Guilty Conscious

by Oliver Davies

  I stood up, knees aching, and walked around the room, looking at some of the photographs. Most of them Edward was in, or I assumed he was in. It was hard to recognise his face, to tell the truth. But he had pale blonde hair that showed in the photos. I recognised the girl from outside, Freya, in a few of them, along with some other young people, more students. His friends, I supposed. There was another, framed this time, on his desk. He was sitting between two older people, the woman with hair exactly like his.

  “Parents?” Mills suggested, looking over my shoulder.

  “I’d say so.” I turned away from the smiling faces, looking back at the floor. This much blood, you’d expect something else, footprints on the clean carpet or leading out into the corridor, but there was nothing. The lock on the door was fine, and there was no sign of a break-in through the window. Edward’s shoes were off, kicked over by the wardrobe, his back slung across the back of his desk chair, coat left where his phone was on the bed. It looked like he’d come back in for the evening, and whoever had come knocking, he must have known a little. Must have let them in.

  “Electronics all here, watch still on his wrist, wallet full,” Mills muttered. “Not a robbery then.”

  “Personal. Look at the state of him. This wasn’t an accident. Someone was angry with you, Vinson,” I muttered, squatting back down to the body. “Who was it? And what did you do to piss them off this badly?”

  “Dr Crowe is here,” Smith called from the doorway. I stood back up and peeled my gloves off, striding from the room and the lingering smell of iron and death, taking in huge gulps of cold September air as I walked back out into the courtyard where Crowe and her team had arrived. She was pulling her white suit on, yanking the zip-up with an authoritative movement.

  “Lena,” I greeted her.

  “Thatcher,” she answered, flipping the hood up over her tufty blonde hair. She gave me an apologetic smile. “Thought you weren’t working tonight?”

  “Sharp’s orders,” I told her, looking over my shoulder to the room. “Can’t blame her on this occasion.”

  “That bad?” she asked, picking up her bag.

  I nodded. “I’ll need as much as you can get on this one.”

  Crowe rolled her eyes. “You mind actually letting me take a look at the body before you start pestering me for information?”

  I smiled wryly and stood aside, sweeping my arm towards the building. She strode off, passing Mills as he stepped into the fresh air, a grim look on his face. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket as he walked, flipping it open to a clear page and began scribbling down thoughts as they came into his head.

  “Edward Vinson,” he muttered as he wrote. “Student, nineteen years old.”

  “Local,” I added. He looked up at me questioningly. “Address on his driver’s licence is on the other side of the city. I’m guessing it’s his family home.”

  “Might be worth finding out if he has a car here,” Mills noted. I doubted it, a local student wouldn’t really need one, but I nodded back.

  “No sign of a break-in,” he went on, back to his notebook. “No obvious valuables stolen unless they were after something else.”

  “No sign of a murder weapon,” I added, disgruntled about it. From the look of him, I’d say something used something heavy to attack him, that wasn’t the work of fists or feet, but there was nothing left behind that stuck out.

  Mills sighed and flipped his notebook closed. “I couldn’t spot any sign of CCTV in the building, but there’s some around.” He nodded to the buildings surrounding us, a few cameras hidden up in the roofs and rafters.

  “We’ll get in touch with security,” I said. “See if they picked up anything useful.”

  “We should get these to Wasco quickly, too,” Mills added, hefting the laptop and phone in his hand. “Get in touch with Vinson’s parents.”

  I nodded, and my stomach grumbled. I’d had an early lunch, ridiculously early, to make the most of tonight’s dinner plans. Now I was hungry, and that wouldn’t bode well at all, especially with a witness to talk to. Mills dug his car keys from his pocket and tossed them my way.

  “There’s a granola bar in the glove compartment,” he told me, handing me the laptop and phone as well. I nodded gratefully and took the evidence, ducking back under the tape and skirting around the gathered crowd to his car. I stowed everything carefully in the boot, then opened the passenger door and rifled into the glove compartment for the granola bar. True to Mills’s form, it had chocolate chips in it, and I wolfed it down in a few bites, noticing a few journalists turn up to the scene. I shut the car door and locked it, striding back over and nodding to some of the uniformed officers.

  “Let’s start clearing these people away,” I said to them lowly. “Crowe will be bringing the body out soon enough, and we don’t need an audience for that.”

  The PC nodded and walked towards the crowd. “Alright, folks, let’s clear it out! Have a bit of respect!”

  Her stern voice did the job. The students started returning to their rooms, no doubt triple checking that their doors were locked tonight. I wondered who the hell was in charge of all this, where I might track down the dean and knock a few answers out of them. The journalists remained a while longer, shooting questions to a few of the students, who had nothing to tell them anyway, and I made my way over to them.

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” one of them recognised me, someone from the Post. “You’re leading this investigation?”

  “I am.”

  “What can you tell us?”

  “I can tell you that we are still in the beginning stage of our investigation, still ascertaining exactly what has happened here. But we can’t do that when we’re distracted by civilians on our crime scene. So, I ask that you take off, go home to your families, and we will release a formal statement when the full extent of the situation is clear.” I said it all as politely as I could and even added a grim but friendly smile. My eyes narrowed enough that they nodded and kindly back off. They wouldn’t get anything to report on here, not if I had a bloody say in it.

  “Sir,” Mills joined me and nodded over to the ambulance where the witness still sat. “She’s ready for us now. The paramedic said she’s in shock and should be left in someone’s care. Her mother is on the way now, so we have a few minutes until she gets here.”

  I nodded and strode over to the pale-faced girl, her arms wrapped around her knees.

  Three

  Thatcher

  The witness looked positively unwell, and I resigned myself to stay with her until her mother pitched up. The poor girl was as pale as death, the skin behind her scattered freckles pale, her eyes bloodshot, unblinking, and her body trembled, even as she wrapped her arms around herself. As we walked over, I glanced over the rest of her. A pair of colourful Dr Marten boots were clean from any blood, and with the lack of footprints in the room, I realised she probably hadn’t even gone fully in. Wouldn’t have needed to. She wore a ring on every finger that she twiddled with occasionally, staring blankly at the pavement. Her clothes were hidden under the blanket, and her brown hair fell around her face, protecting her from the voyeurs that had gathered around the scene.

  I stopped just before her and squatted down to her level.

  “Freya Fox?” I asked, and she looked up and nodded jerkily. “I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher, this is Detective Sergeant Mills, with the North Yorkshire Police. Can we sit with you?”

  She nodded again, and Mills and I settled down on the kerb beside her, the stone cold under my legs.

  “Can you tell us a little bit about what happened?” I asked her gently.

  Freya nodded a third time and reached a hand up to wipe her nose. Mills dug out a tissue and passed it over me, and her shaking hand clutched it, balling it up in her fist. She cleared her throat.

  “I needed to borrow a book from Edward.” Her high, uneven voice faltered over his name, and she swallowed a sob before carrying on. “He told me to meet him in hi
s room, he had a meeting with his tutor that kept him late. So, I came up, knocked on the door. He didn’t answer, but it was open, so I pushed it and—” She broke off again, sobs racking her body. Smith was over the way, talking to some people that looked like university staff, so I couldn’t call her over to us. Not wanting to touch Freya, I angled myself around a bit more and tried to keep my voice soothing.

  “It’s alright, Freya. You’re doing very well,” I told her.

  “I ran out,” she persevered. “Threw up in a bin,” she pointed a twitching finger to the one in question, just outside the main door, “and then called for help.”

  “You did very well,” Mills assured her. “Did you see anybody around? Anyone at all, when you were on your way to his room?”

  Freya shook her head. “I was running a bit late,” she managed a chuckle through her crying. “He hated it when people were late.”

  I smiled back. “How well did you know him?”

  “We met in our first year. Been friends ever since.”

  “Whereabouts were you coming from, Freya?” I asked, looking around the courtyard. The buildings were strangely shaped, and there were enough hedges and benches that someone could be covered, depending on where they walked.

  “I live off campus,” she pointed to the main gate, “with mum.”

  I looked over there. A straight path ran to the main door, so anyone who went to the far side of the courtyard could have gotten away without her seeing them.

  “Who is Edward’s tutor?” I asked her.

  “Umm. Professor Altman. Social Sciences.”

  I looked over to Mills, meeting his eye, and he subtly pulled his notebook out, making a note of the name. There was noise over from the gate, and a woman came hurrying along to the police tape, stopped by a constable.

  “Freya!” she called frantically. Freya lifted her head, face brightening, fresh tears falling down her face.

  “Mum,” she croaked. I waved to the constable who let her pass, and Freya lurched to her feet, managing to run the last few steps into her mother’s outstretched arms. I rose to my feet as Smith headed over, her face drawn. She looked over at the mother and daughter with a sad smile, then looked up at me.

  “There are a few other students with room in this block. They’ll be moved to temporary accommodations, and the staff will handle the other students. Anyone who might have seen anything will be asked to step forward, and they’ll be left with a number to the station.”

  “Good work, Smith. Head home, you can take care of the paperwork tomorrow.”

  She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Thank you, sir. See you in the morning.” She nodded to myself and Mills, then turned and ducked under the tape.

  I closed the gap between myself and Freya. Her mother cradled her face, wiping away tears before holding her close to her chest again. She looked at me over the top of her daughter’s head.

  “You’re the detective?”

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I introduced myself with a little bow of the head.

  “Genevieve Fox,” she replied with a nod, pulling her handbag up onto her shoulder. “Can I take her home?”

  “We’ll need to take a formal statement at some point. The earlier, the better, but for now, yes. You take her home.”

  “Will she need to come into the station for the statement?”

  “She can write one up, but if she prefers to speak to us again, bring her in anytime.” I pulled a card from my wallet and handed it over. “If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to get in touch. We can help you find grief or counselling services if need be.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.” Genevieve took the card and tucked it into the pocket of her trench coat. “Come on, love,” she said to her daughter. “Let’s get you home.” She gently led her away, murmuring softly, and I stood and watched as the constable lifted the tape for them both, and they headed to the car left haphazardly on the side of the road. Given the circumstances, I don’t think anyone would write her up for that. It would be pretty heartless of them to, anyway.

  “Sir,” Mills appeared by my side once more, his young face looking fatigued. He wordlessly nodded to the main door where Crowe was emerging with a gurney, the body bag safely on top and loaded it into the ambulance. She walked over to us, unzipping herself from her gear with a tight-lipped smile.

  “Mills,” she greeted him.

  “Lena.”

  “What have we got?” I asked, straight to business.

  “We’ve got exactly what it looks like, Max. Someone beat him in the head repeatedly with something heavy.”

  “A hammer?” Mills suggested.

  “Hard to say without getting a proper, deeper look. But I’d say it was flat, maybe cornered with the way some of those cuts look. Not a hammer. Something they’d need a proper grip on, this was a close-range hit.”

  “Cause of death?” I asked.

  Crowe blew out a long breath, shoving her suit down to her waist. “Blood loss, head trauma. Take your pick.”

  “What about a time?” I asked, and she gave me a withering stare. “I know you don’t like being rushed.”

  “And yet here you are, rushing me. Careful, Max, I can pick a new favourite DI, you know.”

  “None of the other DI’s bring you your favourite chocolate after doing such brilliant post-mortems,” I pointed out.

  Lena rolled her eyes but gave a thoughtful nod of the head. “At the moment, I’d say anywhere between five and seven. When did it get called in?”

  Mills checked his notes. “Eight minutes past seven.”

  Crowe nodded. “Closer to six then, let’s say.”

  “I imagine there’s quite a lot of coming and going around here at this time,” I muttered, looking around the courtyard yet again.

  “Well, our killer would have been quite a state,” Crowe pointed out. “Lots of blood, Thatcher, lots of it. Someone walking through like that would have caught an eye.”

  “So, where was everybody else?” I asked, looking at the numerous windows that faced into the courtyard.

  “There might be another way and out,” Mills suggested, scratching his head and looking back towards the main door. “A back exit. It’s a pretty old building. There could be all sorts in there.”

  “Or they never left,” Crowe said chirpily, peeling her suit fully off and snapping upright.

  I shared a glance with Mills, wondering if she had a point. Maybe there was a killer knocking about in one of those old rooms.

  “The other students have been moved out,” I said. “We can check the other rooms for blood or an exit, but there should be nobody else in this entire chunk of the building.”

  I wanted to follow the same order I gave to Smith, to call it a day and finish the paperwork tomorrow. Instead, I jerked my chin at Mills.

  “Come on,” I muttered.

  We needed to have a look around before anyone else got the chance to come in, clean up after themselves.

  “See you tomorrow,” Crowe called as she gave a wave, heading over to join the rest of her team. Inside, SOCO was about done, shutting up Edward’s room and locking it tight, police tape stretched across the door. We muttered farewells with them as we passed, and in the gloomy corridor, Mills flicked the light switch.

  It was a classic hallway. The walls were half-panelled in a dark glossy wood, the top half home to various notice boards offering events at the student union, tutors, car shares, all the usual notices. Fire safety panels and the odd fire blanket, CPR guidelines and everything else people involved to make sure the students didn’t drop like flies whilst here.

  “Do third years often stay in halls?” I asked as we walked past Edward’s room.

  “Depends,” Mills replied. “This,” he waved an arm around the hall, “feels more like choice than circumstance.”

  I nodded at that, thinking about Edward’s expensive watch, the signet ring and fancy laptop. He was a lad of wealth; I could tell that much at first glance.


  I pushed open the first door, finding a room just like his but decidedly more feminine, with clothes strewn about, likely from the fast packing, and an impressive collection of books. No blood, though.

  The same went for the next room, with its handmade quilt that I wondered if its owner would miss and an illicit kettle hidden in a cupboard. The next room was impeccably clean, the bed even made with hospital corners, with a few books about war and strategy on the shelves and a model Spitfire hanging from the ceiling.

  After that was the boy’s bathroom. We pushed our way in, looking for any traces of blood, dropped or washed away. As Mills walked over to the showers, I checked the sink, looking for any washed-out red, the tiled floor for boot prints or bits of blood stuck in the grout.

  Nothing.

  We left it, checking the next three bedrooms until we reached the girl’s bathroom, which we entered with slightly less certainty than the previous one, though for no reason. It was the same, and yet, much nicer. A few fake plants sat on some spare surfaces, and the whole thing was infinitely cleaner than the other one. Towels were hung up, dry, or folded neatly. We repeated the search, looking for any traces of blood on the floors, in the sinks or the showers. Nothing.

  There were two more rooms, recently evacuated, and a small kitchen that we checked briefly and, content with the absence of a murder weapon, blood stains or a maniacal killer themselves, left the building, where a campus security guard had arrived to lock it tightly.