by Helen Cox
Kitt put a hand to her head and looked at her friend. In truth, this wouldn’t be Kitt’s first foray into seeking justice. She had spent a couple of years travelling just before she met Evie, and there were some stories even her best friend had yet to hear. But those adventures had happened when she was in her early twenties and thus less aware of her own mortality, long before she had settled down to librarian life in the enchanting city of York.
‘You know, Kitt,’ Evie said. ‘You know what nobody else knows. Why this is so important to me.’
At this, Kitt took in a sharp breath.
Three years ago Evie had entrusted Kitt with a secret about her past. She had almost shattered herself to pieces in the telling of it, and the pair had never referred to it since. The fact Evie had so much as hinted at that episode of her life told Kitt how important it was she acquiesce to her friend’s request.
‘All right,’ said Kitt. ‘I’ll go on my way into work. But if Beth’s housemate doesn’t have any insight, can we please agree that we’ll just let the police figure things out for themselves?’
‘Agreed,’ said Evie, with a sly smile that Kitt interpreted as a sign that her friend knew she’d stoked her curiosity. A curiosity that once ignited was all but impossible to put out.
Seven
Given what Evie had said about Beth’s coiffed appearance, Kitt wagered the police’s latest top suspect would rather be living somewhere a touch more glamorous than a shabby Victorian semi. Especially one situated at the wrong end of Holgate Road to be convenient for the city centre. With ever-spiralling rent prices, however, a room in a bygone terraced house slathered with flaking cream paint, not to mention the unmistakable mould problem in the front porch, was probably the best a young hotel receptionist could hope to afford.
After Evie’s visit in the early hours, Kitt had been unable to get back to sleep. When writing in her journal brought her no peace, she had turned to the copy of A Murder Is Announced and read it through to the end, even though day had been breaking when she was done. In that story, the victim was a hotel receptionist with a shady background who had known too much about the killer. This had sparked Kitt’s imagination, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Beth was more involved with this unnerving incident than Evie realized. What if, for example, some secret had come out while Owen and Beth had been dating? A secret she didn’t trust him to keep now that he’d found a new partner. A secret worth killing for . . .
Checking her watch once again to make sure she really did have time for all this palaver before going into work, Kitt took a deep breath and hopped up the few steps leading to the front door.
Delivering a firm knock, she tried to ignore the question that had been circling non-stop through her head ever since she’d left the cottage this morning: why had she let Evie talk her into this? Things like this happen, Kitt reminded herself, when you allow people a strong emotional hold on you. She was an expert at saying ‘no’ to almost anyone else, but not Evie.
There was a shuffling sound, and then a woman with her hair dyed in rainbow colours on just one side of her head came to the door. She frowned at Kitt, which was understandable given it wasn’t yet nine a.m. – far too early for unexpected visitors by all accounts.
Glancing over the woman’s shoulder, though, Kitt could see she wasn’t the first visitor to the house that morning. Down the hallway, two police officers were crossing between rooms, opening drawers and rummaging through various stacks of paper.
‘Can I help?’ the woman – who Kitt presumed to be Beth’s housemate – said. She had a sharp note in her voice and was pulling on a green duffle coat.
‘Gina?’ said Kitt.
‘Er, no,’ said the housemate. ‘You must have the wrong address. I’m a Georgette not a Gina.’
‘Oh,’ said Kitt, a small blush creeping into her cheeks. It was obvious this was the right address. The odds of the police having to search two houses on the same street in one morning were slim. Evie’s less-than-spectacular listening skills were once again in evidence.
‘Sorry, I think I may just have misremembered your name. I’m a friend of Beth’s,’ Kitt lied. It was only a little lie. She had met Beth and made small talk with her once or twice. They’d even, for reasons that were now a bit hazy, once had a rather in-depth conversation about the relationship between Johnny Cash and June Carter. According to Kitt’s recollections, Beth had been an unexpected expert on the failed marriages the singers endured before finally meeting each other and settling down . . . the random topics the intoxicated human brain can latch onto.
‘She’s, er,’ the housemate looked down at her shoes, a pair of leopard-print Converse, and then back up at Kitt, ‘not here right now.’
One of the officers, a woman with greying hair hacked short enough to create a silver frame around her face, came to the doorway. In her hands she held a small pile of items, likely belonging to Beth: a bunch of train tickets, returns to Leeds, and a stack of key cards from the White Horse Hotel, Beth’s place of work.
That’s odd, thought Kitt. Why would Beth need to take the key cards home with her? Kitt looked as closely as she could at the items in the officer’s hands without drawing attention to herself, but the ink on the train tickets had faded, making it difficult to make out any of the finer details, while the keys cards were plain pieces of white plastic stamped with the White Horse Hotel logo and a serial number. Nothing notable there.
‘Can I ask what your business is here, madam?’ said the officer, interrupting Kitt’s subtle scrutiny of any available artefact that might offer enough insight into Beth’s movements to pacify Evie.
‘Of course, I’m so sorry to be a distraction from your work,’ Kitt said, biding time while her brain caught up with her tongue. ‘I’m a friend of Beth’s and heard what had happened. I was so concerned about the whole situation I couldn’t help but come here to check in with her housemate, in case there is anything I could do . . .’ Kitt tried to think if she’d ever read anything about the penalties for misleading the police when they were busy trying to solve a murder. Evie and her schemes . . .
The officer stared at Kitt for a moment, looking her up and down. Kitt widened her eyes, doing all she could to look innocent.
‘I see,’ said the officer. ‘May I take your name?’
‘Yes,’ Kitt said, with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Now it was bound to get back to Halloran and Banks that she had been around to Beth’s house the very morning after Evie had been questioned on suspicion of murder. That wasn’t going to look good on her best friend, or Kitt probably.
‘It’s Kitt Hartley, Katherine if you want my Sunday name.’ She tried a forced little chuckle, partly because she wasn’t used to lying, and partly in an attempt to keep things light. In response, the officer narrowed her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something else, but then her gaze drifted beyond Kitt to something going on behind her.
‘Just what we need,’ the officer said.
Kitt turned to see a small crowd approaching the property. At first Kitt couldn’t work out who they were or why they might cause the officer any consternation, but on closer inspection she noticed one of the women in the party was carrying a camera. Just behind her, a young man pulled some sound equipment out of the back of a van parked up across the road. Not ten seconds passed before another car pulled up near the van, and two more men got out and headed straight towards Beth’s doorstep.
‘Reporters,’ said Kitt, before turning to the doorway and looking at Georgette. ‘Do you . . . do you have a back door or something?’
‘Why?’ asked Georgette, folding her arms.
‘I . . . I’d really rather not be photographed or questioned by the media about this. It’s just too horrible to talk about it all.’ That was the truth, but Kitt also wanted to avoid her face appearing in any headline or story about the murder. She was Evie’s alibi, the one thing standing bet
ween her friend and major suspicion. Above all, she had to remain credible in the eyes of the inspector.
‘You can’t come into the house while we’re conducting a search,’ said the officer, before her eyes once again riveted on the gathering gaggle of journalists approaching the doorway. Kitt recognized one of them as the presenter on the Northward News programme, which she occasionally caught on TV if she was back in time from her shift at the library. Chris something – she’d never paid that much attention to his surname. She’d been too distracted by how white and straight his teeth were. He had the teeth of a game show host, not a news reporter.
‘All right, roll cameras,’ Chris Something said, before pointing the microphone at Kitt. ‘Are you related to the suspect in this case, madam?’
‘No,’ said Kitt. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to comment or talk to you.’
‘Is that because you know something about the murders?’ Chris pushed, squinting his hazel eyes and holding the microphone even closer to Kitt’s mouth.
Kitt glared at him. ‘Not at all. I just—’ she broke off, distracted, as a camera flashed in her face.
‘Didn’t you hear the lady?’ said the officer. ‘She said no comment.’
A broad man with a belly poking out from his T-shirt, seemingly oblivious to the officer’s words, held up a camera, while the woman next to him who was dressed in a neat khaki trouser suit thrust a dictaphone in Kitt’s direction.
‘Justine Krantz, News on the Ouse,’ said the woman, before tucking her shiny black hair behind her ears. ‘How do you know the suspect? Did she ever display worrying signs?’
‘I’m not going to—’ Kitt began, but she was again interrupted.
‘Get in line, Justine. We were here first,’ said Chris Something before turning to the officer who was still frowning in the doorway. ‘Investigating this case is in the public interest,’ he said to her. ‘Clear reporting on it might save lives.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ said the officer. ‘You’re interested in ratings, not saving lives.’
Undeterred, Chris continued his questioning. ‘Can the public be reassured that the killer has been caught, or is there a chance they are still at large?’
The officer set her jaw. ‘Right, that’s it, press conference is over. We’ve all made it clear we don’t want to talk to you, and if you lot don’t clear off, you’ll find yourselves looking at harassment charges,’ she said, holding her hand in front of the cameras.
Kitt turned to the officer then, and made her eyes as wide and pleading as she could. Truth be known, she could fend for herself, but the less footage the journalists had of her the better, and she needed to get inside the house.
The officer looked at Kitt’s face and sighed. ‘Ms Hartley, this way.’
Kitt obeyed the instruction, beyond relieved to be out of the spotlight. She stepped through the door just before the officer closed it on a groaning audience of columnists and commentators.
Eight
On entering the hallway, the scent of tropical fruit hit the librarian. Papaya, perhaps, and mango. It was some form of air freshener, likely designed to overpower the strong smell of damp that so often filtered through these old houses. Still, it was doing its job and, moreover, Beth and Georgette had done all they could to distract from the yellowing popcorn ceiling and the fraying carpet, patterned with golden leaves. A vase of yellow dahlias stood on a small wooden table near the door and, further down the hall, an intricate wall hanging woven in felt and depicting the rolling purple wave of the Yorkshire moorland covered stale wallpaper.
The officer put the chain on the door and then stalked towards the rear of the property. Georgette followed, and Kitt trailed after her.
‘You can leave through the back door to avoid that lot. Whatever you do, don’t touch anything on your way through,’ the officer said.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Georgette. ‘Why did they all show up at once like that?’
The trio entered the kitchen, which had windows long and tall enough to let in a great deal of the early morning autumnal light. A blessing, considering someone had thought to paint the room from floor to ceiling in a dark, dingy green.
‘Someone who knows the suspect will have Tweeted about it,’ said the officer. She dropped the train tickets and the key cards in her possession onto the kitchen table, next to several other items already in clear plastic bags. ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’ she asked, eyeing Kitt.
‘No, it was not,’ said Kitt, trying not to let indignation sound out in her tone, and failing. ‘I don’t have time to be messing around on social media.’
‘Good,’ said the officer. ‘Social media can be a right nuisance on cases like these. Lots of people spreading misinformation. It’s—’
She was cut off by a loud crash in one of the neighbouring rooms. Slowly, she closed her eyes. ‘Wilkinson,’ she muttered, before opening her eyes again and marching off in the direction of the ruckus.
‘What’s going on through there?’ said Kitt, craning her head out of the kitchen doorway.
‘Apparently, they’re doing an organized search of the house,’ Georgette said, running a hand through the dark brown side of her hair. ‘The guy doing the search looks a bit wet behind the ears, and judging by the noise levels he’s pretty clumsy.’
That’s all we need, thought Kitt. Why would they send someone so inexperienced to conduct a search on a case this serious? But then, all too quickly, she reached an answer: government cuts.
Pursing her lips, she turned back towards the kitchen table. Several items were bagged up: a faded old T-shirt emblazoned with the Coca Cola logo; several envelopes of varying colours, one or two, Kitt noted, postmarked from Leicester, but looking like standard letters from insurance providers or banks or similar companies; a pile of bank statements, and some other letters that looked more personal with the address handwritten on the front. Next to this odd assortment of artefacts sat the yet-to-be-bagged items the officer had put down a few moments before: the train tickets and the key cards from the hotel. The officer would no doubt be back at any moment to shoo Kitt out of the back door – there wasn’t time to think about whether or not any of this shed light on where Beth really was on the night of the murder.
Quick as she could, Kitt pulled her phone out of her satchel and hit the camera function on the keypad.
‘What’re you doing?’ Georgette hissed, looking between Kitt and the doorway. ‘She said not to touch anything.’
The librarian’s eyes widened. It had obviously been a bit rash to assume Georgette would approve of what she was up to.
‘I’m not going to touch anything. But given what you told me about the teenager they’ve got on the case, it might be wise to take a couple of photos. Just in case something important is missed,’ Kitt said, snapping as many close-up shots as she could of the envelopes, the key cards and the bank statements, before shoving her phone back in her satchel.
‘Why do you care so much?’ said Georgette, still being careful to keep her voice low.
Kitt raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t mind if Beth is wrongly accused of murder?’
‘Beth lied to the police about where she was when her ex-boyfriend was murdered. And she used me as a fake alibi.’
‘Both questionable life choices, I agree, but do you really think Beth is a murderer?’
Georgette lowered her eyes further to the terracotta-tiled kitchen floor, but didn’t say anything more.
‘Look,’ said Kitt, making one last attempt to get Georgette onside, ‘as well as being friends with Beth, I’m also very good friends with Evie Bowes. Do you know her?’
Georgette squinted as though thinking hard, trying to place the name. ‘Beth’s mentioned her a couple of times. She went out with Owen after Beth . . . God, this must have hit her harder than anyone. Were they still together?’
‘Quite rece
ntly broken up,’ said Kitt. ‘But I think, if anything, that’s somehow made it all worse, and when Evie heard Beth had been accused of the murder, well, she was past herself. Any idea why Beth lied? I really want to put Evie’s mind at rest.’
‘Me?’ said Georgette. ‘I’ve already told the police everything.’
‘I’m sure. It’s just, the whole thing’s a bit of a shock, and I was wondering if, on reflection, you had any idea about why Beth won’t tell the police where she was that night.’
‘No, but to be honest, Beth hasn’t helped herself much in that regard,’ Georgette said.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Kitt.
‘Beth’s a really private person. At least, that’s the way she’s been for a long time now.’
‘You mean, she wasn’t always so keen to keep her business to herself?’ Kitt said, thinking about her theory that Beth might have a secret that Owen knew too much about.
‘No, well, not when she was with Owen. She used to tell me all sorts about that relationship. Much more than I’d like a lot of the time. But after they broke up . . .’
‘What?’
‘She sort of went in on herself, at least when it came to her love life. She’s never discussed it since then. Whenever I asked she just changed the subject, so after a while I stopped asking . . .’ Georgette’s body stiffened. ‘She was mad to end things with Owen anyway. He was besotted with her, but she broke it off like it was nothing, like he was nothing.’
Kitt blinked in surprise and stared at Georgette, who, on realizing she had perhaps said more than she meant to, picked up a satchel off one of the kitchen chairs and threw in her keys and phone, which had been resting on a nearby counter.
‘I’ve got to get to work,’ she said.
Kitt was just about to ask another question when there was a shuffling sound at the door, swiftly followed by the words: ‘What are you still doing here?’
‘I, er, I wasn’t sure if it’d be safe to leave yet. Do you think the reporters will be gone?’ Kitt was doing her best to look helpless and confused. It was an expression so alien to her face she had almost forgotten how.