A Body in the Bookshop Read online

  A Body in the Bookshop

  Also By

  Also by Helen Cox

  Murder by the Minster

  Title

  Copyright

  This ebook edition first published in 2019 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2019 Helen Cox

  The moral right of Helen Cox to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  EBOOK 978 1 52940 224 7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook by CC Book Production

  Cover design © 2018 Ghost

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Dedication

  For all those who have kept in touch

  with the child in their heart.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Evie Bowes took short, timid steps along the frosty pavement York council had not seen fit to grit. Though it was only half past five it had been dark for more than an hour. Between the early December dusk and the large hood on the royal blue winter coat she’d invested in last month, the facial scars from her ordeal in October were invisible to passers-by. In the eyes of cyclists with tyres intimidating enough to slice through the ice and dog walkers hopping about on the spot to stay warm, Evie looked like just another person huddling away from the pre-Christmas chill.

  The scars were hard proof that she really had been kidnapped by a murderer six weeks ago, surreal though it still seemed. Evie’s doctor had prescribed silicone sheets designed to improve the appearance of the marks, but so far she could see little difference. The special make-up available worked pretty well most of the time, but even so she could still see the unsightly ridges along her temple and jaw. Because of all this, and the number of double-takes from strangers she experienced in the average day, Evie had come to consider the darkness a dear friend.

  Taking a right, turning away from the river and up Ouse View Avenue, Evie watched her breath rise in a whisper towards the sky. Despite everything that had happened, despite the face that didn’t look like her own any more, she was still breathing and that was something.

  Walking up the path to number thirteen and smiling at the lush green wreath hanging on the door, Evie rang Kitt’s bell. There was the usual shuffling and shoving as her best friend tried to work the stiff door out of its overly snug frame.

  ‘Evie?’ Kitt’s voice called from the other side.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ Evie called back.

  ‘Give it a kick, will you?’

  ‘All right,’ Evie said. ‘One, two, three.’ She kicked the door near the bottom, giving it the extra push required to release it, and then Kitt appeared. She had braided her long red hair into a plait that snaked around her shoulders. There was a time when Kitt would still have been in her work clothes but she’d been a bit better about making time to relax in the last month or so and was instead wearing a pair of jeggings and an over-sized sweatshirt emblazoned with the slogan: What happens in the library stays in the library.

  ‘At least we know we’re safe from any undesirables lurking around, I suppose,’ said Evie. ‘Not like they could get at us if they tried.’

  Kitt put a hand on her hip. ‘If you’re going to be funny you can stay on that side of the door.’

  Lifting her hands in mock-submission, Evie stepped into Kitt’s living room and lowered her hood. Just how obvious would her scars look now she didn’t have the veil of darkness to protect her? The room was fairly dim, lit only by the fairy lights arranged around the mantelpiece, the open fire and two small lamps. Evie looked sidelong at Kitt, wondering if her friend had guessed how sensitive she was over her new appearance. Certainly, Kitt never put the big light on when Evie came to visit any more.

  ‘Couldn’t you get Inspector Halloran to take a look at your door?’ Evie asked. She began unbuttoning her coat to reveal the leaf-patterned A-line skirt and mustard cardigan she had changed into after finishing work at the salon, both from vintage clothes shops.

  ‘We’re, ugh . . . taking . . . things . . . slow,’ Kitt said, huffing and puffing at the door until it shut.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, we’re not at the “will you take a look at my stiff front door?” part of our relationship.’

  Evie giggled. ‘Not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Don’t start with that.’ Kitt pressed her lips together in what looked like an attempt to ward off a smile. ‘And will you please stop calling him Inspector Halloran? I don’t know why you think it’s funny.’

  ‘That’s his name . . .’

  ‘Not amongst friends.’

  ‘Well, I can’t call him Mal.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’ve heard the way you say it to him.’

  Kitt crinkled her nose. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Evie crossed her arms and fixed her eyes on her friend. ‘When you say his name your tone goes all throaty and you sort of . . . wrap all the sounds around your tongue.’ She lowered her voice as though someone with sensitive ears might be listening. ‘You make it sound like a naughty word.’

  Kitt’s cheeks burned and she gave her friend a playful slap on the arm. ‘Ooh, will you give over? I’ve never heard anything so daft.’

  Evie continued to chuckle to herself as she went to sit in her usual armchair. At once she remembered how difficult a spot it was to leave once she had arranged herself there. She could never be sure if it was the chair itself, its proximity to the open fire or the company that made it so comfortable, but she suspected it was the latt
er. Next to her, Kitt’s black cat Iago was playing a game of chicken with the fire: lying as close to the flames as he possibly could without being burned alive.

  Evie breathed in the scent of cheese baking in the oven and thought she might burst with hunger.

  ‘That lasagne smells amazing,’ she said. ‘Lunch feels like forever ago.’

  ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Just a supermarket salad,’ Evie said with a shrug.

  Kitt bristled. ‘I don’t know how you can. Especially on a cold winter’s day. It’s hardly salad weather.’

  ‘You never think it’s salad weather,’ Evie teased.

  ‘Mercifully, I never have to. I’m not the one who insists on squeezing herself into an endless array of vintage dresses, most of which were made in an era when people were living off tongue and tripe and bread and dripping.’

  ‘I know, I know, I’ve heard the monologue before,’ said Evie, inwardly wishing carbs weren’t quite the decided luxury they were in her life.

  Kitt walked out to the kitchen muttering under her breath about beauty standards and feminism and returned a moment later with two plates piled high with lasagne and garlic bread. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Have I ever told you how much I love you?’ Evie said, her mouth watering as she watched steam rise from the plates.

  ‘Between the almost incessant mockery, I believe it has come up once or twice,’ Kitt said, placing a plate on the folding table by Evie’s armchair. ‘Say you’ll have some wine with me?’

  Evie tilted her head at her friend. ‘It’s only Thursday. The weekend come early?’

  ‘No, but I spent three hours in a budget meeting this afternoon . . . with Michelle,’ Kitt said.

  ‘I thought you’d decided you weren’t going to let her get to you any more?’

  Kitt pouted. ‘Three hours. Three long hours.’

  Evie laughed. ‘All right, pour me a glass. Some of your most entertaining moments happen when you’re inked.’

  Kitt sighed. ‘I have no intention of getting inked, an expression that surely hasn’t been used since the turn of the twentieth century.’

  Evie stared at the fire and smiled. Vintage words, vintage anything in fact, brought her a pleasure she had never quite been able to explain. Perhaps it was because the past always seemed simpler than the moment you were living in now.

  ‘You know,’ she called out to the kitchen, ‘there might be some kind of award you could nominate Michelle for. Maybe World’s Grouchiest Boss?’

  ‘Dreariest Disposition of the Decade? She’d win that one, no contest,’ said Kitt, returning with two glasses of what was most likely to be Pinot Grigio.

  ‘You’re so lucky having a boss like Diane,’ Kitt said, referring to the owner of Daisy Chain Beauty, the salon where Evie was employed as a massage therapist.

  ‘Yeah.’ Evie sighed and took a big gulp of her drink. ‘She’s been good to me.’

  ‘True, she didn’t exactly leap to your defence when you were accused of murder six weeks ago, but she didn’t suspend or fire you either. Which she could’ve done.’

  Evie noticed a frown cross Kitt’s brow.

  ‘What?’ Evie asked.

  Kitt shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the murders, I’m sorry.’

  All of a sudden, Evie’s face felt too hot, even taking the open fire into account, and her green eyes filled with tears. Panic gripped her as she tried to blink them back. ‘You can’t spend your life tiptoeing around me. It happened.’

  Kitt put down her fork. ‘Doesn’t mean I have to harp on about it, I know you’re still recovering.’

  Evie offered her friend a shaky nod. She hadn’t expected to talk about this. She had done all she could since the incident not to think about it at all, but every now and then, the pain she’d been trying to push down resurfaced.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll get there. It’s just . . . I just feel—’ she began, but she was interrupted by a knock to the front door.

  Kitt tutted and stared wistfully at her plate. They had yet to dig in to that dreamy, cheesy lasagne and, when it came to food, Kitt didn’t take kindly to delayed gratification.

  ‘You’d better get that,’ said Evie, her tone betraying her relief that someone had interrupted the outpouring she’d been holding in ever since the doctors had told her that her facial disfigurement might never fully heal.

  ‘I’m not answering it. It’ll likely be the Jehovah’s Witnesses. They always call at teatime.’

  ‘No it won’t, they don’t call on you at all any more since you started gifting them with copies of The God Delusion.’

  ‘You’re just saying it like that to make me sound tart,’ said Kitt. ‘In fact, it was a mutually agreed exchange of texts. They handed over reading material to broaden my horizons and I did the same. I was genuinely interested in their thoughts on the strengths and limitations of the arguments presented by Dawkins.’

  Evie smiled. ‘So what you’re really saying is, you’ve managed to turn unsolicited doorstepping into an opportunity to start a book club?’

  The librarian opened her mouth to issue a retort but was interrupted by a voice from outside.

  ‘Kitt, you in there?’ came Inspector Halloran’s call, followed by the buzzing of the bell.

  Kitt winced and Evie’s smile broadened at her friend’s predictable reaction. She hated the sound of that bell and always told people to knock instead. It seemed she and Halloran had yet to have that discussion. They really were taking it slow.

  Frowning, Kitt walked over to the curtains and pulled them back to get visual confirmation that it was her new boyfriend before opening the window ajar. ‘I can’t let you in. The door’s stuck.’

  No sooner had the words left Kitt’s mouth than the door groaned open as Halloran pushed through it.

  ‘You need to lock this,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘Anyone could get in.’

  ‘Not unless they work out as much as you do,’ Kitt said, closing the window.

  Her tone dripped with sarcasm but her eyes, Evie noticed, traced the lines of Halloran’s dark grey winter coat in a manner that suggested she was more than OK with what was underneath it.

  Kitt pushed up on her tiptoes to kiss Halloran and he leant in to oblige her. Evie averted her eyes to the fire for some time before she heard Halloran say: ‘Evening, Evie.’ He nodded and she nodded in return, thinking that it seemed such a formal way of greeting someone who was dating her best friend, someone who had saved her life, but she’d only met Halloran on a handful of occasions and they still hadn’t found that comfortable state of friendliness. Perhaps in part because the first time they crossed paths Halloran had all but accused her of murdering her ex-boyfriend. Or perhaps it was because the sight of each other made them both remember things they would rather not. Such as how the shock of cold river water can pull all the air straight out of your lungs.

  Kitt cleared her throat and addressed her cat, who was still lying flat by the fire and had turned just his head to evaluate the latest visitor. ‘Iago. Look who’s here.’

  Iago gave the librarian his yellow-eyed stare for a moment before turning back to the fire in the most unimpressed manner.

  ‘I wouldn’t take that personally,’ Kitt said to the inspector. ‘The only person that cat has ever really been a fan of is himself.’

  It was true. In the eight years Evie had been friends with Kitt Iago had only approached her on a handful of occasions and in every instance she’d had some kind of fish on her plate.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Kitt. ‘We’re having a girls’ night in here. Unless you want your toenails painting, you’d best be on your way.’

  ‘I might not be completely averse to having my toenails painted . . . depending on the colour,’ Halloran said.

  ‘Oh right, in that case I’ll pop upstairs and break the m
anicure set out,’ Kitt said with a smile.

  ‘I’m not sure a pampering session should be my first priority,’ said Halloran. ‘The thing is, something’s happened.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ said Kitt.

  Halloran’s face hardened and the lines around his eyes that betrayed his years deepened.

  ‘It – it concerns Banks, and I don’t know what to do.’

  Evie sat up straighter in her seat. In the aftermath of the murder case, Halloran’s partner, Detective Sergeant ­Charlotte Banks, had been very good to her. Not least, Charley had been adamant that the scarring on Evie’s face wasn’t off-putting. For some reason, she was the only person Evie came close to believing on the matter.

  ‘Banks?’ Kitt repeated.

  ‘Is she . . . all right?’ asked Evie, her heart beating faster as the look on Halloran’s face grew sterner.

  ‘This mustn’t go any further. It’s very difficult for her and I’ll be for it if my superiors find out I’ve said anything to anyone.’

  ‘What’s gone on?’ Evie asked, with greater urgency this time.

  ‘Banks has been suspended from duty effective immediately, pending an investigation into her alleged assault of a suspect. At the moment it looks like her career as an officer may be over.’

  Two

  Evie blinked hard, wondering if she’d dreamt those words. ‘That can’t be right. Charley wouldn’t do that.’

  Halloran didn’t quite flinch when Evie used Banks’s first name but it was clearly odd for him to hear it. He was probably most comfortable thinking about the sergeant in a professional capacity. Evie, however, had seen a softer side to the officer in the hospital last October, at a moment when softness was what she had needed most.

  ‘Suspended for assault . . .’ Kitt said, shaking her head. ‘Hard to believe of an officer who has, in my limited experience, been nothing but by the book – perhaps even a bit too much so.’

  ‘I know,’ said Halloran. ‘It’s . . . It’s a difficult one.’

  ‘Difficult how?’ asked Evie, staring harder at the inspector. ‘You don’t think she actually did it?’