Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  ‘What about Adam?’ asked Kitt. ‘Did he tell anyone?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I was so embarrassed. I told him if he ever told anyone what he’d done . . .’

  ‘What?’ said Kitt.

  ‘I said I’d kill him. It was a figure of speech. I wasn’t actually going to do it.’

  Zoe picked up the tumbler of gin she’d poured earlier and knocked back the last of it without wincing.

  ‘What a mess,’ said Kitt, thinking. Two men murdered. Two men who had broken up with their girlfriends in less-than-ideal circumstances. That couldn’t be coincidence.

  Zoe started chewing on her thumbnail. ‘What are the police going to think?’

  ‘Your best bet is to go straight to them with what you know,’ said Kitt. ‘Explain you heard about the details of Adam’s murder, and you realized it was connected to your break-up.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zoe, a slight sparkle returning to her eyes. ‘That’s a good idea. Go forward with the information. That’ll reflect well on me. Maybe even one or two of the papers will want to do an interview with me about how bereft I am.’

  ‘Oh, you can count on that,’ said Kitt, thinking back to an hour ago when she’d have done anything to get rid of Justine Krantz before Michelle had discovered she was in the building.

  ‘Well, it’ll have to wait until after the matinee. I have to get ready to go onstage.’

  ‘You’re still going to go through with the performance?’ said Kitt, taking in a sharp breath. They may have broken up eight months ago, but Zoe had said she had loved Adam. If somebody Kitt loved had been murdered, she would without a doubt be calling in sick to work.

  ‘Today’s our last day of the show,’ said Zoe, in a tone that indicated that should be justification enough.

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not giving my last shows to the understudy. She can’t do a proper American accent.’

  ‘All right,’ said Kitt. ‘I suppose I’d better get going and leave you to it. But here,’ Kitt removed a notebook and pen from her satchel and began scribbling down her name and number, ‘if you can think of anything else that might help with the case, please call me. Even if it’s a detail that seems too small to bother the police with.’

  Kitt handed the paper to Zoe. She looked at it, and then up at Kitt. ‘All right.’

  ‘Oh, and, er, it’s probably best not to mention our conversation to the police when you speak to them,’ said Kitt, in as casual a tone as she could.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘To be clear, I’m not suggesting you lie to the police. That would just make everything worse, but with Evie under suspicion, we don’t want them thinking that you two have any connection to each other – because you don’t, right?’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Evie Bowes.’

  ‘No, never heard of her.’

  ‘And if the police find out I’ve been here they might think you’re the accomplice, or jump to some conclusion that further derails the investigation. My hope is to unravel the truth, not make it more difficult for the police – or anyone else – to find it.’

  Zoe stared at Kitt for a moment. ‘All right, I’ll keep it to myself.’

  ‘Thank you, goodbye now,’ said Kitt, opening the door and stepping back into the corridor.

  It was cooler out there. Quiet. She closed the dressing-room door and began walking in the direction of the exit, wondering whether Zoe’s story held up. She did seem distraught about the untimely end of her ex-boyfriend, but she was an actress. A woman paid to make you believe whatever she wanted you to believe.

  Footsteps echoed further down the corridor, loud enough to make Kitt jump. Two people were heading this way, soon to discover her in an area of the theatre she had no right being in. They were talking, and as she listened she realized one of the voices – the man – had a familiar depth to it.

  Halloran. He was here. With Banks, by the sound of it.

  Kitt scurried back along the corridor towards Zoe’s dressing room. She had to find some nook to hide in. The officers could not find her here. Kitt opened the door adjacent to Zoe’s, the laundry area. Hopping inside, she pulled the door closed and waited, holding her breath. She could hear the officers approaching.

  ‘My gut tells me neither of them did it,’ said Banks.

  ‘Ritchie went on a date with her the week before, and only has an alibi for the first murder. Evie and Ritchie could be in it together.’

  Kitt wanted to fling open the laundry-room door and tell them how wrong they were. Instead, she cursed her heart for beating so loudly. From the sound of their voices, the officers were standing just a few paces on the other side of the door.

  ‘She . . . I don’t know . . .’ Banks said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just don’t think Evie is our killer.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘She’s a pretty girl,’ said Halloran. His voice had a teasing tone to it that Kitt wouldn’t have expected.

  Another pause.

  ‘Sir . . . that’s not why I think she’s innocent. Anyway, it’s irrelevant how pretty I think she is. I’m not her . . . type.’

  There was a hollow note to Banks’s voice that almost made Kitt feel sorry for her. Almost.

  ‘Evie Bowes is where all the evidence is pointing. We can’t afford to rely on our gut instincts. Not this time. There’s too much at stake.’

  ‘What about you, sir? Are you holding up all right?’ asked Banks.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Halloran’s response came too quickly to sound anything other than defensive.

  ‘It’s just that—’

  ‘I know, we’re looking at a serial case.’

  ‘Just wanted to make sure, can’t be easy after—’

  ‘I said I was fine.’

  Standing still and silent behind the laundry door, Kitt wondered what they were talking about, but before Banks could say anything else, a hard knock rang out.

  ‘Ms Gray, I’m Detective Inspector Malcolm Halloran, this is Detective Sergeant Charlotte Banks, can we come in?’

  Kitt listened as Zoe invited the officers in and her dressing-room door thudded shut. It looked like Zoe wasn’t going to make it onto the stage for her final performances after all.

  Twenty-one

  A roaring breeze shook the yew trees planted in small clusters around the edges of Fulford Cemetery. The vicar scattered soil over the coffin as it was lowered into the earth, while Kitt put an arm around Evie and squeezed. The poor thing had kept her peace all the way through the service, but the finality of this moment got the better of her and she sobbed, covering her face with a tissue.

  DI Halloran stood on the other side of the grave next to Owen’s family, his arms straight by his side as though he was standing to attention, but with his head bowed just a touch out of respect. Not for the first time since Halloran had arrived at the funeral, he stared first at Evie and then at Kitt, no doubt still looking for signs of suspicion, even in this sacred space.

  Kitt watched Owen’s mother shake with grief as she looked on her son’s coffin for the last time. Her cries were so violent her bobbed, grey hair whipped about with the force of them. Halloran extended his arm, placing his hand on the woman’s shoulder. She grabbed at his hand and continued to weep.

  Kitt’s eyes filled with tears as she looked back into ­Halloran’s. His eyes were teary too. He would probably have to go through this again with Adam Kaminski’s mother. Kitt found herself wondering how many funerals Halloran had attended, and if some were harder than others for him.

  ‘Let’s not hang around,’ Evie whimpered. ‘I can’t bear this any longer.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Kitt, linking her arm through her friend’s. ‘You need some rest.’

  Evie had been released from the station four hours before, after the p
olice had interviewed Zoe Gray the previous afternoon and at last decided there was likely some bigger plot at play. Given that Evie now had an alibi for the first and second murder, her solicitor had argued for her release. Despite Kitt’s best efforts to help Evie recover from her ordeal in police custody, however, with her skin pale next to her black shift dress and cardigan, she looked more ghost than human being.

  The pair turned away from the grave and began walking in the direction of the black iron gates that stood at the entrance of the burial grounds.

  ‘Should I be happy the police let me go?’ asked Evie, her voice hollow.

  ‘I think not being charged with murder is generally to be chalked up as a good thing,’ Kitt said. Given that Evie had no discernible links with the second murder, Halloran had had no choice but to let her go, even though Kitt knew from his parting words at Ashes to Ashes early the previous morning that neither of them were necessarily off the suspect list yet.

  ‘Then why do I still feel like I’m locked away? Or that I should be.’

  At her friend’s words Kitt found herself swallowing back more tears. ‘You feel that way because you’re a good person. You . . .’ Kitt trailed off and her eyes narrowed as she looked towards the entrance of the cemetery.

  Evie followed her friend’s gaze and the pair stared at a broad, dark figure standing by the ornate gates. Whoever it was, they were wearing a long, black hooded cape. The hood kept the stranger’s face in shadow. The only distinguishable detail, the detail that had caught Kitt’s attention, was the strands of red hair that hung about their shoulders. The length of the hair suggested that the person in the hood was likely female, but the breadth of the figure was more typical of a man.

  Halloran had mentioned a woman with red hair during his interrogation. That somewhere in York there was a woman with red hair, like Kitt’s, who was the last person to see Owen alive.

  Kitt took three more steps towards the gate. Still the figure’s face was shrouded in shadow, but she got a closer look at the hair. The colour didn’t look natural. It looked dyed or . . . like the colour of a red wig. Like the colour of the wig Kitt had seen just yesterday . . . in Zoe Gray’s dressing room.

  ‘Hey!’ Kitt shouted, without thinking.

  Startled by Kitt’s call, the figure lowered their head even further, looked off to the left, and then scurried off to the right.

  ‘Zoe!’ Kitt called, even though the figure in front of her was far too portly to be the waif of an actress she’d been talking to the day before.

  The figure stopped at this, turning briefly towards Kitt, before vanishing into the autumnal mist.

  Kitt sped towards the gate and, once out of the cemetery, looked as far down the road as she could, but there was no sign of the mysterious figure. How could they disappear from such a long residential street? Perhaps they had hopped over one of the hedges and charted a path across the neighbouring gardens.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Evie, out of breath from catching Kitt up.

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘I saw . . . something.’ Halloran’s voice came from behind them.

  Kitt turned towards the officer and sighed. ‘Something’ wasn’t enough to clear Evie’s name for good. ‘You saw them? That person?’ Kitt said.

  ‘I was a little way behind you. So didn’t get as close a look. But I saw them, in a black cloak.’

  ‘They had red hair,’ said Kitt. ‘You know, like the woman you said was seen with Owen the last time he was alive.’

  Without another word Halloran whipped his phone out of his pocket and dialled.

  Kitt and Evie frowned at each other.

  ‘Banks? Listen, we need to set up a search perimeter at Fulford Cemetery.’

  Halloran paused for a moment.

  ‘Yes, let’s start with a two-mile radius. The suspect has red hair and was last seen wearing a long black cloak . . . Yes, I know. Weird. All right. Thank you.’

  Halloran hung up the phone and looked at Kitt and Evie.

  ‘Did that person look familiar to you?’

  ‘You mean, are we friends with anyone who runs around in a big black hooded cloak?’ Kitt asked. Halloran gave Kitt the hardest of stares. The librarian crossed her arms. ‘No, they didn’t look familiar to me. Evie?’

  Evie shook her head. ‘They might just have been dressed in black for the funeral.’

  ‘Then why run?’ said Kitt. ‘And the red hair . . . isn’t it too much of a coincidence? I saw a wig just the same colour as that yesterday.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Halloran.

  Kitt’s body stiffened. Why couldn’t she shut her mouth?

  ‘Where?’ Halloran repeated in a dark, quiet tone that made it clear he wouldn’t appreciate repeating himself again.

  ‘Zoe Gray’s dressing room,’ said Kitt.

  Halloran stared at her, with a curious half-smile she didn’t much care for.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a woman’s voice off to Kitt’s left. She turned to see Justine Krantz poised with a notebook and pen. Kitt had been so caught up in the revelation of the hooded figure, she hadn’t heard Justine’s car pull up. Had one of Evie’s work colleagues given her another tip-off, or had she actually used her research skills to uncover the location of the funeral?

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘I know what you are,’ said Kitt, ‘a vulture.’

  Justine’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m just trying to get the truth to the people who need it.’

  ‘Pick another time,’ said Halloran, a deep frown cutting into his brow. ‘The family needs time to grieve in peace.’

  Kitt looked at Evie, and the pair started walking towards the bus stop across the road. Though Evie had a 1968 Morris Minor sitting in her garage, she had been in no fit state to drive this morning.

  Despite Halloran’s warning, Justine followed them. ‘Come on now, don’t you want justice for Owen?’

  Without warning, Evie turned on the reporter and pointed a finger at Justine’s chin.

  ‘Don’t you say his name. You didn’t even know him. You don’t care about him. You just care about your story.’

  Justine started and took a step backwards. Kitt had never seen her friend’s face contort like that before. Her features suddenly became thin and sharp. But then, in an instant, that same face crumpled in on itself, and she pushed her head into Kitt’s shoulder, crying.

  ‘I suggest you leave us alone. You’ve surely met your daily harassment quota?’ said Kitt.

  Justine didn’t say any more. She stalked back towards the gate and looked as though she was going to ask something of Halloran, but he ignored her and walked over to Kitt and Evie.

  ‘How long to the next bus?’ he asked.

  Kitt looked at her watch and then at the timetable hanging on the concrete post next to them. ‘Just twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ said Halloran.

  ‘No, thank you, we—’

  ‘I think Evie’s been through enough for one day without having to hope York buses are running to timetable, don’t you?’ said Halloran.

  Kitt bristled. So Halloran had finally understood that her friendship with Evie could be exploited. She had hoped it might take him a little longer.

  ‘Don’t you need to stay here and search for the hooded figure in our midst?’

  ‘No, Banks is sorting that. I need to get back to the station. We’ve got two murders to solve now.’

  The librarian looked into the wide, green eyes of her friend, so weary and full of distress.

  ‘I can have you back to Acomb in less than ten minutes,’ said Halloran.

  Sighing, she waved Evie towards Halloran’s car, which she knew would be saturated with his overwhelming, earthy scent. Halloran opened the back door for her and, without looking at him directly, she held her breath and slid inside.


  Twenty-two

  Halloran pulled his car up outside Evie’s house and put the handbrake on. Unbuckling his seat belt, the inspector exited the vehicle and opened the back door for Kitt and Evie. ­Halloran offered his hand to help Kitt out, just as he had done back in the police custody suite.

  Kitt looked at the hand, and then up at Halloran.

  She didn’t want to take it. It was an unnecessary gesture. She was quite capable of getting out of the back of a car by herself. But he had just given them a lift. And had let her best friend out of custody. And had just been to a funeral where he was comforting an old woman over the loss of her son. You can’t refuse a kindness from someone who hits all three of those criteria in the space of six hours. Kitt was fairly sure there was a law about that somewhere.

  Slowly, she placed her hand in Halloran’s. On contact, Kitt’s pulse quickened and, as Halloran tightened his grip, her heart rate only escalated further. The inspector kept his eyes locked with Kitt’s as he pulled her out of the car and, as if that weren’t enough, he held onto her hand a moment longer than she felt he by any right needed to.

  ‘Give us a hand,’ said Evie’s voice from the back of the car. Clearing her throat and straightening her posture, Kitt reached back to her friend and tugged her out of the vehicle.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ said Kitt. ‘I can take things from here.’

  ‘Actually,’ Halloran said, ‘if you don’t mind, I’d like to come inside. There are a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about.’

  Kitt’s lips pressed hard against each other. So Halloran hadn’t escorted them home out of the goodness of his heart. She wished she was surprised, but also wished there wasn’t always an ulterior motive.

  ‘You need Evie’s blessing, not mine. It’s her house,’ said Kitt, hoping her friend would sense from her tone that she would much rather it was just her and Evie for the rest of the afternoon. They still had so much to catch up on. She still hadn’t told her about what Banks had said about her backstage at the Majestic Theatre, but, on reflection, Kitt wasn’t sure if it was really her place to tell Evie that Banks might be taking a shine to her anyway.