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

“You’d like her,” I said. “She’s a tough one, like you.”

So tough, in fact, that she was still living in the flat with Cat, despite Agnes’s frequent offers. She’d changed the place up a bit, slowly, still holding onto the pieces of Stella left behind, and had been seeing Dr Kumar twice a week. She was doing well, and I’d remembered Crowe’s words about her needing support, and whilst I wasn’t sure that I qualified, she’d taken my gentle orders about eating proper meals with a roll of the eyes and then actually done it. I felt proud, more so than I had after a case for a long time, especially this one, where arresting Freya hadn’t felt all that victorious at all.

“What’s on your mind?” Elsie asked, prodding me hard in the stomach. “You look troubled, lad. You’ve not even shaved, you slob.” She was looking at me with concern written across her face, her steady eyes looking me over from head to toe.

I sighed deeply and nudged her over. “Budge up,” I muttered, making her shift to one side of the bed so that I could clamber on and sit beside her, my feet dangling off the side. She muttered under the breath but let me slump beside her.

“There are times when I’m not sure I’m always on the right side,” I admitted, finally letting the words out.

“Ah,” Elsie hummed. “Go on.”

“What Freya did—it was ghastly, don’t get me wrong. But so was what Edward did. Freya, in her own mind, was just trying to make it right. Punish him for his crime.”

“Justice and the law aren’t always the same beast,” Elsie told me worldly. “Think of all of them superhero comics you used to like so much. None of them worked for the law, but they did justice. She has to pay for her crimes too, my lad. It’s your job to make sure she pays it properly. And that some skinny rascal in a skin-tight red wetsuit doesn’t come swinging in to do the job themselves.”

I laughed quietly at her remembrance of my old comics and wondered, briefly, where they all were. In a box somewhere, lost in storage. I’d have to dig them out one of these days, find them a proper home on a shelf.

“You had to be poorly when all of this was going down, didn’t you, Elsie? I could have used your help.”

“I am good,” she replied haughtily. “But you know all of this far better than I do. Here,” she nudged me with her elbow. “Do you remember why you wanted to become a policeman?”

“I have a vague memory of my grandad dressing me up in a deerstalker and giving me a pipe,” I replied. It was a very clear memory, a photographed one as well. I’d been eight or so at the time, and the hat almost covered my entire head, but it had suited me. A rather fetching tweed that I still had amongst the rest of his things.

“Well, yes, your love of the great detective aside, do you remember?”

“We got burgled,” I recalled. “Grandma was so scared she came and slept here for a week. I wanted to make it better, wanted to find the man so that she could come home and make me shepherd’s pie again.”

“You’re on the other side of the fence is all now. You’re helping other people’s grandma’s, even if you know that the man who burgled you did so to get money for his kid’s shoes or summit. Two sides to every story. You just have to make sure you’re aware of it, is all.”

I rest my head on her shoulder, feeling her calloused hand patting me fondly on the head. Elsie was generally so sympathetic. She was more of the tough love, stiff upper lip, to the surf type of person. I wasn’t sure if it was her being ill that had softened her, or maybe I looked more pathetic than I realised, but I wasn’t about to start objecting.

“You’ve had these doubts for a while now, haven’t you?” She asked me quietly.

“Every now and then,” I answered, feeling better for every little piece of the doubtful thoughts I admitted.

“For every burglar, there’s a granny,” she reminded me pointedly. And for every Freya, there was a Billie. I thought about Edward’s parents too. There would be no getting their son back, and his memory would be forever altered when the truth about Stella came to light, but at least they could rest, knowing their son’s killer wasn’t traipsing around the city anymore. The thought soothed me for now, and I sat up with a slight groan, my knee cracking.

“Eugh,” Elsie swatted my arm, “take your noisy joints away, boy. I can’t stand it.”

“I can’t help it,” I protested, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and standing up. “Can I do anything else before I leave?”

“No, pet. You’re alright. Elinor will be around tomorrow. I think I’ll get to help me out into the garden, take a little stroll around.”

“Make sure you layer up,” I warned her, “it’s going to be a cold one.”

She sniffed at me. “Don’t start mothering me, Max Thatcher. I’ll box you round the ear when I can reach you again.”

I grinned, setting everything back onto the tray. “Now, once more,” I said, “would you like me to bring the telly up?”

Elsie debated for a moment. She’d hate to have it up here, would think it a great horror, but I knew she’d get bored in that bed with only a few books and sudokus at hand.

“Fine,” she said. “Just so that I can watch the news,” she added smartly.

“I see. No DVD player then?” I asked, hefting the tray up into my arms.

“Better bring it,” she said, fussing with her blankets so that she didn’t have to meet my eyes. “It’ll save you from doing that plugging and unplugging later.”

I rolled my eyes and gave