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

wasn’t too much of a mystery to figure out what sort of business might usually happen down a street such as this. The curtains were all closed, the houses silent. At night, however, they’d become a bit more lively.

We stood outside, sheltering under an alcove as the rain grew heavy, waiting for Smith. She appeared quickly, hidden under a giant umbrella that threatened to send her sailing across the city if a large enough gust of wind caught the underside. As she joined us, she noted my expression towards the large black canopy and grimaced.

“Sharp’s orders,” she told me, pulling out the set of keys and handing it over. Mills took the umbrella from her, holding it high enough so that it covered all three of us as I worked through the keys to find one that fit.

He had a fair few, and that wasn’t hugely surprising. One for home, one for his room, one for this place and several others. I found the key, the third one I tried thankfully, and we walked into a dimly lit corridor with a set of unhappy-looking stairs leading up. Mills let down the umbrella, and the three of us headed up, all the way to the attic floor, where I went through the keys again to find the one that let us into Edward’s room.

“How d'you think he pays for it?” Smith asked as I fumbled through the keys with my cold fingers.

“Boys like him usually have fairly good allowances,” Mills said. “Or he makes it some other way.”

“He doesn’t have a job?” She asked. We both shook our heads, and she glowered. “Nice for some, isn’t it?”

“He is dead, Smith,” Mills reminded her gently. I found the right key then, before things began to feel very awkward, and opened the flimsy door, stepping inside, letting out a low whistle. Studio, indeed.

The large window let light flood in over the wooden floors, scattering dust bunnies that fell from the exposed beams. It was one giant room, the walls lined with shelves and drawer units, easels propped up here and there, canvases stacked against the walls. A stool sat in front of the window, cameras were carefully left charging in a far corner, and a desk was sprawled with bits of paper and broken pieces of charcoal. It was, more than anything, messy. Messier than his room with seemingly no sense of anything organised. Things were left wherever they were left, half-empty mugs and dirty paint water leaving rings on the furniture, sheets left in a ball on a makeshift bed in the corner, farthest away from the window.

“Smith, take the desk. Mills the shelves, I’ll take this side,” I ordered. They both nodded, walking deeper into the room, shutting the door behind them as they took to their stations. Smith’s face had lit up slightly for being involved, and it warmed me to see. She’d make a good sergeant one of these days.

I walked over to the darker corner, where the bed of sheets and blankets laid on the floor. A few large floor cushions sat around, a mirror on the wall behind. A little crate sat beside it, an empty glass left on top. It looked lived in, more so than his actual room did, and I wondered how often Edward had come here, hidden away with the things he loved. A few rolled up pieces of paper were bundled to one side, and I knelt down, picking one up and unrolled it carefully. It was a face, a girl, but not one I recognised, sitting on the stool by the window dressed in a long white dress. I put it down, picking up the next one.

It was unfinished, but I knew straight away it wasn’t the same girl. The hair had been shaded darkly, the face a different angle. I frowned, turning it in the light, faintly recognising the faint outline of the eyes but unable to pinpoint exactly who it looked like. Edward was good though, that much was clear. Good enough that people came and sat for him if, I thought with a glance towards the bed, that’s all they came here for.

I stood up, my knees protesting, and walked to a little door by the bed, pushing it open with my foot. It was a bathroom, just a shower and a toilet and sink, styled in what I believed they called shabby chic. A vase sat on the windowsill, a single flower dropping sadly over the edge.

“Sir!” Smith shouted from inside. I turned back, striding over to where she stood. She was at the desk, looking through some photographs, one of the drawers open by her knees, frowning down at them. As Mills and I joined her, she looked up, angry, and handed me the stack.

Stella, I recognised her instantly. They must have been taken at the party. She was in a garden, surrounded by people in costume, her face lit up by the lights draped around the tree. She was laughing, laughing with someone out of shot, just a pair of hands even showing that they were there.

I flipped it over. There were more. Some following her around the party, sometimes of her face, sometimes from a distance as she stood and looked around. And then there was one last one, the room dimly lit, the angle wonky, the image blurred. It looked up from the floor like the camera had been dropped and taken the picture on its own. Stella, in a room, her arms wrapped around herself, a tall shadow reaching towards her. Nausea and anger built up in me, and I put the photos down, only to have Smith pass me some more. She looked at me with an apology clear on her face, and I took the pictures, looking down, and blinked, surprised.

Edward and Billie taken together. Two of them in a park, a picture of Billie holding a cup of coffee, her smiling at the camera. A picture of her in