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

the lid back, revealing an impressive selection of photography gear. A camera, several lenses, a tripod.

“Is there any film?” Mills asked, peering over. I checked the camera and the little film clips.

“No,” I muttered slowly. “Strange. Must have taken them to get developed.” I did find one blank roll of film, but that wasn’t any use to us at all. I shut the suitcase, pushed it back under the bed with the gym bag, and stood up.

“Come on, Edward,” I said under my breath. “Give us something here to help you.” I picked up the bag that had been thrown on the bed and tipped it up, letting the contents fall on the bed. A few textbooks fell out, along with a notepad, several pens, a lighter and a slightly crumpled essay.

“A Philosophical and Ethical Examination of Forgiveness,” I read aloud. “Blimey, that’s a read. Interested?” I asked, holding it out to Mills, who had a slight frown on his face.

“Do you think he was in favour of forgiveness or not?” he asked, taking it and folding it in half.

“Who knows? Wonder if he’d change his mind about it now, regardless,” I added.

Mills put the essay in his pocket. “Professor Altman’s name was in the corner,” he said. “I’m guessing it was the focus of their meeting last night?”

“Looked a bit of a state,” I muttered, looking over all of Edward’s other work, carefully filed and looked after. “A bad review, perhaps?”

“Never good for the ego,” Mills replied as he walked over to the window.

“Do you get the impression that Edward Vinson cared about his ego?” I asked. Mills didn’t reply, just nodded to the window.

“We’ve got some visitors,” he said.

I walked over and stood beside him, glancing out to the small group of teenagers that loitered close to the tape. They were looking up at the building expectantly, shuffling their feet. I noticed one of them, the boy at the front of the group, wore the same rugby jersey that Edward had in his bag.

“Let’s go and say hello then,” I said, tossing him the key. “You can lock up.”

I strode from the room, happily sucking down the clean, not putrid air as Mills locked up Edward’s room and then the building. I stayed with him, looking over at the teens that perked up when we exited, the young man shuffling closer.

“Can we help you?” I called as we strolled over, my hands tucked casually into my pockets.

“You’re the police?” he asked in a haughty voice. “The detectives?”

“Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I indicated myself, “and Detective Sergeant Mills. And you are?”

“Charlie. Charlie Young. I’m Edward’s friend,” he told us, lifting his chin. “We all are.”

A girl from the back stepped around Charlie, her eyes slightly pink, cheeks swollen. “We just went to see Freya,” she told us.

I softened slightly. “How was she?”

“Pale, quiet.” The girl shook her head. “She was in bed, just staring at the wall.”

“It will take some time. You said you all knew Edward?” She nodded, and I ducked under the police tape and indicated the benches across the way. “Mind if we talk then? We’d like to know as much about him as we can.”

They all looked to Charlie, who seemed to deliberate, but the girl walked swiftly over the benches, plopping herself down, and the others trailed after her. There were four of them altogether.

Charlie, with a head of coiffed strawberry blond hair, fancy clothes and a watch rather like Edwards. The girl, her thick black hair tied into a plait, huddled in a large jumper several times too big that I guessed belonged to the other boy who sank down beside her and took her hand. Another girl, looking more uncomfortable than the others, sat beside Charlie, picking her knees up and hugging them.

“So,” I began, “names? We know Charlie, of course.”

“Vanessa,” the first girl told us. She held up the hand of the boy she sat beside. “This is Claude. His English isn’t great.” She turned and spoke to him in French, and he nodded at her before looking at us.

“I try to ‘elp,” he said.

“And that’s Fiona,” Vanessa said, pointing at the other girl who pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled at us.

“Nice to meet you all. You call me Thatcher and him Mills. How long had you known Edward for?”

“We,” Vanessa indicated herself, Claude, and Fiona, “met him in our first year.”

“I’ve known him since we were thirteen,” Charlie told us. “We went to the same school.”

I focused my attention more on him now. “We’re very sorry for your loss. You must have been close friends.”

Charlie nodded, looking down at his shoes. “I have three sisters,” he told us, “so me and Ed always got on. Family holidays and everything.”

I gave him a sympathetic smile. “And Freya? You met her first year too?”

They all nodded. “Not at first. She and Ed started hanging out second term, so we met her then,” Vanessa said.

I nodded and leant back, giving them a break from my dull voice and letting Mills, closer to their age anyway, ask them a few questions.

“Did you see Edward yesterday?” he asked, looking at them all in turn.

Charlie nodded, and the others let him take the lead. “We have most of our lectures together, so most of the day. The last time I saw him was about five, I think. We were studying in the library, and he had to get ready for his meeting with Altman.”

“How did he seem?”

“He seemed alright,” Charlies shrugged. “A bit nervous about his essay, annoyed with his dad, but that’s usual. He was looking forward to the weekend. We were texting about it last night. Before…” He trailed off.

“And how had he seemed the past few weeks? Was there anything bothering him? Or anyone bothering him?”

The four students exchanged a look, so quickly and nervously that it made Mills and I sit up straight, exchanging our own little look. They seemed to be having a silent debate, then Charlie sighed and