Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  ‘I’m fine,’ Kitt lied, grabbing her satchel and turning off her monitor. She could feel hot tears forming behind her eyes, but swallowed hard to hold them back. ‘I’m sorry, I just want to get home.’

  ‘I can drive you,’ said Halloran.

  ‘I’d prefer to walk, thank you.’

  Kitt needed the cold night air in her lungs. She needed to clear her head and listen to the musical drift of the river. To her mind, it was the only thing right now that could extinguish the heat burning inside.

  ‘You know I don’t like you walking around late at night when there’s a murderer on the loose,’ said Halloran.

  ‘But there isn’t, is there? You’ve caught them,’ said Kitt, scurrying down the steps, bookshelves scrolling by in her peripheral vision. Halloran hurried after her and the pair left the library through the tall oak doors at the front entrance.

  ‘We’ve caught one of them, but remember we think they have an accomplice,’ Halloran said. Kitt didn’t answer.

  ‘Don’t you want to know who it is?’ asked Halloran, striding to keep up with the librarian, who was walking with quick steps in the direction of Skeldergate Bridge.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I just had to get out of there,’ said Kitt, she pulled at the scarf around her neck so it hung a little looser.

  She shouldn’t have opened that Facebook link. She shouldn’t have opened that door again. After how hard she’d worked to put Theo out of her mind, how could she have been so stupid as to undo it all with the click of a mouse?

  ‘We found traces of diazepam and the chemicals used to poison Owen in Ritchie Turner’s work locker,’ said Halloran.

  This statement caught Kitt’s attention and she frowned over at Halloran. ‘So it was him. But he had an alibi for the first killing.’

  ‘Yes, he was at work,’ said Halloran, ‘and where did we find the evidence? At work. So the odds are somebody who works with him is in on it. We just have to crack Turner and find out who.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kitt said.

  ‘Thought you’d be glad to hear we are on the brink of closing the case,’ said Halloran, frowning at Kitt.

  ‘I am, yes, of course I am.’ Kitt paused, thinking. ‘Has he confessed?’

  ‘No, but in my experience the evidence doesn’t lie and murder suspects do. For all they’re worth once they’ve been caught,’ said Halloran.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not totally fluent in Librarian yet,’ said ­Halloran. ‘You’ll have to translate that “mmm”.’

  Kitt wanted to smile, but her lips wouldn’t work that way. ‘It’s just . . . do we know what Ritchie’s motive is yet?’

  ‘We’re still working on that,’ Halloran admitted. ‘But he doesn’t exactly seem very sensitive or respectful to the women in his life, so that might have something to do with it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it could,’ said Kitt. ‘Wish he was the only man I knew who fits that description.’

  Thirty-two

  Kitt’s blue eyes followed the trail of the Ouse, across to the north bank where the city was illuminated against the night sky. The floodlit spires of York Minster gleamed gold in the blackness. They were almost at Skeldergate Bridge now and before long she would be curled up in bed with a book, far away from the world of murderers and ex-boyfriends. The librarian deepened her breathing, taking in and letting go of oxygen as slowly as she could.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked Halloran.

  ‘Yes,’ Kitt said, but even she could hear how the word was hissed out through her teeth.

  ‘You don’t sound it,’ said Halloran.

  ‘So what?’ Kitt shouted. Not at Halloran, but at the river, the stars, the cold night air that was already biting at her ears. ‘So what if I’m not all right? Why do I have to be all right all the time?’ These follow-up questions were directed at Halloran, who watched Kitt in silence. ‘Since you apparently have to get to the truth of absolutely everything, no. I’m not all right.’

  Halloran’s face didn’t even twitch, he just watched as Kitt continued.

  ‘I mean, what the hell did he think was going to happen? Ten years it’s been, ten years of wondering why he threw away what we had without any explanation, and since you read my journal with such intrusive interest, I would guess you know who I’m talking about.’

  Halloran pressed his lips together before speaking. ‘That was Theo.’

  ‘Full marks, you were paying attention,’ said Kitt, pressing a hand against her forehead. ‘He walks into the library as though he’s just come back from the corner shop and I’m never going to be able to not see him now, standing there. Whenever I look up from my computer or cross over to the bookshelves, I’ll remember him standing in that spot. Spouting all those words that I know don’t mean a bloody thing. I’ve heard them before. I wonder how many women have. How many have been told there isn’t anyone else like them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Halloran began, ‘but in your case—’

  ‘And you know what?’ Kitt continued. ‘People always talk about how forgiveness is something you give yourself, not the person who’s wronged you. Look on any social media timeline and you’ll find some unsolicited inspirational quote telling you that. But that’s just a line, and it’s as false as all the lines he dished out. He made me believe . . . he made me believe that I was unlovable, and I will never forgive him for that. Never, never—’

  Halloran pressed his hands against Kitt’s shoulders, holding her steady. Her breathing was sharp and short after her outburst, and she glared at Halloran as though he were somehow responsible for it. The inspector didn’t say anything, he just kept his blue-eyed gaze on her. Looking harder into his eyes, Kitt’s breathing began, bit by bit, to plateau. Halloran’s hands still gripped her shoulders and his face was fixed in what seemed like deep concentration. He was studying her. Their eyes remained locked for the longest minute Kitt could ever remember experiencing, and thousands of tiny thrills pushed up through the skin along her arms as Halloran slowly brought a hand up to her temple and ran his fingers through the length of her red hair.

  A question danced in the logical part of Kitt’s mind: What are you doing? But in posing that question to herself, she realized she already knew the answer and couldn’t summon that query, or any other, to her lips.

  Without breaking eye contact, Halloran took a gentle step forward, and another, nudging Kitt backwards, pushing her up against the dark stone wall of Skeldergate Bridge. Again, he paused, staring into her eyes, not speaking a word. Kitt had U-turned from panting in exasperation to barely daring to take in oxygen. Halloran began leaning forwards, his face drifting towards hers. She stood utterly still as he turned his head a fraction, pressed his right cheek against her left and gave it a small push, the way lions do their mates in the wild. Kitt closed her eyes the second she felt his skin against hers, listening to Halloran inhale the scent of her, and she did the same to him. That fresh burst of moorland after the rain overwhelmed her. She felt Halloran’s breath then, the warmth of it tingling down the side of her face, and her own breathing deepened. She tilted her head back, just a little, exposing her neck and this, it seemed, was the only invitation Halloran needed.

  Sliding his hands from Kitt’s shoulders to embrace her, Halloran gripped the back of her coat and pulled her body closer into his. Gasping, she felt her arms wrapping around him in return. His scent was so deep, so earthy, so intoxicating, it blotted out thoughts of anything else. The next sensation was that of Halloran’s lips and tongue and beard against her neck as he kissed her in a way that made her whole body arch towards his. The softest moan escaped Kitt’s lips and in an instant it was swallowed up by the warmth of Halloran’s mouth.

  At first, Kitt only opened her mouth halfway, but ­Halloran’s gentle tongue teasing over her lips was unexpectedly tempting, daring her to open up, and let
the softness of her tongue touch his. When they met, Kitt heard what could only be described as a low growl echo out of Halloran. It was, to her reckoning, one of the most divine sounds she had ever heard. Certainly, it was the most seductive and it only inspired her to kiss Halloran harder, while revelling in the rough and smooth of his beard, which all this time had been concealing firm, hungry lips.

  Pinned against the wall, the ferocity of the kiss intensified. There was nowhere for Kitt to go, and nowhere she wanted to go. The pair started pulling at each other’s clothes, pressing their lips and bodies harder against one another. Halloran’s was a kiss deep enough to drown in, one that left Kitt gasping for air. She hadn’t felt this way since . . . since . . .

  Kitt’s eyes were open wide in an instant. Without warning, she pulled away and shoved Halloran backwards. He was strong, but the shove was unexpected and knocked him back a step. He stood there, panting but not speaking.

  ‘I have to go,’ Kitt said.

  How could she be so stupid? She had resolved the fall-out from her last broken heart a mere ten minutes ago and here she was starting the cycle all over again.

  ‘Is – is that what you really want?’ Halloran asked.

  Kitt frowned up at him. ‘I – I—’ a buzzing sounded from the front of her satchel. The pair looked at the bag and then back at each other. Kitt made an apologetic look as she reached in and pulled out her phone. It was a text from Evie. Kitt swiped to bring up the message. Her eyes widened as she read and her hands began to shake.

  ‘What?’ said Halloran. ‘Kitt, what is it?’

  Kitt frowned and shook her head at Halloran. ‘It’s Evie . . .’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s . . . she says it’s her.’

  ‘What’s her?’ asked Halloran.

  ‘She’s the murderer.’

  Thirty-three

  Halloran sighed as he sat next to Kitt at the table in Evie’s kitchen. It was a rickety old rectangular thing that Evie had spotted in a local charity shop. Kitt ran her fingertips over the roses carved into the edge of the table.

  ‘She said this table was love at first sight,’ Kitt said. ‘But she didn’t have her car with her at the time to get it back. So we carried it all the way up Holgate Road. Rush-hour traffic gawking at us.’

  Halloran closed his hand over Kitt’s. She looked at their hands, resting together on the table for a moment and then, shaking herself free, stood up.

  ‘There’s got to be some clue in this place about what’s really going on.’

  Kitt left the kitchen for the living room where a sullen Banks was turning over the cushions on the settee, running a gloved hand along the crevices.

  ‘Looks as though you’ve got things covered in here,’ Kitt said, making for the door that led to the stairs. She could hear Halloran following close behind her, his steps heavier than hers on the wooden stairs that were covered with a thin floral carpet.

  Kitt swung open the door to Evie’s bedroom, turned on the light and scanned the room.

  She had an oak dressing table – second-hand like everything else she owned – sitting near the window on the left of the room. On it stood a mannequin head with a red wig perched on top.

  It looked like the same wig the killer had been wearing in the CCTV footage. It was one of the many incriminating items Halloran and Banks had found when they entered the property. They hadn’t needed to break in. Kitt knew where Evie kept her spare key – underneath one of the gnomes in her backyard.

  ‘Kitt . . .’ Halloran began.

  ‘It’s not right. It’s not,’ Kitt said, pacing up and down next to Evie’s bed. ‘Look at this,’ she said, grabbing a fistful of floral bedsheets. ‘These sheets are the chintziest things ever to be manufactured. These are not the bedsheets of a murderer.’

  ‘Kitt,’ Halloran said. He took a step towards her, but she walked over to the opposite wall and leaned against it.

  ‘The wig. The chemicals in the bathroom cupboard. The stationery set, complete with fountain pen. The cloak. It’s an abundance of evidence. It’s a set-up.’

  ‘Or, it’s the simplest explanation,’ said Halloran.

  ‘She was with me the night of Owen’s murder.’

  ‘She said in the text that Ritchie is her accomplice.’

  ‘But he has an alibi for the first murder too. He was at work. You’ve seen the CCTV footage.’

  ‘Maybe the footage had been tampered with. Or it wasn’t showing the correct date – CCTV footage gets out of sequence. Especially in private businesses who only really keep it as insurance if something goes down on their property and someone threatens to sue them over it.’

  ‘Mal,’ she said, staring at Halloran. ‘I know her. She wouldn’t do this.’

  The inspector walked over to Kitt. He ran a hand through the front of her hair. ‘I don’t want it to be Evie any more than you do. But, she did once hurt herself really badly, is it really such a stretch that she might hurt someone else?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kitt. ‘You don’t know her, you don’t understand.’

  ‘Hey, don’t shut me out here,’ Halloran said, his voice stern. He put a hand against the wall, either side of Kitt’s head, and fixed his eyes on her. ‘I know you.’

  ‘We met a week ago.’

  ‘I know you,’ the inspector repeated. ‘I’ve read you. Every page. Every word. The spaces in-between.’

  ‘Then trust me,’ said Kitt, but she could already see from the way in which his eyes lowered to the floor that that wasn’t going to happen.

  A second later, the rusty sound of trumpets could be heard. Muffled, but still recognizable as the intro to ‘Kiss Me, Honey Honey’.

  ‘Evie’s phone,’ said Kitt, looking first around the room and then down at the floorboards. ‘It’s coming from underneath us.’

  Halloran looked down at the polished wooden floor, tracking the sound. Kneeling, he prised up a loose board to reveal Evie’s phone. The caller ID said ‘Mum’. Alongside it was an envelope. It was addressed to Kitt.

  ‘Should we answer that?’ Kitt asked.

  ‘Let’s call her mum back in a few minutes when we have a clearer picture,’ said Halloran. He handed Kitt the envelope. Her hands shook as she accepted it and tore open the seal. She pulled out the heavy cream stationery. It was the same paper that had been used to write the notes pinned on the victims. Tears came to Kitt’s eyes as she read.

  Dear Kitt,

  I know you’ll be the first to defend me. I know you won’t want to believe I could do a thing like this. But I am the reason Owen is no longer here. I’m the reason the others are dead too. The night I murdered Owen, I crept out of your cottage after you’d gone to sleep. I knew you’d had a lot to drink and wouldn’t wake again until morning. I took a taxi to Owen’s new place. Even though I’d planned it, I didn’t know for sure I was going to kill him until I poured that glass of wine. But he shouldn’t have done what he did to me, and the same goes for the others.

  Working in a salon, you hear a lot of sob stories. That’s where I found out about the break-ups. Until it happened to me I didn’t think much of it. But I couldn’t let it go, being humiliated like that. I don’t see why anyone should have to. There are no penalties for breaking a heart. The culprits aren’t locked away or even fined, and there should be a consequence, a punishment. The heartbroken are the true victims. That pain is worse than dying.

  Of course, there’s no life left for me now. I couldn’t go on doing this for ever, and I never intended to. I would get caught eventually. So I decided I’d confess and at the first opportunity, fill my pockets with stones and walk into the river. That way the pain will finally be over.

  I don’t deserve to ask you for anything, but perhaps as my friend you’ll grant me this anyway. When you think of me, please don’t think of all this. Think of that day back in Aug
ust when we walked the moors. That day when the whole world was a sea of purple. When you think of me, think of the heather.

  All my love,

  Evie

  Halloran looked at the note. ‘Is it Evie’s handwriting?’

  Kitt nodded. ‘But just because she wrote it, it doesn’t mean she . . .’

  ‘Kitt . . .’

  ‘She might have written it under duress, or someone might have tricked her.’

  Halloran put his hands on Kitt’s arms. ‘We’ve got all available units out looking for her. Her car is still in the garage, and we’ve alerted the train and bus companies, so she’s not going to get far. When we find her, we’ll get to the truth, but you might have to at least be open to the idea that Evie is responsible.’

  ‘How can you say that to me? Knowing what Evie means to me?’

  ‘I take no pleasure in it. But listen. The letter says she sneaked out of your house that night. Ritchie has no alibi for the second murder. What about the third, does Evie have an alibi for that?’

  ‘Yes, it was the day after the funeral. I went out for a drink with her,’ Kitt said, her eyes widening.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Between seven and nine-thirty.’

  Halloran shook his head. ‘The murders have all taken place between ten and midnight.’

  ‘What about the other night? When the killer attacked Evie and Jazz and Heather?’

  ‘Probably staged to help Evie look more innocent,’ said Halloran. ‘Ritchie had been released, and when we questioned him he was without an alibi again.’

  ‘Why am I even talking about this? The logistics don’t matter,’ Kitt said, shaking her head.

  ‘They do to me, it’s my job to get them straight,’ said Halloran.

  ‘Yeah, and it’s my job to look out for my friend.’ Kitt shrugged Halloran’s hands away and stepped around him.

  ‘Kitt . . . I’m trying to help you. I’ve stood in exactly the same position as you are now. You need to look at the facts.’