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

chips in it, and I wolfed it down in a few bites, noticing a few journalists turn up to the scene. I shut the car door and locked it, striding back over and nodding to some of the uniformed officers.

“Let’s start clearing these people away,” I said to them lowly. “Crowe will be bringing the body out soon enough, and we don’t need an audience for that.”

The PC nodded and walked towards the crowd. “Alright, folks, let’s clear it out! Have a bit of respect!”

Her stern voice did the job. The students started returning to their rooms, no doubt triple checking that their doors were locked tonight. I wondered who the hell was in charge of all this, where I might track down the dean and knock a few answers out of them. The journalists remained a while longer, shooting questions to a few of the students, who had nothing to tell them anyway, and I made my way over to them.

“Detective Inspector Thatcher,” one of them recognised me, someone from the Post. “You’re leading this investigation?”

“I am.”

“What can you tell us?”

“I can tell you that we are still in the beginning stage of our investigation, still ascertaining exactly what has happened here. But we can’t do that when we’re distracted by civilians on our crime scene. So, I ask that you take off, go home to your families, and we will release a formal statement when the full extent of the situation is clear.” I said it all as politely as I could and even added a grim but friendly smile. My eyes narrowed enough that they nodded and kindly back off. They wouldn’t get anything to report on here, not if I had a bloody say in it.

“Sir,” Mills joined me and nodded over to the ambulance where the witness still sat. “She’s ready for us now. The paramedic said she’s in shock and should be left in someone’s care. Her mother is on the way now, so we have a few minutes until she gets here.”

I nodded and strode over to the pale-faced girl, her arms wrapped around her knees.

Three

Thatcher

The witness looked positively unwell, and I resigned myself to stay with her until her mother pitched up. The poor girl was as pale as death, the skin behind her scattered freckles pale, her eyes bloodshot, unblinking, and her body trembled, even as she wrapped her arms around herself. As we walked over, I glanced over the rest of her. A pair of colourful Dr Marten boots were clean from any blood, and with the lack of footprints in the room, I realised she probably hadn’t even gone fully in. Wouldn’t have needed to. She wore a ring on every finger that she twiddled with occasionally, staring blankly at the pavement. Her clothes were hidden under the blanket, and her brown hair fell around her face, protecting her from the voyeurs that had gathered around the scene.

I stopped just before her and squatted down to her level.

“Freya Fox?” I asked, and she looked up and nodded jerkily. “I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher, this is Detective Sergeant Mills, with the North Yorkshire Police. Can we sit with you?”

She nodded again, and Mills and I settled down on the kerb beside her, the stone cold under my legs.

“Can you tell us a little bit about what happened?” I asked her gently.

Freya nodded a third time and reached a hand up to wipe her nose. Mills dug out a tissue and passed it over me, and her shaking hand clutched it, balling it up in her fist. She cleared her throat.

“I needed to borrow a book from Edward.” Her high, uneven voice faltered over his name, and she swallowed a sob before carrying on. “He told me to meet him in his room, he had a meeting with his tutor that kept him late. So, I came up, knocked on the door. He didn’t answer, but it was open, so I pushed it and—” She broke off again, sobs racking her body. Smith was over the way, talking to some people that looked like university staff, so I couldn’t call her over to us. Not wanting to touch Freya, I angled myself around a bit more and tried to keep my voice soothing.

“It’s alright, Freya. You’re doing very well,” I told her.

“I ran out,” she persevered. “Threw up in a bin,” she pointed a twitching finger to the one in question, just outside the main door, “and then called for help.”

“You did very well,” Mills assured her. “Did you see anybody around? Anyone at all, when you were on your way to his room?”

Freya shook her head. “I was running a bit late,” she managed a chuckle through her crying. “He hated it when people were late.”

I smiled back. “How well did you know him?”

“We met in our first year. Been friends ever since.”

“Whereabouts were you coming from, Freya?” I asked, looking around the courtyard. The buildings were strangely shaped, and there were enough hedges and benches that someone could be covered, depending on where they walked.

“I live off campus,” she pointed to the main gate, “with mum.”

I looked over there. A straight path ran to the main door, so anyone who went to the far side of the courtyard could have gotten away without her seeing them.

“Who is Edward’s tutor?” I asked her.

“Umm. Professor Altman. Social Sciences.”

I looked over to Mills, meeting his eye, and he subtly pulled his notebook out, making a note of the name. There was noise over from the gate, and a woman came hurrying along to the police tape, stopped by a constable.

“Freya!” she called frantically. Freya lifted her head, face brightening, fresh tears falling down her face.

“Mum,” she croaked. I waved to the constable who let her pass, and Freya lurched to her feet, managing to run the last few steps into her mother’s outstretched arms. I rose to my feet as Smith headed over, her face drawn. She looked over at the