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

into the living room where Genevieve sat, sewing in an armchair.

“Ms Fox?” I called politely. She looked up. “Thank you. I’ll be leaving you to it now.”

“Alright.” Freya walked out of the kitchen and came past me into the living room as her mother rose from the chair. She looked her daughter over swiftly, and satisfied, she showed me to the door.

“I hope you find who did this, detective,” she said as I stepped out onto the drive.

“We do what we can,” I replied diplomatically, giving her a swift wave, then turned and walked down to my car, hopping inside as she shut the front door.

I slumped back in my chair, rubbing my eyes, and pulled out my notebook, wanting to get down everything she told me before I forgot it. Seemed rude to have written it down whilst there, during such a sensitive time. I scribbled down what she told me about Billie and Stella, the party, Edward and Professor Greenberg, happily getting it all down. I flipped the book closed and tossed it onto my passenger seat, wishing I replaced the granola bar that Thatcher had eaten as my stomach rumbled slightly. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I checked to see if he had been in touch yet, but there was nothing. I sent him a text, telling him I was heading back to the station, then pulled away from the house and drove off down the road.

We had Professor Altman to meet, Professor Greenberg, Billie Helman, and her father, who I hadn’t considered as a suspect in all this, but now it churned around my mind. I decided that digging into the Helman family and finding out where they all were would top my list of inquiries. Something to do, perhaps, as I waited for Thatcher back at the station.

I needn’t have bothered. I got back to the station, jogging up the stairs with my pan in mind to find him sitting at his desk, legs propped up, listening to the radio and eating a sandwich. I stopped in the doorway and looked at him, then my phone, which he hadn’t texted.

“I messaged you,” I told him, walking in and noting the sandwich on my desk. He held us his phone, plugged into the wall, screen black.

“Died,” he called through a mouthful of bread. “How d'you get on?”

“Freya was in a sharing mood,” I told him. “You?”

“The Vinsons were not in a sharing mood, but they don’t think highly of Billie Helman.”

I handed him my notebook, letting him translate my scribbles as I unwrapped my sandwich.

“Nor did Freya Fox,” I told him, taking a big bite.

“Professor Greenberg?” he asked.

“The girl’s mother was out of the picture, so I wondered if Billie might have stayed in touch with her favourite professor after dropping out. It might be a good way to find her,” I said with a shrug.

Thatcher hummed in agreement, tossing my notebook back.

“What about you?” I asked. “How’d it go with Edward’s parents?”

Eight

Thatcher

It was only after Mills had left that I realised I didn’t have my car and had to borrow one from the station, the inside of which smelt faintly of menthol cigarettes and crisps. I hope it didn’t cling to my clothes, the last thing I needed was to be confronting Edward Vinson’s parents about the allegations whilst smelling like the inside of a flat roof pub. I did feel a little bad, going to them so soon after having only delivered the news this morning, but the oversight in Edward’s character, especially after we spoke about his previous trouble with the law, was enough of a thorn in my side that I didn’t let it bother me too much.

I drove away from the station, back to where the Vinsons lived and tried not to get lost in the maze of expensive houses and identical lawns. Places like these really were odd. I pulled up on the driveway, and as I turned the engine off, my phone beeped at me. I fished it out, my annoyance fading as a text from Liene came through. Just a check-in, as she was prone to do when she knew a case wasn’t easy. I replied, noting that my phone battery was also dangerously low and would start flashing at me soon enough.

I rooted through the glove compartment and centre console, hoping someone had the foresight to keep a charger in here but came up empty-handed. I grumbled, sticking my phone away and climbed out the car, kicking the door shut and tossing the keys in my hand as I walked up to the front door, ringing the bell.

It didn’t take long for Mr Vinson to open it, looking wholly surprised to see me standing there. He looked alright himself, no sign of crying on his face, but I wondered if he were the sort to ever cry.

“Inspector Thatcher,” he said, holding the door awkwardly open.

“I’m so sorry to bother you again,” I told him, “especially today. But something’s come to our attention that we very much need your help with.”

“About Edward?” he asked. When I nodded, he stepped aside, showing me through into the hall.

“My wife is in bed,” he said once the door was shut. “She’s taken it hard.”

“That’s fine. If you’re happy to talk with me, I say we let her rest.”

Mr Vinson nodded and led me to the other side of the house, through some thick oak doors into a study, complete with leather armchairs, a globe that looked like it doubled as a drink cupboard, a large desk and several shelves of important-looking books. He waved to one of the armchairs, and I sank down, the leather squeaking. He sat in the other, looking at me.

“If it came up this quickly,” he said, “I gather it is important?”

“Very much so,” I answered, straightening up in my chair and meeting his gaze sternly. “I’d like to ask you about Stella Helman.”

His face froze, going blank and the hands that had been