Guilty Conscious by Oliver Davies (best ereader for students .txt) 📗

“A student,” I answered shortly, my tone telling her the rest.

She winced and slid down from the bed, walking over and wrapping me from behind in a hug, her slightly pointy chin resting on my shoulder. She kissed my jaw and pulled away, walking into the bathroom. I smiled after her, buttoned my shirt up, threw a jumper and trousers on and sat on the bed, yanking some socks over my feet. The temptation to climb back into bed was great, but I forced myself down to the kitchen and filled the kettle, putting tea bags into mugs, slotting some bread into the toaster and leant against the cupboard.

When Liene walked in, we had a quiet breakfast together, listening to the birds outside. It would be too cold for them soon, so we enjoyed them while we could, then a car honked outside, and I pushed myself up from the table. We left together too, Liene kissing my cheek and waving to Mills in the car before hurrying off to catch her bus to the museum. We offered her a lift, but she liked the bus and all the people on it. This early, it was mostly pensioners and little children, which suited her well enough.

I slid into the car where Mills sat, looking about as great as I felt.

“Morning,” he muttered, driving away from the street.

“Morning,” I replied. I watched the people outside as we drove. Parents herded their children along reluctantly, rushing with travel mugs and coats on inside out. A few well-dressed businessmen in fancy suits strolled along with their umbrellas like they had all the time in the world.

“Is it due to rain?” I asked when we drove past the fifth in a row.

“September in England,” Mills murmured. “It’s always due to rain.”

I chuckled, and a moment later, we were at the station, lured inside the front door by the smell of coffee that wafted around from the officers and workers carting their mugs from place to place.

The desk sergeant smiled as we walked in. “Hear you boys had an interesting evening. From what I’ve heard, it’s nasty business.”

“You’ve heard correctly,” I answered. “Is the boss in yet?”

The sergeant nodded. “About five minutes.”

I tapped on the desk in thanks and followed Mills upstairs. We went to our office first, depositing everything we didn’t need, then beelined to the kitchen, joining the gathered team who patiently waited for the kettle to boil.

“I dropped off the evidence before going home last night,” Mills told me while we waited. “Left a note for Wasco too. I don’t know how much else he has right now.”

“I’d wager the boss will make this one a priority,” I replied.

Right on cue, Smith appeared in the doorway, looking less drawn than she had last night.

“Sir, Chief wants to see you both,” she informed us.

I looked longingly at the kettle and the coffee, and with a muffled groan, pushed myself up. We walked past a smirking Smith over to Sharp’s office. Her door was open, so we walked right in, shutting it behind us. She was standing behind her desk, leaning down over her computer, and she peered up as we sank heavily into the chairs opposite her, a rare sympathetic look on her face.

“I don’t envy you boys, you know,” she told us, shutting her laptop. “There are times I do, but this isn’t one of them.” She sat down in her high-backed chair, her grey eyes looking over us slowly. As usual, she looked better than us. Her suit was pressed, her hair neatly swept into place, not a strand daring to escape. A case file, a thin one, sat in front of her, and she flipped it open.

“So,” she sighed, “we have a nineteen-year-old student found with his head bashed in, inside his university room.” She pressed her fingers together, bringing them to her mouth. “Naturally, the university isn’t happy, and the press is having a bloody field day. Tell me what you’ve got.”

“His name’s Edward Vinson,” I told her. “Third-year student, found by his friend, Freya Fox.”

“That’s a good name,” Sharp quietly observed.

“She was going to his room to borrow a book from him, told us she was late getting there, and when she arrived, she found him. The call was made just after seven, and we think she probably got there at seven-ish. Processed it, vomited, made the call.”

Sharp raised an elegant eyebrow. “Vomited?”

“By her own admission,” Mills added.

“What do we know about Vinson?”

“Very little right now. We know he had a meeting with a Professor Altman,” I recalled carefully. “So, we’ll speak to him at some point. Today though, we’re heading to see his family. We think his parents live in the city, from the address on his driver’s licence.”

Sharp nodded slowly. “I’ll see what the university can offer up from his student files. But let me handle all that, the board, the press. You just do your work; I’ll handle the bureaucrats.”

“You’re a saint,” I told her.

“I’m better at it than you,” she replied dryly, flipping the folder shut again. “Good luck then, boys,” she said dismissively.

We took our cue, scrambling up from the low chairs and leaving her office, returning to ours to grab what we needed and walked out again. Smith stood outside, holding two travel mugs that she held out.

“You both looked so helpless,” she told us.

“Thank you, Smith.” I took the mug gratefully. “Any word from Wasco yet?”

“None yet. I’ll head down later and chase him up. Dr Crowe’s in as well. She’s gone straight to work.”

“Brilliant. Keep in touch,” I told her, holding my cup awkwardly as I did my coat up. Mills dug out the address from a copy he made in his notebook, and we checked out appearances were in good order before jogging down to his car.

“One of these days,” I said as he pulled from the car park, “I’m actually going to have a sit-down. A proper sit-down, with my feet up on the desk,