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

happened at a party the others were at. She’s not there anymore, according to Edward’s friends.”

“Not surprising.”

“So, once we’ve got a clearer picture of what happened a year ago, we’ll have a talk with her.”

Sharp gave me one quick, approving nod that I took as my dismissal, walking from the office as Mills appeared, pulling his coat on.

“Freya’s agreed to talk,” he told me, “and her mother has her phone right now, so I’m not worried about the others weighing in on what she shares.”

“Good luck,” I offered him.

“You too,” he replied, clapping my shoulder as he walked past. I think I might need it.

Seven

Mills

I sat outside Freya’s house for a moment, looking up at the humble brick home. The same as all the others on the street, two stories, bay windows at the front, a little alley down one side. Usually, I would have given the girl more time to get over her shock, a few days certainly, but not the day after. I felt guilty for it, in truth, but I knew that Thatcher was right. We couldn’t confront Billie about what happened to her sister without knowing as much as we could. It was ill-advised, risky, and above all else, insensitive. I wondered how much Freya would actually know, but I hoped that she knew Edward well enough to shed a bit of light on it all. I thought about the other girl too, Edward’s friend Fiona. I’d put her reaction down to her maybe having a little crush on him, but I wondered now if that was wrong. Maybe she knew about Stella Helman and what did or did not happen to her.

I climbed out of the car, looking up the house, worried about the person who’d be waiting inside and what I might be about to put her through. After walking up the short drive, weeds growing through the paving stones, I rang the doorbell and took a step back. A moment later, the door swung open, and the woman from last night, who I recognised as Freya’s mother, Genevieve, gave me an uncertain smile.

“Detective Sergeant Mills,” I introduced myself, holding out my ID. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Of course.” She stood back and let me inside. “How is the investigation going?” she asked as she closed the door.

“Early days right now,” I told her. “But we’re hoping that Freya can help us. If she’s ready,” I added hastily.

“I think the sooner she talks about it, the better, myself,” Genevie said, showing me through to the small kitchen diner. “But then, I’ve always been of the mind that it’s good to get things off your chest rather than sit with them for too long.”

“I agree,” I told her, taking the seat she offered me at the table. “Can I ask what you do?”

“Oh, I work in a retirement home.” She handed me a cup of tea. “Lots of talking in there. Wait here a moment,” she said. “I’ll just run up and fetch Freya.”

I nodded, cradling the warm cup in my hand as she walked away, padding quietly up the carpeted stairs. It was a nice house, modest but homely. Pictures of Freya throughout the years were left about, some old drawings, handmade pillows, candles, magnets on the fridge. A comforting, happy place, I was very glad to see. Genevieve came back a minute after, taking a seat at the table.

“She’s just putting a jumper on,” she told me. “How long have you been a sergeant?”

“Just over a few years now,” I said, surprised by how quickly the time had flown past.

Ms Fox nodded and leant forward. “I looked you both up last night after I got her home,” she admitted. “It seems the two of you know your onions.”

“You could say that,” I said with a smile.

“That Inspector Thatcher,” she whistled quietly, “I wouldn’t want him investigating me.”

“Not many would,” I answered.

There was a quiet shuffle, then Freya appeared in the doorway. I gave her a polite smile, and she wandered over to her mother, sitting beside her, leaning into her side. She looked less catatonic than yesterday, but she was still very pale, with dark shadows under her eyes and her small frame huddled in a large jumper.

“Hello, Freya.” I kept my voice low and soothing. “Do you remember me?”

Sometimes, they didn’t, I knew that Thatcher was the more commanding, memorable presence, but Freya nodded.

“The sergeant?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry to bother you, both of you, so soon, but we came across some information that we’d like to get cleared up, and we thought you might be the best person to help us, Freya.”

She brightened a bit at that. “About Edward?”

I nodded, and she looked at her mother.

“Should I leave?” Genevieve asked.

“Up to Freya,” I answered. She was over eighteen, old enough to be interviewed alone, and she gave her mother a weak little nod.

“I’ll be in the living room then,” Genevieve said, standing up and kissing her on the head before walking out of the room, tea in hand.

I looked back to Freya, completely uncertain of where to begin with it all. In the end, I thought we’d start off easy.

“We met some of your friends earlier today after they were done visiting you,” I told her. “Vanessa, Claude, Charlie and Fiona.”

She nodded. “They came as soon as they heard.”

“A good group of friends,” I observed, and she nodded again.

“They told us about someone called Billie Helman,” I said, and she looked up from her mug, meeting my eyes.

“Billie?”

“And we heard, not from them, about Stella Helman.”

Freya’s face went somehow even paler, and she nodded, taking a sip of tea. “They’re sisters. Were,” she corrected herself with a slight wince.

“Did you know them?”

Another nod and a drawn-out, reluctant sigh. “Billie was in our year first year. She was in the same lectures. Halfway through second year, she dropped out.”

“Because of what happened to Stella?” I asked. She froze, looking uncertain of what to say next. “We know about the sexual assault