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

“If she saw his stuff in his room, or saw the photographs…” he trailed off, and I jumped to my feet.

“Let’s find her,” I snapped, pulling my coat on.

I wanted to kick myself. It all seemed so bloody obvious now. She hadn’t gotten away from the building that night, she was there when we turned up. Just had to clean herself up a bit, change her clothes. No problem there. Sneak in the back and out again, but she hadn’t snuck out. She’d walked out, vomited, and called us. The blood in the basement must have been from where she changed, where she’d hidden her bloodied clothes.

Questions spiralled up in my mind. Did she have spares? Did she take Edward’s? Was it all planned then? Or was it rushed, hurried, frantic? Did she panic, or did she know exactly what she was doing? We needed to find her to get those questions answered.

She’d beaten around the bush when it came to Billie and Stella. Had learnt the truth about that night too late. Had she confronted him? Had she demanded to know the truth, had she been in the stupid and seen the photos, the trophy and just snapped? And why tell us about the studio? Unless she forgot it was there, hoped we’d see the photos and the drawings of Billie and not bother looking for anything else. Buying herself time, perhaps, but for what?

“Sir,” Mills called me, snapping me from my endless rabbit hole of questions. He was over by the door, and I joined him in a few long strides.

“Where first?”

“She’s probably still at uni,” he suggested as we crossed the room, over to the stairs. “We can start there, send someone over to her house in case she turns up, or we miss her.”

“Good. Send someone,” I ordered.

He nodded and ran down to find us a spare PC to send over there. I walked right into Sharp’s office without knocking, and she didn’t scold me. She just looked over my expression and nodded.

“News?”

“Prints on the trophy belong to neither Billie nor Mark Helman. They are, however, a match for Freya Fox.”

“Freya Fox. The witness?” she asked.

“The very one. Mills and I are heading to the university to see if we can find her there. We’re sending a constable to her house to cover that base as well.”

“Good. Get on it. I’ll handle Helman, don’t worry.”

“Thanks, boss,” I said, tapping the door frame and striding away, checking my pockets for everything that I would need before hitting the stairs. Mills was at the bottom, and we walked outside as a police car peeled away onto the road. We jumped straight into my car, and I rammed it into gear, silently apologising as they ground together as I reversed out and hit the road.

“Bring her straight in, ask questions later?” Mills checked.

“Absolutely. Sharp’s handling Helman,” I told him, my fingers drumming the steering wheel, my knuckles white. I tried to keep my legs from bouncing and talking seemed to help. “She should get in touch with Billie too, let her know that’s she’s clear.”

“You were right,” Mills said, “about Billie.”

“And completely wrong about Freya,” I muttered, speeding off into the city.

Twenty-Four

Thatcher

I had Mills call the university as we drove so that when we arrived, nobody stopped us as we parked, jumped from the car, and strode towards the reception building. The lady at the desk was waiting for us, a schedule pulled up on her screen.

“Inspector,” she nodded. “Sergeant.”

“Is this Freya Fox’s schedule?” I asked, pointing to the screen.

“It is, yes.” I bent down over the computer, scanning the timetable.

“Her last lecture finished fifteen minutes ago.” I cursed under my breath. “Can we know if she’s still on campus?” I asked the receptionist, who shook her head.

“I’m afraid not,” she said.

I held in a scowl and nodded to the lecture hall. “What building can we find this in?”

“It’s the East Wing,” she said, pulling out a map and pointing out the building. It was beside the one we had seen Freya run into earlier, and I nodded, pushing myself up and off the desk.

“We’ll head there,” I told Mills as we walked out into the drizzling rain. “If she’s not there, we can track down one of her friends, see if they’ve seen her anywhere.”

“Nothing from PC Dunnes,” Mills told me. “There’s no sign of her at home. He’s outside the house, just down the street.”

“Good, let’s get a move on.”

We walked back the way we had come, through the car park and over to the large brick building. There were few students outside, trying to avoid the rain, and I hoped that Freya had chosen not to brave the weather as we walked inside, trying to find the right floor for the lecture hall. I stopped a passing student, who directed me down the corridor to a set of double doors, thankfully, that was left open. We walked in, the hall deserted, but the lecturer was still down by the little podium, stuffing her work into a satchel.

“Excuse me,” I called, jogging down the stairs, Mills behind me. “Detective Inspector Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police. Did you have Freya Fox in this lecture?” I quickly showed her my warrant card.

She blinked, startled, but nodded. “Freya. Yes. It surprised me that she came back so soon, but she was here.”

“Did she stay for the entire lecture?”

“She did,” the professor told us, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. “Always does.”

“Any idea as to where she might have gone to after she left?” Mills asked.

“No,” the professor shook her head, “I had twenty students in this lecture, sir. I don’t keep tabs on them all.”

“Thank you.” I gave her a perfunctory smile, took Mills by the elbow and steered him away before he could retort to the woman’s blunt tone. “Rain is still fairly heavy,” I said as we walked back up the steps. “She might have stayed in the building.”

Mills nodded, and we walked out, splitting up and