by Helen Cox
Kitt shook her head at the inspector. She wanted to find out exactly how he’d been in the same scenario, but whatever that scenario was it wasn’t this one at all. This situation was about Evie, and Kitt knew Evie could be trusted. She just wished Halloran would trust her enough to believe her.
‘Whoever’s really behind this, you’re playing into their hands a second time. Evie didn’t do this, and if you won’t believe that, I’m going to prove it.’
With this, Kitt turned and ran towards the door. She heard Halloran call after her, but she wasn’t listening. Ten seconds later, she was out the front door and walking briskly in the direction of Holgate Road. Evie had said she was going to walk into the river. If she had to walk the length of the Ouse and the nearby Foss all night to find her, that was what she’d do.
Thirty-four
Kitt wasn’t sure if it was the light or the cold that first woke her. But she started when she found herself not in the cosy folds of her bed back at the cottage, but on a time-worn bench by the river. Once her tired eyes had taken a moment to look around, it registered that she was partway down North Street between Lendal Bridge and Skeldergate Bridge.
Her shoulders sank in remembrance of the fact that she had spent most of the night before wandering the banks of the river. In her note, Evie said that she was going to drown herself. Kitt thought the note a hoax, another elaborate trick by whoever was behind these murders, but despite this, she wasn’t willing to take the risk. Either that note was the truth, or it was a clue about where Evie really was. Whatever the situation, Kitt knew she had to do all she could to bring Evie back to safety. Unfortunately, scouring the riverbanks had achieved nothing except invited a bitter chill into her bones and, eventually at five a.m., exhausted, she had paused on this bench. Just for a minute.
Kitt unzipped her satchel and rooted out her phone to check the time, but the damn thing had run out of battery. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. The sun was coming up. Given the time of year that would make it some time after seven thirty. The library was about twenty minutes from here – it was probably best to go there than go back to the cottage. She was so tired that if she caught even a glimpse of her own bed she didn’t trust herself not to fall into it and never be seen again. She couldn’t afford to rest right now. Evie needed her.
At the library, she could pay a visit to the ladies’ toilet and make herself look somewhere near respectable before trying to come at this situation from a new angle. There just had to be a more logical explanation than Evie being a secret criminal mastermind.
Standing up from the bench, Kitt pulled the strap of her satchel over her head and began walking against the flow of the river, towards Rowntree Park. Putting her hands in her pockets to keep them out of the cold, she felt something hard and rough. Pulling out the object, she looked down at the rock Ruby had given her, resting in her hand. The old woman had told her to hold onto it whenever she felt out of her depth. Now was definitely one of those times. She returned her hands to her pockets and let her fingers caress the rock’s many faces as she walked.
Watching the currents twist and contort, Kitt thought again about the letter Evie had written. Why would Evie write that letter? Not voluntarily, that’s for sure. All along, since the very beginning, the killer, or killers, had been doing all they could to pin these crimes on Evie. The break-up note. The wine. The diazepam. The chemicals. The fact that the killings only took place when she and her alleged accomplice were able to commit the acts. What about the red wig? Was it coincidence that the wig happened to be the same colour as Kitt’s hair? The best friend of their preferred scapegoat. If the logistics had worked out a little differently, would the killers have tried to suggest Kitt was more involved in the killings than they already had? If the killers had intended all along to make the police believe Evie was the culprit, they could have gone so far as to kidnap her and tell her if she wanted to live she had to write a letter admitting her ‘crimes’. There were no signs of forced entry to Evie’s house, but that had been the pattern all the way through this case. The victims had all gone willingly.
At that thought, a shiver unrelated to the cold morning air skittered down Kitt’s spine. Who was this mystery person in their midst manipulating this whole situation?
In the letter, Evie claimed to have overheard the other stories of heartbreak at the salon. It was plausible someone could do that. When Kitt went for beauty or hair appointments, she always asked the person serving her if they would mind if they didn’t talk. Often, Kitt was met with a smile and a look of relief in the eyes of the therapist. It must be exhausting talking about holidays, boyfriends and girlfriends all day long. You were bound to hear the same thing over and over again. Except that once in a while, you’d probably hear something out of the ordinary. Some unexpected story of devastating woe, just like Evie claimed she had in the letter.
Just because the idea was plausible, however, didn’t mean that it was true of Evie. Perhaps that was how the real killer had found their victims and if that were true it would mean the killer was . . . somebody who worked at the salon.
Kitt cast her mind back to the night she and Evie had been arrested at the Belle’s Ball. Everyone from the salon had been sitting around that table, talking about the murder case.
One of them had been the killer, and one of them had had more to say than anyone else.
Jazz.
She had speculated that the murderer was still in town. How had Deniz described her bookshelf? Macabre. Filled with books on serial killers and crime novels. Not only that, but Jazz had pointed the media eye straight at her and Evie. She had claimed she had been ambushed, but what if that was misdirection? She had just as much access to poisonous chemicals as Evie did. If anyone at the salon was a suspect, it was Jazz.
Kitt was only a short hop from the library now and there she would be able to look into this further, and get Grace on the case.
As she approached the dark figure of Skeldergate Bridge, though, Kitt paused and the breath caught in the back of her throat. Slowly, she walked towards it, towards the spot where just the night before Halloran had pressed her against the cold stonework. She placed the palm of her hand flat against the bridge, and closed her eyes, as though if she concentrated hard enough she might still be able to feel the vibrations of that moment, the firmness of his lips, the tickle of his beard, the grip on her long hair that was at once gentle and rough.
‘Kitt?’
She jumped and turned to see her assistant, presumably on her way to the library.
Kitt whipped her hand down from the stonework, and Grace frowned.
‘Everything . . . all right?’ said Grace, looking her boss up and down.
‘Yes, I, er . . . thought I saw a loose stone in the brickwork here.’
‘A loose stone?’
‘Yes, can’t be too careful given how much weathering this bridge gets from the river. You have to report that kind of thing to the council straight away.’ Kitt put both her hands flat on the side of the bridge and made a show of pushing against it. ‘Seems secure.’
‘OK . . .’ Grace said. ‘Kitt . . .’
Kitt turned again to face her assistant.
‘Is everything really all right?’
Kitt tried to come up with a breezy answer, but she couldn’t get the words past her teeth. Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. ‘Everything’s gone wrong.’
Grace put her arm around Kitt. ‘Come on, let’s get you a cup of Lady Grey and you can tell me all about it.’
Shaking with the effort of holding back tears, Kitt nodded and managed something that resembled a smile. The pair walked towards the library in silence. Grace squeezed Kitt now and then for comfort, while Kitt looked over the rising river as one question streamed through her mind, over and over: Evie, where are you?
Thirty-Five
‘Grrrrrrrr,’ said Grace, pushing away t
he mouse and slumping in the chair behind her desk.
‘Regardless of what dead end we’ve hit now, there’s no point wrinkling that beautiful material by slouching,’ said Kitt, referring to the turquoise kurta that Kitt had always admired. Though Grace always undercut the formal lines of the garment with a pair of black jeggings underneath, it still had an almost majestic quality about it.
‘Wait until you hear the dead end before you make that assumption,’ said Grace, sitting up straighter.
‘All right,’ Kitt said. ‘Hit me with it.’
‘Jazz is not involved with these murders. Or at least, it’s really unlikely.’
‘You haven’t found anything on her?’
Grace shook her head. ‘It’s more what I have found. She’s quite the Facebook addict. She’s tagged on nights out with friends most evenings. Including all three nights the murders took place.’
‘Halloran did say she had alibis, though he didn’t say how solid they were. Don’t forget, though, that all along the police thought this was the work of more than one person – maybe someone is doing it for her.’
‘I just can’t find anything, anywhere in her online presence, that even hints at motivation. She’s a social butterfly, well-liked, absolutely all of her interactions are kind or funny or sweet. There’s nothing there that hints at anger or pain . . . it’s sort of sickening.’
‘But whoever is behind this is deeply manipulative. It could be a charade,’ said Kitt, not quite willing to let go of this theory yet.
‘But, if you think about it, Jazz has actually been a victim of the killer in a way. He—’
‘Or she . . .’
‘Yeah, or she – they – attacked Evie, Jazz, and Heather the other night.’
Kitt sighed. ‘Halloran thought Evie might have staged that to make herself look more innocent. The same logic could be applied to Jazz.’
‘All right, how did Jazz seem after the incident the other night?’
‘Shaken, she was really shaken and it seemed genuine enough . . . but . . .’
‘What?’
‘Heather . . . she didn’t seem so afraid.’
‘Wasn’t she the one who got stabbed?’
‘Cut . . . but yes, she was the one who got injured, and she was the one who risked going up to the killer even though it could have been anyone . . . oh God!’ Kitt gasped, brought up short by a horrible realization.
‘What?’
‘Evie’s letter. The last line . . .’
‘What about it?’
‘She was talking about a day out we had on the moors a while back and she told me she wanted me to remember that day when I remembered her. That when I thought of her, I should think about the heather.’
‘You think it was a message from Evie? That she wanted to point you towards Heather?’
‘Why didn’t I see that sooner? It was the last line of the letter. The last line of any piece of writing is always really important.’
‘I can’t think that a night of no sleep has done much for your powers of deduction. But . . .’ Kitt raised an eyebrow at her assistant. ‘Wouldn’t Heather have seen what she was trying to do? If she could orchestrate all this, then she’s probably meticulous enough to spot something like that.’
‘Yes, but Halloran also said killers like this play a sort of game, to see how close they can get to being caught without actually being caught. So maybe she saw it, but decided to let it play out.’
Grace shook her head. ‘This is all beyond wild for this sleepy little city.’
‘You’ll hear no argument from me about that,’ said Kitt. ‘But I can’t let it lie. Not while Evie is missing. I’ll have to go and see Heather.’
Kitt’s mobile hummed as it vibrated along the desk. Thankfully someone on reception had a charger that fitted her phone, so she had been able to charge it back up. When she had turned it on, she had been praying for some message from Evie, but there had only been several concerned voicemails from Halloran. Picking up the phone, Kitt saw his name flashing across the caller ID.
‘Halloran?’
‘Kitt, God, it’s such a relief to hear your voice.’
‘I know, sorry. As soon as I got your messages, I texted you. I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.’ She was still annoyed with Halloran, and the temptation to delay her response to him had been there, she couldn’t deny. But she knew too well the feeling of waiting, and couldn’t inflict it on anyone else. Besides, game playing was exhausting and unnecessary.
‘I went to your place a couple of times on my travels last night, and passed by the library. You weren’t there. Where were you?’
‘Out looking for Evie.’
‘On your own?’
Kitt wondered if she should lie to Halloran, but on reflection, she didn’t see why she should. He wasn’t her keeper. ‘Yes, but you needn’t worry, I didn’t get lonely. I’m very good company.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that. It was dangerous.’ There was a faint hint of a growl in Halloran’s voice that Kitt didn’t much appreciate. What did he expect her to do when her friend was missing? Sit at home rereading War and Peace? Ordinarily, Kitt wouldn’t have been averse to that, but this was something of an emergency.
‘She’s my best friend,’ Kitt said, gritting her teeth in the hope that her voice sounded something like a growl too.
Kitt heard a sigh from the other end of the line. ‘I’m not likely to forget that any time soon.’
‘Has Ritchie confessed yet?’ Kitt did all she could to make this sound like a genuine question rather than a snide remark. A whole cocktail of emotions were swishing inside her when it came to dealing with Halloran.
‘Not yet. He’s denying it all, but there’s too much evidence to ignore now.’
‘Except DNA or fingerprints or anything that categorically ties him and Evie to the murder scenes,’ said Kitt.
‘Murder investigations are seldom as perfect as they are on TV.’
‘Look, it’s pointless wasting time arguing. I’ve got to get on.’
‘Kitt, we are still looking for Evie.’
‘As a murder suspect?’
‘That’s the official line.’
‘And . . . unofficially?’
‘Unofficially, I’m hoping we find her alive and well with an explanation for all this.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Say we’ll talk tonight.’
Kitt paused. She didn’t want to sink any deeper into this infatuation with the police inspector who believed her best friend had committed triple homicide. But perhaps agreeing to talk to him was Kitt’s opportunity to tell Halloran straight that it was best they kept their distance.
‘We’ll talk tonight.’
‘All right, and in the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.’
‘I’m afraid that would be breaking a thirty-five-year habit, but I’ll do my best.’
‘I’ll pick you up at the library if you text me with a time.’
Kitt could hear the smile in the inspector’s voice. She wished she didn’t feel a fluttering inside at the prospect.
‘Good enough.’
The librarian hung up the phone to find that Grace was eyeing her with a level of scrutiny she could have done without. ‘Maybe you should text him back and tell him about Heather.’
‘There’ve been so many twists with this case. I can’t take anything else to him unless I’m sure that it’s a genuine lead. We haven’t got any more time to waste. Evie’s life could be at stake.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘You start looking into Heather, and text me if you find anything.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to see Heather, see if I can find something concrete to tie her to all this. If Michelle asks, I’m not feeling well and hav
e gone to the chemist for meds.’
‘God, Kitt, be careful. You could be walking into the scorpion’s nest here.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Kitt. ‘Knowledge is power, and I’m a very well-read woman. I’ve got a plan.’
Thirty-six
There was a sign on the glass doorway of Forever Young beauty salon that read ‘No walk-ins. Appointment by online booking only’. Kitt had a feeling, however, that Heather would make an exception for her. After all, she had recently used her connections with the police to make sure Heather got home safe and sound after being wounded by an anonymous cloaked attacker . . .
Kitt pushed the door open and a bell rang as she stepped onto the plush, cream carpet. Despite the number of muddied shoes that must have walked over it since the season began to turn, it looked clean to almost clinical levels.
The whole room had been painted lilac and smelled, as most salons did, of acetone. To Kitt’s right, there was a glass counter, with a telephone, notepad and fountain pen on it, but there was no sign that anyone was in the building. Kitt paused and looked at the glass counter again. A fountain pen . . . it was a Stanwyck. And the paper it was resting on was the same colour as the paper used in the notes in the killings. Was it exactly the same paper? Surely Evie would have remembered that if she had seen it when she came in for her manicure? But then, she had only been to this salon once, and attention to detail wasn’t Evie’s strong point. She reached out to touch the paper . . .
‘Oh, Kitt, hello,’ said a familiar, velvety voice.
Kitt brought her hand back to her side as casually as possible and tacked on a smile. Heather was standing in an inner doorway, which probably led to a treatment room at the rear. Another woman was with her, presumably a client, pulling on a dogtooth cardigan and heading towards the coat pegs near the door.
‘Thanks, Heather,’ the woman said. ‘Perfect as always.’
‘No problem, I’ve got you booked in for next time. I’ll see you then,’ Heather said, as the woman grabbed her coat off its hook, said an additional goodbye, and exited the salon.
