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

just need to find her,” Mills assured him coolly. “You don’t need to be concerned.”

“Is this about Edward?” he asked frantically. “because I am concerned if it is. And we already told you, Billie…”

“You failed to tell us about Billie and Stella Helman,” I interrupted coldly. “You neglected to tell us about the allegations and what happened at that party.”

Charlie flushed. “Because it wasn’t true.”

“No? I wonder why he’s dead then,” I said shortly, turning and walking away. Mills caught up to me quickly, saying nothing but grinning slightly as I chuntered under my breath.

“Never did like boys like him,” I said. “They’ve always annoyed me.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Mill replied. “So, shall we head to her house? She might not have gotten there yet; we might be able to catch her.”

“Do we really think she went there?” I asked. “if I were her, and I’d just sent us to the studio, I’d be panicking.”

“Maybe she went there,” Mills suggested. “To see if we’d found the trophy, take it away if we hadn’t.”

“Clear up any more evidence that we have overlooked,” I added, making for the car park.

We hopped into the car, rain dripping from our clothes, and I sped away quickly, eager to get to the studio in time to catch her, if indeed that was where she went.

The rain slowed down as we drove until a thin drizzle hung from the sky, and we weren’t in danger of looking like drowned cats when we returned to the station. I parked on the same street as before, and we walked round to the papered-up building, the keys to which were still gratefully stowed in the glove compartment of the car. Mills unlocked it, letting us inside, and we crept up slowly to the top floor, the door still locked. I stopped outside for a moment, craning my head towards the door, seeing what could be heard. There were no footsteps, no rustling movements inside, so I held out my hand for the keys, Mills pressing the right one into my palm, and unlocked the door.

I pushed it open, stepping into the late afternoon sun that came in through the window, tensing at the state of the place. This morning, it had been carefully unorganised from Edward’s use of the place. Now, it was a wreck.

The cupboard we had found the trophy in had been torn open, its contents tossed across the floor, the sheets in a crumpled mess in the dust. The desk had been ransacked too, the drawers dangling open, papers and sketch pads emptied on the floor, the pages torn and bent. The top of it was a mess too, things pushed over, topple, pens that rolled to the edges, some falling off. Shelves had been left in disarray, and over the bed, the sheets had been thrown into the corner, any remnant of Edward in this place thrown aside. Someone had come looking for something, and I knew that they didn’t find it.

I walked further into the room, careful not to tread over anything, in particular, walking over to the little bathroom. That hadn’t been touched, and nor was there anyone lingering inside. When I walked back out, Mills was over by the cupboard, kneeling down by the discarded sheets. He carefully picked one up and showed it to me. A damp, muddy boot print was stamped onto the white fabric.

“Hasn’t dried up,” he told me. “They’ve only— She’s,” he amended, “only just left.”

“She won’t have gone far,” I muttered, walking over to the window and looking outside. “Would she have gone home now? If that’s the case, Dunnes will be in touch with us soon enough.”

My stomach grumbled, and I ignored it, trying not to think of the lunch we had skipped or the growing lateness of the day. Trying to hunt someone down in the city when the early autumn nights drew in was never very easy.

“There are not many places she would go, is there?” Mills said, stepping awkwardly over the mess, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. “There’s here, university, and home. I can’t think she’d just be out there in the city, wandering around looking for somewhere to go.”

“Nor I,” I scratched my head, “but she’s got somewhere in mind. She’s angry or upset too,” I pointed out, turning around to look at the state of the studio. “She messed up, let us get here before she could.”

“Wherever she is then, she’s not there in the best of moods,” Mills said quietly. I shook my head, trying to think, think, where Freya might have gone. Scared, I realised she would be scared. Too smart to go home then, she’d know we’d look for her there. Somewhere else, some place we wouldn’t think of. I closed my heads, pressing my knuckles to my head, too hungry and tired to conjure anywhere specific to mind.

My phone chimed, and I resisted the urge to throw it out the window. It chimed again and again, and I sighed, yanking it from my coat pocket. Three texts, consecutively sent, from Billie.

In café.

Freya here.

Something wrong.

Freya has a caffeine fix, Fiona said, and we were never meant to find that trophy. I swore, loudly, startling Mills.

“She’s at the café,” I told him, running for the door. “Billie’s there. Something’s wrong,” I tossed him my phone as we hit the stairs, letting him read her quick, rapid texts. My phone chimed again, and I peered around, spotting Mills’s ashen face as he read her next message. He held it out as we reached the street.

SOS

Twenty-Five

Billie

My dad was here? I couldn’t get the sight of him in that dim corridor out of my head. He looked shabby, better than he had at the funeral, but worse for wear, that was for sure. Why was he here? Taking the blame for Edward’s murder, why? Did he think I had done it? I was in shock, robotically following the pretty constable, Smith, as she walked me down to fetch my things.