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

he wanted forgiveness, he should have owned up to it,” she muttered. “Not cornering her in a park and saying sorry. Sorry,” she scoffed, “what good does that do? Other than make him feel better about himself, doesn’t do anything.”

“What about you?” I asked her. “Did you ever say sorry to Stella? You blame yourself for everything that happened. Did you ever think she did too?”

Thatcher turned to look at me at the same time she did, but whilst his was a look of admiration, hers was one of hurt. Rather intense hurt.

“I said sorry so many times,” she told me darkly. “Every day, for about six months, until she told me to stop. Never made her better, never made me feel better.”

“That must have been a lot to deal with,” I went on, watching as she nodded reluctantly. “And to know that Edward Vinson was doing fine whilst the two of you suffered, it’s no wonder you grew to hate him so much.”

Billie’s eyes narrowed. “I. Did. Not. Kill. Him. And if I did, do you really think I’d use that?” She flicked a photo of the trophy towards us, Thatcher catching it before it fluttered off the table. “Let me whack a boy’s face in with my baby sister’s dance trophy?” She asked incredulously. “I’d never do that to her!”

Thatcher sat up straight, chest puffing slightly, his face unreadable as he stared Billie down. She stared right back, flopping backwards in her chair, arms folded tightly around herself. She looked tough, but I didn’t miss the way her hands shook before she balled them into fists, the slight tremor to her breathing.

Before anyone could do anything, there was a knock at the door and Thatcher, after a long pause, sighed through his nose, paused the recording, and rose from the table. I followed after him, leaving Billie to stew for a moment, and we walked out into the corridor to find Smith looking flustered.

“What’s wrong, and can it wait?” Thatcher asked gruffly.

“We’ve just had a man come in downstairs, sir. Mark Helman? He’d like to confess to the murder of Edward Vinson.”

We both froze, staring at Smith’s face, and then I swore, loudly and colourfully enough that I was very glad my mother wasn’t around to hear it.

“I beg your pardon?” Thatcher asked in a stilted voice, his grey eyes near enough burning holes into Smith’s head.

“Mark Helman,” she repeated kindly, “is here. He’d like to confess to the murder of Edward Vinson.”

“Where is he now?” I asked. Smith nodded down the hall to a secondary interview room, a nasty cold one that we never really used anymore.

“Waiting for you, sir,” she said. Thatcher muttered a curse and scratched the back of his head as Sharp appeared in the corridor, looking as perplexed as we felt, striding down to her office.

“Right then.” He then opened the door and walked in. “Your father’s here,” he told Billie, and from over his shoulder, I watched her face flash in surprise.

“What? Why?”

“To confess to the murder of Edward Vinson,” Thatcher informed her bluntly. Billie blinked, her mouth opening and closing several times.

“What?” she repeated emphatically.

“You can go,” he told her, opening the door wider, then stepping in to scoop up all the photographs, stuffing them haphazardly into the folder.

“I— What?” Billie stood up uncertainly from the table, her green eyes wide and confused, but she made no move to leave. “My dad?”

“Yes. He’s here. We’ll bring him into this room, I’m not freezing my arse off down there,” Thatcher said over his shoulder to Smith, who nodded once and set off to retrieve Mark Helman.

“I don’t understand,” Billie uttered.

“Your father is confessing to a crime, Billie. You can leave, though we do ask they don’t leave the city and be aware that we’ll likely get in touch again.”

“That doesn’t—” She took a few steps around the table and out into the hall. The door along the way opened, and Smith walked out, Mark Helman before her, his hands cuffed in his front. He looked up from beneath a mop of tangled hair, his eyes blearily looking us all over until they landed on Billie. She stared back at him, and he gave her a nod before Smith led him into the other room.

“Smith will help you find your things,” Thatcher told her. She stared at the room, where her father now vanished from sight. “Unless there’s anything else?”

Billie looked up at Thatcher and shook her head stiltedly. “Is he— Will he be okay?”

“That really depends on what he tells us, Miss Helman,” Thatcher said shortly, letting Smith out. Our constable took Billie’s arm and led her gently down the hallway, leaving Thatcher and I standing alone in the corridor. Thatcher ran a hand down his face with a muffled grumble and looked at me.

“We can’t ever just have a nice clean, cut case, can we?”

“You really think he did it?” I asked, glancing into the room.

“Either he did, or he’s chosen a spectacular point of time to care about his daughter,” he answered, pushing the door open and walking in.

We sat back down in our chairs, looking at Mark Helman. He looked a little better than when we last saw him, or at least, he smelt better. He wore a long ratty coat over his clothes, his feet stuffed into a pair of unlaced boots. His hair fell in scruffy knots around his face, but it looked clean, and aside from the slight redness around his eyes, he didn’t appear as fully ensconced in booze as he had before.

Thatcher hit the button on the recording device, starting a new tape.

“This Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills with Mr Mark Helman on Thursday the 28th of September. Mark Helman, we understand that you wish to confess to the murder of Edward Vinson?”

“Yes,” he answered in a rough voice, leaning close to the microphone.

“Can you run us through what happened, Mr Helman?” Thatcher asked, his cool voice aloof and detached, and he