Guilty Conscious Oliver Davies (most read book in the world TXT) 📖

I nodded, relieved. I imagined it would be the last thing Billie needed, to have her name thrown around in a murder story tied to her sister’s assault and suicide. It was quite the burden for one so young, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, even if she did remain as one of our lead, one of our only, suspects.

“So, what happened with Elsie?” Mills asked.

“Not sure,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. “Elinor, Sally’s mum, popped round last night and found her on the floor. Fainted.”

Mills winced slightly.

“She didn’t fall,” I went on, happy to speak some of it aloud to get it out of my head. “Nothing’s cracked or broken, which is a relief. No sign of an infection or anything.”

Mills hummed. “Let’s hope she’ll be on the mend quickly then.”

“Elsie’s a tough old thing,” I said in a reassuring voice, more to myself than Mills. “She’ll be alright.”

It was a hope as much as anything else. I wasn’t sure what I would do without Elsie if the worst happened. I’d known Sally my whole life, of course, but Elsie was what little family I had left. In my mind, she was like the coaching house, something that would always be there, no matter what. Maybe when I next went to work on some repairs there, I’d pop round to hers and make her some chicken soup or something.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know,” Mills offered kindly.

“I appreciate that, Isaac. Thank you.” He smiled at me before turning his attention back to the road. The roads were busy with morning commuters, and we slowly made our way through traffic towards the edge of the city, out towards a small suburb that looked like it had seen better days.

We ended up outside a rather sad looking house, set apart from any neighbours by an overgrown garden of weeds and brambles, the paint on the door peeling, litter fluttering about on the ground outside. I swung myself out from the car, looking up at the little house with its murky windows and mossy bricks and swore under my breath.

“No wonder Billie wanted to get Stella out of here,” I murmured as Mills joined me on the front path.

“It doesn’t exactly feel homely,” Mills agreed, looking at the state of disrepair that was well over a year in the making. The place might have gotten worse since the sisters left it, but I got the feeling it didn’t have far to go to get here. There was a car outside, an ancient little blue tin with a flat tyre that didn’t look like it had been on the road for a while, and if it was driven, it would probably be a loud, smoky situation.

I strode up to the front door where little pieces of paint fell in splinters to the ground, and pressed my finger against the doorbell, just about hearing it ring inside, then took a step back to where Mills stood and waited.

We stood there long enough that I thought about ringing again and started to wonder if anyone was home, but eventually, I heard the scraping sound of a lock being drawn back, and the door swung open. The man who looked out at us had a rough enough appearance that I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

A scruffy beard lined his jaw, an unkempt mane of hair grew in straggles to his shoulders, his skin was clammy looking, pale in some places and flushed in others, and his eyes, the same bright, vibrant green as Billie’s, were bloodshot and glazed.

“What?” he said in a gruff voice.

“Mark Helman?” I asked, taking a small step closer.

“Obviously,” he said through his teeth. “What do you want?”

I pulled out my warrant card and stepped closer so that he could actually see what I held out. “Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police. I was wondering if we could have a few words.” I tucked my card away, and Mark Helman’s eye dragged from my pocket to my face.

“I haven’t done anything,” he told me.

“We’re here about Edward Vinson,” I said, ignoring him, watching as his face clouded over in thought. Then he looked up from his feet, realisation on his face, a muddled expression of anger, sadness, and guilt in his eyes.

“What about him?” he asked.

“May we come in? Might be better to sit down while we talk,” I said, noting the way he swayed on his feet slightly. He didn’t look too enthused by the suggestion, but he grunted and walked into the house, letting us follow. Mills shut the door behind us as we walked into the cigarette and beer scented building, following him into the living room.

The wallpaper hung off the wall in the corners, bits of damp rising up from the skirting boards, and the floorboards were pale with dust. Mark Helman dropped down into a scruffy armchair, arranging his tatty dressing gown around his knees and indicated the sofa. We sat reluctantly, and I gave Mills a nod.

“Thank you, Mr Helman. We promise not to take too much of your time.”

Mark huffed and patted around his pockets for a box of cigarettes. He took one out, offered us one, which we refused, then lit it up and took a slow drag, blowing the smoke out in curls.

“You’re here about the boy?” he reminded us.

“Edward Vinson.” Mills nodded. “He was found dead in his university room two nights ago. Murder.”

Mark’s face didn’t change. “What have I got to do with that?”

I looked around the room, to where a few photographs barely hung to the wall. I recognised Billie in one of them, in a school uniform, her arm around another girl with little blonde pigtails and the same green eyes. Stella.

“We met your daughter yesterday,” I told him, taking his attention from Mills and turning away from the picture. “Billie.”

“I know her name,” he grumbled. “Why?”

“We know that Edward