Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  ‘Banks?’ said Halloran.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Transport Ms Bowes back to the station in your car.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Banks, who planted her hand with unexpected gentleness on Evie’s shoulder and led her out of the hall.

  ‘This way, Ms Hartley,’ said Halloran, as he waved towards the door.

  Kitt began to walk in the direction Halloran had indicated. The inspector walked close enough behind her that she could almost feel his breath on the nape of her neck. His left hand pressed softly against the small of her back, guiding her forward as the assembly of Yorkshire-based beauty therapists began to mutter amongst themselves.

  Kitt quickened her step. It was better not to hear what the local gossip mill was going to make of this incident. It would be quiet at this time of night in the Minster area. Some cool night air and natural peace – rather than the oppressive silence of a social gathering gone wrong – would help her clear her head.

  Outside, Halloran directed Kitt to his car and opened the rear door. Without looking at the inspector, she stepped inside and slipped onto the back seat. She expected the door to slam behind her, but the thud never came. Halloran was holding the door open for some reason. She glanced up to him frowning down at her. Perhaps he had something to say, but he wasn’t being forthright about it, and Kitt had no particular desire to talk to him just then so she turned to catch hold of her seat belt, fastened it, and looked straight ahead until he at last closed the door.

  The car had an earthy, mossy smell about it that reminded Kitt of the fresh air that drifted over the moorlands on a dewy spring morning. She had previously caught teases of this scent from Halloran himself, but in his car the effect was cumulative. Its potency somehow made it seem more masculine, and, against her will, Kitt breathed the scent in deeply.

  Looking out of the window on the opposite side of the car, Kitt saw Banks drive past. Evie was in the back seat, her head pressed against the glass, no expression at all registering on her face.

  Halloran slid into the driver’s seat and looked at her through the rear-view mirror. Kitt narrowed her eyes, shook her head, and looked away.

  There was a pause before Halloran started the ignition, checked his blind spot and eased the car out of the space on Goodramgate.

  ‘So you’re aware, we’re going to be searching your property this evening, along with Ms Bowes’s house,’ said Halloran.

  Kitt didn’t look at the inspector, but said to a passing kebab shop, ‘No need to feed the cat, I fed him before I came out tonight.’

  ‘When we get to the station you’ll be taken to the custody suite.’

  Kitt caught Halloran’s eye in the rear-view mirror and scowled. ‘What a polite way to describe a police cell. Have you ever thought of being an estate agent? They’re very good at descriptions like that. Although they do over-use the adjective “stunning”.’

  Halloran was concentrating on the road, but Kitt noticed his jaw tighten.

  ‘It’s standard procedure. You’ll be searched too. And your fingerprints will be taken, and a photograph.’

  ‘At least I’m wearing a nice dress for my first mugshot, I suppose.’ Kitt folded her arms and looked out of the window.

  ‘Just thought you should know what to expect,’ said ­Halloran. His tone was a low, quiet warning that Kitt took unexpected pleasure in ignoring.

  ‘Why? Did you draw the “good cop” straw again?’

  ‘You’re not helping yourself with that attitude, you know,’ Halloran growled.

  ‘How would you like me to respond to being arrested?’ Kitt said. ‘With a smile on my face? That’s how the world thinks women should respond to everything.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

  ‘Then what are you trying to say?’ asked Kitt.

  ‘That I’m just doing my job, and that maybe you should have a bit of respect for that rather than looking at me like I’m the devil incarnate.’

  Kitt’s face slackened for a moment, but then she remembered Evie’s blank expression in the back of Banks’s car. Her inner bonfire was alight in an instant. Why did they have to make a scene like that in front of everyone? They had both been nothing but cooperative. Couldn’t they have spared her and Evie the humiliation? ‘I wouldn’t think a seasoned police inspector would much care what a dirty criminal like me made of him.’

  Halloran gripped the steering wheel tighter as he took a right towards Fulford. ‘We have to follow the evidence where it leads. That’s what an investigation is.’

  Blindly, thought Kitt. But even in her petulance she thought better of saying that out loud.

  ‘So if you’ve done that, your conscience is clear, isn’t it? You don’t need me to validate your actions.’

  ‘I didn’t say that I did,’ Halloran said.

  ‘You’re leading me in conversational circles,’ said Kitt. ‘And in the meantime, the real killer is getting further away.’

  Halloran shook his head. ‘We have the killer in custody. Or at the very least the person most likely to be responsible for the killing.’

  Kitt looked out of the window again.

  ‘You’re not even willing to consider the idea that your friend, the most likely suspect, is responsible for this crime?’

  ‘No,’ said Kitt, ‘Evie would never take a life. She holds life more precious than vintage Chanel shoes, and for her that’s really saying something.’

  ‘Why does she feel that way?’ said Halloran.

  Kitt paused. There was an answer to that question, but Kitt feared giving it. ‘It’s a fairly natural philosophy, don’t you think?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with the overdose then?’ said ­Halloran.

  Kitt started and, without warning, her eyes filled with tears. Despite her surprise, she refused to let them fall. Crying would only make things worse. Being weak wasn’t an option right now. She had to be strong for Evie.

  ‘You know about that?’

  It was a few years back now, that Evie had made her confession to Kitt. The pair had never discussed it again. The whole episode was Evie’s greatest shame: when she was younger and her mum and dad were going through a divorce, she had tried to end her life by swallowing what was left of the family bottle of paracetamol.

  ‘For serious crimes, we can get access to a suspect’s medical file,’ Halloran explained.

  ‘She was fourteen, and didn’t much understand the magnitude of what she was doing,’ said Kitt.

  ‘She wasn’t in her right mind, and she did something unthinkable,’ said Halloran.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Kitt.

  ‘And I suppose that could never happen again?’ Halloran said.

  Kitt’s breath caught in the back of her throat. Were the police really going to hold Evie’s most shameful moment over her head at this time of emotional distress? Could something Evie had done when she was fourteen really be factored into a murder case twenty years later? Kitt sat in silence for the rest of the journey, wondering what would become of her best friend, and of herself.

  Fourteen

  Kitt was awoken from her unscheduled nap by a firm tap on the shoulder. Halloran’s eyes stared into hers. Her first instinct, thinking she was dreaming again, was to smile, but in a moment she remembered where she was. She had been curled up on a blue floor mat, one that resembled the kind used in PE classes at school. It was the only place to perch in the ‘custody suite’ she’d been assigned to at York Police Station. On entering, Kitt had been determined to stand out of pure cussedness, but that had lasted about ten minutes before she had slumped down on the sole soft surface and balled her body into a position that was comfortable enough to rest in.

  ‘What time is it?’ said Kitt.

  Crouched down next to the mat Kitt had been sleeping on, Halloran looked at his watch and then back down at Kitt. ‘Nearly
two.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘Yes,’ Halloran said, before standing and offering Kitt his hand.

  The librarian gave his hand her sternest stare. If she had dared to she would have narrowed her eyes for effect, but instead she sat upright and leaned on the wall for support as she manoeuvred into a standing position. On her way up, she noticed that her green evening dress was not designed for lying down in – at least not without revealing more cleavage than was proper.

  Kitt adjusted the silk neckline into a more modest arrangement. A bit over-dressed for prison, she thought, but that was hardly her fault. If being arrested for murder had seemed in the realms of possibility, she would have worn her slacks.

  She looked up to see Halloran slowly lower his outstretched hand. He inclined his head towards the door. ‘This way, Ms Hartley.’

  The corridor, though far too bright for Kitt’s weary eyes, was much warmer than the custody suite had been. She was aware that her bare arms were covered in goosebumps and began rubbing them.

  Halloran watched Kitt’s movements, but didn’t speak. Instead he waved a hand down the corridor and, just as he had before, placed his hand in the small of Kitt’s back to guide her. She noticed her breath quicken when he did so, but reasoned this reaction away as nervousness. She was locked up in a police station for a crime she hadn’t committed: of course her breathing was erratic.

  In less than a minute, Halloran stopped outside a grey door and swung it open.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Halloran commanded.

  Kitt took three steps into what she assumed was the interrogation room and sat down in a plastic chair next to a small rectangular table. She heard the door close behind her. Halloran’s heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor lino. She was alone in a stark box room with grey walls that matched its grey door, and the atmosphere in the room for that matter.

  Glaring at the large mirror set into the wall, Kitt wondered if it was two-way, like the mirrors in all the bestselling thrillers – did North Yorkshire Police have that kind of budget? Her understanding of police procedure was pretty much limited to the vintage mystery novels she had devoured growing up, and she had a feeling that things may have changed a bit since the days of Poirot and Nancy Drew.

  Rubbing the end of her nose, she tried to ignore the stale scent hanging in the windowless room. It was reminiscent of festering, mouldy bread. Probably the consequence of one too many vending machine sandwiches being served in here after late-night interrogations. Even that unpalatable smell, however, was a welcome diversion from Kitt’s thoughts about the state Evie must be in right now. Had Evie already been interrogated, or were they saving that to see what Kitt said first? Before Kitt had time to dissect the inspector’s most likely interrogation tactics, the door swung open with a creak. The librarian turned in her seat to see Halloran striding into the room. Banks followed a pace behind him.

  Halloran was carrying a mustard case file and a blue blanket. He paused to place the blanket over Kitt’s shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kitt said, pulling the blanket close around her shoulders.

  Halloran leaned over to a recording machine sitting on the table. He pushed the appropriate button and then looked back at Kitt. ‘Have you been informed of your rights?’

  ‘I have,’ Kitt said.

  Without another word, the two officers pulled out a grey plastic chair apiece, scraping the metal legs across the balding, beige carpet, before sitting in synchrony. Banks glared at Kitt across the desk, her lips pinched together. ­Halloran’s expression was just as indecipherable as it had been when he had first appeared in the library, but his jaw was clenching in a manner that conveyed a certain sternness.

  Kitt looked from one to the other. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she even finished her first word, ­Halloran produced a photograph from the case file and held it in the air. He then placed it on the table, pressed two fingers down on the image, and pushed it towards Kitt until it was sitting between her hands. With a frown, Kitt let her eyes drop from the blue depths of Halloran’s to the photograph.

  A pale, vacant-eyed Owen lay outstretched on what looked like laminate flooring. His arms were crossed over his body, and something was sticking out of his chest. A Stanwyck fountain pen? Kitt didn’t want to look close enough to be sure.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and then shook her head. ‘Did you have to show me this?’

  ‘Given that you’re at least in part responsible for it, it seemed only fair,’ said Banks.

  Kitt pressed her lips together and stared into the negative space between the two officers.

  ‘Aren’t you going to deny it?’ said Banks.

  ‘That would be to credit the assertion with a degree of intelligence,’ Kitt said, glancing first at Banks and then at Halloran.

  ‘When in a police station, Ms Hartley, it is wise to deny murder if you’re accused of it,’ said Halloran. ‘Assuming you think yourself innocent. Otherwise, we’ll take your confession down now.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Kitt. ‘I deny playing any part in the murder of Owen Hall.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Ever been out to the Owl and Star on Fossgate, Ms Hartley?’ asked Halloran.

  ‘Once or twice. I live towards Clifton, so I’m more likely to stop off in the Exhibition at Bootham than anywhere else.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Halloran. ‘A witness placed a woman matching your description in that bar last Saturday night, with Owen. It was the last time he was seen alive.’

  Kitt frowned. ‘Exactly how did the woman fit my ­description?’

  ‘Early thirties, red hair. Would you like me to show you a mirror?’ said Banks.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that I was the only person fitting that description in the York area,’ said Kitt.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s not forget you have a twin sister. Perhaps she’s doing your dirty work.’

  ‘My sister has dyed her hair raven black for years,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Then that circles us back to you. Given you’re the only redhead we know of with motive,’ said Halloran.

  ‘And what motive is that?’

  ‘Well, must have been hard, seeing your best friend go through that kind of humiliation. Being ditched over Facebook, after nearly two years of commitment,’ said Halloran.

  ‘I won’t deny that,’ Kitt said, with a wave of her hand. ‘But it only confirmed that he didn’t deserve her. She put so much into their relationship, and he never seemed that grateful for any of it.’

  ‘And for that, Owen deserved to be taught a lesson,’ said Banks.

  ‘No,’ Kitt said. ‘For that, Owen didn’t deserve Evie’s ­affections.’

  Banks looked across at her partner, who produced another item from his file. A thin plastic bag containing a sheet of cream writing paper, spattered with crimson. Halloran pushed the bag over to Kitt. By the matte finish, Kitt could tell the page was of expensive stock, the kind you would have to buy from a stationery specialist. There was a note written across the paper in thick ink, which read: I don’t know how else to say this . . .

  ‘So this is the note Evie mentioned? The one at the murder scene.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Halloran said. He was examining Kitt’s face now. ‘We didn’t find any stationery like this when we searched your house, but what about if we searched your place of work, would we find writing paper like this?’

  ‘Well, I do have a weakness for good stationery, by-product of being a librarian, but I don’t recognize this brand.’

  The officers stared at her.

  ‘This is madness,’ said Kitt. ‘Evie and I were with each other at the time of the murder, which means we both have an alibi.’

  ‘A very convenient alibi,’ Banks said, folding her arms on the desk.

  ‘Convenient?’

 
; ‘The night Evie’s ex-boyfriend is murdered, the two of you just happen to be having a night in together, with no other witnesses to prove your whereabouts,’ said Banks.

  ‘Why would we need another witness? Neither of us have any kind of criminal track record.’

  ‘But you did have the means to kill Owen Hall,’ said ­Halloran.

  ‘What?’ said Kitt.

  ‘The toxicology report came back from the wine Owen ingested. He was served a deadly cocktail of toluene and hydrogen peroxide.’

  ‘Peroxide, like bleach?’ said Kitt, putting a hand around her throat, imagining.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Halloran. ‘Toluene is used in nail polish remover.’

  ‘But who would voluntarily swallow those things?’ said Kitt. ‘You’d know straight away if you were handed a glass of wine with bleach in it.’

  ‘Owen’s bloodwork contained high quantities of diazepam.’

  Kitt’s heart started to beat faster and a frown crossed her face. Evie had a current prescription to diazepam.

  ‘What is it, Ms Hartley?’ Halloran said, his tone knowing. ‘Can I take it from your expression that you know your friend has access to that particular substance?’

  Recovering herself, Kitt glared at the inspector. ‘You try leaning over massage clients all day. It makes Evie’s back ache something terrible. The doctor prescribed the diazepam for the muscle spasms.’

  ‘That’s the story she’s told you. But Evie didn’t just have access to the drug used to sedate the victim, she had access to both of the chemicals used to poison him too, through her job at the salon,’ said Banks.

  ‘Evie had the means, she has motive, and she had opportunity,’ said Halloran. ‘She wouldn’t need to break into Owen’s home to attack him. She could just swing by, unannounced, and he’d open the door to her. Just as he opened the door to his killer.’

  Kitt sighed and put her head in her hands. This was a nightmare. Kitt couldn’t argue with the officers that all signs pointed to Evie, who seemed, as far as they were concerned, to have had some help from a mystery redhead. But it wasn’t true. She wasn’t going mad. She and Evie had spent last Saturday night at her cottage. They were innocent, no matter what the evidence suggested.