Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  But her heart knew better.

  Somebody was following her. She could now see the red neon sign for Ritchie’s club blazing out of the blackness. Against her will, Kitt’s stride quickened. Safety was in sight. Or at least temporary safety, given she was on her way to talk to a murder suspect.

  Speeding up, however, had been a mistake. Whoever was following her had speeded up too.

  Perhaps they did know her destination after all. But how?

  Abandoning all hope of seeming casual, Kitt scurried towards the club’s heavy black door and, without looking back, bolted inside.

  The thumping of her own heart was at once drowned out by the thundering beat of music Kitt could only categorize under the banner of heavy metal. The club itself turned out to be little more than a blacked-out room with strobe lighting. Through the flickering white flashes, Kitt noticed that large red skulls had been stencilled onto the walls, but other than that, it was pretty bare. A makeshift sign Sellotaped to the wall proclaimed the £8 entry fee. The ‘ticket booth’ consisted of a lad with a thick crop of green hair that almost touched his shoulders, sitting on an upturned beer crate.

  The young man held out his hand and Kitt riffled through her handbag, pulling out her purse so she could pay the eight pounds. As she did so, the man pressed a black stamp onto the back of her hand. When he removed it the word ‘Sinner’ was revealed in thick black ink. Kitt raised an eyebrow at the unwanted brand, but thanked the heavens Grace wasn’t here to witness this moment – she’d never hear the end of it.

  Kitt turned towards the dance floor to see gangs of sweaty twenty-somethings leaping up and down in time to the rhythm – or as close to that as they could get given the raucous nature of the music – heedless of the unwashed smell emanating from every surface, or the minimalist décor.

  Evie had said Ritchie worked at the bar, which stood at the other side of the room. Kitt began her passage across the dance floor, her journey punctuated by looks of narrow-eyed confusion and pointing fingers. She reasoned that this was because she was the only person not wearing a faded T-shirt declaring allegiance to her favourite metal band, or perhaps because Kitt insisted on walking, as she always did, with a sure, authoritative march. Her shoulders were pushed back and her eyes were fixed straight in the direction of travel. Given that most of the patrons had already drunk enough to have difficulty standing, let alone walking, she didn’t exactly fit in.

  On reaching the bar, which was just a length of plywood flooded with a river of stale lager, a barmaid with bob-length cherry red hair came over to serve.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asked, tugging on a studded leather collar around her neck that looked a touch too tight for comfort.

  ‘Actually, I was hoping to talk to Ritchie. Is he on shift tonight?’ said Kitt.

  The barmaid’s eyebrows, black as Whitby jet, sank into a slight frown and she looked Kitt up and down before replying: ‘Yeah, he’s just at the end of the bar over there; he’s off to do a glass collection in a minute so I’d catch him quick.’ With that, the barmaid strutted partway down the bar in her fitted black satin dress and fishnet stockings to serve another customer.

  The second Kitt looked at the man she assumed to be ­Ritchie, she could see why Evie had agreed to go on a date with him. Evie was a sucker for any potential suitor who had height on their side, and she also had a weakness for men with brown hair. Ritchie ticked both of these boxes and was dressed in a sharp black shirt and a pair of black jeans. His fingernails were painted with black nail polish and, given that Evie grew up in the quaint market town of Thirsk, about twenty minutes outside the city, Kitt imagined her friend had thought that a rather edgy, alluring feature. The only obvious problem with him was his shoes, which were white, pointy leather affairs with tassels at the ends of the laces. Kitt wondered where anyone would even go to purchase shoes like that post-1978. Perhaps he had picked them up in one of the vintage shops along Gillygate, mistakenly believing he could bring that look back. His crimes against style aside, he didn’t look like a murderer. But what did a murderer look like, anyway? According to Halloran, Kitt herself fitted the description.

  She walked towards Ritchie and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Mr Turner?’

  Turning from the stack of glasses he had been pushing over the bar, he looked hard at the stranger in front of him. ‘Yeah.’

  Kitt raised her voice to make sure she was being heard over the music. ‘My name is Katherine Hartley. I’m here to speak with you about Evie Bowes.’

  Ritchie’s frown deepened. ‘That bird off LoveMatch?’

  ‘Bird?’ said Kitt, at once regretting the harsh note in her voice. That was hardly likely to put Ritchie in the mood for a friendly chat regarding his whereabouts last Saturday night. She was over-tired and not thinking clearly. She needed to get her head straight on her shoulders if she was going to be of any use to Evie.

  ‘If you’re here because she’s after a second date, you can forget it,’ Ritchie said.

  ‘That’s not—’ Kitt began, but Ritchie cut her off.

  ‘I was proper gutted about that. A date with a blonde masseuse.’

  Kitt bit hard on her tongue. Evie hated the term masseuse. She thought it made her sound cheap, and Kitt agreed that it did have unsavoury connotations. ‘Massage therapist’ was the preferred term, but having just objected to his use of ‘bird’ she couldn’t very well start interjecting again. She needed Ritchie to feel at ease.

  ‘I couldn’t believe she was single,’ he continued, ‘but when we got to the restaurant she cried on and off for two hours solid. Said one of the waiters reminded her of her ex, and that was it. I wound up getting her bloody life story. Still, at least she paid for her half of the bill, I suppose.’

  ‘She always pays her way, our Evie,’ said Kitt, doing all she could to ignore the heat building in her chest. Sure, listening to Evie wailing over an ex wouldn’t be fun when you were supposed to be on a date with her, but those were the actions of a distraught human being, and anyone paying even half as much attention as they should could tell Evie was a woman with a good heart within ten minutes of meeting her. A little compassion wouldn’t have gone amiss.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ritchie said, seeming to remember himself, ‘I’m at work so I can’t really talk. What do you want?’

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ said Kitt. ‘It’s just that something rather terrible has happened. It’s quite distressing, and if I can help it, I’d like to spare you the details.’ Kitt looked into Ritchie’s brown eyes, trying to make contact with his sensitive side. She wanted to believe he had one. ‘It would help me a great deal if you could remember where you were on Saturday evening.’

  Ritchie took a step back and folded his arms. He looked at Kitt sidelong. ‘What you want to know that for?’

  ‘Thing is,’ Kitt began, ‘there’s been a murder.’

  ‘A murder,’ Ritchie said, taking a moment to digest the information. ‘In York?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kitt said. ‘Didn’t you hear about it on the news?’

  Ritchie shook his head. ‘Don’t read the news much. I sleep the days and spend my nights in here.’

  ‘Of course, working nights must be a killer,’ said Kitt, and at once widened her eyes at her own phraseology. It almost sounded like an accusation, though Ritchie hadn’t seemed to take it as such.

  Kitt studied his face for any hint of expression. Any tick or giveaway. He was denying knowledge of the murder. That was a piece of information to note; if she was careful about what she said he might give himself away by knowing too much. She tried to remember exactly what she had read about the murder in the early evening paper. What information could be considered common knowledge, and what details only the killer might know. But it had been difficult to focus on those details, because, although they hadn’t named Evie, it did mention that the victim’s ex-girlfriend had been questioned by pol
ice. Evie had been devastated, and all this had happened just hours before she was officially arrested for murder. Kitt seethed at the injustice: whoever was framing Evie deserved locking up, and more.

  Ritchie stared harder at Kitt. ‘Are you the police or ­something?’

  ‘No, I’m not the police,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘I’m . . . well, I’m a librarian,’ Kitt said.

  ‘A librarian?’ Ritchie echoed with a scoff. ‘Yeah, you look the type. But then,’ he added, leaning in so his face was only a couple of inches away from Kitt’s, ‘they do say it’s always the quiet ones.’

  Kitt held Ritchie’s eye, not permitting the muscles in her face to so much as twitch. ‘I never said I was a quiet librarian, Mr Turner. I simply stated my job title.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what business you’ve got asking me questions, but whatever’s going on, it’s got nothing to do with me and I haven’t got time for this.’ Ritchie was about to walk away when Kitt put her hand on his arm. He was being awkward and, though that wasn’t a crime, it was making him look more suspicious by the minute.

  ‘The ex-boyfriend Evie told you about . . . he’s the one who’s dead,’ said Kitt. Ritchie didn’t speak or move or even flinch. He just stared at Kitt and waited for her next sentence. ‘Several clues at the crime scene suggest the culprit knew all the intimate details of Evie’s break-up. The number of people on that list is short, and anyone on it is automatically a police suspect, including you. If you have no reason not to answer my question about your whereabouts, please tell me where you were on Saturday. If you refuse, I’m going to waste no more time before passing my concerns about you onto the police.’

  Ritchie turned and squared up to Kitt, his stare dark and intense. ‘And what concerns do you have exactly? Given that this is the first time you’ve ever met me.’

  ‘My chief concern is that three days after you learned all of the intimate details of my friend’s break-up, her ex was found dead with a note pinned to his chest quoting his break-up message to Evie, word for word,’ said Kitt.

  Ritchie swallowed hard enough and paused long enough to raise Kitt’s hopes that he might cooperate.

  ‘Ritchie, I could do with a hand if you’re finished talking to your friend,’ another bartender called over. Kitt glanced over to see who it was who had interrupted at a rather pivotal moment and saw it was a stout, blocky young man with dark grey eyes and a closely shaven haircut that made the angles of his face seem severe. He had fewer lines at the corners of his eyes than Ritchie, so was probably a little bit younger. As his eyes shifted from Ritchie to Kitt, she noticed a sort of emptiness in them that left her feeling as one does while walking home on a bitter winter’s night, when your muscles lock in the chill. Looking at him, Kitt made a mental note not to suggest a work night out to Ashes to Ashes. She wasn’t convinced she was tough enough to survive a whole evening in company like his.

  ‘I can’t get into this, I’m busy,’ Ritchie said, drawing the librarian’s gaze back to him.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look,’ Ritchie said, grabbing both of Kitt’s arms tighter than she remembered anyone doing in her life, and shaking her.

  ‘I suggest you let the lady go,’ a man’s voice said somewhere off to the left, just loud enough to be heard over the music. It was a voice Kitt recognized.

  Slowly releasing his grip on Kitt, Ritchie turned to see Halloran standing just a foot away. He produced his badge from the inside pocket of his dark grey coat.

  ‘Ritchie Turner, I presume?’ said Halloran. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  Ritchie frowned between Kitt and Halloran for a second before turning and making a run for it, presumably towards a back door. But Halloran was after him like a shot and he didn’t get more than ten paces. Within moments Halloran had Ritchie’s hands clasped behind his back, walked him back to the bar, and pushed his head down on the surface as he handcuffed him.

  Kitt’s widened eyes met the moody blue of Halloran’s. He glared at her for just long enough to let her know he was deeply displeased, before turning away to concentrate on keeping a struggling Ritchie in check. Kitt didn’t need Ruby’s professed psychic abilities to foresee a return visit to the custody suite in her near future, and at that thought the librarian bit down hard on her lower lip.

  Seventeen

  Halloran paced the musty-smelling carpet, which was beige and patterned with dark green diamonds. ‘You better start talking, fast.’

  It had been some minutes now since a uniformed constable had shunted a handcuffed Turner off to the police station, where, it was understood, Banks would question him, and no doubt Evie, further. The inspector had wasted no time in escorting Kitt into the Ashes to Ashes back office to ask a few questions of his own. The room was panelled in dark hardwood, and Kitt wouldn’t have liked to have guessed how long it had been since the place had been given a decent wipe down. The bulbs on the black beaded chandelier hanging overhead were so covered in grime they were doing little to illuminate the situation, and a sickening mist of stale nicotine hung all around.

  ‘I’m sorry, I . . .’ Kitt began, but then sighed and lowered her head. She couldn’t think straight, not right now.

  ‘You can start by explaining why you ran straight to the next suspect on our list the second you were released from police custody.’ Halloran’s eyes were fierce and unblinking.

  Kitt opened her mouth to speak again and then paused. The scuffling sound in the alley. Halloran interjecting at just the moment Ritchie grabbed hold of her . . . ‘Wait, did— did you follow me here from the station?’

  Halloran tilted his head. ‘You’re a suspect in a murder case. Of course I followed you.’

  Not being a trained officer herself, Kitt had no idea if this was as normal as Halloran was implying, but one thing was clear: the inspector was going to take every possible advantage and opportunity to solve the case. It was a thought that should have comforted Kitt and yet somehow there was a disconcerting element to it. Something about him seemed more obsessive than professional.

  She watched Halloran as he continued his protest march, causing small dust plumes to mushroom out of the carpet. In fact, dust was a major theme in the Ashes to Ashes office. One felt that, with another round of brainstorming, the owners could have come up with a far more appropriate name for their establishment.

  ‘So, letting me go, that wasn’t because you believed I was innocent,’ said Kitt, her heart sinking. ‘It was just an opportunity to follow me.’

  Halloran stared at her. ‘I hoped you’d go straight home, like you said you would.’

  ‘Wish I had,’ said Kitt, raising her eyebrows. ‘That way, I’d still believe I’d got through to you. That you were coming around to the idea Evie and I weren’t responsible for Owen’s murder.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question, about why you came here and tipped off a potential suspect,’ said Halloran.

  Kitt closed her eyes, resting them for just a moment. ‘My best friend was rotting in a police cell for a crime she had nothing to do with. My best friend. I couldn’t let that kind of thing happen on my watch.’

  ‘If you had your suspicions about Turner, why didn’t you say something about him when you were being questioned?’ Halloran said, folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘I assumed Evie would have mentioned him as a potential suspect: she’s been talking about it for the last day or so,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Evie did mention him. Why didn’t you?’

  Kitt put a hand on her hip. ‘Because I’ve had a little experience over the last few days of what happens when a person is falsely accused. I wasn’t about to go and put someone else in that same boat without being sure there was something to it.’

  ‘It’s not your job to decide that, it’s mine,’ said Halloran.

  ‘I acted in
good conscience. I’m sorry if you don’t agree with that.’ Kitt’s voice had risen in volume. Halloran’s expression grew sterner, and she checked herself. ‘Besides anything else, I didn’t want to waste any more police time.’

  ‘It’s not your place to decide what is and isn’t a waste of time on my investigation.’ He took a step closer to Kitt.

  Kitt ran a hand through the front of her hair and sighed.

  ‘Look,’ said Halloran. ‘You saw Ritchie’s reaction when he saw me.’

  ‘At the very least, he’s got something to hide,’ said Kitt.

  ‘And that something could have something to do with Owen’s death,’ said Halloran. ‘And Evie.’

  Kitt frowned. ‘So now you think they’re in on it together?’

  ‘Unlike you, I have to be open to the possibility.’

  Kitt looked at the lines creasing the skin at the corner of Halloran’s eyes. ‘That may be, but he only met Evie last week.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, that doesn’t seem long to plot a murder . . . not that I would know anything about that,’ Kitt said, raising her hands in mock surrender.

  Halloran cleared his throat. ‘You seem to mean well, Ms Hartley, but you’re going to have to promise me you’re not going to take matters into your own hands again. What you did was dangerous.’

  ‘I can’t make you that promise. Not so long as Evie’s a suspect in this case. She’s my best friend. She’s one of the few people on this planet who’s ever got close to understanding me . . .’ Kitt’s eyes widened. That was a slip. She would never usually convey something that personal to somebody she didn’t know. ‘Never mind. You get where I’m coming from.’

  ‘Kitt,’ said Halloran. It was the first time the inspector had called her by her first name, and the sound raised the hairs on her arms. ‘Keep this up and there’s a chance I’ll have to arrest you.’