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

Eighteen

Thatcher

I slept well that night, whether it was sheer exhaustion from the day before or working in the coaching house, or even the fact that Sally had helped me figure out my next move, my eyes had closed the moment my head hit the pillow, and I woke up before the annoying blaring of my alarm. I’d certainly needed it, and when I rolled out of bed, my feet hitting the cold wooden floor, my mind felt clear and ready to go, a fresh surge of energy powering me through my shower, through breakfast. I shot a quick text to Mills letting him know that I’d make my own way in, filled a travel mug with coffee and climbed into my car.

But I didn’t go to the station. It was early, the streets practically empty. Only early morning risers there to open shops and cafes milled about, flipping the signs in the doors, placing signs, chairs and tables outside in the weak autumn sunshine. It was even too early for the school rush, no children being towed along by bleary-eyed parents, no lollypop ladies patrolling the crossings. It was quite nice actually, and on days like these, I remembered what, other than the job, had brought me down to the city in the first place. The pale grey sky, the dim sunshine bouncing off the sandstone building, the river a slow, steady current. The foreboding shadow of the Minster in the distance and the wide cobbled streets that I only ever appreciated when there wasn’t anyone else on them. It was easier to, quite frankly.

I made my way instead to the university, where I got the keys to the building and let myself into Edward’s room, shutting the door and opening the curtains to let the light fill the space. The blood had been cleared, but an unpleasant scent lingered, a mix of stinging metal and chemicals that would probably upset Mills’s sensitive nostrils. I slipped the keys into my pocket and had a slow look around at the streams of sunlight on the thin layer of dust and the cobweb in the corner above the wardrobe. Pulling on a pair of gloves, I sat myself down at the desk and opened the first drawer.

It appeared that Edward used it for stationary, a couple of empty half-filled notebooks, several pens rolling around at the bottom, a packet of ink cartridges for a fancy brand of fountain pen. I wondered where the pen itself was since I had no recollection of seeing it in Edward’s bag. I pulled out the notebooks that had writing in them and gave them a quick flick through. One had a handful of notes from a psychology lecture, a few back-and-forth scribblings between Edward and somebody else as they grew bored with their professor. They arranged to get coffee afterwards, but there was no indication as to who the other writer was. The next was one and the same. This time, it was a sociology notebook, with slightly more notes than the last, and again, a passing of notes between Edward and another person. I looked back at the last notebook and realised that the handwriting was the same. I also looked at the date written in the corner of one of the pages. It was dated from last year, last September.

I frowned, wondering why he had held onto them unless he just needed the paper. I took them out and set them on the desk, anyway, shut the drawer and opened the next one.

The second, deeper drawer, was a tangled nest of headphones wires, two phone chargers and a few memory sticks. I fished those out, happy to take them along to Wasco, and had another scoot through the mess of wires, finding nothing else of particular interest.

I reached down to the third and final drawer that got stuck as I pulled it open. I had to jerk it side to side until it decided to obey, and then I nearly wrenched the entire thing out. But I got it open and frowned down at the contents.

It was another notebook, this time not a school one. It was an old fashioned, leather-bound type of thing, and when I picked it up, several sheets fell out and fluttered freely to the ground. I bent down and scooped them up, placing them on the desk as I unwound the leather strap and opened the journal up. It was full of drawings, sketches, of faces and figures. Slotted in were postcards, more of the kind from a museum or gallery gift shop, and I realised what it was.

Edward was an artist of a sort, and the journal was filled with his sketches, copies of pieces he’d gone and looked at. I, of course, didn’t recognise a single one, but I knew someone who might, so I closed up the journal, winding the strap back around before picking up the sheets that had fallen loose.

They were more conversations, like texts, the exact same handwriting on all but one. Nothing happened in them; they were bored students teasing and bantering with each other to wile away the time until they were let out of the stuffy lecture hall. Only one had a date, and again, it was from last year. Why Edward had kept a hold of these, had tucked them into his journal, I did not know.

I folded them up and placed them back in, adding the journal to my stack of notebooks and memory sticks. Then I looked over the top of the desk, with a pen pot, empty glass and random toiletries of deodorant and hair gel, and stood up, turning to the wardrobe.

It was tidier than I had expected to find it, though maybe it was only me who refused to hang things up when I was twenty. There weren’t many clothes inside, though, with his parents and family home so close by, I doubted he ever needed to bring much here.