Guilty Conscious

by Oliver Davies

“She found a key?”

  “Set of keys,” I told him. “Fingers crossed one of them will let us into his little studio.”

  “Do you think his parents know about the space?” Mills asked. “They made no mention of it.”

  “I’m going to make an educated guess and say that that particular part of Edward’s life was probably kept away from his parents entirely. They don’t seem the sort to encourage photography or art as a valid lifestyle choice.”

  Mills hummed softly. “If he used it as his private place, I’m assuming we’ll find more there than we have in his room at university.”

  “I assume so, Mills. We just need something,” I grumbled, hitting the steering wheel. “Just one little thread in the right direction.”

  My phone dinged, the screen flashing, and Mills bent down to read it.

  “Smith is on her way,” he told me. “And Sharp’s in the loop.”

  I pinched my eyes shut for a second, focusing on the road again. Sharp was a great asset to any case, but she’d weigh in and shut me down when she felt the need to, and whilst we had a rapport, at the end of the day, I did what she said. And if she told me to arrest someone, I’d have to arrest them, however much I might believe their innocence.

  Another text came through, and I groaned. “If that’s Sharp.”

  “It’s from Elinor,” he told me, leaning back politely.

  “Read away,” I said quickly.

  “She says, just visited Elsie. She’s awake, asked after you. I told her you’d be by soon. She’s doing well. Doctors are happy with her recovery. Lots of love, Elinor.”

  I nodded, my shoulders relaxing as I glanced at Mills’s face in the mirror. “Elinor is Sally’s mum.”

  “Makes sense. It’s a left here, sir.” He pointed to the junction ahead, and I followed his directions the rest of the way until we ended up on a cramped little street.

  We had to park on another road and walk down the thin lane, the buildings practically leaning into each other with age, like trees bent by the wind. I found the door in question, the red paint peeling, and looked up to the top floor, where a large round window looked over the street. It was the only window not clogged up with newspapers, and it wasn’t too much of a mystery to figure out what sort of business might usually happen down a street such as this. The curtains were all closed, the houses silent. At night, however, they’d become a bit more lively.

  We stood outside, sheltering under an alcove as the rain grew heavy, waiting for Smith. She appeared quickly, hidden under a giant umbrella that threatened to send her sailing across the city if a large enough gust of wind caught the underside. As she joined us, she noted my expression towards the large black canopy and grimaced.

  “Sharp’s orders,” she told me, pulling out the set of keys and handing it over. Mills took the umbrella from her, holding it high enough so that it covered all three of us as I worked through the keys to find one that fit.

  He had a fair few, and that wasn’t hugely surprising. One for home, one for his room, one for this place and several others. I found the key, the third one I tried thankfully, and we walked into a dimly lit corridor with a set of unhappy-looking stairs leading up. Mills let down the umbrella, and the three of us headed up, all the way to the attic floor, where I went through the keys again to find the one that let us into Edward’s room.

  “How d'you think he pays for it?” Smith asked as I fumbled through the keys with my cold fingers.

  “Boys like him usually have fairly good allowances,” Mills said. “Or he makes it some other way.”

  “He doesn’t have a job?” She asked. We both shook our heads, and she glowered. “Nice for some, isn’t it?”

  “He is dead, Smith,” Mills reminded her gently. I found the right key then, before things began to feel very awkward, and opened the flimsy door, stepping inside, letting out a low whistle. Studio, indeed.

  The large window let light flood in over the wooden floors, scattering dust bunnies that fell from the exposed beams. It was one giant room, the walls lined with shelves and drawer units, easels propped up here and there, canvases stacked against the walls. A stool sat in front of the window, cameras were carefully left charging in a far corner, and a desk was sprawled with bits of paper and broken pieces of charcoal. It was, more than anything, messy. Messier than his room with seemingly no sense of anything organised. Things were left wherever they were left, half-empty mugs and dirty paint water leaving rings on the furniture, sheets left in a ball on a makeshift bed in the corner, farthest away from the window.

  “Smith, take the desk. Mills the shelves, I’ll take this side,” I ordered. They both nodded, walking deeper into the room, shutting the door behind them as they took to their stations. Smith’s face had lit up slightly for being involved, and it warmed me to see. She’d make a good sergeant one of these days.

  I walked over to the darker corner, where the bed of sheets and blankets laid on the floor. A few large floor cushions sat around, a mirror on the wall behind. A little crate sat beside it, an empty glass left on top. It looked lived in, more so than his actual room did, and I wondered how often Edward had come here, hidden away with the things he loved. A few rolled up pieces of paper were bundled to one side, and I knelt down, picking one up and unrolled it carefully. It was a face, a girl, but not one I recognised, sitting on the stool by the window dressed in a long white dress. I put it down, picking up the next one.

  It was unfinished, but I knew straight away it wasn’t the same girl. The hair had been shaded darkly, the face a different angle. I frowned, turning it in the light, faintly recognising the faint outline of the eyes but unable to pinpoint exactly who it looked like. Edward was good though, that much was clear. Good enough that people came and sat for him if, I thought with a glance towards the bed, that’s all they came here for.

  I stood up, my knees protesting, and walked to a little door by the bed, pushing it open with my foot. It was a bathroom, just a shower and a toilet and sink, styled in what I believed they called shabby chic. A vase sat on the windowsill, a single flower dropping sadly over the edge.

  “Sir!” Smith shouted from inside. I turned back, striding over to where she stood. She was at the desk, looking through some photographs, one of the drawers open by her knees, frowning down at them. As Mills and I joined her, she looked up, angry, and handed me the stack.

  Stella, I recognised her instantly. They must have been taken at the party. She was in a garden, surrounded by people in costume, her face lit up by the lights draped around the tree. She was laughing, laughing with someone out of shot, just a pair of hands even showing that they were there.

  I flipped it over. There were more. Some following her around the party, sometimes of her face, sometimes from a distance as she stood and looked around. And then there was one last one, the room dimly lit, the angle wonky, the image blurred. It looked up from the floor like the camera had been dropped and taken the picture on its own. Stella, in a room, her arms wrapped around herself, a tall shadow reaching towards her. Nausea and anger built up in me, and I put the photos down, only to have Smith pass me some more. She looked at me with an apology clear on her face, and I took the pictures, looking down, and blinked, surprised.

  Edward and Billie taken together. Two of them in a park, a picture of Billie holding a cup of coffee, her smiling at the camera. A picture of her in this very studio, perched on the stool with a knowing smile, curled up in a jumper on the bed, hair mussed. I grumbled, putting them down, and pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “She knew him better than she let on,” I muttered.

  “Much better,” Smith said darkly. “There’s a few here that I haven’t shown you.” I rubbed at my face with my hands, guilt and annoyance whipping through me.

  “Sir?” Mills caught my attention, and I turned around. He’d gone over to a little cupboard, filled with brushes and pens, and had frozen in the middle of digging through some folded sheets.

  “Christ, what is
it now?” I muttered, striding over to him in a few steps. He backed away slightly, his face grim, and I looked into the cupboard. He’d pushed a sheet back, a sheet stained with a dark, blackish-red, a rancid smell lingering on the fabric. I pulled a glove from my pocket and yanked it on quickly, peeling the sheet back further. A trophy was nestled inside, the base of which was crusted in dried blood.

  I breathed in sharply. A flat edge, hard corner, weighted on one end.

  “Is that it?” Smith asked quietly from behind my shoulder.

  “I think it is,” I answered in just as quiet a voice. “Got any evidence bags, Smith?”

  She nodded, pulling one from her coat pocket, and I could have kissed her for her hindsight. She held it open as I reached in and picked up the trophy, finding it heavier than I had expected it to be. On the top was a figure, poised in dance, and I looked at the little engraving as I pulled it into the light.

  “Young Achievement in Ballet Award,” I read it aloud. “Stella Helman, 2018.”

  “How did a murder weapon that belonged to Stella Helman end up here?” Smith asked as I placed it carefully in the bag.

  “Someone left it here,” I told her, looking over her head to the photos on the desk, to the drawing of the vaguely familiar face. “Someone who’s been here before.”

  Twenty-One

  Thatcher

  My mind felt strangely blank, my body going through all the motions as we left the studio and returned to the station. Even I could not overlook what we had found, the evidence that had stacked up against Billie. I sent Smith to her flat to bring her in, and Mills and I headed straight for the station, dropping off our murder weapon to a grim-looking Crowe, who set to work analysing the blood, letting forensics sweep it over for fingerprints. I’d brought the photographs back from the studio, and we took the lot of them, the drawing of Billie and a few photographs we’d quickly taken of the trophy, taking them all up to the interview room where we laid them out on the table.

  Mills stepped out to fetch us both a coffee, and in his absence, Sharp joined my side. She looked over the contents of the table, breathed in deeply and looked me in the eye.

  “Well?”

  “We’re bringing her in,” I told her darkly. “I told Smith to be subtle about it, but Billie is to be brought in, whether or not she comes voluntarily. We also have our suspected murder weapon; it’s being analysed now. A trophy belonging to Stella Helman.”

  Sharp said nothing, but raised her hand and placed it on my shoulder. “Good work, Thatcher,” she said simply before turning and walking from the room.

  I braced my knuckles on the table, looking over everything we had pooled together. When we laid it out here on the table, it was fairly clear what had happened, fairly clear that Billie was tied into this in every possible way. I swallowed down the hesitation that I still felt, determined to treat this and Billie properly, like every other suspect that walked through those doors. Mills stood in the open doorway, silently offering me a steaming cup of coffee. I took it from him gratefully, and we stood in the hallway, sipping our drinks slowly, waiting for a sign of Smith.

  “How do you want to proceed?” Mills asked me, his voice loud in the quiet corridor.

  “I say we show Billie what we’ve got, give her a chance to explain. If she does, we question to make things clear. If she doesn’t, we interrogate.”

  Mills nodded, looking down at his coffee. “I know you didn’t want to believe it was her—”

  “We still don’t know that it was,” I countered, sighing heavily. “But even I’m not too proud to admit when I might have been wrong. She owes us an explanation, and until we get one, we treat her accordingly.”

  “I’ve spoken to the lab,” Mills said. “The second they know if it’s Edward’s blood, they’ll send me a text.”

  “We’ll take Billie’s fingerprints when she comes in,” I added, “be useful to have on hand at this point in the game, I think.”

  Mills nodded, and we both turned to look down the corridor. Smith appeared, her face drawn, and she walked quickly down to us.

  “She’s here. Came willingly, no trouble.”

  “That’s good,” Mills pointed out.

  “Get her prints,” I told Smith, “then bring her through.” She nodded once and strode away again, and I handed Mills my mug, popping to the bathroom before we ended up in that room for God knows how long. When I came back, he went, and a few minutes later, we were both sitting in the interview room. The door opened, and Smith showed Billie in.

  She huddled in a large jumper, her face clean from any makeup today, dressed very much like she hadn’t been expecting to leave the house at all today. Smith showed her to her chair, passed her a cup of water, then nodded to me grimly before walking away, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Billie swallowed, looking down at the table with wide eyes. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and lifted her face until her eyes met mine, wary and closed off.

  “Morning, Billie,” I said, turning on the recording device. “Thursday the 28th of September, this is Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills interviewing Belinda ‘Billie’ Helman in the investigation of the murder of Edward Vinson. Thanks for coming, Billie.”

  She shrugged, balling her hands in her sleeves. “Thanks for asking nicely.”

  “Have a look at the table, Billie. Tell me what you see.”

  “Photographs,” she answered, not looking.

  “Of whom?”

  “Edward Vinson. Me. Stella.” Her voice cracked on her sister’s name, her eyes falling to the picture of her in the garden, trembling slightly. Her green eyes were tearful, even as she glared at the photographs.

  “We found these in a studio belonging to Edward Vinson. Do you know the studio?”

  “Yes.”

  “When were you last there?”

  Billie looked up at me. “Two years ago. Sometime in the summer.”

  “What was your relationship with Edward Vinson, Miss Helman?” I asked, crossing my arms. Billie looked away, toying with a ring on her finger, swallowing again.

  “We went out for a few months. I broke it off in the summer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wasn’t very nice,” she answered simply.

  “To you?” Mills asked, a slight crease of concern between his brows.

  “To anyone, not that most people noticed. I didn’t want to be his girlfriend, but I stayed a friend, sort of.”

  “You used to go to his studio,” I said, nodding to the photographs.

  Billie nodded. “It was the only time he was himself. Not pretending.”

  “Do you know how long he had the studio?”

  “A few years. I showed it to him.”

  I straightened up in my seat, and Mills leant forward beside me. “You did?” I asked.

  “I did. I know the woman who was looking to rent it. She was a friend of my mum’s.”

  “How often did you go?”

  “Quite often. Not always with Edward.”

  “You had a key?”

  She nodded, and I grimaced.

  “Billie. Do you still have a key?” I asked her gently.

  She nodded again, scrubbing at the tears that fell from her ears, trailing down her cheeks. Bloody hell.

  “Where is the key?” I asked.

  “My dad’s house,” she answered. “With the other uni stuff I left behind.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Why would I ever,” she snapped bitterly, looking up at me, “want to go back to that place?” Her eyes flickered across the photos, hands balling into fists as she looked at her sister’s face.

  “This was after you broke up with him?” I asked, tapping the photos.

  She nodded, her jaw tight, shoulders hunched in. “My fault,” she whispered in a broken voice, staring and staring at her sister’s face.

  “No,” I assured her, “not your fault.”

  She looked up, wiping her nose
with her sleeve, and Mills wordlessly passed her a tissue.

  “Run us through this, Billie,” I asked. “From the start.”

  She took a few deep breaths, blew her nose and drank half the water, then cleared her throat.

  “I met him in our first year. We had a few classes together,” she looked at their swapped notes. “We started hanging out, me and his friends. He asked me out a few months later, and I said yes. We were together for a few months. I helped him get the studio then, but when summer came, I needed to be home with Stella. He didn’t like that, and I wasn’t happy with him, seeing how he was with other people when we weren’t alone. I broke it off in the summer, the July, I think. We were okay, it was awkward at first, but we were all still friends. They still invited me to the party.” Her voice wavered. “And I took Stella.”

  “Following which,” I said to the recording device on her behalf, “Edward Vinson was accused of sexually assaulting Stella Helman at the party of October the 31st. He was found innocent. From the evidence we have before us documenting that night, such a ruling is in contention.”

  “You blamed yourself,” Mills took over from me now, his voice soothing as he spoke to Billie. “Thought that if you hadn’t broken it off with him, he wouldn’t have hurt her?”

  Billie nodded.

  “You must have been angry.”

  “Anyone with a heart would be angry,” she spat, crying freely. “But Stella was more important. I had to make it up to her, not get back at him. Everything I told you about already. We moved out, I quit university, I punched him in the face that one time, and that was it. Stella killed herself. It was my fault, not his!” Billie’s voice broke, and she slumped down in her chair, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

  I sat back, taking in what she had said. There was something guilty about Billie, but not for what she might have done to Edward, but for what she allowed to happen to Stella.

  “Billie, do you know what this photograph is of?” I pushed a photo across the table.

  She looked down at it, wiped her eyes, and frowned. “It’s Stella’s trophy. Her dance trophy.” She picked up the photo and sighed. “Edward wanted to do a drawing of someone in movement. I borrowed her trophy to copy the pose.” She traced the image of the dancer.