Guilty Conscious

by Oliver Davies

  “Thank you,” I said, pushing myself from the desk and walking down the hall, Mills jogging to catch up with me.

  “Both in the same place,” he muttered. “Handy.”

  “It is lunchtime,” I pointed out. We reached the door in question, and I rapped on it before opening it and walking inside. A handful of professors sat around, eating, talking, drinking coffee, and they all paused and looked over as we walked in.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said with a polite smile. “DCI Thatcher and DS Mills. We’re looking for Professor Altman and Professor Greenberg?”

  “The two of them at the same time?” a man called from the back. “You’re a brave man.”

  “Thank you.”

  Two figures stood up and made their way over, glancing at each other with slight distaste. The woman reached us first, her golden hair half tied up, the rest of it spilling down over the shoulders of her long black coat.

  “You’re here because of Edward Vinson?” she asked, her hands in her pockets.

  “We are.”

  “Professor Greenberg,” she introduced herself with a nod.

  “Professor Altman.” The man joined us a second later, his wild black hair dancing as he nodded at us both. “I was Edward’s tutor.”

  “Shall we?” I asked, indicating the door. They followed us outside and walked us down to a little outside area where we stood in a loose square.

  “Professor Altman, we understand that Edward attended a meeting with you last night?”

  “Yes,” he said grimly. “In my office.”

  “What time did he leave?” Mills asked.

  “Oh, around six? Was a bit keen to leave really, I think he didn’t like his feedback.”

  Professor Greenberg rolled her eyes. “He didn’t like anything that hurt his ego.”

  “He’s dead, Angela,” Professor Altman retorted.

  “He’s not the only one, Yosef,” she snapped back.

  I looked over to Mills and gave him a slight nod. He took Professor Altman over to one side, clearing up the events of last night, leaving me with the stern woman.

  “What do you teach, Professor?”

  She gave me a wry smile. “Criminal psychology.”

  I huffed a laugh. “You taught Billie Helman?”

  “I did,” she replied quickly. “I take it you learnt about Stella?” I appreciated her straightforwardness.

  “We did. You don’t think Edward was innocent?”

  She shook her head. “Not everybody worshipped the ground he walked on. I study people, Inspector, much as you do. I know the sort of person he was underneath it all. Manipulative. Mean.”

  I made a mental note of that and asked, “What about Billie?”

  “Brilliant girl.” Her face softened. “Such a shame she didn’t carry on with her studies. Smarter than he was, but after her sister…” She shrugged and shook her head. “The family situation wasn’t great. They moved out from their dad’s place, and Billie sort of took everything on herself.”

  “Do you know where we can find her?” I asked.

  She hesitated, looking me over with narrowed eyes.

  “We just want to talk to her,” I assured her.

  “She works at a café over by the Minster. Little place, blue, birds on it, I forget the name. I see her there Friday afternoons for a chat. She’ll be there,” the professor assured me.

  “Thank you,” I told her gratefully as Mills walked over, Altman heading back inside. They glared at each other, and she looked back at me.

  “Billie’s an emotional girl,” she told me. “She has good reason to, but she’s not a killer.” She looked me in the eye. “You’ll know that when you meet her, I suppose. Please go easy with her.” She turned then and walked away, heels clicking.

  “Sir?” Mills asked. “I’ve got Altman’s statement.”

  “I’ve got a café we can try,” I replied, “where Billie Helman works.”

  Nine

  Thatcher

  As Mills drove us across the city, I took a look at Altman’s statement. According to him, Edward Vinson had arrived for their meeting at just after five and had stayed there until just gone six. He’d been, other than receiving some slight criticism on his essay, in a fine, usual mood. Altman praised the boy, using many of the same compliments his parents did. He was smart, bright, though Altman did suggest he could have taken his work more seriously.

  “Very opposing opinion from Professor Greenberg,” I muttered, closing Mills’s notebook.

  “Oh?” He replied.

  “Definitely not a fan of his,” I told him. “She called him manipulative and mean, seemed to believe Stella and Billie’s side of things.”

  “She appears to be the only one.”

  I hummed in agreement. “She teaches criminal psychology,” I informed him.

  He gave a short laugh. “Maybe we should be heeding her more closely than the others then.”

  “Maybe, but she stayed in touch with Billie, sees her on Friday afternoons at the café. So, she could be a bit biased herself, just the other way around.”

  “If she was of the opinion that it was the sort of thing Edward would do,” Mills answered, “it’s worth bearing in mind, right?”

  “Right. His father did say he wouldn’t have ever needed to assault a girl, I’m guessing, to get what he wanted. Maybe he wasn’t used to hearing no.”

  “Maybe something went on with him, and Billie and Stella just got caught in the crossfire,” Mills added.

  “Only one who can tell us for sure is Billie. All we can get from the rest of them are ideas and opinions shaped by their very favourable loyalty to Edward. Billie should help tip the scales,” I said.

  “Might be worth tracking down her father as well then,” Mills added, pulling to a park on the side of a road, opposite the café, blue and painted with birds. “See if he had a particular feeling either way.”

  “Greenberg said he’s not in the picture anymore. The girls moved out, so it doesn’t sound like he was exactly on their side,” I reminded him, climbing from the car. The lunch rush slowly faded, and the café was quiet. That was useful. Nothing more annoying than having to track down a suspect in the middle of a busy place.

  We walked to the café, the door opening with a ding of the bell above us. Only a few tables were occupied inside, the customers bent over books or laptops. The general atmosphere of the place was relaxed, with soft music playing from the speakers. A shelf of pastries caught my eye as we walked over to the counter where two people chatted happily.

  The older of them, a woman with streaks of grey in her dark hair, turned to us and smiled.

  “Good afternoon, gents. What can I get you today?” We dug out our warrant cards and placed them on the counter where the other customers wouldn’t see them.

  “We’re looking for a Belinda Helman,” I told her. “Billie.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, and she took up a defensive stance. “Is she in trouble?”

  “No. We just have a few questions for her about an investigation we’re working on. We think she can clarify a couple of things for us.”

  The woman relaxed a bit but didn’t take her eyes off us as she nodded to the man beside her. “She’s in the backroom. Send her through.”

  He nodded and strode off, and the woman held out her hand. “I’m Agnes Lamb, and I own the café.”

  “it’s lovely,” I told her.

  “Very relaxing,” Mills agreed. “We’ll have to come back when we’re not working. The Inspector here has a taste for Danishes,” he said. Agnes smiled.

  “Has Billie worked here long?” I asked.

  “She was part-time back when she was a student,” Agnes replied. “I took her on full time when she dropped out. All in all, three years? She’s a fab girl. I’m training her up to take over for me one of these days.”

  The back door opened, and the man returned, a girl trailing after him. She was the same age as Edward and the rest, but with somethi
ng more grown-up in her eyes and mannerisms. Ashy hair was tied back in a long plait, and her green eyes were lined with makeup, contrasting her complexion. She folded her arms as she walked over.

  “I’m Billie,” she said in a low voice.

  “Hello, Billie. I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher, this is Detective Sergeant Mills. We wondered if we could have a quick word with you?”

  “What’s it about?” She asked, her clear stare unwavering.

  “Edward Vinson,” I replied calmly. Her expression shifted, and she looked down at her doodled red Converse before looking back up at Agnes.

  “Mind if I take a few minutes?”

  “Go ahead,” Agnes assured her. “We’re quiet anyway, love.”

  Billie nodded and led us over to a quiet table near the back of the room by a fish tank with fake fish floating around. She sat and kept her arms folded, looking at us both with a direct, unbothered stare.

  “What about him?” She asked, already growing annoyed.

  “He was found murdered last night,” I told him, “in his university room.”

  Billie’s hands dropped; her eyes widened. “What? He’s dead?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  Billie let out a heavy breath and sank down in her chair, her eyes darting around, struggling for words. “Crikey,” she eventually breathed, looking back up at us, reading something on our faces. “You’re here because of Stella?” Her voice cracked on her sister’s name, and I felt pained to have to bring this all up again.

  “We are,” I said in a gentle voice.

  She sighed and picked at the chipped black nail varnish on her fingernails. “How much do you know?” she asked tentatively, not meeting our eyes.

  “We know that you took her to a party with your friends on Halloween,” Mills said. “We know you lost her at one point, and when you found her, there was something wrong, and you took her home. The next day, Edward Vinson was brought in, following the report she made.”

  “We made,” Billie corrected him. “We reported him.” She looked up, seemingly relieved that she didn’t have to tell us that story herself. “No one believed her… us. Not even dad. And Edward was fine. Nothing happened to him. Everybody loved him still, and the case got dropped, and we couldn’t do anything. He broke my sister,” she said fiercely, tears welling but not falling. “And I was the only person who cared.”

  “You dropped out of university?” Mills checked.

  She nodded, rubbing at the tears with her sleeve. “She wasn’t okay, and I couldn’t leave her. I started working here properly. Agnes even let us rent the place upstairs.” Her eyes rose to the ceiling. “I put her into therapy. Paid for it myself privately. I love the NHS, but by God, you have to wait for an appointment. She has been going every week, twice a week, around October and November. They put her on anti-depressants and anxiety medication. I thought she was doing okay,” she said, tears falling freely now.

  “She was acting more like Stella again, you know? She was laughing and smiling, singing in the kitchen like she used to. And then…” she choked off, and I got up, heading over to the counter to quietly ask for a water from Agnes. She handed it over quickly, and I took it to Billie, who gulped it down, clutching a tissue in her other hand that Mills must have supplied. We sat quietly for a moment, letting her take her time. When her breathing settled, she looked up at us with watery eyes.

  “She deserved better,” she croaked quietly.

  “So do you,” I answered. She looked up, gently surprised.

  “Go on then,” she gave me a wave. “Ask me the questions you need to ask. I’ll be alright.”

  “You sure?” I checked. She nodded, lifting her chin, and I took a deep breath myself. “We heard that after the incident, you made yourself a bit of trouble for Edward.”

  Billie gave a dry laugh. “Someone had to. Nothing serious, of course. Just, I wanted to remind him, you know? Wanted him to remember what he did, and if I didn’t remind him, it would be like it never happened at all.”

  “What did you do?” Mills asked.

  “Sent a few letters,” she shrugged. “Called him some colourful names.”

  “Ever anything violent?”

  “Might have thrown a stone one time, but not at him,” she muttered, picking at the tissue. “I didn’t kill him,” she said abruptly, looking up at us. “As Stella got better, I started to lay off him. She needed me more, she was more important. And with her gone,” she shrugged again, “it just seemed pointless.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  Billie chewed her lip. “A few months ago? Summer, I think. Saw him in the street with someone. A girl.” I looked to Mills, who nodded. It lined up with what Freya had told him.

  “When was the last time you sent him a reminder,” I settled on calling it.

  She gave me a weak smile. “The spring. Around his birthday in April. Nothing since.” I wondered if we gave Edward’s room another thorough look, once forensics were done, or his room at home if we might find any of them.

  “Where were you last night, Billie? Between six and seven?”

  “Here. I helped Agnes close up at half five, then went home,” she pointed to the ceiling. “We have—I have a cat.”

  “Is there anyone who can vouch for you?” Mills asked.

  “I ordered a takeaway,” she said, “but that wasn’t until half seven.” That placed her in our window still. Getting from here to the university campus took no more than fifteen minutes, less if the traffic was light. Post rush hour, it probably would be.

  “What about your father?” I asked. Billie scoffed.

  “Haven’t seen him since the funeral. Before that, it had been a year. He’s useless,” she told me. “Always had been after mum left. Me and Stella were our own family.”

  “Do you have a car?” I asked.

  Billie shook her head. “No point in the city, is there? I have a bike, and we take the bus to the supermarket.” She paused, looking sick. “I take the bus to the supermarket,” she corrected herself in a thick voice.

  We could take a look at the local bus routes, see if any times and numbers would work out there, but she could have taken her bike.

  “Are there any security cameras here?” I asked, wondering if we could spot, or not spot, her on any of them.

  “One outside the back door,” she pointed, “and the front. But my flat is accessed by the alley, and we don’t have any back there. Should get one of those new doorbells,” she muttered. “You know the ones with the cameras?”

  “Handy to have,” Mills replied.

  “You said that you thought Stella was recovering,” I recalled gently. “Did she ever mentioned Edward? Talk about any of it?”

  “Not to me,” she said. “House rules. We never spoke about it, never even mentioned anyone else who was there, never spoke about uni.”

  “You were friends with the others?” Mills asked.

  “Not really. Charlie, have you met him?” She asked. I nodded. “He’s a knob,” she informed me. “Freya was alright, but I wasn’t surprised when she took Edward’s side. Fiona was the only one I missed.”

  “Why weren’t you surprised?” I asked, and she rolled her eyes.

  “She’d walk over hot coals for him if he asked. Completely under his thumb, and he knows it too.” Manipulative, Professor Greenberg called him.

  “What did you make of him?” I asked her.

  “He was alright at first. Charming, you know, and he knows it. Knows how to win people over. But he always uses them, you know. Keeps them around for his own purpose.” I noticed that she did the same thing with Edward and she did with Stella. Used the present, like he wasn’t actually gone.

  “Are you able to tell us more about that night?” I asked. “If you can.”

  Billie nodded. “I wasn’t going to go at first, but Stella wanted to. She’d never been to a proper party like that, so I took her along. We were only going to stay for a bit. We have an o
ld tradition of watching films on Halloween. Addams Family, Beetlejuice, all of those.”

  She paused for a moment, her expression darkening. “I went to the toilet at one point, left her with others, but when I came back, she was gone, and the others didn’t know where she’d gone.” Her voice went slightly bitter. “So, I go looking for her, and they help since they lost her anyway, and I found her upstairs in one of the spare rooms.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “I knew straight away something was wrong. You know when you can just tell?”

  Mills and I both nodded.

  “She was all pale and quiet, she had these weird bruises on her arms, and her clothes were all messed. She wouldn’t say anything, so I picked her up and took her outside to the car. As I started driving away, she started crying. Scary crying, like she was hurt, so I pulled over and walked around to her and just held her as she shook. When she calmed down enough, she told me what happened. I took her straight to the police station.” Billie kept her eyes on the table. “For a while, she wouldn’t let anyone but me touch her. Wouldn’t listen to music that was playing that night, got rid of her clothes. And then, a few months ago, I walked upstairs for my lunch break, and she was in the kitchen, dancing with the cat,” Billie remembered with a smile.

  “Do you know if anything happened between then and a few weeks ago?” I asked gently.

  “Not that she told me. You could ask her therapist,” Billie said suddenly, pulling out a pen and pad from her apron pocket, scribbling down a name and address. “Tell her you have my permission or whatever if you need it.” She tore the page off and handed it to me.

  “I hated his guts,” she told me earnestly, “but I wouldn’t kill him. For Stella’s sake, she’d never have forgiven me for doing that to a person, even him.”

  “Thank you, Billie. We’re sorry to have brought that all up.”

  She shrugged. “Over with now.”

  I handed her my card, just in case, and she walked over to Agnes, who smiled as we left. We stopped outside in the cold air, looking up at the daunting shadow of the Minster, Billie’s words and expression striking us dumb. I looked down at the address and showed it to Mills.