“You should eat something,” Agnes told me, leaning against the counter.
“I’m not hungry,” I muttered, cleaning up the mess I’d made when my shaky hands had jerked a load of coffee grounds over the surface. I really wasn’t. My throat felt like it had closed up, and the thought of eating anything made me feel sick.
“I don’t suppose you are, but a little something, Billie.” She reached over, rubbing my arm affectionately. “A bit of bread?”
“I’m really not hungry, Agnes,” I told her. “I’ll eat something later, though, I promise. I think we have some tomato soup upstairs.” I paused, waiting to see if she’d correct me. She didn’t, and I turned and looked at her with a smile.
“Some sugary tea then,” she ordered, shooing me away from the coffee machine. “Always good to help with shaking, get something in the blood.” I sighed and took up the spot she had just left as she set herself to work brewing me a large mug.
“I’m still on to lock up today, right?” I asked, trying to remember the rota.
“I can do it,” she said.
“That’s alright. I’d like to feel a bit more normal. Besides, it’s exactly far for me to get home,” I added with a dry smile. Agnes rolled her eyes but smiled back and handed me the mug.
“No, I suppose it’s not. One of us can stay with you, if you like?”
I shook my head, taking a tentative sip of hot, sweet tea. “I’ll be alright. Paolo’s here late today, isn’t he?”
“He is,” she confirmed, but I could tell she was reluctant. “You know, Billie,” she said softly. “I do have a spare room sitting there all bereft. You can always come and live with me.”
My heart twinged at such an offer, and I smiled warmly. “I know. Thank you, Agnes.”
She smiled back, gave me a motherly flick with a tea towel and walked over to clear a recently deserted table.
It only got quieter after that. Agnes took off early after giving me another round of questions to which I promised not only would I eat, but I’d send her a text to bloody well prove it. Soon it was just Paolo and me, leaning against the counter, staring at the empty tables.
“You might as well go,” I told him. “We close in an hour, and I’m not exactly rushed off my feet.”
“You sure?” he asked, peering round at me.
I nodded. “Yeah, go on. Say hi to George for me.” He grinned and patted my head, wandering off to get his coat. I looked around and decided to get a head start spraying down the tables and stacking up the chairs. Paolo waved as he left, and I turned the music up slightly so that I wasn’t completely alone in the silence with my thoughts. Tonight would be a bad night, I already knew. Maybe moving with Agnes wouldn’t be such a bad idea. She was more a mother to me than anyone else had ever been.
I got lost in the idle work, so when the door opened, it startled me, and I swung around, hand clasped to my heart as a customer ducked in out of the rain. I tried no to glare at them for coming in this close to closing when they could see that I was already cleaning up and managed a smile as they pushed the hood of their raincoat back, looking over at me. I froze, almost dropping my spray bottle.
“Freya?” I asked, taking a hesitant step towards her. She gave me a pained sort of smile.
“Hi, Billie.”
She looked well, not different, really, but she stood a little taller than she used to. More confident. I couldn’t believe she was here; it had been so long. Maybe she didn’t know I worked here, but she didn’t look surprised to see me.
“How’re things?” I asked awkwardly, wanting to move back behind the safety of the counter.
“You know,” she shrugged. “Not great.”
Right. “I heard about Edward,” I said in the most sympathetic voice I could muster. “Hope you’re doing okay.”
“Was a bit of a gristly thing,” she said.
“Sorry,” I offered.
Freya fixed me a look. “No, you’re not.”
I blinked, surprised, and slowly walked around to the counter where my phone was hidden on a shelf, just within reach of my hand.
“No, not really,” I admitted. “Though I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, no matter what they did.” My eyes hardened, waiting for her to argue with me, to defend him all over again, but Freya just sighed and walked over to the counter.
“You don’t think he deserved it?” she asked, looking directly at me. I squirmed a bit under her direct gaze. “Not even after what he did to Stella?”
A flash of anger ran through me. “I don’t remember you being of that opinion a year ago, Freya,” I reminded her coldly.
“No,” she said, sounding strangely remorseful. “I might have been wrong about that. About you and Stella. I should have believed you.”
“Why? A newfound faith in female solidarity?” I asked bitterly.
Freya smiled a cold smile. “Because you were telling the truth. Edward assaulted Stella.”
I froze, my fingers stilling on my phone and an unpleasant feeling settled over me. “What?” I asked, managing to unlock my phone, keeping my eyes on her the whole time.
“He did,” she said simply as if she were telling me the weather. “I didn’t know then. I know now, and I’m sorry.”
“Right,” I answered, not sure of what to do, but I did not like this conversation one bit. I glanced down, pretending to toy with my cleaning cloth as I found DCI Thatcher’s number and sent him a quick text, then another, and another. The signal out here was crap, and they struggled to send. It was better in the back room if I could get there.
“I should have done something about it sooner,” Freya told me.
“Done something?” I asked. “What did you do, Freya?”
“I made it right,” she said brightly. “For you and Stella. And me. He lied to me. That wasn’t nice.”
Dread filled me, and I grabbed my phone, hoping that the texts had sent as I dropped it into my pocket.
“No, it wasn’t,” I agreed with her, looking over to the door, to the slowly darkening sky. Stupid autumn and its stupid short days.
“But it’s getting fixed now,” Freya said. “I’m fixing it.”
“How?” I asked.
Freya sighed heavily and gave me a pitiful look. “You used to be smart, Billie. What happened?”
“You used to be nice, Freya,” I countered. “I hope you still are.”
“I am nice!” she shouted. “I did all this for you! You and Stella!”
“Stella’s dead,” I said coldly. “Don’t you dare use her as an excuse.”
Freya breathed in deeply, her eyes closed for a second. I glanced down at my phone, at the texts. Delivered. Thank God.
“You always had to talk back, Billie. To everyone. All the time. That’s not smart or nice,” she informed me tartly.
“I’ll work on it,” I answered. “Now, I’m sorry, Freya, but we’re closing now. I need to finish cleaning up.”
Freya looked around and then turned to me with a nasty glare. “Sorry, Billie. I need to finish cleaning up, too.”
She took a step towards me, and I ran, colliding sharply with the corner of the counter as I sprinted through the café. I could hear her running after me as I skidded into the kitchen. I snatched the keys for the fridge from the wall and charged down, not thinking as I hauled it open, rammed the door shut, and locked it from the inside. I stood for a second, catching my breath, jumping when she started pounding on the door, the tears I’d kept back falling free now. I grabbed my phone.
Texts were read, but I sent another one. A short one, before moving into the cold dark corner of the fridge and curled up into a ball, waiting.
Twenty-Six
Thatcher
We hit the road quickly, I even put the light up on the roof, letting it flash across the street, siren wailing as we peeled off to the café. Mills jolted about in his seat beside me, on the phone to the station to call in a uniformed team to meet us there. I tried to focus on the road, tried to keep my ramb
ling thoughts quiet so that I didn’t steer us into a bush or something.
“Why?” Mills questioned aloud, hanging up the phone and leaving it on his lap. “Would Freya go after Billie?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe she was counting on Billie taking the blame.”
“Doesn’t seem logical to go after her then, not if you were counting on her to take the blame.”
“I don’t think Freya’s being entirely ruled by logic right now,” I pointed out darkly. But he had a point. Going after Billie, if that was indeed what we were going to find when we reached the café, made little sense to me.
The cars on the road parted for us, letting us cross the city in a matter of minutes, pulling to a squealing stop by the road outside. We jumped out, striding to the café, the doors of which were still unlocked. I pushed it open carefully, and as I walked in, my boots crunched over something shattered. I stepped inside, dumbfounded.
It was as bad as Edward’s studio. Plates and mugs shattered across the ground, tables turned over, chairs with the legs broken, discarded on the floor like they had been lobbed against the wall, leaving the artworks wonky, some fallen off entirely. The soft music still played, a strange juxtaposition to the state of the café, and apart from it, it was silent.
“Billie?” I called, stepping over the broken glass and shattered crockery, looking over to the counter. “It’s Inspector Thatcher!” I scanned the room for either her or Freya.
“Place is a war zone,” Mills muttered beside me. “Suppose it’s a good thing the windows are still intact.”
I huffed a laugh, my eyes narrowed towards the kitchen door.
“You check the backroom,” I told Mills, “I’ll check the kitchen.”
Mills nodded and picked his way carefully across the floor to the little door in the corner where we had first seen Billie come through. There was a bathroom door beside it, and he peeked in quickly before reaching for the handle and stepping in. I took my eyes off him, making my way to the kitchen. The door wasn’t far from the counter where a few things had been knocked to the ground; a bottle of cleaning product, a pad of paper and pen, some coins from the tip jar that had rolled across the smooth floor. The kitchen door was the sort that swung open both ways, and I pushed my shoulder against it, slowly making my way inside, hands in front of me just in case.
It was a mess in here too. Things had been thrown against the far walls, knives, plates, bowls, all laying on the floor at the back of the kitchen. I looked at them, looked to where they had been aimed. A metal door built into the wall, a walk-in fridge. An unsettled feeling came over me as I made way there, jumping when the door opened, and Mills joined me with a little shake of the head. I nodded to the fridge, and he frowned, following me as I trod lightly over, knocking gently on the metal door.
“Billie?” I called. “It’s Inspector Thatcher. Are you in there?”
I pressed my ear to the door, and over the whirring sound of the heavy cooling machinery, I heard a muffled, “Yes.”
I let out a sigh of relief and pulled at the handle. It didn’t budge. It was locked. I swore, if Freya had locked her in—
The lock scraped, and then the door was pushed towards us with a wheeze and a sigh as the cold air rushed out. Billie was half behind the door, her panicked green eyes staring out at us, her skin pale, lips almost blue. She let out a sob as she saw us, and I took the door from her, offering her my hand. She gripped it with tight, shaking hands, freezing hands, and I guided her out. Crying, she walked into me, gripping me tightly, and I returned her hug, trying to get her warm, trying to get her to stop shaking as Mills peered inside.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said gently, leading her through the kitchen and out into the café. She looked around when we walked out, horror on her face, her hand coming to cover her mouth.
“Agnes will be so sad,” she said, staring at the ruin.
“Agnes will be glad to know you’re alright,” I corrected her, picking up a chair and sitting her down on it. She looked around, shivering violently, and Mills quickly ran into the back room, returning a moment later with a blanket that he draped around her shoulders.
“What happened?” I asked her, sitting down so that we were face-to-face. Billie swallowed, twitching like a bird.
“I don’t— Freya was here,” she said, looking around. “She was talking about Edward. Said that she should have believed us. And that she was fixing it for me and Stella.”
“Fixing what?” I asked.
Billie’s green eyes, red from tears, turned to look at me. “Fixing it. Edward, me. For what happened.”
Mills sat down beside me, his eyes homing in on her blueish fingers that gripped the blanket tightly. “Did she attack you?”
Billie shook her head, opening and closing her mouth a few times. “I told her she needed to leave so that I could clean up. But she said she couldn’t, that she had to finish and it just—” She broke off with a heavy breath.
“You know when something’s wrong? When you feel like you should run and hide?” she asked, looking worriedly from me to Mills.
“Yes,” Mills assured her quietly.
Billie nodded. “I just ran, thought I needed to get away from her until you came. She followed me,” she said, voice breaking. “So, I went into the kitchen, and I didn’t think. I just went straight to the fridge.” She was toying with the key in one of her hands.
“It locks from the inside?” I asked.
She nodded. “Bit weird for a fridge, but I’m not going to criticise it anymore,” she said with a weak laugh.
There came the sound of sirens outside, then three police cars pulled up outside, lights blaring, and the three of us all turned to look.
“We’ll let them handle this, but I don’t think you should stay here, Billie,” I told her, glancing up at the ceiling. “Is there someone you can call?”
“Agnes,” she said quickly. “She’s offered a room before. But she has this—” She waved a hand at the room.
“We can take you to the station whilst this gets all sorted, get your statement as well. Once it’s all done, you and Agnes will be okay to leave.”
Billie nodded. “Can I get some of my things?” she asked.
I looked to Mills, who nodded. “I’ll stay with this lot,” he said, looking to the uniformed officers that walked carefully inside.
“Come on then, Billie,” I said, rising from the chair. She stood up, keeping the blanket firmly around her shoulders, and followed me outside, down the alley to her flat. It looked safe, but I wasn’t taking any chances, and she handed me the keys to go in first, sticking close to my back, her short, shaking breaths loud behind me.
“All clear,” I told her, stepping aside. “Just grab what you need. We can always have someone come for anything else.” She nodded and moved off towards the little hallway, flicking on lights as she went.
I took a look around, blown away by the difference between this place and her father’s. It was bright, colourful, and messy, in a lovely lived-in way. I walked around the living room, looking at some of the photographs of her and Stella, bright-eyed and laughing. There were books on the shelves, unorganised but well-read. A stack of DVDs by the small television, a few potted plants, a bit wilted, propped on any random surface. It was a nice place; I was sure it had been a good home for her and Stella.
Down on the sofa, an orange cat stared up at me. I scratched its head and walked over to the small kitchen where dishes were in the sink, though not many of them. I looked in the fridge and the cupboard quickly, frowning at the lack of food inside. Nothing matched, I realised, and the cupboards had been hand-painted with leaves and flowers, the fridge covered in alphabet magnets.
Stella loves Billie.
My chest clenched, and I wondered if Stella had left that there for her, if it had been her note. I didn’t touch a single magnet, making sure I didn’t knock into the fridge as I walked past, back into the living room.
Billie appeared from down
the hall, a coat now wrapped around her, having changed into warmer clothes, a rucksack hauled over her shoulder. She looked around longingly at everything. Then her eyes landed on the cat before coming to me.
“Bring it,” I said. “Can’t leave it here on its own.” Billie looked relieved and scooped the cat up.
“Her,” she corrected me, walking towards the door. She waited outside as I locked up.
“Does she have a name?” I asked.
“Just Cat,” she told me. “Stella was a big Audrey Hepburn fan,” she explained, no sign of a smile on her face. She’d gone quiet and still, shock setting in.
“Have you eaten recently?” I asked, steering her towards the steps. She shook her head, holding Cat closer to her chest. I sighed, sounding like a fatigued parent, sounding like Elsie, I realised.
“We should get you something sugary,” I muttered, walking beside her back to the front. Mills met us outside, smiling at the hairball in Billie’s arms.
“Agnes Lamb is one her way in. She’ll meet you at the station,” he told Billie, “and will take you home with her afterwards.” Then he looked to me. “We’ve got officers out on the street, looking out for Freya.”
I nodded, knowing we’d need as many pairs of eyes out there as we could get.
Billie shifted her weight, adjusting her hold on the cat. “Is my dad still there? At the station?” She asked, looking down at the pavement.
“Yes. But not for much longer, though he has wasted police time, which wasn’t nice of him,” I added, scratching the back of my neck.
“Would you want to go with him?” Mills asked, and Billie quickly shook her head.
“No. I’d like to talk to him,” she said. “If I can.”
“Of course, you can. We’ll see you back at the station, Mills,” I said with a nod. He smiled back, and I walked Billie over to my car, causally left unlocked. She slid into the chair, dropping her bag by her feet, the cat bundled in her arms.
“She’s fairly docile,” I observed casually as I started the engine.
“She likes being held,” Billie said, stroking the fluffy orange ears. “She gets antsy if you don’t pay her enough attention.”
Guilty Conscious Page 21
