Guilty Conscious

by Oliver Davies

  “Can we get access to some of these security cameras?” I asked him as he slipped the key away.

  “I’ll have to run it by the boss, but given the circumstances?” He shrugged. “No problem, Inspector.”

  “Thank you. And can I ask, how many people have a key to this building?”

  “All the students inside,” he said. “The cleaners take theirs from the office every morning and drop it off when they leave. I have one,” he patted his pocket, “which will be left secured in the office too. And the nurses’ station has one, in case of emergencies.”

  “Do all the resident students still have their keys?” Mills asked worriedly.

  The security guard shook his head. “They were handed in when they were moved. All accounted for, I can assure you.”

  “That’s good to know,” Mills replied. “Thank you.”

  “It’s a right shame,” the guard added, looking up at the building. “He was a nice lad.”

  “You met him?”

  “A few times. He was the sort to stay out late and need letting in again.” He chuckled. “Always polite though, can’t say the same for all the students.”

  “Not surprising,” I pointed out. “Teenagers can be like that.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” The guard sighed. “Three girls at home. Fourteen, fifteen and seventeen,” he said with a slight shudder.

  “We’d better let you get on then,” I said with a laugh. He shook our hands and went whistling over to his office.

  The courtyard had begun to empty now. Police tape still sanctioned off the building but was cleared to let students and staff mill around the rest of the space. A few officers would stay put to monitor the scene and keep away any hopeful, nosy parkers. The ambulance was gone, as were the flashing lights of the police cars, and the place had settled into a strange, uncomfortable quiet. We gave the PC’s a polite nod as we passed them, returning gratefully to Mills’s car. I shut the door on the quiet courtyard, tipping my head back against the chair, my stomach growling loudly again.

  “Sharp will expect us to have a plan tomorrow,” Mills pointed out, turning the engine on but not driving away just yet.

  I groaned, rubbing my face in my hands. “The parents first,” I said. “We’ll head down there, break the news. See what they can tell us about his son. And then I say we head back in the daylight, take another scour. Blood might have stuck to those old stones outside, and we should meet Edward’s friends.”

  “If he had any.”

  “He had a television in his room and a six-digit watch, Mills. The lad had friends.” I reached around, pulling my seatbelt over me and snapping it into place. Mills, with a slight grin on his face, pulled away from the street.

  “You want to stop by a drive-through?” he asked. “I don’t think Liene would thank me for dropping you back in this state.”

  “Go on then. A burger does sound good.”

  “You’re paying,” Mills informed me, “since you ate my granola bar.”

  “Fair enough. What did you make of the witness?” I asked. “Freya?”

  “I think she’s in for a rough old time,” Mills replied, his eyes focused on the road. “Not a nice thing for anyone to see.”

  “No,” I agreed. “I say we give her a few days and then go and talk to her again. I want to know as much as we can about Edward Vinson, and I think she might be a good place to start.”

  Mills nodded, and with our plan in mind, I focused instead on the city around us and the thought of a burger rather than the bloody scene behind us.

  Four

  Thatcher

  I ended up regretting the burger; it sat heavily, giving me a restless night with an unsettled stomach, as well as the images of the student and his bashed in head invading my thoughts. I woke up early and got up, not wanting to lie there, thinking and planning and wondering. I left Liene in the warm blankets and padded quietly into the bathroom where I stood under the blissfully warm water for longer than necessary, my eyes closed, letting the steam fog up the glass and the mirror against the wall. The smell of the minty soap helped to wake me up, and once out of the shower, my face washed and teeth brushed, I started to feel better.

  Liene was awake when I walked out in my dressing gown, flipping the sheets back on the bed. She looked at me, and I smiled, then walked to the wardrobe to find some clean clothes. When I looked around again, she was sat cross-legged on the bed, watching me warily.

  “How bad was it?” she asked gently.

  “A student,” I answered shortly, my tone telling her the rest.

  She winced and slid down from the bed, walking over and wrapping me from behind in a hug, her slightly pointy chin resting on my shoulder. She kissed my jaw and pulled away, walking into the bathroom. I smiled after her, buttoned my shirt up, threw a jumper and trousers on and sat on the bed, yanking some socks over my feet. The temptation to climb back into bed was great, but I forced myself down to the kitchen and filled the kettle, putting tea bags into mugs, slotting some bread into the toaster and leant against the cupboard.

  When Liene walked in, we had a quiet breakfast together, listening to the birds outside. It would be too cold for them soon, so we enjoyed them while we could, then a car honked outside, and I pushed myself up from the table. We left together too, Liene kissing my cheek and waving to Mills in the car before hurrying off to catch her bus to the museum. We offered her a lift, but she liked the bus and all the people on it. This early, it was mostly pensioners and little children, which suited her well enough.

  I slid into the car where Mills sat, looking about as great as I felt.

  “Morning,” he muttered, driving away from the street.

  “Morning,” I replied. I watched the people outside as we drove. Parents herded their children along reluctantly, rushing with travel mugs and coats on inside out. A few well-dressed businessmen in fancy suits strolled along with their umbrellas like they had all the time in the world.

  “Is it due to rain?” I asked when we drove past the fifth in a row.

  “September in England,” Mills murmured. “It’s always due to rain.”

  I chuckled, and a moment later, we were at the station, lured inside the front door by the smell of coffee that wafted around from the officers and workers carting their mugs from place to place.

  The desk sergeant smiled as we walked in. “Hear you boys had an interesting evening. From what I’ve heard, it’s nasty business.”

  “You’ve heard correctly,” I answered. “Is the boss in yet?”

  The sergeant nodded. “About five minutes.”

  I tapped on the desk in thanks and followed Mills upstairs. We went to our office first, depositing everything we didn’t need, then beelined to the kitchen, joining the gathered team who patiently waited for the kettle to boil.

  “I dropped off the evidence before going home last night,” Mills told me while we waited. “Left a note for Wasco too. I don’t know how much else he has right now.”

  “I’d wager the boss will make this one a priority,” I replied.

  Right on cue, Smith appeared in the doorway, looking less drawn than she had last night.

  “Sir, Chief wants to see you both,” she informed us.

  I looked longingly at the kettle and the coffee, and with a muffled groan, pushed myself up. We walked past a smirking Smith over to Sharp’s office. Her door was open, so we walked right in, shutting it behind us. She was standing behind her desk, leaning down over her computer, and she peered up as we sank heavily into the chairs opposite her, a rare sympathetic look on her face.

  “I don’t envy you boys, you know,” she told us, shutting her laptop. “There are times I do, but this isn’t one of them.” She sat down in her high-backed chair, her grey eyes looking over us slowly. As usual, she looked better than us. Her suit was pressed, her hair neatly swept into place, not a strand daring to escape. A case file, a thin one, sat in front of her, and she flipped it open.

  “So,”
she sighed, “we have a nineteen-year-old student found with his head bashed in, inside his university room.” She pressed her fingers together, bringing them to her mouth. “Naturally, the university isn’t happy, and the press is having a bloody field day. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  “His name’s Edward Vinson,” I told her. “Third-year student, found by his friend, Freya Fox.”

  “That’s a good name,” Sharp quietly observed.

  “She was going to his room to borrow a book from him, told us she was late getting there, and when she arrived, she found him. The call was made just after seven, and we think she probably got there at seven-ish. Processed it, vomited, made the call.”

  Sharp raised an elegant eyebrow. “Vomited?”

  “By her own admission,” Mills added.

  “What do we know about Vinson?”

  “Very little right now. We know he had a meeting with a Professor Altman,” I recalled carefully. “So, we’ll speak to him at some point. Today though, we’re heading to see his family. We think his parents live in the city, from the address on his driver’s licence.”

  Sharp nodded slowly. “I’ll see what the university can offer up from his student files. But let me handle all that, the board, the press. You just do your work; I’ll handle the bureaucrats.”

  “You’re a saint,” I told her.

  “I’m better at it than you,” she replied dryly, flipping the folder shut again. “Good luck then, boys,” she said dismissively.

  We took our cue, scrambling up from the low chairs and leaving her office, returning to ours to grab what we needed and walked out again. Smith stood outside, holding two travel mugs that she held out.

  “You both looked so helpless,” she told us.

  “Thank you, Smith.” I took the mug gratefully. “Any word from Wasco yet?”

  “None yet. I’ll head down later and chase him up. Dr Crowe’s in as well. She’s gone straight to work.”

  “Brilliant. Keep in touch,” I told her, holding my cup awkwardly as I did my coat up. Mills dug out the address from a copy he made in his notebook, and we checked out appearances were in good order before jogging down to his car.

  “One of these days,” I said as he pulled from the car park, “I’m actually going to have a sit-down. A proper sit-down, with my feet up on the desk, music playing as I eat a biscuit.”

  Mills whistled. “Dreaming big there, sir.”

  I took the address in my hand, sipping at my coffee and directing him to the right part of town.

  We ended up in what was, in both of our estimations, a very posh area. For starters, it was gated, and we rolled along a wide road, lined with neatly trimmed lawns and giant houses, some of which had pillars, none of which even suggested being joined. We both leant forward in our seat, in disbelief that places like these were even in the city. Shows how much sightseeing we actually do.

  “How many of these places do you think have pools?” Mills asked.

  “Too many of them. Stupidly rich,” I muttered. Anyone who had an outdoor pool in England clearly had more money than sense. You’d only get to use it two months of a year, what was the point? Other than avoiding perverts and child’s piss in the public ones, I supposed.

  All the houses looked eerily similar, down to the gardens, with the only differences being the odd make of car or a much, much older house that the rest of them must have been built around. Everything was clean, very clean and whilst it seemed to be the perfect picture of sensibility and good manners, the very place people like us would never need to be called out to, where the only crime would be someone pissing off the neighbourhood council, I hated it. There was no character, no history, no difference. Just house after house, boring, cream coloured, neatly trimmed and hugely unexceptional, apart from the sheer size of them.

  We pulled onto a long, smooth driveway up to one of the houses that did have pillars outside. Also outside, tending to the front garden, was a woman wearing big gardening gloves and the sort of bonnet the Queen is often seen wearing. She looked up, secateurs in hand, as we pulled to a stop by the front door and walked over, basket nestled in the crook of her elbow. She was a pretty woman, a few years older than us, and I recognised her from the picture in Edward’s room.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” she asked with a polite smile.

  “Are you Mrs Vinson?” I asked. “Edward Vinson’s mother?”

  “I am,” she confirmed, still smiling sweetly.

  With a great amount of sorrow and sympathy, I pulled my warrant card out, holding it her way. Her face fell slightly, eyes twitching, but she plastered the smile back on.

  “We’re here to talk to you about your son, Mrs Vinson.”

  “What’s he done this time?” She sighed in a fondly exasperated type of way. “Come on in, gents. I’ll fetch my husband, shall I?”

  “I think that would be best,” I agreed.

  She led us to the house, into the large, tiled foyer with a large chandelier above our heads. The staircase swept around the room, the walls lined with pictures.

  “This way,” she chirped, leading us through to a large sitting room with a piano on the far end and an equally large fireplace at the other. She ushered us towards the sofas and sat us down.

  “I’ll fetch my husband,” she said, rolling her eyes slightly.

  I winced. She was clearly used to having policemen in her house, which made me wonder what exactly Edward had gotten up to in the past, though we weren’t here for that reason. We sat awkwardly, my palms clammy, and then returned, minus the gloves and bonnet, with a tall man dressed very smartly.

  “Darling, the policemen. Gentlemen, my husband. Shall I leave you to it?”

  Her husband said, “No,” at the same time, I said, “Please, Mrs Vinson.”

  She looked from us to him, slightly confused, but settled down beside him on the sofa opposite us.

  “You’re police?” her husband questioned.

  “Of course they are, darling. I saw their badges.”

  “They’re not in uniform. The last ones we met were in uniform.”

  “Mr Vinson?” I asked, and he looked over. “I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher, and this is Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police.”

  “Detectives?” Mrs Vinson repeated under her breath.

  “We are very sorry to have to tell you this, but your son was found dead last night in his room at university.”

  A silent tension filled the air, and I waited for it to break, but it didn’t seem to.

  “Eddie?” Mrs Vinson asked. “Dead?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I replied.

  She shook her head vehemently, fiddling with her sleeves. “No,” she said. “We spoke to him last night, and he was absolutely fine. If he was sick--”

  “Darling, they’re detectives,” her husband interrupted her, his gaze unmoving from mine. “They wouldn’t be here if he was sick. What happened to him?”

  “We are investigating it as a murder,” I answered succinctly. No point in beating around the bush.

  Mrs Vinson sobbed, pressing her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide. Mr Vinson closed his eyes, leaning forward on his elbows. When his wife made a quiet screaming noise beside him, he turned and wrapped a large arm around her, tucking her into his side, her face pressed into his shoulder, her body shaking with sobs.

  “Last night?” Mr Vinson cleared his throat after asking. He was pushing through until we left, I imagined. Classic stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry-on mentality.

  I nodded.

  “We did speak to him on the phone,” he said. “Invited him for dinner on Friday.”

  We said nothing and let them be for a moment.

  “A murder?” he eventually asked.

  “Yes. We’d like to know as much about your son as you’re able to share with us. Who he was friends with, what sort of person he was. You weren’t surprised by us being here,” I recalled. “Has he had trouble with the law before?”

 
; Mr Vinson scoffed and shook his head. “Boy doesn’t know his limits is all. Hauled him from the drunk tank a few times, paid a few fines, but that was it. He was a good boy. A fine student, top of his year. Bloody brilliant rugby player, very popular, always good to his mother and me.”

  “So, there’s no reason you can think of as to why anyone would have wanted to hurt him?” I asked.

  Mrs Vinson stiffened slightly and pushed herself up, wiping her face and squaring her shoulders. “No,” she said firmly. “He was a delightful boy. Well mannered and charming,” she managed to speak through the new wave of tears. “Everybody thought so, everybody loved him.” She broke down into her husband’s shoulder again, and he looked at us slowly.

  “Who found him?” he asked.

  “Freya Fox. Did you ever meet her?”

  “Once before.” He nodded gruffly. “He thought about bringing her on Friday, in fact. Lovely girl. How is she?”

  “Her mother took her home last night, so we hope she’s alright, but it will take time.”

  “Did Edward express any fears to you?” Mills piped up after being quiet for a while. “Anything that was worrying him or anything he was scared of?”

  “No,” Mr Vinson replied. “Not to me, anyway.” He glanced down at his wife, and I slowly stood up, placing one of my cards on the coffee table between us.

  “We’ll get out of your way,” I assured him. “Please don’t hesitate to call us if you have any concerns or questions. We’ll be happy to help. We arrange a family liaison officer to come if you wish—”

  “No,” he quickly shut me down. “We’ll manage, thank you.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” I said, Mills standing and walking over to me. “And we will do everything we can to ensure that we find who did this. We are truly very sorry for your loss.”

  Mr Vinson nodded and inched away from his wife enough to offer us both a sweaty hand to shake. We saw ourselves out and stood out on the driveway for a while, letting it all sink in.