Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  ‘Well, then I stick by my assessment of ridiculous,’ said Kitt.

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Halloran.

  ‘Look, I never thought Owen was good enough for Evie. While they were together he did nothing but take advantage of her good nature.’ That familiar heat flared in her chest as she remembered what had happened when the pair had been due to vacate the flat they’d shared. Owen left Evie to do the final clean-up. Conveniently, things were ‘mental at work’ that week and, thanks to Owen’s less-than-domestic leanings, Evie had spent two days alternating between disinfecting the room that had been his ‘man cave’, and ringing Kitt in tears. He might right now be scrubbing out the greasiest oven in hell just for that.

  ‘What’s your point, Ms Hartley?’ Halloran pushed again.

  ‘My point is that given half a chance he could be both spineless and undomesticated, but, well, who on earth would go to the trouble of killing a man like him . . . a man who sold luxury vitamin packages to the super-rich for a living? A man who spent his days in a business park on the outskirts of Leeds? He was just ordinary, as far as I know. Not into anything sinister.’

  ‘So far, that’s our understanding too,’ said Halloran.

  ‘Owen, dead,’ Kitt said. She looked up to see both ­Halloran and Banks staring at her, and a question formed on her lips. ‘How . . . how did he die?’

  Halloran took a step towards where Kitt was sitting. ‘The victim was found by his cleaner yesterday afternoon.’

  Kitt resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Owen and Evie had separated six weeks ago, and Kitt wagered it had taken him less than two weeks to realize he wasn’t going to make it alone without paying someone to do all the chores he had once left to her best friend.

  ‘The medical examiner at the crime scene confirmed it was poison of some kind.’

  ‘Poison.’ For an instant, Kitt did not know what to say. ‘Poison. People still do that?’

  ‘Toxic substances are easier to access than knives and guns,’ said Halloran.

  Kitt took a deep breath in and out, trying to process the information. But then another thought occurred to her. ‘Wait. Have you already spoken to Evie? About the murder, I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ Halloran said.

  ‘God, how is she?’

  ‘She seems . . . distressed,’ Halloran replied, before shooting a sideways glance at his partner.

  Kitt stiffened in her seat and nodded with as much politeness as she could summon. She imagined that description was an understatement. If Evie’s reaction to Owen leaving her while he was still alive was anything to go by, she was probably now going foetal in a dark corner somewhere, in dire need of a Malibu and Coke.

  ‘Ms Hartley, I’m sorry to ask, but I have to,’ said Halloran. ‘Where were you on Saturday evening between the hours of ten and midnight?’

  ‘Is— is that when Owen was murdered?’ asked Kitt.

  The inspector nodded.

  ‘But, you said I wasn’t under suspicion . . .’ Kitt replied.

  ‘You’re not,’ Banks said, looking up from the notes she had taken. The first words the officer had uttered since Kitt had come into contact with her were spoken in the coolest register, and in a Scottish accent.

  The librarian looked into Banks’s brown eyes, taking a moment to digest both the tone of her statement and the words themselves.

  ‘Evie . . . you think Evie is responsible for this?’ Kitt said, crinkling her nose up at the possibility. ‘Why?’

  ‘We have our reasons,’ said Banks, her voice still prickly, almost threatening. Kitt didn’t know what she had done to provoke this, but fought her natural instincts to push for an answer. Her whole life, Kitt had been a pusher. She’d pushed herself to excel in academia, to organize political demonstrations about important social issues, and to travel around the world with only herself for company. The thing Kitt was best at pushing, however, was her luck, and right now that didn’t seem like the best course of action. Knowing her luck, she’d only get Evie into more trouble than she was in already.

  ‘I’m surprised, is all,’ said Kitt. ‘I’ve known Evie for years, and we’re very close. The idea that there would ever be a reason to suspect her of murder is . . .’ ludicrous, Kitt thought, ‘. . . unthinkable,’ she said.

  ‘Well, she’s got motive for a start,’ said Halloran. ‘And as you pointed out yourself, Ms Hartley, there’s not a lot of that to go around. Mr Hall lived a very straightforward sort of life.’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’ Kitt began, cursing herself for having made the case against Evie worse without realizing.

  ‘And that’s just the start,’ Banks snapped. ‘Several aspects at the crime scene point to the involvement of Ms Bowes. You’d do well to cooperate and answer the inspector’s question about your whereabouts without any further diversion.’

  Kitt stared at Banks. It seemed that in the coin toss she imagined the two officers engaging in on the way into the library, Banks had been left with tails: bad cop. Why Banks thought speaking to Kitt in this manner was going to make her more cooperative, she couldn’t say. But she was torn between trying not to aggravate the officers and shielding her friend from their accusations.

  ‘I assure you, my aim is cooperation here,’ Kitt protested. ‘But you’ve got to expect some level of incredulity when you come to a person and accuse the most well-meaning individual they’ve ever met of murder.’

  ‘No more stalling, Ms Hartley,’ Banks said, her voice flat, but a little less stinging. ‘Your whereabouts, on Saturday evening?’

  ‘On Saturday . . . Evie and I were at my cottage on Ouse View Avenue.’

  ‘House number?’ said Banks, readying her pen again.

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘What time did Ms Bowes arrive?’ asked Halloran.

  ‘Around the eight o’clock mark. We watched a film.’

  ‘What film?’

  ‘Sleepless in Seattle.’

  What a mistake that had been. Evie had protested that she was doing better after her recent disastrous break-up and even more disastrous post-break-up first date; that she could suffer the schmaltz. Kitt knew otherwise, but her best friend wouldn’t have it, and, before they were even twenty minutes in, Evie was sobbing her heart out. Alcohol had been the speediest pain relief available. Kitt remembered opening a bottle of sherry after the fizz had run out, but everything after that was a bit of a blur.

  ‘What time did Ms Bowes leave?’ Halloran questioned her.

  ‘She didn’t,’ said Kitt. ‘Evie stayed over in my spare room.’

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’ asked Halloran.

  ‘Well, we’d had quite a bit of sherry and time can work a bit differently under those circumstances, but I do remember looking at the clock on my bedside table just before I put the lamp out and it was quarter to twelve.’

  Halloran looked over at Banks.

  ‘So can I assume that this clears everything up?’ asked Kitt, since the officers’ expressions conveyed nothing to her. ‘I mean, Evie was with me, so she couldn’t have killed Owen.’

  ‘That’s assuming Ms Bowes doesn’t have an accomplice,’ said Banks.

  Accomplice? Hearing Evie’s name mentioned in the same sentence as that word was laughable, but Kitt didn’t much feel like laughing. She wasn’t going to pretend she could forgive Owen for the pain he’d caused her friend or drone on about all his good points as people always did when somebody died, but death by poisoning was not an ending she would wish on anyone.

  ‘I know you think you’ve got reasons for suspecting her,’ said Kitt, ‘but Evie is not your murderer.’

  Halloran crossed his arms, toned, presumably, from whatever physical training he did to ensure he could chase after criminals. His face looked darker than it had a moment ago, and the lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened. ‘We don’t always kn
ow people as well as we think we do.’

  ‘I know my Evie,’ Kitt said. ‘Besides anything else, she’s just getting over one of the most crippling break-ups of her life. She’s currently eating handfuls of Haribo for breakfast. Surely we can agree that’s not the behaviour of a criminal mastermind devising some intricate plot to poison an ex-lover.’

  ‘That’s a matter to be judged in a court of law,’ said Banks, tucking her notebook away in her jacket pocket.

  Halloran, seemingly reading the exasperation in Kitt’s face, said, ‘Thank you for what you’ve told us, Ms Hartley. Now, we’d better get back to the station.’

  ‘All right,’ said Kitt, rising from the armchair, ‘but can you tell me where Evie is now?’

  ‘At the station, of course,’ said Banks.

  ‘What?’ Kitt heard her voice rise in volume as she spoke. ‘Wait, you haven’t locked Evie up, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Halloran. ‘She came in for questioning voluntarily, so there was no need for measures like that at this stage. But I am running a murder investigation here. Our job is to follow this trail wherever it leads until the murderer is brought to justice, and right now, all available clues are pointing at your best friend.’

  Four

  It had been more than two hours since Inspector Halloran and Sergeant Banks had left the library. In that time Kitt had helped a couple of students access the online journals, pacified both Michelle and Ruby with as little information about the police visit as she could get away with, and dealt with several crises involving the treacherous photocopier. None of these had proven to be long-term distractions from the fact that her best friend was at present the chief suspect in a murder investigation. The last text message she had received from Evie said the police had released her and she was on her way to the library, but waiting for her friend’s face to appear at the top of the staircase was more suspense than Kitt could bear.

  Consequently, she was doing what any curious soul might be doing under the circumstances: looking up a list of common poisons on the internet and trying to decide which was the most likely cause of Owen’s death.

  Prescribed medicines, or over the counter medicines, were at the top of the list. Kitt narrowed her eyes. As far as she knew, Owen wasn’t taking any medication. This wasn’t usually the kind of thing a person would know about their best friend’s boyfriend, but discretion wasn’t Evie’s number one quality, so Kitt reasoned that if Owen had been on anything, she would have been apprised of the situation.

  Next on the list was carbon monoxide. Kitt bit her lower lip and thought for a moment. The police didn’t give any hints about how they had found the body, or any other clues. Surely they would recognize that kind of poisoning from the method involved? Still, a possibility, if the killer knew what they were doing, which, from the description of the crime, it would seem they did.

  The librarian was just about to move on to a list of toxic cleaning products when a familiar voice cried out: ‘Kitt!’

  Evie’s call carried over the whirr of the second-floor photocopier, the low gabble of study groups discussing concepts such as ‘the androgynous mind’ in the collaboration corner, and the strained groan of the ancient inkjet printer on Grace’s desk.

  The librarian turned in the direction of Evie’s voice. She was walking towards the enquiry desk from the staircase, her turquoise patterned raincoat covering the cream canvas trousers and tunic she wore for her work as a massage therapist. Though the low slant of her shoulders betrayed Evie’s sadness, her features were quite level. Kitt guessed she was trying to keep her pace and facial expression appropriate to the surroundings, aware that in a small city like York gossip about a half-hysterical woman causing a ruckus in a university library would soon spread. After a minute, however, the urge to be close to Kitt got the better of her, and she broke into a half-jog, her short peroxide curls bouncing as she closed the last few feet between them.

  Kitt wrapped her arms around Evie, breathing in the scent of her perfume. It had top notes of almond and, on any ordinary day, left the librarian feeling a bit peckish, but not today. Being questioned about a murder was more than enough to put food out of Kitt’s mind. Well, at least for an hour or two.

  In the warmth of her friend’s embrace, Kitt felt the sudden desire to cry. She managed to hold onto the tears, but only because she was well-practised at doing so.

  ‘He’s dead . . .’ Evie wept into Kitt’s shoulder, leaning her pixie-like body against that of her sturdier best friend. Resting her chin on Evie’s head, Kitt could see several of the students looking in their direction, but she didn’t care about that. Right then, she just wanted her friend to feel loved.

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. Shhhh,’ Kitt soothed, stroking a hand over Evie’s hair and squeezing her even tighter.

  ‘They thought it was me,’ Evie sobbed. ‘That I—’

  ‘I know,’ Kitt said, before gripping Evie’s arms and pushing her back a step so she could look at her as she spoke. ‘But I know you didn’t do it. I know you were too distraught over the adorable antics of Meg Ryan to commit murder that night.’

  ‘Oh, don’t make me laugh right now,’ Evie said, managing to emit something between a giggle and a sob. ‘That’s not fair. This is awful.’

  ‘Just telling it how it was,’ Kitt continued to tease. ‘And another thing, how have you kept your eyeliner flicks in place after all the crying you must have done?’

  A small smile edged its way over Evie’s lips. ‘I’ll teach you. After I figure out what the hell I’m going to do.’

  ‘What need you do? The police let you go, didn’t they?’

  Evie looked over her shoulders to make sure nobody was listening in to their conversation. She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. ‘I’m not out of the woods yet. They say they might want to speak to me again if new evidence comes to light. Kitt . . .’ she paused, ‘there were things . . . at the crime scene. They pointed to me.’

  Kitt frowned. ‘What things?’ But then she held her hand up to stop Evie continuing. ‘This is best discussed in private. Grace is in the office brewing us some tea for just that purpose. We’ll talk more there.’

  Evie looked as though she was going to cry again, but then something caught her eye over by the bookshelves. ‘That man in the gender politics aisle is giving you a bit of a rum look.’

  Anyone else might have remarked on Evie’s use of outdated slang, but Kitt knew well enough that her friend’s love of all things vintage extended even to words. This meant that occasionally a phrase popped out of her mouth that hadn’t been used in casual conversation for a good fifty years.

  Kitt glanced in the direction Evie was looking and saw the Tess of the d’Urbervilles fanatic she’d dealt with earlier loitering in the bookshelves nearest her desk, pretending to read a copy of The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir.

  ‘Cabbage,’ Kitt said.

  ‘Cabbage?’ Evie repeated.

  ‘Shhhh,’ said Kitt. Every ten seconds or so he looked over the top of the book in Kitt’s direction. He was probably hanging around to try to annoy her after the comment she’d made this morning.

  ‘What about cabbage?’ said Evie.

  ‘Never mind. I’ll be with you in a minute, you know your way.’

  Kitt watched her forlorn friend walk off towards the office, and then, turning to her desk, hunted out a pen and a spare piece of paper. On it, she wrote the well-worn, ingenious lie: ‘Back in five’. No doubt Cabbage would be timing her absence from the help desk, but Kitt couldn’t worry about that right now. She would send Grace along as soon as she could. The students would not be too long without a guiding hand, and besides, her best friend had been all but accused of murder. This was an emergency.

  Walking towards the office and skirting to the left of the bookcases, Kitt traced her fingertips along the spines of the various volumes as she walked. She tr
ied with all her might to think of a list of people who would have a plausible motive for wanting Owen dead. Besides Evie, that is. But Kitt couldn’t think of anyone. He just wasn’t a notable enough character to have a list of arch-nemeses. There was a possibility that Owen had been involved in something sinister, perhaps even criminal, and that had been his undoing, but neither Halloran nor Banks had made any suggestion of this. They’d leaped straight to the assumption that Evie was involved, that it had something to do with his personal life. Did that mean the police didn’t have any other leads? Or had they just pounced on circumstantial evidence – the ‘things’ Evie had mentioned that somehow pointed to her?

  By the time she reached the office door, Kitt was no closer to an answer. The door, painted in a dark, moss green and bordered with an architrave patterned with swans, stood ajar. Kitt was just about to push through it when she heard Evie’s voice say: ‘Did you say anything to Kitt about it?’

  Kitt’s hand rested on the pewter door handle, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to announce her presence yet.

  ‘No,’ Grace responded. ‘I do love to tease her, I know I’ve got her when she crinkles her nose up –’

  Evie chuckled. ‘She does do that.’

  ‘— but it didn’t seem right today,’ said Grace. ‘Not with what you’re going through.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Evie, a hollow note in her voice. ‘But, do you really think Halloran was eyeing her up?’

  ‘Definitely. I mean, as much as he could whilst still staying on task,’ came Grace’s response.

  ‘Well, really,’ Kitt muttered under her breath. She wished, given the fact that there was a murder investigation under way, Evie and Grace could find better things to talk about than some imaginary romance between herself and Inspector Halloran.

  ‘How was Kitt with him?’ asked Evie.

  ‘She . . .’ There was a pause. ‘She did hold his eye when he talked to her. But I couldn’t say she was moon-eyed or anything.’

  Good job, thought Kitt. If you said that, I’d march right into the office and set you straight. Moon-eyed. The very idea.