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

mother and daughter with a sad smile, then looked up at me.

“There are a few other students with room in this block. They’ll be moved to temporary accommodations, and the staff will handle the other students. Anyone who might have seen anything will be asked to step forward, and they’ll be left with a number to the station.”

“Good work, Smith. Head home, you can take care of the paperwork tomorrow.”

She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Thank you, sir. See you in the morning.” She nodded to myself and Mills, then turned and ducked under the tape.

I closed the gap between myself and Freya. Her mother cradled her face, wiping away tears before holding her close to her chest again. She looked at me over the top of her daughter’s head.

“You’re the detective?”

“Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I introduced myself with a little bow of the head.

“Genevieve Fox,” she replied with a nod, pulling her handbag up onto her shoulder. “Can I take her home?”

“We’ll need to take a formal statement at some point. The earlier, the better, but for now, yes. You take her home.”

“Will she need to come into the station for the statement?”

“She can write one up, but if she prefers to speak to us again, bring her in anytime.” I pulled a card from my wallet and handed it over. “If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to get in touch. We can help you find grief or counselling services if need be.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Genevieve took the card and tucked it into the pocket of her trench coat. “Come on, love,” she said to her daughter. “Let’s get you home.” She gently led her away, murmuring softly, and I stood and watched as the constable lifted the tape for them both, and they headed to the car left haphazardly on the side of the road. Given the circumstances, I don’t think anyone would write her up for that. It would be pretty heartless of them to, anyway.

“Sir,” Mills appeared by my side once more, his young face looking fatigued. He wordlessly nodded to the main door where Crowe was emerging with a gurney, the body bag safely on top and loaded it into the ambulance. She walked over to us, unzipping herself from her gear with a tight-lipped smile.

“Mills,” she greeted him.

“Lena.”

“What have we got?” I asked, straight to business.

“We’ve got exactly what it looks like, Max. Someone beat him in the head repeatedly with something heavy.”

“A hammer?” Mills suggested.

“Hard to say without getting a proper, deeper look. But I’d say it was flat, maybe cornered with the way some of those cuts look. Not a hammer. Something they’d need a proper grip on, this was a close-range hit.”

“Cause of death?” I asked.

Crowe blew out a long breath, shoving her suit down to her waist. “Blood loss, head trauma. Take your pick.”

“What about a time?” I asked, and she gave me a withering stare. “I know you don’t like being rushed.”

“And yet here you are, rushing me. Careful, Max, I can pick a new favourite DI, you know.”

“None of the other DI’s bring you your favourite chocolate after doing such brilliant post-mortems,” I pointed out.

Lena rolled her eyes but gave a thoughtful nod of the head. “At the moment, I’d say anywhere between five and seven. When did it get called in?”

Mills checked his notes. “Eight minutes past seven.”

Crowe nodded. “Closer to six then, let’s say.”

“I imagine there’s quite a lot of coming and going around here at this time,” I muttered, looking around the courtyard yet again.

“Well, our killer would have been quite a state,” Crowe pointed out. “Lots of blood, Thatcher, lots of it. Someone walking through like that would have caught an eye.”

“So, where was everybody else?” I asked, looking at the numerous windows that faced into the courtyard.

“There might be another way and out,” Mills suggested, scratching his head and looking back towards the main door. “A back exit. It’s a pretty old building. There could be all sorts in there.”

“Or they never left,” Crowe said chirpily, peeling her suit fully off and snapping upright.

I shared a glance with Mills, wondering if she had a point. Maybe there was a killer knocking about in one of those old rooms.

“The other students have been moved out,” I said. “We can check the other rooms for blood or an exit, but there should be nobody else in this entire chunk of the building.”

I wanted to follow the same order I gave to Smith, to call it a day and finish the paperwork tomorrow. Instead, I jerked my chin at Mills.

“Come on,” I muttered.

We needed to have a look around before anyone else got the chance to come in, clean up after themselves.

“See you tomorrow,” Crowe called as she gave a wave, heading over to join the rest of her team. Inside, SOCO was about done, shutting up Edward’s room and locking it tight, police tape stretched across the door. We muttered farewells with them as we passed, and in the gloomy corridor, Mills flicked the light switch.

It was a classic hallway. The walls were half-panelled in a dark glossy wood, the top half home to various notice boards offering events at the student union, tutors, car shares, all the usual notices. Fire safety panels and the odd fire blanket, CPR guidelines and everything else people involved to make sure the students didn’t drop like flies whilst here.

“Do third years often stay in halls?” I asked as we walked past Edward’s room.

“Depends,” Mills replied. “This,” he waved an arm around the hall, “feels more like choice than circumstance.”

I nodded at that, thinking about Edward’s expensive watch, the signet ring and fancy laptop. He was a lad of wealth; I could tell that much at first glance.

I pushed open the first door, finding a room just like his but decidedly more feminine, with clothes strewn about, likely from the fast packing, and an impressive collection of books. No blood, though.

The same went for the next room, with its