Murder in a Mill Town

Book 7: The Kitt Hartley Yorkshire Mysteries

by Helen Cox

Genres: Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

When a violent murder shatters the otherwise peaceful idyll of Andaby near Hebden Bridge, DS Charlotte Banks can't help but suspect that her brother Ewan - recently released from prison - is behind it. Ewan claims he's innocent, and even has an alibi to prove it, but DS Banks isn't convinced. So much so that she turns to the only people who can help her in an investigation this personal: Kitt Hartley and Grace Edwards. On the hunt for the killer, Kitt and Grace discover the victim was choked to death on her old school sash. From this lead, Kitt, Grace and DS Banks are drawn down a dark trail littered with decade-old grudges, schoolyard secrets, broken hearts and bullies, and struggle to get closer to the truth. When a second victim goes missing however, the clock starts ticking . . .

Release date: September 1, 2022

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

‘Did you hear about the murder that happened out towards Hebden Bridge?’ Detective Sergeant Charlotte Banks said, to the last person in the world she ever thought she’d be asking for help.

Well, perhaps second to last.

There was a pause before Kitt Hartley responded. She was sitting in an armchair in the third-floor office of the Vale of York University Library in her usual navy skirt suit, drinking a cup of tea. Banks spent very little time in libraries due to her horrendous working hours. But on the few occasions she’d had cause to step inside this particular library, even she, a straight-talking detective sergeant with very little time to get lost in the world of books, had been swept away by the quiet wonder of the place.

Though of course she had visited the odd bookshop or library here and there, Banks was convinced she had never seen quite so many volumes under one roof. Then there were the dreamy murals painted on the ceiling, many of which seemed to depict mythological figures. Banks wasn’t too sure which mythological figures exactly; she left that kind of thing to the academics. But there was no doubting that the paintings themselves were entrancing, whether you really understood what you were looking at or not. There were a hundred other tiny little touches to this rather unique building that set it apart from any other venue you might visit. From its ornate architraves to its mosaic floor, the architect had thought very carefully indeed about every surface, lighting fixture and doorknob.

Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising then that Kitt, who had taken up private investigation and thus often found herself in alarming situations, quite liked to hide out here two days a week during her part-time shifts.

At Banks’s mention of the recent murder in West Yorkshire, Kitt hesitated on the next sip of her drink and offered Banks a little nod. ‘Happened last Wednesday, didn’t it? In Andaby? Hard to miss a headline like that one. Crushed by a steel yarn tub at an industrial museum. I can barely stand to think about it. The very idea makes me wince. From what I read, the victim was a manager at the museum. That poor woman. Who would even do a thing like that, I ask you?’

Banks, who was standing next to an oak table at the centre of the room, swallowed hard at the thought of someone toppling one of those hefty metal canisters, once used to hold the yarn in the old textiles mill, onto a body. After almost a decade in the police force, Banks had seen all kinds of physical cruelty but nothing quite so strangely brutal as that. ‘It’s not exactly your average act of violence, I’ll grant you. Whoever found the body will probably have had the shock of their life,’ she said.

Kitt placed her teacup on a nearby stack of books. Though this space was for staff only, you’d only guess that by the sign on the door. Besides a couple of beaten-up armchairs that looked like they might have been purchased early in the last century, every surface in the room was stacked with books on all kinds of subjects. Kitt oversaw the Women’s Studies section but it seemed this office was a dumping ground for any spare book in the whole library.

Still, at least it smelled better than the staff room back at the nick. According to Banks’s superior, Detective Inspector Malcolm Halloran, who was romantically involved with the librarian-turned-sleuth, she was partial to a particular type of tea that kept the atmosphere here laced with citrus. It was certainly better than the smell of overcooked coffee and stale vending machine sandwiches Banks had become accustomed to at her place of work.

‘You can say that again,’ said Kitt refocusing Banks’s attention on the morbid matter she’d come here to discuss. ‘Very sinister indeed. I’ve worked some odd cases in my time but this takes the biscuit . . . Oh, on that note, Custard Cream?’

Kitt waved a biscuit tin in Banks’s direction but she declined the offer.

‘At first I wondered how the investigating officers had ruled out a terrible accident,’ said Kitt, while helping herself to a biscuit to dip in her tea. ‘But apparently there were enough questions raised at the scene for the police to classify it as a murder.’

‘Yeah,’ said Banks, tucking her thumbs into the pockets on her jeans. ‘You have to be certain about the evidence in front of you to classify a case as a murder.’

‘Oh, I know. From everything Mal’s told me about the investigations you run, I know it’s not a decision made lightly. Obviously, there wasn’t enough information in the papers for me to discern exactly what factors suggested foul play. Something like that happening, well it’s bad enough when it’s an accident. But the idea that somebody did it deliberately, doesn’t bear thinking about really, does it? Are you investigating the incident? I would have thought Andaby was a bit too far west for your team.’

Banks went to answer but, as was sometimes her custom, Kitt didn’t pause for breath.

‘And besides anything else, aren’t you off work soon for the wedding of the year, and the honeymoon of a lifetime? I must admit when you first came to see me at the front desk, I thought you might want to talk about something wedding-related, rather than police business. Especially since you’re out of uniform.’

It was then that Kitt paused, offering Banks a way back into the conversation. Now that she had an in however, Banks found herself wondering precisely what to say. How to talk about that one thing she so often went out of her way not to talk about.

Taking in a long, slow breath she ruminated on the best way to explain herself. Why she was here, in the back offices of the local university library at eight o’clock on a Saturday night. The blind fear she was trying to square up to just now however, scrambled every thought in her head. She wasn’t even able to offer a measured smile acknowledging Kitt’s reference to the fact that she and Evie were due to get married just two weeks from now.

Banks had agreed an unpaid three-month career break with her superior officer, Chief Superintendent Ricci, so that she and Evie could hit all seven continents on their honeymoon. That’s what she should be focusing on right now: marrying the woman she loved beneath the blessing of the May sunshine. The lead up to their wedding was supposed to be amongst the happiest times of her life. Instead, the last forty-eight hours had been a harrowing blur punctuated with sleeplessness and dread. ‘We’re not officially investigating that case, no,’ Banks at last heard herself say. ‘And yes, tomorrow’s my last day on shift before the wedding.’

Kitt pushed a strand of long red hair out of her face and offered Banks a polite little smile. She was seemingly searching Banks’s face for some clue, before speaking again. ‘I’ve always admired your sparing and cogent use of the English language, Charley. And I consider myself a sensitive reader of people as well as books. But if there’s something important you want me to take away from this conversation, I’m afraid you’re going to have to give me a little bit more of a hint. Is there an element of the murder in Andaby, or the investigation of it, that’s troubling you? And if so, might it not be best to talk to Mal about it?’

There was no missing the confusion in Kitt’s voice and Banks couldn’t blame her for that. People had difficulty reading Banks all the time. Her deep brown eyes were powerful when staring down suspects in the interrogation room but gave little away to those who knew her. Since she and DI Halloran had walked in to this very library some six years ago now, she and Kitt had had very little to do with each other. This might not have been so strange if Kitt and Halloran hadn’t started dating. And if Banks wasn’t due to marry Kitt’s best friend. She and Kitt had, by proxy, shared a good many experiences, from joy right through to despair. But the two had always kept a courteous and respectful distance. In part Banks had deliberately remained aloof. Kitt may have training in private investigation but such skills weren’t officially recognized by the force. Consequently, Banks was convinced that at some point the meddling Kitt did in official police cases was going to end in someone getting fired. Keeping a safe distance was merely a simple and prudent measure to make sure that that someone wouldn’t be her.

With all this in mind, Kitt must be wondering why, of all people, Banks was spewing details of a case she wasn’t even investigating to a woman she spent little time communicating with? She didn’t yet know that Banks’s whole world was quite possibly on the brink of crashing down around her ears.

‘My brother, Ewan, he lives in Andaby. He has done for almost three months now,’ Banks said. Unable to find any other way in to what she had to say. She had been trying to avoid this very situation for as long as she could remember. Yet for all her striving, here she was unable to outrun the shadow cast by her older sibling just over twenty years ago.

‘Is that so?’ Kitt said with a shake of her head. ‘I wasn’t aware you had a brother. Sorry I missed that detail. I consider myself quite a good listener but I’m fairly sure Evie has never said anything about him.’

‘No, it’s not your fault. I never mention him,’ Banks could hear the snap in her tone and took a deep breath. She knew that her Glaswegian accent often made her voice sound a little harsher to some folk than she meant it to. Sometimes, being a copper, that worked in her favour and commanded a certain degree of respect from criminals to whom respect didn’t come particularly naturally. But this was much more than an edge to her consonants. She could practically hear herself seething.

‘And, you’re worried for Ewan’s safety? You want me and Grace to do security detail on him? Make sure whoever’s responsible for the murder isn’t for some reason coming after him? He must be quite unnerved after an incident like that happening on his own doorstep. Of course, we’ll be very happy to help in any way that we can.’

‘I can see why your mind went there,’ Banks said, wishing that was why she needed to engage the services of Hartley and Edwards Investigations – as a little sister concerned for her elder brother’s welfare. That’s what somebody in a normal family would do. Somebody who shared love rather than deep suspicion and distrust with their blood relatives. Banks knew objectively that her brother had loved her and that she had once loved him back. But those days didn’t even amount to a solid memory any more. Any admiration for him had completely disintegrated. ‘Like I say,’ Banks continued, pushing the words past her teeth. ‘Ewan’s only just moved to Andaby. Supposedly for a fresh start and to reconnect with me.’

‘Reconnect? Has he been living abroad?’ said Kitt.

‘I wish that was where he’d been,’ Banks said, steeling herself for the next sentence about to fall out of her mouth. ‘You see, he’s just been released from prison. For murder.’

Chapter Two

Kitt’s jaw fell just a fraction, at these words but she soon corrected her expression. Banks found herself at once grateful that, unlike her giddy assistant Grace, Kitt could be relied upon to respond sensitively and appropriately at all times. The unpredictable antics of Kitt’s colleague at Hartley and Edwards investigations, was one of several reasons why Banks had sought Kitt out here, at the library, rather than at their investigative offices on Walmgate. Her bride-to-be, Evie, could be daft as a brush at times, but somehow Banks found her special brand of silliness sweet, alluring even. Where Evie kept her banter within reasonable boundaries however, Grace carried on as though limits were a concept she’d never heard of.

Of course, Banks acknowledged privately that there was much to like about Grace. For one thing, she was an undisputed expert at online research – an invaluable skill when it came to crime-solving. For another she could always be depended on to lighten the mood and, without fail, she wore the most dazzling ensembles at any given social event, often by sporting garments that hinted at her Indian heri­tage. In spite of all these positive attributes however, the last thing Banks needed at a time like this was the irrepressible repartee of Grace Edwards.

‘You’re . . . ’ Kitt paused, sensible enough to know she was on very rocky ground here. ‘You’re perhaps worried your brother had a hand in what happened to that woman because of his history? Am I understanding right?’

‘It’s . . . something I’ve considered,’ Banks said. Doing her best to pretend that she’d been able to view the murder at Andaby in a rational light.

Her brother had seemed remorseful, humble even, on the few exchanges she’d had with him since he’d moved to West Yorkshire and they had agreed to try and repair their relationship. But Banks had no real idea what the impact of his twenty-year prison sentence might have been on him. Or exactly how he felt about his sister joining the police force. What if he had come to see her as the enemy? And if so, what lengths might he go to in order to discredit her? A question she had pondered more than once since she had learned about the murder early on Thursday morning.

‘Is this murder the same MO as the murder your brother committed all those years ago . . . ?’ Kitt said, snapping Banks out of her thoughts. ‘Oh, no, what am I saying? That’s ridiculous. How many stray industrial-sized yarn tubs is a man likely to have access to in one lifetime?’

‘Actually, though obviously that’s the aspect the newspapers have seized on, that wasn’t the cause of death in this case. The true cause of death hasn’t been released,’ Banks said.

Kitt started at Banks’s statement. ‘Not the cause of death? But how? Those things weigh a ton. I mean, that’s probably not even that hyperbolic a description. Surely the weight of one of those is enough to kill anyone?’

This was the point of no return. Banks was about to relay information known only to the police to a civilian. She had to tread very lightly here. Especially if her brother did have any hand in that murder. She didn’t want anyone accusing her of trying to help him get away with what he had done by leaking confidential findings.

‘I’ve already been in touch by phone with the officer in Andaby who’s leading the investigation. A DS by the name of Jo Robinson. I knew that Ewan would be on their suspect list. He’s a recently released parolee and he’d taken a life before. There was no question that they’d be knocking on his door. I wanted to identify myself as an ally to the investigation – rather than an ally to a potential murderer, so I gave DS Robinson a call, pretty much as soon as I heard about what had happened, to explain the situation. She was appreciative, and, although she’s understandably keeping case information compartmentalized for obvious reasons, she did tell me that the victim, Siobhan Lange, was already dead by the time her body met with that yarn tub.’

‘It seems an odd thing to do,’ said Kitt. ‘Kill someone using one method and then go to the pains of toppling a heavy object to crush them.’

Banks, unable to stand a minute longer while talking about a murder her brother might have committed, slumped down into the spare armchair and tried to steady herself. ‘I agree. It definitely falls into the strange behaviour category. When the killer does something with the body after death it’s usually for one of three main reasons. Firstly, it can be performative or ritualistic.’

‘Like when certain serial killers arrange bodies in particular formations. Or leave calling card marks on the body,’ said Kitt.

‘Right,’ Banks said with a nod. ‘But unless we’re about to see a spate of murders across the region in which the victims are all crushed with industrial equipment, I’d say it was one of the other two common rationales: either the killer was enraged with the victim when the murder took place, or it was strategic and the perpetrator was trying to cover their tracks, though I must admit if it is that last one, they chose a very strange method of misdirection.’

Kitt shrugged. ‘Perhaps whoever did this was hoping such a bizarre turn of events would be a distraction to the police. Or that it might keep them from finding out the true cause of death . . . Did DS Robinson go so far as to relay that?’

‘Aye, she wanted to know if Ewan might have exhibited any behaviour that indicated he would carry out such an act. From what they could tell, before she was crushed by a yarn tub, Siobhan Lange had been strangled.’

Banks watched Kitt’s hand involuntarily rise towards her throat, her fingertips tracing the collar of her white shirt. ‘So, the industrial museum where the body was found wasn’t the murder scene?’

Banks paused. She’d already revealed the cause of death of a murder victim to someone without a badge. Perhaps she should stop there? But then again, it’s not like the problem she was facing could be solved through official channels. And if she wanted Kitt’s help then keeping her in the dark wasn’t going to be an option for long. ‘Current thinking is that the murder did happen in the museum but not in the room where the body was found. I don’t know which room the crime took place in, however. As I say, there’s only so much information available, even to me, given the severity of the crime.’

‘Makes sense,’ Kitt said, now toying with her necklace. ‘And strangulation . . . was that how your brother . . . well, you know?’

Banks shook her head, appreciative that Kitt couldn’t bring herself to finish that sentence. That she was trying to make this conversation easy on her. Just now, Banks needed all the support she could get. ‘In his case it was a fight gone wrong. Or so he said. He claimed he never meant to kill the guy he was fighting with. That he’d tried to get out of it and de-escalate the situation but his opponent forced the issue. Of course, I’ll never know if that was the truth.’

‘What was the fight about?’ Kitt asked, reaching for her satchel and pulling out a notebook. ‘I won’t write down anything the police have discovered about the death of Siobhan Lange, and I won’t name your brother in my notes,’ she clari­fied. ‘But I’m assuming you’re telling me all this because you need my help and if I can make a few scribbles about the background, it helps when I’m trying to work things through.’

Banks nodded her approval. Relieved that Kitt had just taken the cue and that she hadn’t had to explain herself any more than necessary. There were so many scenarios swarming around in her head right now, she was grateful Kitt hadn’t forced her to start speculating on the exact nature of her brother’s involvement in this case or to lay out all the reasons why she needed to launch her own clandestine investigation into the events in Andaby.

‘The fight our Ewan had was over a woman,’ Banks explained. ‘He was twenty-four at the time. The dobber had been seeing this lass behind her husband’s back. The husband inevitably found out, as they always seem to do, and came after him. Our Ewan’s one of them lads that, to look at him, you wouldn’t think there was much fight in him. But he can more than fend for himself. And he did that night.’

Kitt looked up from her notebook. ‘Terrible as that must have been. It does sound more like an accident than anything else. Besides, what possible motive would he have for killing Siobhan Lange after just three months of living in a new place? It’s barely enough time to unpack your belongings, let alone make an enemy you want to kill.’

‘That, I don’t know,’ Banks conceded. ‘And I suppose that’s the problem. It could be that Ewan has nothing to do with this. That all this concern and overanalysis of the situation is just old ghosts having their way with me. But what if it’s not? Can I really take that chanc. . .