Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  ‘Really? Who’s that?’ Ritchie said, almost sneering.

  ‘A Ms Zoe Gray,’ said Banks, her lips snapping out every word.

  ‘Zoe?’ Ritchie repeated, his glare morphing into a frown. ‘What about Zoe? What’s going on with her?’

  ‘Her ex-boyfriend has been murdered,’ said Halloran.

  Ritchie’s head jumped back an inch. ‘Wait . . . what, like that Evie bird?’

  ‘Bird, indeed,’ Kitt said behind the glass, tutting to herself and thinking that perhaps those white pointed shoes she saw him wearing at Ashes to Ashes were actually a good fit for him. Both his footwear and his attitudes to women belonged in the seventies.

  For his part, Wilkinson shook his head at Ritchie through the glass.

  ‘Do you know the only person Evie and Zoe have in common?’ asked Halloran.

  Ritchie didn’t respond with words, but Kitt noticed his eyes narrowing.

  ‘It’s you, Mr Turner,’ said Banks, interlocking her fingers and placing them on the wooden table between her and Turner.

  ‘I’m sick of this,’ Ritchie said, pressing his index finger hard onto the table. ‘Being dragged into police questioning twice in three days when I’ve done nothing wrong—’

  ‘Nothing?’ said Banks. ‘I suppose that substance we found on your person the other night was oregano, was it?’

  Ritchie scowled. ‘There must be someone else who’s crossed paths with both of them. York is a small place, you know. Not a very big pool to fish in.’

  Halloran and Banks looked at each other a moment, before turning back to Ritchie.

  ‘If you had an alibi, that might help you,’ said Banks. There was a sly note in her voice.

  ‘I do have an alibi.’

  ‘For the first murder, yes, you were at work. But not for the second murder.’

  Ritchie’s scowl returned. ‘I told you, I was in bed. You saw me at work in the early hours of the morning, isn’t that good enough?’

  ‘Not when the murder was committed between ten and twelve, and you didn’t start your shift until one a.m.’

  ‘I was asleep.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes. You must have been on late shifts in your line of work. You sleep as much as you can before the shift starts. I was in bed until twelve fifteen that night, before I got up and went into work. Like I said.’

  ‘But nobody else can verify your whereabouts?’ asked Halloran. ‘Another girlfriend, perhaps?’

  Ritchie paused and swallowed. ‘No. My flatmate is up in Scotland visiting family.’

  ‘So in other words, you don’t have an alibi for the murder that took place on Wednesday night,’ Banks said, her eyes scanning the suspect’s face, up and down.

  ‘Well, no. But I’ve got an alibi for the other murder. So it can’t be me going around killing people off, can it?’

  ‘Maybe, if someone’s in on it with you. Certainly, the crimes have been carried out in a manner that would indicate a lot of careful planning. Likely between more than one person,’ said Halloran.

  ‘But this is all . . . what do you call it?’ said Ritchie, waving a hand at the officers. As Turner made this gesture, Kitt focused in on his hand and remembered something, a detail that hadn’t struck her as so important that night at Ashes to Ashes, but now seemed to carry more weight.

  ‘Is there any way of communicating with them?’ Kitt asked Wilkinson.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not a good idea to interrupt ­Halloran in the middle of an interrogation.’

  ‘This is all what, Mr Turner?’ asked Halloran.

  Turner paused, trying to find his words. Banks and ­Halloran, stared at the suspect, letting the weight of the silence bear down on him. Seizing the moment, Kitt opened her satchel, plucked out her mobile, and sent Halloran a text message. Looking at him, she saw a momentary dip in his brow as the message arrived. He wouldn’t have a ringtone on in an interrogation. But perhaps he had it on vibrate, in case of urgent messages. Halloran didn’t move. Kitt re-sent the message. ‘I need to talk to you, now,’ it read. Again, except for the dip in his brow, Halloran didn’t move.

  ‘Are you texting the inspector?’ Wilkinson asked, a waver of disbelief in his voice.

  ‘I need to talk to him,’ said Kitt, hitting send again, and this time, Halloran’s head travelled in the direction of the glass.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said.

  ‘Inspector Halloran has exited the room,’ Banks said for the benefit of the interview recording. There was a pause, presumably while Halloran retrieved his phone from his pocket and checked his messages. A second later, the door swung open.

  ‘This better be bloody important,’ Halloran almost growled at Kitt. ‘I’m interrogating a murder suspect, for God’s sake.’

  Kitt cleared her throat, determined to keep her cool. ‘I know that.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Ritchie, he wears nail polish.’

  ‘You called me in here for that?’ said Halloran.

  Kitt sighed. ‘Toluene. Didn’t you say it was used in nail polish remover?’

  Halloran paused for a moment. He looked at Turner through the glass. ‘He’s not wearing any today, but when we talked to him at Ashes to Ashes . . .’

  ‘He was wearing black nail polish,’ Kitt finished. ‘The figure we saw outside the funeral, it was definitely a man by the shape of them. I couldn’t see his nails, he was too far away, but he was wearing a black cloak. He could have been wearing black nail polish too.’

  ‘It’s certainly another thread that ties him to this case,’ said Halloran, and then, looking straight at Kitt, added, ‘thank you.’

  She smiled as he closed the door to the partition. A moment later he reappeared on the other side of the glass.

  ‘Inspector Halloran has returned to the room. Mr Turner has been telling me that he thinks this is all speculation, sir,’ Banks said.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Halloran.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ritchie. ‘The second murder took place at the old chocolate factory, right? Well, you don’t have any evidence that I was hanging around there last Wednesday.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Banks.

  ‘Because I wasn’t there.’

  ‘But perhaps your accomplice was,’ said Halloran, and then he looked down at Ritchie’s hands. ‘Weren’t you wearing nail polish last time we spoke, Mr Turner?’

  Banks sat up straighter in her seat at this question. ­Ritchie, narrowing his eyes to make it clear he sensed a trap, didn’t answer.

  ‘Based on your connection with these two murders we’ve already put a request in to search your premises, Mr Turner,’ said Banks. ‘There’s no point hiding something like that from us. If you wear nail polish, we’ll find the evidence at your home.’

  ‘I might have been wearing it last time we talked,’ said Ritchie. ‘I often wear it at the club. It’s part of the culture of the place. Don’t see what that’s got to do with the murders.’

  ‘Only that we have found a chemical at both crime scenes that is used most regularly in nail polish remover,’ said Halloran.

  ‘Millions of people wear nail polish. Men and women,’ said Ritchie.

  ‘Yes, but those millions aren’t romantically connected to both Evie Bowes and Zoe Gray,’ said Halloran. ‘There’s far too much going on here for this to be coincidence, Mr Turner, that much I do know, and it’s only a matter of time until the rest of the truth unravels. If you’ve something to tell us, now is the time.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything else without a lawyer present,’ said Turner.

  ‘As Banks mentioned,’ said Halloran, ‘we have grounds enough to search your property, and we will. You’ll get a lawyer; you can either provide us with the details of yours—’

  ‘Do I look like I’ve got a lawyer?’
said Ritchie, seemingly forgetting that just moments ago he’d said he was going to keep schtum.

  ‘Or a solicitor can be called on your behalf,’ Banks said, finishing where Halloran had been interrupted.

  ‘But until we get the results of that search, you will be staying put,’ said Halloran, standing up from his chair.

  ‘Well, how long is this going to take?’ Ritchie snarled. ‘I’ve got a life, you know?’

  ‘Yes. And two people have just lost theirs,’ said Halloran. Ritchie’s eyes dropped down to the table in front of him.

  ‘You won’t find anything,’ said Ritchie, through gritted teeth.

  ‘That doesn’t mean you’re not somehow involved,’ said Halloran.

  ‘I’m not. You’re holding an innocent man, unnecessarily.’

  ‘We’re going to have to agree to disagree on how necessary this is, Mr Turner,’ said Banks, standing by her partner’s side. ‘Two people are dead. You are connected to both of them. We can hold you for up to ninety-six hours and, if necessary, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’

  Ritchie rested both elbows on the table and put his head in his hands.

  ‘That won’t do you any good, Mr Turner. You’ll have to come with us now,’ said Halloran.

  ‘Interview terminated at 17.07 p.m.,’ Banks said before cutting off the recording.

  Slowly, Ritchie obeyed Halloran’s instruction. Kitt watched with a hard throbbing in her chest as they handcuffed ­Ritchie and led him out of the door, presumably to the same cells with which she and Evie were now well-acquainted. As she watched him exit the interview room, a cold chill came over her as she realized she could be looking at a killer.

  Twenty-five

  The heels of Kitt’s suede boots clicked against the cobbles as she approached the Shambles, an area that served as an open-air slaughterhouse during medieval times, when the gutters had run red with pigs’ blood. Now it was a quaint shopping street just off Kings Square, lined with wooden-beamed Tudor buildings. The architecture along the Shambles wasn’t exactly built to modern specifications, and the irregular jutting of the upper storeys made it feel very much as though the buildings were leaning over you as you walked along the narrow lane. On summer days, it was a relief to hide out in the shadows. But on a crisp October morning like today a bit more light and warmth wouldn’t have gone amiss, especially given the circumstances that had brought Kitt to this area of town so early on a Sunday.

  About halfway down the street, just beyond Roly’s fudge shop, Kitt could see Banks standing to attention next to the yellow crime-scene tape, fluorescent even in the faint morning light. As Kitt approached she had to wonder: how did that woman have the energy to make her body that angular this early in the morning?

  ‘Hi DS Banks,’ said Kitt, unable to stifle a yawn due to the fact she was carrying a coffee cup in each hand. ‘Is DI Halloran inside?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Banks, eyeing the coffees.

  ‘May I go through?’ asked Kitt.

  Banks sighed. ‘Halloran said you could.’ She lifted the tape so Kitt could bow underneath, but the librarian noticed the officer scrunching her lips up as she did so. ‘I’ll be in shortly, I’m just waiting for a PC to get here and relieve me.’

  ‘Would you like a coffee while you wait?’ Kitt asked, once on the other side of the cordon line. ‘It’s not exactly tropical out here.’

  Banks narrowed her eyes as though the offer of a coffee was some kind of cruel prank. ‘I assumed those were for you and Halloran.’

  ‘They weren’t for anyone in particular,’ Kitt lied. Banks had hardly done anything to inspire Kitt to buy her a cup of coffee, but it probably wasn’t wise to miss an opportunity to get on her good side. ‘It’s just so early, I thought I’d grab a couple of coffees on the way, in case people needed a pick-me-up.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ said Banks, looking from Kitt to the coffee cups. Kitt could see the officer’s dilemma. In an ideal world, Kitt wouldn’t be tagging along with this investigation, but as Banks looked at the coffees, the warm gleam of the two cups reflected in her eyes. At least, Kitt convinced herself that the officer’s eyes looked browner than usual.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Banks said, choosing instantaneous comfort on a cold morning over feeling a bit superior.

  Kitt handed her the coffee she had originally intended for herself, and smiled. Banks took a sip and closed her eyes, the heat of the drink immediately spreading to her cheeks. Fending off, if only for a few moments, the chill in the October air.

  ‘Oh, I meant to ask,’ Banks said, just as Kitt was about to go and find Halloran, ‘how is Evie? Owen Hall was buried on Friday, wasn’t he?’

  Kitt noticed that Banks was doing all she could to keep her tone casual. To pretend she had just remembered that Owen’s funeral had been on Friday, even though she herself had witnessed Halloran call Banks from the cemetery gate. Still, there was no point in being cruel about the crush Banks had developed on Evie, especially when she had just scored Brownie points with a free coffee.

  ‘Thanks for remembering,’ said Kitt. ‘It was hard for her.’

  Banks shook her head. ‘I can imagine. Wish there was something I . . . uh, I mean I wish there was something we could do for her, but unfortunately that’s not the way justice works.’

  Kitt paused, wondering what to say. From the way Banks was speaking it was obvious she thought of Evie as much more than just a ‘pretty girl’, as Halloran had phrased it. But in Kitt’s limited experience of the sergeant she was also all about professionalism. There was no talking to be done about this issue head-on, best just to keep things polite.

  ‘I think the funeral gave her some degree of closure. I met with her for a drink last night, and she seemed a bit brighter.’

  ‘A drink?’ Banks squeezed her lips together. ‘I’m sure that made her feel better.’

  Kitt looked at the officer, trying to read her expression. There seemed to be something sorrowful about her eyes. Was she just feeling bad on Evie’s behalf? Or, given her acknowledgement that she found Evie attractive back at the theatre, was something else going on?

  ‘It seemed to,’ Kitt said. ‘Perhaps after the burial she has a chance of moving on.’

  ‘Aye, hard as the funeral was, she did right to go. Saying a proper goodbye to a person is always important.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kitt, trying to ignore the stabbing in her heart. ‘You’re right, goodbyes are very important.’ Shame Theo never gave me the opportunity, Kitt thought.

  ‘Anyway . . .’ she said.

  Banks returned to her angular pose and nodded.

  Turning away from the officer, Kitt looked up at the hand-painted sign for Très Parisienne. The swirling typography was written in the colours of the French flag, and the capital ‘A’ in Parisienne had been designed to make it look like the Eiffel Tower. According to Halloran’s monosyllabic text message at some ungodly time this morning, a man had been found dead on the back doorstep of what must be one of the most visited restaurants in the city.

  Stepping over the threshold, Kitt was greeted by rows of small tables draped in white cotton tablecloths. A small arrangement of flowers sat on each of them in varying shades of pink and red, and the silverware was sparkling even though the ambient lighting was quite subtle. Kitt had never dined here herself, but seemed to remember that Owen had brought Evie here one Valentine’s Day. It was the closest thing to a trip to Paris Evie was ever going to get with him.

  Further back in the restaurant, near the kitchen, Kitt could see Halloran’s broad figure leaning over a young girl who was sitting in a chair, drinking a glass of water and sobbing her heart out. She wore a black fitted dress with a white apron over the top of it. No doubt she was one of the waitresses, and given the tears streaming from her bottle-green eyes, she was also the person who had found the body.

  Kitt set the coffee she’d
brought for Halloran on the nearest table and summoned the softest tone she had at her disposal. ‘Hi there.’

  Halloran turned to Kitt, notebook and pen in hand. The lines near his eyes seemed to be cut deeper today. ‘Deon, this is Ms Hartley.’

  ‘’Ow do you do,’ said Deon with a musical French lilt to her voice. Though her tone was curdled with sorrow, Kitt knew the instant she heard it that a thousand men had fallen in love with that voice.

  ‘I’m so sorry this has happened,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Thank you, you are most kind,’ Deon said, trying to smile, but failing and bursting into tears again. ‘I ’ave never seen a dead body before.’

  ‘It is a great shock the first time,’ Halloran soothed. ‘Somehow, it never looks quite how you expect it to look.’

  Kitt examined Halloran’s face again. How many dead bodies had he seen? She didn’t want to calculate that figure. Something about the idea of Halloran having to look at all that cruelty and horror roused an emptiness inside her.

  Deon reached for a glass of water from the table next to her and took a sip. ‘’E was slumped up against the back door. At first I thought ’e was sleeping. That ’e was just a vagrant using the shelter of the alley to stay warm now the weather ’as turned. I was going to offer ’im some leftover croissants I ’ad from yesterday’s breakfast. But when I touched ’is shoulder . . .’ She scrunched her eyes tightly shut, as though that gesture could somehow erase the memory of what she had seen. ‘Well, you can see, I didn’t move ’im. I just dialled 999.’

  ‘Which was the right thing to do,’ said Halloran. ‘And get yourself inside quickly. You never know how long somebody who commits a crime like this is going to hang around.’

  Deon’s face looked even whiter than it had a moment before. ‘You mean, ’e could ’ave been in the alleyway? The killer?’

  ‘Unlikely, but you can never be too careful,’ Halloran replied. ‘If you don’t mind, Deon, I’m going to give you a moment, as I have a few issues to discuss with Ms Hartley.’