Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  ‘Yes, I still can’t believe . . .’

  ‘I know. It’s been quite a shock at this end of the wire too. But you must call the police and let them know Beth was with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julian. ‘I suppose I’d better.’

  ‘I’ll end this call so you can get through to the police station, OK?’ Kitt said, in the gentlest voice she had at her disposal.

  ‘OK,’ said Julian. ‘Bye.’

  Kitt replaced the receiver and looked between Buckhurst and Grace. Kitt’s end of the conversation had been enough for them both to glean what had been going on. Buckhurst who, running a hotel, must be used to turning a blind eye to this kind of rendezvous, was nodding to himself, while Grace shook her head in much the manner one would expect from a youthful idealist. Glancing at Eli, Kitt guessed he might have been the one person Beth had confided in about her tryst. His face was hardly a portrait of surprise.

  The librarian herself kept perfectly still. Inside, however, all she could do was hope that Julian cared enough about Beth to call the police station, that his desire to protect Beth outweighed his desire to protect himself.

  Eleven

  Striding up Bishopthorpe Road, past Frankie and Johnny’s Cookshop and Forever Young Beauty, Kitt’s eyes fixed on Sure Bet, a bookmakers that stood just three doors down from Retro Rags – the vintage shop where she was supposed to be meeting Evie. The librarian looked at her watch. She still had a few minutes before her friend would miss her. Time enough to make a couple of enquiries that might help her answer the question she’d spent all of the night before contemplating, as she tossed and turned in bed: if neither Beth nor Evie had killed Owen Hall, who had?

  It wasn’t her job to find that out, she knew that. But if the text messages she’d had from Evie over the past twenty-four hours were anything to go by, her best friend was getting more anxious by the minute to uncover who was really behind this terrible act. And, if Kitt were really honest with herself, she was just too curious a person to let a question like this slide. Even though that curiosity had got her into trouble once or twice in the past, it was an impulse she had never quite managed to quash.

  Pushing through the door of the betting shop, Kitt immediately cursed her curiosity as she was hit with a fog of sweat, cigarette ash, and the smell banknotes get when they’ve been passed between greasy, filthy hands for generations. But then, she reminded herself, vintage clothes shops didn’t smell a whole lot better. The electric blue carpet, patterned with orange geometric shapes, felt soft, almost spongy underfoot. Kitt didn’t want to know what kind of liquids this carpet had absorbed over the years – she preferred to hope the place was just suffering from a bad case of damp.

  A teller sitting in a little booth in the corner raised his head, peering at her through small round spectacles perched on the very tip of his nose. ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  As casually as she could, Kitt surveyed the two other people in the room. A man with a long bushy beard and a tummy that hung over the waistline of his jeans was filling in a betting slip. The other man was thin, almost spindly, and had the narrow facial features of a whippet. He was staring at a horse race beaming from one of the big screens that hung on the wall. From this quick assessment, Kitt gathered she perhaps wasn’t the most likely customer for this establishment, which unfortunately meant she was conspicuous.

  ‘No, just having a look around,’ Kitt said with a smile, but then, remembering this wasn’t a second-hand bookshop, added, ‘I’ve never made a bet before, so I’m just getting the lie of the land.’

  The teller looked Kitt up and down from her trilby hat to her suede ankle boots and nodded before returning his attentions to his smartphone.

  Sauntering over to the blue plastic stand at the centre of the room, strewn with biros and betting slips, Kitt looked again at the man with the bushy beard. His gaze moved back and forth between a magazine and his betting slip as he filled in the appropriate boxes.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Kitt said. The man lifted his head and looked at Kitt, but didn’t speak. Kitt smiled in a way that she hoped might make her seem a little bit vacant. ‘I’ve never placed a bet before. Any advice for a beginner?’

  ‘I’m not sharing my luck with you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kitt let all of the muscles in her face droop. ‘Thing is, I sort of need the money. Was hoping for a big win.’

  The man’s mouth tightened and, looking at him again, Kitt realized his eyebrows were so bushy she didn’t know where they ended and where his hairline began. ‘I’m not sharing my luck with you,’ he repeated. But this time there was a hint of agitation to his tone.

  ‘All right, I understand,’ Kitt said with a slow, sombre nod, ‘but, do you know where I could borrow some money then? Off the books, as it were.’

  The man frowned at her. ‘You mean, like a loan shark?’

  ‘If that’s what you call them, yes,’ Kitt said, doing all she could to act the innocent.

  The man shook his head. ‘I won’t tell you a thing about gambling, but I’ll tell you this: you don’t want to get caught up with that lot.’

  ‘Why not?’ Kitt asked, widening her eyes further.

  ‘Let’s just say, some people who borrow from that type and can’t make payments often aren’t seen again.’

  Kitt drew a hand to her mouth in mock shock. The man pressed his lips together, seemingly satisfied his message had got through. Kitt offered the man a brief smile of thanks, and then, without another word, walked back to the door. On her way out she felt a tap on her arm and turned.

  ‘Couldn’t help overhearing,’ said Whippet Man, slouching in his turquoise tracksuit. His blond hair was slicked back with far too much hair gel.

  Kitt raised her eyebrows, and waited.

  The man glanced over his shoulder to be sure the other punter was once again engrossed in his betting slip. ‘I might know someone who can lend you some money. But he only comes in here on Mondays.’

  ‘That’s very useful,’ said Kitt. ‘If I don’t make alternative arrangements before then, I’ll come back on Monday.’

  The man winked and clicked his lips at her in a way that made her pray that another lead – any other lead – would open up on the murder investigation between then and Monday.

  Smiling at the man, she exited the shop, relieved to feel the fresh October air in her lungs.

  Less than a minute later, Kitt stepped over the threshold of Retro Rags to see Evie balancing an elaborate turban woven of gold and fuchsia fabric on her head. The red costume jewel positioned at the front had two midnight blue feathers sticking out behind it.

  Evie turned on hearing the little bell above the door chime. ‘Now then. Where’ve you been?’ she asked.

  ‘Er, human traffic,’ Kitt lied, turning to close the door behind her so Evie wouldn’t see her face as she did so. She would be hard pushed to lie if Evie pressed her, but there was no point volunteering information when right now she had nothing more than a theory. ‘Tourists on a go-slow everywhere.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Evie said, once Kitt had turned to face her again.

  ‘For tonight?’

  Evie nodded her head in a manner that made the turban jiggle back and forth.

  ‘It’s . . . maybe a bit much,’ said Kitt, although she conceded to herself in private that this was likely to be the most sensible item her best friend had tried on since she’d got here.

  Kitt had spent many a lunch break in this shop watching Evie try on garments her own grandmother would have thought the height of fashion, and left to her own devices she would always pick the most eccentric garment to try on first.

  Evie turned back to the long thin mirror propped against the wall, and giggled at her reflection.

  ‘I’m surprised you even feel up to going to this thing,’ Kitt said, referring to the Belle’s Ball, an annual networking event for local
beauty industry specialists. In truth the word ‘ball’ was something of a misnomer as it was really just a glorified business dinner. Evie had dragged Kitt along to this gathering every year for the eight years of their friendship, but this time she had presumed the murder of an ex-boyfriend might get in the way.

  ‘You mean, you thought you might get out of talking about the best rain-resistant mascaras all night with a bunch of people you don’t know?’ Evie said, smirking at Kitt through the mirror.

  Kitt raised her hands in the air, palms to the Artex ceiling. ‘It’s just been a tough week, that’s all, for everyone involved.’

  ‘And it’s only Wednesday,’ said Evie. ‘I can’t pretend it’d be my first choice of entertainments this week, but I can’t cry off this thing. I get most of my massage referrals from people who’ve met me there.’

  Kitt pursed her lips. ‘I know, I know, you’re right.’

  ‘Besides, I’d take just about any distraction from thinking about the funeral on Friday.’ Every muscle in her face dropped an inch.

  ‘You’ve decided you will go then?’ said Kitt.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Evie. ‘I think so – can you get the time off to come with me?’

  ‘I’m sure I can swing that.’

  ‘Michelle will understand?’

  ‘No, but Michelle’s disapproval hasn’t stopped me taking time off for emergencies over the last decade.’

  Evie turned to Kitt and raised an eyebrow. ‘If you call queuing outside a second-hand bookshop to take advantage of their sale on first editions an “emergency”.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Kitt, smiling at her friend before picking a tea dress patterned with oranges and lemons off the nearest rail. ‘How about this?’

  ‘Oooh . . .’ Evie snatched the dress out of Kitt’s hands, peeled it off the hanger and began to pull it on over the top of her cream canvas workwear. Not a manoeuvre the average person would be able to accomplish with any grace. Evie, however, had spent enough hours in vintage shops without proper changing rooms to have developed a patented technique.

  She turned full circle in front of the mirror, surveying herself as she did so. ‘Spiffy.’

  ‘It’d go nice with your mustard cardigan,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Good call,’ said Evie.

  Kitt diverted her eyes then to a small pile of books sitting on a nearby table. She lifted each in turn as she looked at them, and said, ‘So . . . is this a private enough place to talk about your conversation with Beth?’

  Kitt had tried to find out all the particulars from her friend the moment she had called to invite her to an emergency lunchtime shopping spree to find the perfect garment to wear to the Belle’s Ball, but Evie had been standing on Skeldergate Bridge at the time and, knowing how small-town gossip could spread, was keen to be somewhere other than a main thoroughfare before explaining all about Beth’s release from the police station late the previous night.

  Evie looked over her shoulders, scanning the shop. The pair were the only customers at present, and the shop assistant was perched on a stool, safely engrossed in the latest issue of Vintage Life magazine.

  Evie beckoned Kitt nearer and lowered her voice. ‘She was in a right state when I called her, so I didn’t speak for long, but she was grateful for what we did.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Kitt, putting the books she had been fidgeting with back down on the table before taking a step closer to where her friend was standing, ‘and did you find out if Georgette had relayed anything to the police? About the photographs I took?’

  ‘Beth said she’d ask Georgette what that was about. I got a text message back saying Georgette had come close to telling the police, but decided not to in the end. Apparently she was a bit jealous of Owen and Beth’s relationship.’

  ‘I rather got that feeling,’ said Kitt. ‘So, she wanted to be with Owen?’

  Evie shook her head. ‘I didn’t get that impression from the message. It seemed more that Georgette was jealous of the kind of relationship they had – or the kind of devotion Owen showed to Beth while they were going out, and thought Beth was stupid for throwing that away.’

  Evie’s eyes dropped to the floor. Kitt watched her friend work out the painful truth she had already pieced together for herself. Owen had never been that passionate during his relationship with Evie. At least not once the initial thrill of the chase had worn off. Owen had been on the odd date between ending things with Beth and picking up with Evie, but nothing that could be called serious. The more Kitt understood about the kind of relationship Owen had had with Beth, the clearer it became that Evie had been Owen’s rebound girl.

  ‘I assume Beth’s family were relieved to have her free again?’ said Kitt, changing the topic of conversation.

  ‘Her mother went off the deep end about the affair. Beth was joking, but she made out that police custody was actually more welcoming than the reception she received from her parents when she was released.’

  ‘Probably the last thing she needed just then,’ said Kitt.

  Evie shrugged. ‘I do understand why her parents went for it. It’s not the kind of hope you have for your only daughter – for them to spend their life as a mistress.’

  Kitt leaned her head to one side. ‘From what you say, Beth isn’t the kind to maliciously hurt anybody.’

  ‘She said she fell hard for the guy, which I suppose must be true for her to even consider something like that,’ said Evie.

  ‘People do odd things for love,’ Kitt said. ‘She kept the key cards as mementos?’

  ‘We didn’t get around to that level of detail, but I assume so,’ said Evie, and then, at once, her eyes shimmered with mischief. ‘She did mention that the police weren’t exactly rejoicing at the prospect of releasing her.’

  ‘Yes, well. Our interference got Beth out of trouble, but it’s put the police back to square one. It’s not a complete surprise they wouldn’t be thrilled about that,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Yep,’ said Evie. ‘Beth said Halloran was especially monosyllabic when he came to let her go.’

  Kitt’s eyes, which had been fixed on a fraying patch of teal carpet, flitted up to Evie. ‘Why do you single out ­Halloran especially? Given how Banks behaved when the pair were questioning me, I’m sure she’s equally put out.’

  ‘I’m just reporting back what I heard,’ Evie said, smiling much harder than Kitt thought appropriate, given the topic of conversation.

  ‘What’s that smirk for?’ asked Kitt, hearing the sharp edge in her tone.

  ‘Nothing, you just seem a little bit too keen to dismiss Halloran’s feelings.’

  ‘Halloran is a professional, Evie. I mean, it’s not his first day on the job. Dead ends in an investigation are not unfamiliar obstacles to him, I’m sure.’

  ‘Still,’ said Evie, ‘I wouldn’t like to be in his position. A high-profile murder case with no solid suspect.’

  ‘You want to volunteer for that position?’ said Kitt. ‘I’m sure he’d be glad to have you.’

  ‘One trip to the police station was enough for me. But . . .’

  ‘What?’ asked Kitt.

  ‘I am rooting for him and Banks to solve the case. They’re my only hope of seeing Owen’s killer caught.’

  Kitt looked at her friend then. If she was going to let her in on the fact she hadn’t quite finished investigating this case for herself, now was the time. Somehow, however, that didn’t seem like a good idea. The whole situation was complicated enough without raising Evie’s hopes that she might be able to swoop in and save the day. Given the way Detective Sergeant Banks had conducted herself in the library, Kitt couldn’t deny it would give her a certain level of satisfaction to crack the case before they did. For now, though, it was safer to convince Evie that the police had things well in hand.

  ‘I presumed you weren’t betting against them.’ Kitt stepped closer t
o her friend and put an arm around her. ‘They’ve not had much luck so far, but don’t forget there’s the forensics to come back yet. That’ll open something up, I’m sure.’

  Kitt’s mobile buzzed in her pocket. She sighed and picked up the phone. A familiar and infectious giggle sounded out as Kitt put the phone to her ear.

  ‘Grace? Is that you?’

  ‘Y-y-yes . . .’ Grace managed, before breaking again into another giggling fit.

  Kitt closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Will you please stop giggling long enough to tell me a) what can’t wait thirty minutes for me to get back to the library, and b) what is so funny?’

  ‘H-have you seen the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Well, I’m looking at a video on Twitter – I think it’s from the local lunchtime news.’

  ‘I ask again, what news?’ Kitt said, holding back a tut, but only just.

  ‘It’s about the murder. There’s a clip of you refusing to comment. You look so cross.’

  This comment sent Grace into further hysterics.

  Evie tilted her head at Kitt.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re enjoying the clip of me on the news, Grace,’ Kitt said, while Evie covered her mouth and tried not to smile, ‘but I don’t think that me saying “no comment” really falls into the “news” category.’

  ‘They’re doing a piece on how evasive the police are being over answering questions about the incident. Since you’re stood next to a police officer in the shot, they’re insinuating even local residents are part of the conspiracy.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s typical,’ said Kitt. ‘They even manage to twist no news into news.’

  ‘It’s so funny,’ said Grace. ‘You should watch it.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Kitt. ‘Is that all you called for?’

  ‘Yes – oh, and to let you know Ruby dropped by and said she will read the Tarot cards for you if you want to find the murderer before the police do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kitt said, her tone flat enough for Grace to understand that was never going to happen. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour.’