“Will it—? Do you need all of us?” she asked carefully.
“We’ll likely speak to all,” I deliberated, “but we prefer to do these things a bit more privately.”
“Should I tell them?” she asked.
“No,” I told her. “We’ll get in touch when we’re ready.”
“Okay,” she answered in a clearer, steadier voice. “I have a few hours free. Should I come to you?”
“If you’d like to, but we can always come to you,” I assured her, not wanting to make her sit in a dingy old interview room when she didn’t really need to.
“No, that’s okay,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll come there; I could use the walk.”
“Fab. When you arrive, just tell the desk sergeant you’re here to see me, and he’ll show you where to go.”
“Okay,” she repeated. “Bye.”
She hung up then, and I placed the phone back, content. Over the phone, she hadn’t sounded that enthused on the idea that we’d be speaking them all together, that she’d have to be the one to talk to the others about this. I got the feeling that Thatcher and Fitzsimmons were dead right about getting her away from the others. I picked up the remnants of my sandwich, looking over at Thatcher as he spoke on the phone, low voice grumbling through the room. After a long pause, he agreed to whatever the other person was saying and hung up the phone.
“I spoke to Judy Green’s mother,” he informed me. “The girls are still at school, but they’ll get them together so we can see them all at one time. Green’s house.” He picked up a crisp. “Half four.”
“Cool,” I answered. “Fiona’s on her way in, chose to come to us.”
His brows shot up at that. “People don’t usually volunteer.”
“I think she liked the thought of not having the others around. Perhaps if she’s here, there’s no chance of bumping into them.”
Thatcher hummed darkly and tilted his head to one side. “Some friend group. Do we know how long she’ll be?”
“I’m assuming she’s coming from university,” I answered, “so half an hour or so?”
He nodded again, satisfied, and then abruptly stood up and carried his laptop round to me, placing it on my desk.
“Bus times.” He tapped the screen. “Doesn’t help us all that much,” he admitted with a grunt. “City centre, lots of buses coming and going. This one,” he tapped one number, “is the one I’m guessing Freya Fox uses to get to and from campus.”
I nodded, noting that it made a stop a few streets from her house and another just outside the campus.
“But this one,” he tapped the next, “might have worked for Billie.”
I leant forward, noting the stops it made as it wound through the city. One on the very street the café and her flat were on, another on the far side of the campus, not a stone’s throw from where the basement of Edward’s building let out. I crossed my arms.
“That doesn’t do her any favours,” I muttered.
“But she’d have been covered in blood,” Thatcher said, taking a seat on my desk. “Her clothes, she could have changed, but what about her hands, her face, her hair? She wouldn’t have had time to clear herself up before Freya arrived and get to the stop in time to get the bus home.”
“It’s plausible,” I had to point out.
“But is it realistic?”
“Nothing about this case is realistic, sir,” I answered, and he rolled his eyes with a chuckle. The phone on his desk rang, and he swivelled around, picking it up with one hand and tossing it into the other.
“Thatcher,” he answered, looking surprised. “Send her up.” He placed the phone back and hopped to his feet. “Fiona Davey,” he informed me.
I frowned and jumped to my feet, following him from the office.
“That didn’t take long,” I muttered as we crossed the floor. We reached the stairs just as the desk sergeant appeared halfway up, spotted us, and gave Fiona a nod and a smile as she shuffled up the last few steps to us. She clutched the red satchel around her shoulders tightly, looking nervous as she reached us, giving us a weak smile.
“Hello again, Fiona,” Thatcher greeted her, not making any moves to shake her hand. From the look of her, she was not the sort to be offended by that. “Shall we?” He stepped back and led her into an interview room.
I trailed after them and left the door slightly ajar, the window through to the room beyond left open so that she could see inside. Fiona sat on the chair, dropped her bag to the floor and bundled her hands into her sleeves, shrinking down in her death like a violet.
“Nothing to worry about,” Thatcher assured her. “We just wondered what you might tell us about Billie and Stella Helman.” There was an edge to his tone, and I knew he was annoyed that they hadn’t mentioned it to us before, but Fiona looked away skittishly.
I leant forward and added in a softer tone, “We understand that it’s not a nice thing to remember about your friend in a time like this, but anything you can tell us about that night would be a great help.”
She looked up, meeting my eyes. “The Halloween party?” she asked, voice wavering. I nodded, and she adjusted herself slightly, lifting her chin a tad. “I don’t remember it much. I was only there because,” she sighed, “because Billie was. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gone.”
“You were close?” I asked. Thatcher sat back, letting me take the lead, and Fiona shrugged.
“She was always nicer to me than the others, always listened when I spoke, and snapped at them if they interrupted me.” I rather got the impression that Fiona needed someone to speak up for her from time to time.
“What about Stella?” I asked.
“I’d met her a few times, once or twice before. She was a bit quiet, maybe nicer than Billie,” she said with a slight smile. “They were very close, and when Stella disappeared from the party, Billie looked so worried. She looked like she was sick.”
“Did you go with her to look for her?” I asked.
Fiona nodded. “I was with her when we found her in the room. Billie didn’t let anyone else in, though, just went in, bent down by her for a while, then scooped her up and led her straight from the house. Didn’t say a word to anyone.”
“What happened after she left?” I asked. “We know what happened the next day, but what about the party?”
Fiona tilted her head to one side, thoughtful. “It was tense for a bit, but not for long. I stayed for a few more hours, and then I went home. Nobody noticed when I did,” she added, rubbing her arms.
I gave her a sympathetic smile. “And the next day?”
“I heard about it from Vanessa,” she said. “She came round, still in all her party stuff and told me what happened. I let her use my shower and gave her some clothes, and we went to meet the others. They were angry, Freya was crying. None of them believed it.”
“What about you?” I asked her gently. “What did you believe?”
Fiona hesitated, looking down at her hands. “I wasn’t sure,” she admitted in a whisper. “I didn’t think Edward would do something like, but…”
“But?” I prompted.
“Billie never lies,” she said firmly. “She’s never wrong. And she wouldn’t have said he did if she didn’t really, truly, think she was right.”
I guessed that was enough to make Fiona doubt. “Did any of the others have any doubts?”
She shook her head.
“Did you ever see Billie or Stella again after that?” Thatcher asked, breaking his silence in a gentle voice.
“I saw Billie once when she came to say goodbye to Professor Greenberg. She didn’t look that happy to see me. But that was it, and I didn’t see Stella again.”
“Did anyone ever talk about the party again?”
She shook her head vehemently. “Edward was very clear that nobody brought it up. Ever.”
I looked at Thatcher and could see a similar wonder on his face. Did Edward want it kept silent out of anger… or guilt?
“Is ther
e anything else you think we should know?” he asked, fixing his stare back on Fiona. She thought quietly for a moment.
“I don’t think so. But I’ll call if I do.”
“Thank you, Fiona.” Thatcher rose from the table, and we walked her out towards the stairs.
“You got here fast,” I told her conversationally.
She offered me a wry smile. “I was only down the road,” she said, “the library.” She gave us both a small wave before trotting downstairs. We watched her go, a thoughtful look on Thatcher’s face.
“Just because the others didn’t say as much,” he said, “doesn’t mean they didn’t doubt Edward either.”
We shared a look, and he clapped me on the arm, and we walked back to the office, throwing a few ideas and Fiona’s details onto the board, killing time until four o'clock rolled around.
Thatcher drove us out the house, meeting Mrs Green outside, a cardigan wrapped around herself. He introduced me, and she smiled.
“The girls are inside,” she said, leading us into the modest house. It was far nicer than the one Stella would have grown up in. We ended up in the kitchen where the three girls sat around in their school uniforms, faces pale. Mrs Green, another mother, and a father stood on the other side of the kitchen, and once the formalities were out of the way, we sat down at the kitchen table, where once again, Thatcher put away his gruff expression and let me question the girls.
They told us much of what Fiona had told us, only they hadn’t stopped seeing the sisters after that.
“We went and saw Stella a few weeks after,” Judy told us, toying with the lid of her drink bottle. “She didn’t have any company for a while, but one day, Billie called and said she wanted to see us. Stella was in bed, and she looked…” She trailed off with a shiver.
“Like a ghost,” the next girl, Priya, answered for her. “All pale and thin, she just made us talk about school. Nothing else.”
“No boys,” the third of Stella’s friends, Lana, added. “Billie made that very clear.”
“How often did you see her?”
“Every other weekend,” Lana said firmly. “It was better when they moved into the flat. She got out of bed then, and we’d watch films together.”
The girls’ faces fell, and they all looked down at the table/ Priya sniffed back some tears. I noticed that all their nails were painted black, and I wondered if the school had let the rule drop for them on this occasion to mourn their friend.
“Did Stella ever talk about what happened?” I asked.
Judy shook her head. “Nope.”
“Did any of you ever meet any of Billie’s friends from the party?” Thatcher asked.
Priya looked up. “We saw him, Edward Vinson,” she sneered over his name.
“You did?” Thatcher frowned. “When?”
“A few weeks ago, just before Stella—” Lana broke off. “We went for a walk with her in the park, and he was there.”
Thatcher and I both leant forward, losing our nice, gentle composures.
“Did he see her?”
“He came over and spoke to her. She made us wait where we were,” Priya told us, “but we watched the whole time. He didn’t step close to her, just talked.”
“What happened?” Thatcher demanded.
“Nothing,” Lana said. “He said a few things. Stella had her arms wrapped around herself, then she backed away and came back to us. Said she wanted to go home, so we took her to Billie.”
“Did she tell Billie what happened?” Thatcher asked, his voice deepening further.
“I don’t know,” Priya said. “We left after that, but Billie could tell something was wrong.”
“She’d have figured it out,” Lana added.
“Stella didn’t keep things from her,” Judy said. “So, she probably just waited for us to leave.”
Thatcher’s jaw clenched slightly, and he managed to smile politely at the three girls before standing from the table. We rushed through our goodbyes, shaking a few hands, swapping a few details in case they wanted to tell us anything else, then we were outside the house, Thatcher glaring up at the sky.
“If Billie knew that Edward had gone over to Stella…” he grumbled with a shake of his head.
“Let’s go,” I said quickly, striding to the car. I knew what he wanted to say. If Billie had known, what the hell might she have done?
Sixteen
Thatcher
I was aware of my irritation as I drove, gripping the steering just that bit too tight. We’d been lied to, yet again, about the circumstances between Edward and the Helman sisters. This time by Billie. Stella would have told her, I knew it in my gut. She must have known or at least suspected. And she might have done with that knowledge, that suspicion, at the time perhaps it didn’t mean much, she might have put it aside, forgotten it. But after Stella had taken her own life, so soon after she saw Edward in the park, I shook my head. There’s no way Billie would have sat on her hands throughout it all.
“Sir,” Mills’s low voice caught my ear.
“What?”
“Freya said the last time Edward had seen Billie, a week or so before Stella died, he’d been shaken. She’d had to walk him home.”
She must have rattled him then. “Did she say much else about it?” I asked.
Mills shook his head. I bit down my annoyance at that. Freya might know more about that meeting, and we could press her for details, but we had to be careful with our witnesses, not push them too far. I decided that for now, Billie could fill in the blanks.
I drove us over the café, just in time to see Billie and Agnes outside, locking up the front door, their coats and bags on, ready to go. I parked on the street and jumped from the car, jogging across the road with Mills on my heels.
“Billie Helman,” I called.
She jumped, then turned around and frowned as we reached them on the pavement.
“Inspector,” she greeted me, looking rightly confused. “Is something wrong?”
“Somewhat. We’d like a quick word if you have the time.” I tried to keep my voice as diplomatic as I could, but Billie’s eyes narrowed at my gruff tone. She gave a movement that was somewhere between a shrug and a nod.
Agnes looked between us all and handed Billie the keys. “You can use the café, love. Lock up when you’re done. I’ll come up for the keys tomorrow morning.”
Billie nodded, taking the keys in her hand. Agnes gave her a light kiss on the head, gave us an unimpressed glare, and walked across the road to a car on the other side.
Billie sighed and turned to the door and unlocked it, turned the alarm off, and let us in. She flipped on the lights but made sure the closed sign was on the door before leading us to a table near the window, sitting down, her coat and bag still on, arms folded.
“We just came from meeting Stella’s friends,” I told her as I sat, watching how her face twitched at the mention of her sister’s names. She blinked.
“Judy and the girls? Priya and Lana?”
“Those are the ones,” Mills confirmed.
She looked from me to him. “How are they?”
“Seemed well enough. But they told us something that caught our interest.” Mills leant on the table, and Billie shrank back, picking at her nails.
“About what?”
“About the time Edward Vinson spoke to Stella in the park a week or so before she died,” I answered in a stony voice. Billie flinched and looked down, chewing her bottom lip.
“Right,” she mumbled.
“Billie,” I spoke her name in a slightly softer tone, and she looked up at me, tears lining her bright green eyes. “Did you know about the meeting?”
She nodded, a tear spilling over from her eye, trailing down her face. She scrubbed it away. “Stella told me once the girls left. She kept shaking, and I had to call Dr Kumar and ask how to calm her down.”
“Did you tell Dr Kumar what happened?” I asked, remembering that the doctor had made no mention of any meeting.
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“No. Didn’t really have the time. I’d called her before when Stella had a panic attack, so she just talked me through it until Stella was alright. It was up to her if she wanted Dr Kumar to know,” she added pointedly, a flicker of guilt and regret dancing over her face.
“You must have been angry,” I said calmly. “That Edward spoke to her, went near her and upset her that way.”
Billie laughed once, humourlessly. “Wouldn’t you be?” she asked dryly.
“Of course, we would,” Mills assured her. “But what we’d like to know is what you did about it.”
“What I did about it? I calmed my sister down from a panic attack, that’s what I did about it!”
“Did you confront Edward?” I asked her, watching her face falter, eyes wide. She looked away, tensing her jaw and gave one short nod. I let out a long breath. “What happened, Billie?”
She wiped another tear as it came from her eye, trembling, but not from sadness, I realised. She was angry.
“Once Stella calmed down,” she spoke in a croaking voice, “I got her into bed, made sure she was relaxed. Then I left her everything she needed and a little note saying I’d gone out to get her some food, which I did. That’s what I left to do, get some dinner. But I was so angry that I just walked and walked until I was at the park they’d gone to. He wasn’t there, so I started looping around when he came out of a shop. All blonde, coiffed hair and smart clothes and stupid smiling face like he hadn’t just wrecked my little sister.” Billie stopped, sucked down a ragged breath, her hands clenching and unclenching. “I walked over to him before I knew what I was doing. He didn’t see me at first, not until I was right in front of him.”
“What did you do?” I asked her again, keeping my voice low, my tone soothing.
“Punched him in the face,” she admitted blankly. “Broke his nose, turned around, and ran home.” Dr Crowe did say his nose had been broken recently. Billie placed her right hand on the table.
“I never learnt how to punch, and I did it wrong,” she said, showing us her thumb, the joint slightly wonky. She must have broken it when she punched him. My chest tightened in sympathy and sorrow for the girl, but I swallowed it all down and focused on the job.
Guilty Conscious Page 13
