Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  Kitt raised her head again and looked at the two officers. ‘I suppose you have some hard forensic evidence to back up that theory, inspector?’

  ‘We’ve just outlined the toxicology report . . .’ Halloran began, but Kitt, losing patience, cut him off.

  ‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about hard evidence. Evie’s fingerprints. Her DNA on the wine glass. You have that?’

  Halloran’s jaw clenched even tighter than it had before.

  ‘Perhaps we are giving Evie too much credit.’ There was that growl again. ‘Perhaps she’s just a convenient scapegoat, for you.’

  ‘So now I’m the killer? Not Evie? Seems a bit indecisive.’

  ‘Oh, she’s involved,’ said Halloran, ‘but perhaps she’s just your pawn?’

  ‘Don’t you specialize in Women’s Studies in your role as a librarian, Ms Hartley?’ asked Banks.

  ‘What? Yes. Why?’

  ‘You must have an acute sense of the struggles women go through. It’s not unbelievable that when your friend was treated in this way you decided to take matters into your own hands,’ said Banks.

  ‘Or maybe this isn’t about Evie at all. Maybe it’s about Theo,’ said Halloran.

  Kitt’s head jolted in Halloran’s direction. All oxygen left her lungs, and she could feel the pained expression painting itself across her face. ‘How do you know about Theo?’

  ‘We found a notebook in your handbag.’

  ‘You read my journal?’ Kitt crossed her arms loosely over her chest.

  ‘Yes,’ Halloran said.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that; reading my diary is like seeing me naked,’ said Kitt, thinking about all the things she had written in there that she thought nobody would ever see. Notes of anger about Michelle’s reluctance to stand up for any good cause, in-depth descriptions of how she had felt for Theo, and how she’d felt after he had left, and, most excruciating of all, detailed sexual fantasies that, being perpetually single, she had explored in the private pages of her diary rather than in the flesh.

  Halloran stared hard at her. ‘Within the realm of the law, I’ll do whatever I have to do to be able to tell Owen’s mother that we’ve caught the person or people who killed her son.’

  Kitt saw a flinch flutter over Halloran’s face as he said this.

  She hadn’t thought about that. About the fact Halloran and Banks would have had to inform Owen’s mother that her son was no longer alive. In her defence, she had been preoccupied with how all this was affecting Evie. Kitt looked at the lines around Halloran’s eyes and wondered if there was a mark for every time he had knocked on a door to deliver the worst possible news. If so, he had done this more times than anyone would want to.

  ‘Do you have a partner of your own, Ms Hartley?’ asked Banks.

  ‘No,’ Kitt said, blinking a few more times than was natural.

  ‘How long have you been single?’ said Halloran.

  Kitt placed a hand to her temple. ‘How is this relevant?’

  ‘Answer the question,’ Halloran said, in a quiet, dangerous tone.

  ‘About . . . ten years now,’ Kitt said. It’d been a long time since she’d had to outright confess that fact, and her head suddenly felt very heavy, desperate to tilt downwards. Still, she fought to keep her chin level and refused to let her eye contact with the officers waver.

  ‘Ten years?’ Halloran repeated. It was lightning quick, but Kitt still caught it – his eyes darting down her upper torso before snapping back to her face. ‘So, nobody since Theo?’

  ‘Nothing serious. But, last I checked, it’s not a crime to be single.’

  ‘But you have been single for a very long time,’ said Banks, placing emphasis on the word ‘very’. ‘Why is that?’

  Kitt’s stomach muscles clenched. ‘I really don’t see how this is relevant to a murder case.’

  ‘When interviewing a suspect, we have to explore any unusual behaviour in our line of questioning,’ said Halloran.

  Kitt bristled. ‘And being single falls into the category of unusual?’

  ‘Not for one year, or two, but for ten years, that’s the kind of behaviour that might indicate a loner, an outsider, someone with a great deal of resentment towards the social world they’re not a part of.’

  Kitt nodded. ‘I see. So by your assessment I am both in collusion with my best friend, and a loner. What a complicated life you imagine I lead.’

  The inspector offered Kitt nothing more than a hard stare in return. Realizing he was not going to retract his question, Kitt sighed and added, ‘There is nothing suspicious about being single. Perhaps that could be put on police record somewhere. I haven’t met a partner who I’ve felt was worth all the hassle of a relationship. I’m not the kind of woman who’ll settle for just anyone who comes along.’

  ‘All that time, and nobody has turned your head?’ asked Halloran.

  ‘No,’ Kitt almost whispered.

  ‘You’ve got to understand how this looks,’ said Halloran. ‘Your best friend gets her heart trampled on. You’ve held onto all this anger over what happened to Theo.’

  ‘I’m not angry,’ Kitt interrupted, wishing Halloran would stop saying that name.

  ‘Your diary tells a different story,’ said Halloran. ‘It’s a portrait of a woman who is angry about the way she was treated. A woman who might take matters into her own hands.’

  Kitt’s eyes filled with tears in spite of herself – the idea that Halloran or anyone else would see her that way was too much. ‘If you read my diary from cover to cover and came up with such a reductive opinion of me, then I’m sorry for you,’ she said.

  Halloran’s eyes flickered. It wasn’t quite a wince, but it wasn’t far off.

  Determined to press her advantage, Kitt continued: ‘The only time I’ve taken matters into my own hands lately is when you wrongly arrested Beth Myers. I imagine Mr ­Rampling mentioned my involvement?’

  Halloran cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would I help you discount another suspect if I were the murderer? Or if my best friend were the murderer?’

  ‘To try and throw us off the scent. I’ve dealt with my fair share of people who’ve been led astray by friends with criminal intentions and murderous manipulators in my time on this job. The only question is, which one of these two people are you?’ said Halloran, the tightness around his mouth showing again.

  ‘You have no hard evidence I was involved,’ said Kitt. ‘Look, I’ve come in quietly, I’ve answered your questions, I’ve explained my whereabouts, and you don’t have any forensic detail to tie me to this murder. If you’re going to hold me any longer, I’m going to have to insist on having a solicitor present.’

  Halloran and Banks looked at each other in silence and then back at Kitt.

  Fifteen

  The doors of York Police Station swooshed open and Kitt turned to see Inspector Halloran striding towards her. Arms bared to the night-time chill, Kitt rose from her perch on the concrete steps and held out her hand for her satchel. Overcome with the desire for fresh air the moment the officers had granted her release, Kitt had requested to wait outside while her personal effects were recovered.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kitt said to Halloran as he held her coat while she put her arms through the sleeves. For all his growling and snapping, he could be a gentleman when the situation called for it. She buttoned her coat in silence, arranged her navy scarf around her neck, and placed her trilby on her head. When she at last looked up, she realized Halloran had been studying her every move.

  ‘You really won’t consider releasing Evie?’ Kitt said. She hadn’t been allowed to visit her friend, and Kitt could only imagine what kind of state she had worked herself into by this point.

  ‘We can’t release her,’ Halloran said, his tone much gentler than it had been in the interrogation room.
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  ‘But you’re releasing me . . .’

  ‘A decision that can be reversed if there’s something you want to tell me,’ said Halloran.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Kitt, with a sharp note in her voice. ‘I have the same alibi she does.’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t have direct access to the murder weapon. Your friend did. You may not be her accomplice, but someone else may have been. Just because she didn’t administer the poison herself doesn’t mean she wasn’t behind the killing.’

  ‘I know she wasn’t.’ Kitt kept her voice steady. ‘What about financial trouble? I wondered if that could be a factor.’ The librarian thought back to what the man in the betting shop had said about the people who borrow from loan sharks who are never seen again. She had wondered if Owen might have been one of them – it was what had driven her to investigate that avenue.

  ‘Nothing in Owen’s financial records indicate anything suspicious,’ said Halloran.

  Kitt breathed a small sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to go back to Sure Bet and meet Whippet Man’s contact, but in the same moment realized that without that theory Evie looked guiltier than ever.

  ‘Evie’s not your murderer,’ Kitt said. ‘Why can’t you see that?’

  Halloran took a step closer to Kitt, until he was standing just a pace away, and looked deep into her eyes.

  ‘You really need to start considering the fact that your friend could be lying to you. People aren’t always who we want them to be. Or who we think they are.’ The inspector’s brow lowered. ‘Given that Owen was last seen alive with a red-haired woman, she may even be going so far as trying to frame you.’

  It wasn’t comfortable to hold his gaze, but Kitt pushed herself to anyway. ‘You really have a low opinion of people, don’t you? Aren’t police officers supposed to believe in the tenet of innocent until proven guilty?’

  ‘In a court of law, yes. But a detective can’t afford to think that way. Not without paying a heavy price.’

  Halloran’s features had hardened, and Kitt couldn’t help but wonder if the price Halloran had paid was his faith in people. Kitt lowered her eyes at the realization that she related to that feeling all too well. Would she wind up like Halloran one day? Unable to see the good even in a soul as well-meaning as Evie?

  She decided to have one more go at convincing him. ‘I’m sure that more often than not the culprit in these cases is the most obvious person, but in this case, I can vouch for the fact that it’s not. Won’t you at least consider the idea that the killer is someone you haven’t thought of?’

  ‘It is a consideration,’ said Halloran. ‘But I have to warn you it’s highly unlikely, especially given the amount of evidence that points to Evie.’

  ‘But sometimes the evidence must point in the wrong direction. What about The Moonstone, And Then There Were None, The Long Goodbye?’

  ‘What are those, books?’

  ‘Please tell me you’ve at least read some Raymond ­Chandler in your time?’ Kitt huffed. ‘Surely that’s required reading for a police inspector?’

  ‘I don’t remember being issued with a reading list,’ ­Halloran said, a small smile just about visible behind his beard. ‘Do I need to have the talk with you about the difference between fiction and reality?’

  Kitt sighed; people were always so dismissive about how much truth there was in fiction, but writers had to get their ideas from somewhere. ‘All right then, High Dive, In Cold Blood, er . . . The Long Drop . . .’

  Halloran shook his head at Kitt. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Listing books based on real-life murders.’

  ‘You know, not all the answers are found in books,’ he said, lowering the pitch and volume of his voice. ‘Some answers are found through experience . . . through the senses. Through seeing, and tasting, and touching . . .’

  Kitt swallowed hard. There was something distracting, perhaps even enthralling about Halloran’s voice in that register. Was he doing this on purpose? Diverting her from her task of making a case for Evie’s innocence? If so, he was doing a better job of it than Kitt would like to admit.

  Remembering the importance of putting sisters before misters, she cleared her throat.

  ‘Doesn’t the fact that Evie would know all of this evidence would point to her give you pause? Why would anyone go to the lengths of orchestrating a murder this intricate only to make all of the clues point to them?’

  Halloran took in a deep breath. ‘There’s a certain innocence about you, Ms Hartley, that’s somewhat endearing, and I wish I didn’t have to be the one to shatter it.’

  Innocence? If Halloran still thought her to be the innocent-minded type, he couldn’t have read her diary that closely.

  ‘Some people rely on the evidence pointing at them as a get-out,’ Halloran continued. ‘They make exactly the excuse you just did. Explaining how stupid they’d have to be to leave clues that point to them. Deep down they’re just playing a sick game, watching the police struggle to solve the puzzle from close quarters.’

  Kitt shook her head. Helplessness was her least favourite state of being. How could it be that there was nothing she could do to better her friend’s situation? No matter what she said to Halloran, he wasn’t going to change his mind, at least not unless she could present him with another plausible suspect.

  It was this thought that summoned an idea in Kitt’s mind, the kind of idea that only seems like a solid prospect at three a.m. after very little sleep.

  Kitt glanced at her watch. 3.10 a.m. Ashes to Ashes was, she believed, open until around the five o’clock mark. There was still time.

  ‘I understand your dilemma,’ Kitt said with a meek smile. ‘I— I have to go.’

  ‘Home?’

  Kitt nodded. ‘I’ve got to be at work in six hours.’

  ‘I can drive you,’ said Halloran.

  ‘No, I’ll walk.’

  ‘It’s safer if I drive you.’

  ‘I’ll be perfectly safe,’ said Kitt. ‘I don’t need to worry at all, do I? You’ve caught the real murderer.’

  Halloran sighed and folded his arms over his chest as Kitt turned and walked as quickly as her feet would carry her towards the city centre.

  Sixteen

  Kitt peered into the murky blankness of Mad Alice Lane. It was one of the city’s many winding snickelways and named after the legendary Alice Smith who was hanged at York Castle in 1825 for, as the name implied, being two bob short of a pound. A fact Kitt recalled learning many years ago on a school trip to York from her home town of Middlesbrough. Back then, her twelve-year-old brain imagined madness as a sort of malevolent sprite that sneaked up and caught a person unawares, making off with their soul without any prior warning. Although the unsettling atmosphere of the snickelway – which reeked of nicotine and sour drains – had no doubt played its part in her nightmarish childhood vision, it occurred to her that perhaps the assessment she had made in her tender years wasn’t that far off the mark. Moreover, she couldn’t help wondering if her soul was the latest to be claimed.

  Certainly, forty-eight hours ago the idea of hanging around the city’s alleyways after dark in a bid to question a would-be murderer based on some whim Evie had wouldn’t have struck Kitt as an even remotely sane prospect. But then again, neither would the idea that a person might take the time to off Evie’s ex-boyfriend, especially in the uncanny, melodramatic manner in which it had happened. Kitt had kissed sanity goodbye the moment those police officers had walked into the library three mornings ago, and the only way of returning the universe to its rightful order was to find out who had really killed Owen.

  Somewhere down this snickelway she would find Ashes to Ashes, the nightclub where Ritchie Turner worked. The winding passages off the main tourist tracks through the city wouldn’t ordinarily give Kitt pause, even in the dark. The library was open late
to accommodate the odd working schedules of university students, and she quite often found herself walking home along the lonely river long after nightfall.

  After all she had been through overnight, however, she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that whoever the murderer was, they must have some kind of connection with her life. If the culprit knew all the details of Evie’s break-up, it was a sensible deduction that they knew the identity of her best friend too. With the revelation of the red-haired woman last seen with Owen, it seems they were counting on the fact that alongside Evie, Kitt would be under suspicion from the police when the body was found.

  Despite her unease, the librarian stepped forward into the darkness, wishing she could shake the image of Owen lying vacant-eyed in that photograph Halloran had pressed her to look at. Why did she have to think of a thing like that at a moment like this when there was not so much as a dim streetlight to comfort her? Even the clip-clack of Kitt’s black court shoes echoing along the alley sent a shiver right through her, the sound scratching its fingernails down to the end of every nerve.

  Walking further into the alley, Kitt stroked the faux fur cuffs of her crimson winter coat. The gentle textures soothed her and served to steady her breathing.

  At least, until she heard it.

  A shuffling sound, not ten paces behind her. Not sure enough to be footsteps. It was a much slyer sound. The noise shoes make when they’re trying not to be heard; a soft scuffing against paving.

  Kitt’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t turn or stop walking. She kept her pace unaltered as though she hadn’t noticed anything. The nightclub couldn’t be too far down here. It was unlikely that whoever was behind her knew where she was going. If she could just make it as far as the club she could duck inside before they had a chance to stop her. Whatever happened next, at least there would be witnesses. She could call for a taxi if she didn’t think it was safe to go back outside. But it was probably nothing, just some drunk, or maybe a homeless person seeking shelter. It might not even be a person at all. That kind of sound could be made by a piece of stray litter being blown across the ground, Kitt told herself.