“No,” the professor shook her head, “I had twenty students in this lecture, sir. I don’t keep tabs on them all.”
“Thank you.” I gave her a perfunctory smile, took Mills by the elbow and steered him away before he could retort to the woman’s blunt tone. “Rain is still fairly heavy,” I said as we walked back up the steps. “She might have stayed in the building.”
Mills nodded, and we walked out, splitting up and taking on the different ends of the building. I headed to the library, leaving him to search the common area and café.
It was an old library, and walking inside, the doors shut behind me and sealed out the noise. Only the rustling of pages, the occasional sniff, the gentle patter of a keyboard or the scratch of a pen filled the room. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, creating paths that sectioned off genres, tables squeezed into the gaps with students bent over them. A few were outright asleep, using their books as pillows, the hypnotic ticking of the old clock on the wall having lulled them to sleep. I walked in, flashed my warrant card to the old librarian who looked surprised, but let me through. I walked up and down the rows of books, looking for the familiar face, glancing at the students that paid me no mind. No such luck. I was getting annoyed, restless when I spotted a face scanning the shelves. Not Freya, but Fiona.
She turned and spotted me, looking alarmed when I approached her. I kept my hands out and gave her a polite smile, hoping she’d relax.
“Hello, Fiona,” I said quietly. “Have you seen Freya?”
“Freya?” She frowned. “She was in my lecture, but she left straight after.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
Fiona shook her head. “I wasn’t invited,” she told me.
My chest panged slightly, and I gave her another smile.
“Is she in trouble?” Fiona asked. “I could try to call her?”
“Good idea,” I praised her. She nodded and placed the book back on the shelf, walking over to the library doors and stepping out, the sudden noise jarring. I’d thought about calling her myself, but I doubted she’d answer. At least if it was Fiona, she might take the call.
“Did something happen?” Fiona asked in a normal voice. “About Edward?”
“Along those lines,” I replied.
“You can’t tell me?” she guessed, and I shook my head. Fiona shrugged, pulled her phone from her pocket and pulled up Freya’s contact, putting the phone on speaker and holding it between us. I decided that I liked Fiona. Maybe she and Billie could reconnect when this was all said and done.
The phone rang, on and on, until it went to a standard voicemail. Fiona looked down at her phone and grimaced.
“I can try again?” she offered.
“That’s alright. Thanks anyway, Fiona. Where does she normally go after her lectures?”
Fiona put her phone away and sighed. “She used to hang out with Edward. Sometimes she came to the library with me, but not often. She might have gone for coffee,” she said quickly, “especially because of the rain.”
I nodded, hoping that if she had, Mills would spot her there.
“Did you—?” Fiona paused, tugging at her sleeve. “Did you speak to Billie?”
“We’ve spoken to her.” I didn’t want to stay with her and have this conversation. We needed to find Freya, but I didn’t have the heart to just walk away, and Fiona might offer something of interest.
“How was she?” she asked with genuine concern.
“She’s… struggling, naturally. She works in a café not far from here, actually,” I told her. “You should go and see her.”
Fiona shook her head, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I don’t think she wants to see me.”
“I think you should let her be the judge of that,” I answered.
Fiona gave a dry smile, her eyes looking past me, settling on someone who came hurrying over. Mills stopped by my arm and gave a faint shake of the head.
“Not in the café,” he said.
“She’s a bit of a caffeine fiend,” Fiona told us. “I’m sure you’ll find her in one of them, especially after that lecture.” She rolled her eyes slightly.
I smiled at her. “Thanks, Fiona. We’ll let you get back to work.”
She nodded, giving us a small wave before stepping back into the seclusion of the library.
“No luck?” Mills asked once she’d gone.
“Nope. Fiona tried to give her a call for us, but it went straight to voicemail.”
Mills frowned, scratching his chin. “Because she doesn’t want anyone to find her, or because none of that group is particularly good friends to Fiona?”
“A bit of both, I’d wager. Checking the coffee shops might be a good idea. There’s a chance someone else might have seen her.”
Mills nodded, and we walked through the building out onto the campus, trying to navigate our way around and spot anyone who looked vaguely familiar. As we walked towards the student union, Mills pointed to someone over on a bench, huddled beneath an umbrella.
“Claude,” he said. We walked over, and I tapped the young man on the arm, the music pouring through his headphones loud enough for me to hear from where I stood away from him. He jumped and looked up, taking the buds from his ears and smiling.
“Hello, police officers,” he said politely. “Can I help?”
“Hello again, Claude. We hope so. Have you seen Freya recently? In the last twenty minutes or so?”
“She ‘ad a class,” he said, across the campus to the building we just left. “With Fiona. We saw her as she left, but she didn’t want a drink, said she was going ‘ome.”
“Whose we?”
“Me, Vanessa, and Charlie,” he told us succinctly. Freya had been invited, but not Fiona, very nice. I ignored that and looked down at Claude.
“She said she was going home?” I checked, and he nodded.
“Who? Freya?” another voice joined us as Vanessa and Charlie walked up. Vanessa had spoken, and she looked at us as she sat down beside Claude, taking shelter under the umbrella. Charlie didn’t seem to mind, standing behind them both, letting the rain soak his hair, clutching a steaming cup of coffee on his hands.
“We’re trying to find her.”
“She didn’t want to get a coffee,” Vanessa reiterated what Claude had told us. “I think it might have been too much, too soon,” she said sympathetically. “Said she wanted to go home.”
“I see. Thank you,” I said, blinking the rain from my eyes.
“Is something wrong?” Charlie asked. “With Freya?”
“We just need to find her,” Mills assured him coolly. “You don’t need to be concerned.”
“Is this about Edward?” he asked frantically. “because I am concerned if it is. And we already told you, Billie…”
“You failed to tell us about Billie and Stella Helman,” I interrupted coldly. “You neglected to tell us about the allegations and what happened at that party.”
Charlie flushed. “Because it wasn’t true.”
“No? I wonder why he’s dead then,” I said shortly, turning and walking away. Mills caught up to me quickly, saying nothing but grinning slightly as I chuntered under my breath.
“Never did like boys like him,” I said. “They’ve always annoyed me.”
“I couldn’t tell,” Mill replied. “So, shall we head to her house? She might not have gotten there yet; we might be able to catch her.”
“Do we really think she went there?” I asked. “if I were her, and I’d just sent us to the studio, I’d be panicking.”
“Maybe she went there,” Mills suggested. “To see if we’d found the trophy, take it away if we hadn’t.”
“Clear up any more evidence that we have overlooked,” I added, making for the car park.
We hopped into the car, rain dripping from our clothes, and I sped away quickly, eager to get to the studio in time to catch her, if indeed that was where she went.
The rain slowed down as we drove until a thin drizzle
hung from the sky, and we weren’t in danger of looking like drowned cats when we returned to the station. I parked on the same street as before, and we walked round to the papered-up building, the keys to which were still gratefully stowed in the glove compartment of the car. Mills unlocked it, letting us inside, and we crept up slowly to the top floor, the door still locked. I stopped outside for a moment, craning my head towards the door, seeing what could be heard. There were no footsteps, no rustling movements inside, so I held out my hand for the keys, Mills pressing the right one into my palm, and unlocked the door.
I pushed it open, stepping into the late afternoon sun that came in through the window, tensing at the state of the place. This morning, it had been carefully unorganised from Edward’s use of the place. Now, it was a wreck.
The cupboard we had found the trophy in had been torn open, its contents tossed across the floor, the sheets in a crumpled mess in the dust. The desk had been ransacked too, the drawers dangling open, papers and sketch pads emptied on the floor, the pages torn and bent. The top of it was a mess too, things pushed over, topple, pens that rolled to the edges, some falling off. Shelves had been left in disarray, and over the bed, the sheets had been thrown into the corner, any remnant of Edward in this place thrown aside. Someone had come looking for something, and I knew that they didn’t find it.
I walked further into the room, careful not to tread over anything, in particular, walking over to the little bathroom. That hadn’t been touched, and nor was there anyone lingering inside. When I walked back out, Mills was over by the cupboard, kneeling down by the discarded sheets. He carefully picked one up and showed it to me. A damp, muddy boot print was stamped onto the white fabric.
“Hasn’t dried up,” he told me. “They’ve only— She’s,” he amended, “only just left.”
“She won’t have gone far,” I muttered, walking over to the window and looking outside. “Would she have gone home now? If that’s the case, Dunnes will be in touch with us soon enough.”
My stomach grumbled, and I ignored it, trying not to think of the lunch we had skipped or the growing lateness of the day. Trying to hunt someone down in the city when the early autumn nights drew in was never very easy.
“There are not many places she would go, is there?” Mills said, stepping awkwardly over the mess, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. “There’s here, university, and home. I can’t think she’d just be out there in the city, wandering around looking for somewhere to go.”
“Nor I,” I scratched my head, “but she’s got somewhere in mind. She’s angry or upset too,” I pointed out, turning around to look at the state of the studio. “She messed up, let us get here before she could.”
“Wherever she is then, she’s not there in the best of moods,” Mills said quietly. I shook my head, trying to think, think, where Freya might have gone. Scared, I realised she would be scared. Too smart to go home then, she’d know we’d look for her there. Somewhere else, some place we wouldn’t think of. I closed my heads, pressing my knuckles to my head, too hungry and tired to conjure anywhere specific to mind.
My phone chimed, and I resisted the urge to throw it out the window. It chimed again and again, and I sighed, yanking it from my coat pocket. Three texts, consecutively sent, from Billie.
In café.
Freya here.
Something wrong.
Freya has a caffeine fix, Fiona said, and we were never meant to find that trophy. I swore, loudly, startling Mills.
“She’s at the café,” I told him, running for the door. “Billie’s there. Something’s wrong,” I tossed him my phone as we hit the stairs, letting him read her quick, rapid texts. My phone chimed again, and I peered around, spotting Mills’s ashen face as he read her next message. He held it out as we reached the street.
SOS
Twenty-Five
Billie
My dad was here? I couldn’t get the sight of him in that dim corridor out of my head. He looked shabby, better than he had at the funeral, but worse for wear, that was for sure. Why was he here? Taking the blame for Edward’s murder, why? Did he think I had done it? I was in shock, robotically following the pretty constable, Smith, as she walked me down to fetch my things. She had a concerned look on her face, a frown between her brows that vanished with a smile when she looked at me. I grabbed my bag, slipping it over my shoulder and looked towards the door.
“We can arrange to drive you home,” she offered, joining me in looking out at the dreary rain.
“That’s okay,” I told her quickly. “I can get the bus.”
There was a stop across the road. It went to my street or close enough to it, anyway. I’d decided that one time sitting in the back of a police car was one too many. The constable nodded, opening the door and giving me a sad smile as I walked head, ducking my head against the rain and ran across the road to shelter under the bus stop. I could feel eyes on me as I sat down on the bench and waited, making sure I didn’t get up and leg it, I supposed, since I was a murderer now, apparently.
That was new. I kicked myself, stupid not to have told them about Edward. Or the studio. Christ, I hadn’t thought about that place for so long, not without wanting to vomit, anyway. Dug myself a nice little hole, perfect for them to bury me in.
Although they didn’t seem all that keen on throwing me in jail and tossing away the key. DCI Thatcher had been nice to me from the start, always patient, always looking at me with that understanding look on his face. Something had changed their mind about me. Stella’s trophy. I clamped my mouth shut, trying to keep the bile from rising in my throat and blinked my eyes, trying to stop tears from coming out. Crying on the bus wasn’t a good look.
I might not have killed Edward, but whoever did that to my Stella’s trophy would get a right foul kick in the guts. I should have gone back for it, should never have taken it there in the first place. I wondered how they found it, who else knew about the studio. Edward hadn’t wanted anyone to know, the handsome little coward.
The bus rolled down the street, and I hopped up, flagging the driver down and rooting my bus pass from my pocket. The driver gave me a nod as I walked down to a lonely chair near the back, huddling up against the window, driving away from the station. Leaving dad there. Maybe I should have stayed, not that I would be much use to him. He’d made that clear often enough. I pressed my head against the cold glass, staring out through the streaks of rain as the city blurred around behind me. It hadn’t been long ago that Stella was sitting next to me, smiling at a baby sitting a few streets away, humming under her breath. I let the pain wash over me, barely even noticing it anymore, and kept my eyes open, refusing to cry.
We rattled along the street, and I jumped off early, walking through the rain down to my street, heading straight for the café’s door. It was quiet inside, only a few regular faces seated about. I looked around, looking for Agnes. She was over at the counter, wiping up some crumbs, and she looked up as the door swung shut, her eyes widening as she looked at me.
She dropped her cleaning cloth and hurried around the counter, and I let the tears fall as I walked towards her, into her outstretched arms.
“Oh, Billie,” she murmured, stroking my hair back from my face, a hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. She held me there for ages, letting me cry against her chest, and once I got my breathing back under control, she pulled away slightly, wiping at my face with a napkin, her face full of sympathy.
“I’m okay,” I said, trying out a fake smile.
“No, you are not. Go home, love,” she said, looking up towards my flat. “We’ll manage without you for the afternoon.”
I shook my head. “No, I’d rather work. Keep my mind busy. If I go home, I’ll just pace around or stare at the wall.”
Agnes frowned, looking uncertain, but she tucked a piece of hair back from my face and nodded. “If that’s what you want. But you say the word, and I’ll let you go home, alright?”
“Thanks, Agnes. I’m going to c
hange, clean myself up a bit.”
“Take your time, love,” she said, brows furrowed with concern as I pulled away with another smile and walked back outside, through the alley and up the shabby metal stairs to the flat.
The flowers outside were wilting, they had been Stella’s, and I’d been bad at remembering to water them. I skirted around the pots, letting myself in through the front door, turned off the alarm and walked into the living room, dropping my bag on the armchair and stood there, staring at nothing. Nothing in here had changed, not on the surface. Everything was colourful, as per Stella’s request. The living room walls were painted pale pink, the sofa green, the armchair blue. We’d collected art from charity shops and car boot sales to fill up the walls, pictures of us scattered around, some of mum, even a few of dad, back when he was clean shaved and fresh-faced and only drank in the pub when the game was on.
As I stood there, trying to understand everything that had just happened to me, the cat came along, rubbing against my legs. I picked her up, cradling her against my chest, burying my face in the thick ginger fur and shivered slightly. It felt vaguely like a dream, like a wired fever dream from eating too much cheese at night or something. I could still smell the station, like stale coffee and printer ink, it had been warm too, except in that cold room with the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the photographs strewn across the table, Stella’s face, my face, Edward’s face, all staring up at me like some horrid “this is your life.”
I shivered again, kissed the cat’s head and let her down, walking to the shower. I stood there for a while, in the hot stream, then forced myself to get out, dry my hair, put on my work clothes, and fought down the anxiety that spiralled about inside me, plastered a smile on my face, and locked up the flat, walking back into the café.
Working helped. Agnes put me on the coffee machine, the routine, mindless fray of grinding beans and frothing milk helping to take my mind off of everything. I could feel her watching me with concern, Paolo too, sending me looks every time he walked past me.
Guilty Conscious Page 20
