls lined with pictures.

“This way,” she chirped, leading us through to a large sitting room with a piano on the far end and an equally large fireplace at the other. She ushered us towards the sofas and sat us down.

“I’ll fetch my husband,” she said, rolling her eyes slightly.

I winced. She was clearly used to having policemen in her house, which made me wonder what exactly Edward had gotten up to in the past, though we weren’t here for that reason. We sat awkwardly, my palms clammy, and then returned, minus the gloves and bonnet, with a tall man dressed very smartly.

“Darling, the policemen. Gentlemen, my husband. Shall I leave you to it?”

Her husband said, “No,” at the same time, I said, “Please, Mrs Vinson.”

She looked from us to him, slightly confused, but settled down beside him on the sofa opposite us.

“You’re police?” her husband questioned.

“Of course they are, darling. I saw their badges.”

“They’re not in uniform. The last ones we met were in uniform.”

“Mr Vinson?” I asked, and he looked over. “I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher, and this is Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police.”

“Detectives?” Mrs Vinson repeated under her breath.

“We are very sorry to have to tell you this, but your son was found dead last night in his room at university.”

A silent tension filled the air, and I waited for it to break, but it didn’t seem to.

“Eddie?” Mrs Vinson asked. “Dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” I replied.

She shook her head vehemently, fiddling with her sleeves. “No,” she said. “We spoke to him last night, and he was absolutely fine. If he was sick--”

“Darling, they’re detectives,” her husband interrupted her, his gaze unmoving from mine. “They wouldn’t be here if he was sick. What happened to him?”

“We are investigating it as a murder,” I answered succinctly. No point in beating around the bush.

Mrs Vinson sobbed, pressing her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide. Mr Vinson closed his eyes, leaning forward on his elbows. When his wife made a quiet screaming noise beside him, he turned and wrapped a large arm around her, tucking her into his side, her face pressed into his shoulder, her body shaking with sobs.

“Last night?” Mr Vinson cleared his throat after asking. He was pushing through until we left, I imagined. Classic stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry-on mentality.

I nodded.

“We did speak to him on the phone,” he said. “Invited him for dinner on Friday.”

We said nothing and let them be for a moment.

“A murder?” he eventually asked.

“Yes. We’d like to know as much about your son as you’re able to share with us. Who he was friends with, what sort of person he was. You weren’t surprised by us being here,” I recalled. “Has he had trouble with the law before?”

Mr Vinson scoffed and shook his head. “Boy doesn’t know his limits is all. Hauled him from the drunk tank a few times, paid a few fines, but that was it. He was a good boy. A fine student, top of his year. Bloody brilliant rugby player, very popular, always good to his mother and me.”

“So, there’s no reason you can think of