Guilty Conscious

by Oliver Davies

  “Right,” Altman announced, making Edward jump. “Good work, Vinson. Very good.” He handed Edward back the essay, smiling at him over the top of his glasses. His beard was turning grey in places, a stark contrast against his brown skin, and he constantly tugged at the stiff collar of his shirt and the sleeves of his tweed coat.

  “You like it?” Edward took the essay back, looking down at it himself.

  “I think the last two paragraphs need a little work,” Altman said, taking his glasses off, folding them up, and crossing his legs. “You start off strong, always do, but towards the end, we lose you a bit. Rework them, and then the conclusion will need a tweak, and you’ll have a star essay there, Vinson.”

  “I thought the last two paragraphs were fine,” Edward protested. “I tied in my earlier thing,” he pointed to the second page, “the Virgil quote from the fourth paragraph. I thought it worked.”

  “It does work,” Altman replied. “It’s just a bit clunky.”

  “Clunky?” Edward repeated.

  “Not as well structured as the rest of it. I’d hate to see you miss out on a top mark because of two paragraphs out of an otherwise brilliant piece of work. Work on them, bring them back to me on Thursday, and we’ll have another look.”

  “Thursday?” Edward asked, putting his essay into his bag, his annoyance growing.

  “Yes. I have a free spot, same time Thursday.”

  “I have rugby on Thursday,” Edward told him. “And that’s only two days.”

  “So?”

  “So, I have other assignments to do,” Edward said, his anger rising. “I can’t put everything off and cancel rugby because you don’t like two little paragraphs.”

  Professor Altman sighed heavily and fixed Edward with a disapproving stare. “Two paragraphs should not take you long, Edward. You’re a smart lad, and you know your stuff. You could get it done easily.”

  “If I didn’t have other things to do,” Edward retorted. “Like rugby.”

  “Rugby can wait, boy.” Altman waved his hand through the air. “A classical education is more important, anyway.”

  “Then getting fresh air, physical exercise, and socializing with my friends?” Edward replied in a dead voice.

  Altman somehow managed to look even more disapproving then. “You and I both know that, if anything, you could do a little less socialising.”

  That was hardly fair. You get a little too drunk in a pub and a police escort home one time, and it’s all anyone can ever think about, even when it happened last year. Granted, there had been slight property damage in the spring, but that wasn’t only him. There were loads of other people around.

  “You’re here for a reason, Edward,” Altman was carrying on, “and that reason is that.” He pointed a long finger to Edward’s bag and the essay inside. “You’re a smart boy, and you have a fantastic mind. I think you have so much potential, and you could do so well if you just concentrate a bit more. Stop being quite so reckless. It’ll only hurt you in the long run.”

  Edward just nodded. It was a lecture he had heard before, and from more influential people than Altman. He had learnt simply to lower his head and nod, looking like a solemn little puppy until they left it alone.

  “Thursday,” Altman repeated, clearly having had enough of giving him this particular lecture. “You can leave it on my desk,” he allowed, tapping the cluttered piece of furniture in question, “but it will be here on Thursday, Edward. No later than five.”

  Edward grumbled under his breath, standing up from the chair, and threw his bag over one shoulder with unnecessary roughness. He walked away from Altman without another word, swinging the door open, muttering under his breath. Altman sighed behind him, but the door shut, cutting the sound off, and Edward turned, flipped his middle fingers at the closed door, then stormed down the narrow, winding staircase.

  The air outside cooled him down, a welcome cold, clean change from the dismal room above. He fished his phone out, wanting to see if Freya had texted him again. He liked her, or rather, he liked the attention she gave him, more so than anyone else seemed to anymore. There was nothing. He supposed not, given that he’d see her face to face in a little while. Edward replied to a few others from his friends, trying to make plans for the weekend that they really ought not to do without him there. Their ideas were all so boring, vanilla. None of them would ever do anything exciting and story-worthy if Edward weren’t there to shepherd them in the right direction. Poor souls. Once he replied, he spotted a missed call from his father, and already glowering at the prospect of what this conversation might lead to, called him back.

  “Edward,” his father greeted him after one ring. He’d have been sitting there, Edward knew. Sat on his leather armchair, the phone on the arm by his hand, glaring at the screen, muttering to his mum and the dogs about rude Edward taking too long to return a simple phone call.

  “Hi, Dad. Sorry, I missed your call; I was in with Professor Altman.”

  “Ah, your essay,” he cheered up instantly. Couldn’t be mad at Edward for making him wait, not when education was involved. “How did it go?”

  “He wants me to rework the last two paragraphs by Thursday,” Edward grumbled.

  “Is that a problem?” his father inquired.

  “I have another assignment to do,” Edward told him. “And I have rugby with the boys on Thursday, you know that.”

  “You can miss one day of rugby, Edward,” his father told him sternly.

  Edward stopped walking and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply. His father cared more about his classical education than anything else. Edward had gone to school with colds, with the flu, almost once with an infection until his mum put her foot down. Nothing was more important than Edward doing well in school. Get the grades, go and do a Master’s at Oxford or somewhere equally stuffy.

  “Why did you call, Dad?” he managed to ask without blowing his lid.

  “Your mother and I are having a dinner party on Friday. Some of my old work colleagues will be there and some old friends. We’d like you to come along.”

  “To have dinner with a load of people I don’t know?” Edward asked.

  “There will be people you know,” his father assured him. “Mikael and Walburga will be there with their children, and Desmond and Riley. And your mother would like to see you actually when you’re not hungover or here to use the washing machine and eat all our food.”

  Edward wondered if those were mum’s words or dad’s.

  “I’ll have to see,” Edward told him, fixing his bag back onto his shoulder and walking off again. “It depends on if I get those assignments done in time.”

  “You can do them over the weekend,” his dad told him.

  “That sort of defeats the point of having a weekend, dad,” Edward pointed out.

  “Really, Edward,” he could hear him getting annoyed now. “We just want you to come home and have dinner for one night. It is not that difficult of a request!”

  There were some murmurings on the other side of the phone, and then his dad’s laboured, irritated breathing was gone.

  “Eddie?” came a softer, gentler voice.

  Edward sighed. “Hi, mum.”

  “Hello, darling. What’s all this about essays and assignments then?”

  “Professor Altman wants me to rework mine by Thursday.”

  There was a slight pause. “You have rugby on Thursday,” she said.

  Edward smiled. “I do.”

  “And what about your other course work?” she asked, annoyed on his behalf. “Doesn’t he know he’s not your only professor?”

  “I think he’s forgotten.”

  “Really,” she scoffed. “Well, darling, if you can’t make it on Friday, don’t you worry.”

  Edward paused on the path again, squeezing his eyes shut. “How many people will be there?” he asked quietly.

  “About eight,” she answered.

  “What are you making?”


  “Whatever you want, darling.”

  “Roast beef!” his father shouted over the top of her. She shushed him, and Edward could picture her waving her hand to silence him.

  “Whatever you want,” she repeated. “I can do the lamb you like? And pavlova for pudding?”

  Edward sighed through his nose; anything was worth that dinner menu. “Wouldn’t miss it, mum.”

  “That’s my boy. See you on Friday, my love. Bring a friend if you want to,” she added. “Maybe that nice girl we met last time?”

  Freya. Bringing Freya would make the whole thing more tolerable, but he didn’t want mum getting attached to her. Freya was fun, but that was about it.

  “We’ll see. Chat later, mum.”

  “Alright, darling. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” Edward replied, hanging up the phone. He let out the groan then, kicked a tree trunk too. Rework the essay, get his assignments done, dinner party with mum and dad and all their heinous friends. And he couldn’t even play a game of rugby to make himself feel better.

  As he walked across the campus, back to his room, he remembered that Freya was coming. And that Freya happened to be something of a genius at writing. If she did it, he could have his essay squared away tonight, get it to Altman early, squeeze in a game of rugby. Lovely. She’d take some convincing, though, but he’d manage that.

  He got back to his room early, with around twenty minutes until she was due. He tossed his things onto his bed, kicked his shoes off into the corner of the room and left his laptop on the desk. Edward had a quick shower, trying to wash away the stifled, stale air of Altman’s office from his skin, and padded back to his room with a towel around his waist, dripping water on the floor. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a jumper that Freya had complimented before, tugged on a pair of socks, threw his towel in the washing hamper, and stood in front of the mirror, fixing his hair.

  He turned the radio on, tuning in to a local station as the news was finishing up.

  “Police in West Yorkshire are appealing to anyone with information about the disappearance of a teenage girl from Leeds following suspected sexual assault. Any witnesses from the area are asked to come forward and share with the police what they know.”

  Edward reached over and tuned into another station, playing mindless pop music that he hated, but Freya liked. He sprawled out on his bed, waiting for her to arrive. She was late, of course. He pulled up the news app on his phone, skimming through stories about a crisis in the Middle East, European politics and local news stories. He froze over the picture of a girl’s face. A girl who’d committed suicide about a week ago.

  He scrolled past. Still no Freya. The girl needed a proper watch, like his. He was fond of his. It had been his grandfather’s once, and it was worth more than most things the family had. The look on his father’s face when grandad’s will had left it to Edward rather than him had been one of the best sights in Edward’s life.

  At last, someone knocked heavily on the door. Edward opened it up, surprised by the face on the other side. The door closed, and a short while later, it opened again, a blood-drenched figure racing into the growing evening.

  Edward lay on the floor of his room, his vision splotches of black and red. His head hurt. The black took over, washing out the red.

  Two

  Thatcher

  “We’re going to be late,” I called through the front door. I stood outside, dangling my house keys in my hand, waiting for Liene.

  “I know, I know,” she answered, coming tripping to the door, putting one shoe on and carrying the other in her hand with her bag and coat. “Blame the museum board. They don’t half drone on.”

  She made it out of the house, both shoes on her feet, and I shut the door and locked it as she pulled her coat on. Then she shouldered her bag, flipped her hair from her face breathlessly and sighed loudly.

  “Ready,” she announced, holding her hand out expectantly. With a grin, I took it, twining our fingers again as we walked down the stairs and onto the road.

  We were heading to a restaurant a few streets away to meet Mills and Susanne, a recently opened place that all of us had expressed an interest in trying. Liene had set it up, booked the table and all that, so I supposed we could excuse being a few minutes late.

  It was early September, the air still warm, summer hanging on by a thread. Late-blooming flowers lent their sweet, heady scent to the air, sprouting up in gardens and patches of green, growing through fences and crawling along buildings. Liene traipsed alongside me, pointing out historical buildings that we passed, telling me stories about the city that I had never learnt about before. It was always fun, walking along with her, listening to her soothing voice recite dates and names, never faltering or tripping up.

  We rounded the corner to the street the restaurant was on, and I quickly spotted Mills and Susanne outside, leaning against the wall, talking with their heads close together, smiles on their faces.

  “Are we interrupting?” I asked as we walked across the road and joined them on the pavement. Mills straightened up, giving me a little glare as Liene let go of my hand and reached for Susanne, giving her a swift hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Evening, sir,” Mills said with a nod. Formalities over and done with, I gave him a quick buddy hug, his hand thumping once on the back.

  “Isaac. Shall we? I’m starving,” I said, opening the door for them all. We filed in, were promptly seated and given menus, and I breathed in deeply, savouring the smell of cumin and garlic, the fire of chilli in the back of my throat.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this all week,” Susanne chirped, shrugging her coat off and flicking through the menu.

  “She likes spicy food,” Mills told us, helping her when she got awkwardly tangled in her sleeve.

  “The spicier, the better in my book,” she confirmed.

  “Mine too,” Liene agreed. I glanced down at my own menu, never particularly one for spice. I gravitated more to other flavours or anything with seafood.

  We were all startled from our browsing by Mills’s phone, gently ringing in his pocket. He groaned slightly, leaning back to fish it out and glance at the number, looking ready to switch the damn thing off. His face blanked, and he shot me a glance before rising from his seat and touching Susanne’s shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” he muttered apologetically, pressing his phone to his ear as he stepped back outside. I could see him through the window, pacing a small circle, one hand in his pocket, face set seriously. I knew that expression, I had a very similar one myself. Work.

  “Does anyone want to share a starter with me?” Susanne asked.

  “I do,” Liene answered her. “Anything with a pakora involved.”

  Mills came back inside, looking woefully annoyed and concerned.

  “Do they need you?” Susanne asked, looking up at him. Mills fixed his gaze on me.

  “I’m afraid they need us both.” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Both?”

  “Sharp’s orders,” he told me darkly. I knew that expression too. Murder.

  “Sorry, ladies,” I said, standing and pulling my coat back on.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Liene smiled up at me. “We’ll have a girls’ night, won’t we?”

  “Sounds perfect. Go on,” Susanne said, handing Mills his coat and waving at him. “Off you trot.”

  He bent down and kissed her cheek, and I handed Liene my house keys, giving her a quick wink before following Mills out of the restaurant. He had driven here, his car parked a little way down the road, and we piled in, quickly taking off.

  “What have we got?” I asked, trying not to focus on my growling stomach.

  “Dead body found at the university,” he answered. “Crowe’s on her way to the site, and SOCO has secured the scene.”

  “Christ,” I muttered. “Student?”

  “Most likely. The witness is a student, so I’d say so.”

  I sat back in my chair, annoyed and hungry. T
he university wasn’t far away, and soon enough, Mills pulled over to the side of the road, and we headed towards the buzz of officers and flashing lights. A few students and onlookers hung around the little courtyard, held back by the police tape and the scattered uniformed officers taking a few statements.

  As we approached, the sky turning dark, making the old building look decidedly ominous, Smith jogged over to us, holding up the tape for us to duck under. We were at an accommodation block, I realised, fancier than I thought they usually were.

  “What have we got?” I asked as she led us across the courtyard and towards the building that members of SOCO flitted in and out of.

  “Young man, named Edward Vinson, a student, found dead in his room.” Smith nodded to a girl sitting with a paramedic, a blanket around her shoulders. Her face was stricken pale, and she shakily held onto a cup of water. “The witness, Freya Fox, called it in.”

  “Homicide?” Mills inquired.

  “Not my job to rule that, but,” she stopped by the door and nodded inside, “not hard to tell.”

  I ducked into the room, Mills on my heel, taking a pair of gloves from one of the crime scene team as I did, snapping them into place.

  Once inside the room, I froze in place. It was gruesome, one of the more gruesome things I’d seen in a while. Smith was right. There was no denying that this had been done to him. What was left of him, that was.

  Edward Vinson’s head was beaten in, blood drenching and drying on the carpeted floor. Splatters of blood stretched across the wall, droplets on the bed, the desk. Mills cursed quietly beside me.

  “Mind where you tread,” I warned him, stepping around the bloody carpet and bending down to Edward. “Smith?”

  “Sir,” she answered from the doorway.

  “We’re sure it’s Vinson?”

  “The room is definitely his, sir, and the witness recognised the clothes. ID in his wallet, too, sir. It’s him.”

  I nodded and reached out, taking the wallet in question and opened it up. A student ID was there, alongside a driver’s licence, debit card, a coffee card and a few notes of cash. He even had a trolley token in with his handful of copper coins. I put the wallet back and carefully looked over the body itself. He had a fancy watch on one wrist, the kind that looked like it would be worth more than my car, and a signet ring on his little finger. Looking around the room from where I crouched on the floor, I noted a laptop on the desk, a smartphone on the bed and a television in the corner. Not a robbery then, that much was clear to see. Mills carefully bagged up the laptop and smartphone, looking over the desk without moving much. A few textbooks sat on the surface, and fiction books hung around in various places. The walls were plastered with grainy photographs, posters, quotes and flyers, many of them now ruined by splashes of blood.