A Spider on the Stairs

by Cassandra Chan

  “More information always helps,” said Bethancourt.

  “Not when it tells you that your victim was the kind of person who was up for anything and had keys to the place where she died,” said Gibbons. “We still haven’t the slightest idea why she was here in York or where the devil she was staying.”

  “You don’t think she was staying with Rhys-Jones then?” asked Bethancourt. “His girlfriend was away, after all.”

  Gibbons considered this, shifting unconsciously in his chair. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “Did I ever ask him directly?”

  “I don’t believe so,” replied Bethancourt, searching through his memory.

  “Then she could have been,” said Gibbons. “He would never have volunteered the information. Although if she did, and if he’s got her things somewhere, I’m going to kill him. Or,” he added, remembering that murder was unbecoming to Her Majesty’s officers of the law, “at least have Brumby charge him with obstructing a police investigation.”

  “Good idea,” said Bethancourt. “What the man needs is to have the fear of God put into him. Look, here’s the soup. Drink up, old man—you’re looking a bit frayed about the edges.”

  “I’m fine,” said Gibbons, but he nevertheless devoted his attention to the soup.

  Bethancourt had hoped that this would serve to revive his friend, but instead the warm liquid seemed to make Gibbons realize how tired he was, and by the time they had finished their meal he was flagging noticeably.

  “I think that wine went right to my head,” he said, standing and struggling with his coat. “I feel a bit dizzy.”

  “You only had a couple of glasses,” said Bethancourt, putting out a hand to steady him.

  “Yes, well, that appears to have been enough,” said Gibbons.

  “You’ve probably overdone it,” said Bethancourt. “Don’t forget you’re still recovering—you can’t expect to bounce back all at once.”

  Gibbons clearly did expect it, but after he had to pause to catch his balance twice more on the way to the door, even he had to admit he was in no shape to conduct another interview.

  “Better in the morning anyway,” said Bethancourt. “People are always more vulnerable in the morning.”

  Gibbons cast him a dubious look.

  “I mean,” said Bethancourt, “they’ve got their set routines in the morning, all designed to get them to work on time or whatever. You come in and upset that and then they don’t know where they’re at. Thus the vulnerability.”

  In fact, he would have said anything that would have resulted in Gibbons’s forgoing another interview that night in favor of going home to bed, but this line of reasoning seemed to strike Gibbons.

  “But not Jody,” he said, letting Bethancourt lead him toward a taxi. “She doesn’t seem to have liked routines. Most people depend on them. Routines make their life seem safe.” He squinted up at Bethancourt. “You don’t like them either.”

  “Yes, I do,” said Bethancourt. “Just because I don’t need to be anywhere particular in the mornings doesn’t mean I don’t have a routine. I am quite addicted to the quiet hour spent with coffee, cigarettes, and the morning paper.”

  “Half the time you’re not even up in the morning,” said Gibbons, dropping heavily into the backseat of the taxi.

  “I like my quiet hour whenever I get up,” retorted Bethancourt. “And you needn’t make it sound as if I’m slothful. I sleep late because I stay up late.”

  Gibbons, unable to think of a suitable reply to this, fell silent, while Bethancourt gave directions to the taxi driver.

  “You’re right about Jody, though,” said Bethancourt, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. “She doesn’t seem to have liked a regular pace to her life. I’ll be quite interested to see what sort of picture Rachel paints of her.”

  “We really should talk to her tonight,” said Gibbons. “I think I’m feeling better.”

  “That’s because you’re sitting down,” answered Bethancourt tartly. “When you need to have a taxi called to transport you a scant mile, then you’re not fit for anything but bed.”

  “I could have walked,” muttered Gibbons, but in so low a tone that Bethancourt didn’t catch it.

  Back at the house, the near prospect of his bed seemed to take the fight out of Gibbons, who laboriously climbed the stairs without further argument. Bethancourt gave him half an hour to perform his ablutions and get undressed before he went to ask if anything was wanted. But by that time Gibbons was nicely tucked up and sound asleep.

  Left to himself for the evening, Bethancourt took his dog out for a long ramble along the river, but still found himself restless when they returned.

  “What the hell,” he said to himself. “Marla’s not even due back from Kent yet—ten to one Trudy hasn’t heard from her. I’ll risk it anyway.”

  And he went off to The Duchess, where the Idle Toads were playing.

  7

  In Which Bethancourt and Gibbons Discover Two Many Obligations and the Spectre of Aunt Evelyn Arises

  Gibbons woke early the next morning with the sun shining in at his window and feeling much better. Indeed, he was inclined to chastise himself for not having continued with his program the evening before; after all, he couldn’t have been feeling that bad. He stalwartly ignored the twinge of pain in his abdomen that tried to belie this point of view.

  The house was quiet, but he easily found the coffee and the makings of breakfast and busied himself in the kitchen, rather hoping Bethancourt would emerge before he was done.

  But his host had evidently had a late night, because he had still not appeared by the time Gibbons had eaten and dressed. Loath to wake his friend, but eager to be off about the morning’s business, Gibbons was just deciding to leave Bethancourt a note when he heard the ringing of his mobile phone, left on the kitchen table. He had just sat down on the stairs to put on his boots, and, with one shoe on and one off, he hobbled hastily into the kitchen, snatching up the phone just before it sent the call to voice mail.

  “Independent bugger, aren’t you?” asked Superintendent MacDonald cheerfully. “I was thinking I would hear from you last night, but there was never a peep out of you. You’re not feeling miffed that I had to take Constable Redfern away from you, are you?”

  “Not at all, sir,” said Gibbons, catching his breath. “And I’m sorry I didn’t report in last night. I did mean to stop by the station, but it got late before I had realized the time.”

  “Never bother about that, lad,” said MacDonald. “You just ring my mobile whenever you have a mind to, whether it’s dawn or midnight. Everyone else does, I don’t know why you shouldn’t, too.”

  “I’ll remember that, sir,” said Gibbons. “In any case, there’s less to report than I would have liked. I’ve got a better picture of our victim, but very little in the way of hard facts.”

  He was about to go into detail when he was interrupted by the chimes alerting him to a second call. The ID read BRUMBY.

  “Er, excuse me, sir,” he said to MacDonald. “That’s Superintendent Brumby on the other line. Could you hold for a moment?”

  “Nay, lad,” said MacDonald. “I’m on my way into the station this minute—you come along once you’ve dealt with your super, and we’ll go over things there.”

  And he rang off without waiting for a reply.

  Sighing, Gibbons flashed over to the other line.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” said Brumby. “I was wondering if you were planning to report in this morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “In fact, I was just on my way over to you. I meant to speak to you last night, but time got away from me.”

  “It always does,” said Brumby. “I’ll see you shortly then, Sergeant.”

  Gibbons rang off and looked up to find a tousle-headed Bethancourt blinking sleepily at him and carrying the boot he had left on the stairs.

  “Sorry I slept in,” he said, offering the boot.

  “Thanks,” said Gibbons,
taking it and dropping into a chair to tug it on.

  Bethancourt yawned. “So what’s up?” he asked. “Are you off to interview Rachel?”

  “No,” answered Gibbons. “That was MacDonald and Brumby, both wanting me to report in. I think my morning’s pretty well spoken for.”

  “Then I might as well go back to bed,” said Bethancourt. “I haven’t had much sleep.”

  “Where did you go last night?” asked Gibbons.

  “Out to a club,” replied Bethancourt. “I stayed later than I meant to.”

  Gibbons raised an eyebrow.

  Bethancourt pushed his tousled hair out of his eyes, looking rather sheepish. “There was a girl,” he confessed.

  “You are incorrigible,” said Gibbons, shaking his head.

  “And I had rather a lot to drink,” admitted Bethancourt. “As best I can remember, so did she. Anyway, ring me when you’re done with all the officials. I should be up and about by then.”

  “Very well,” said Gibbons, rising and reaching for his coat. “If I escape unscathed from both superintendents, I’ll let you know.”

  “Good luck,” said Bethancourt solemnly.

  On the wall of the incident room at the station a map of England had appeared, with the sites and dates of Ashdon’s murders marked on it in red. It was impossible not to try to find a pattern in the red dots, but squint as he might, no pattern emerged for Gibbons as he awaited Brumby’s pleasure.

  “You seem very intent, Sergeant.” Detective Inspector Howard paused, rifling through a sheaf of papers. “Going to put us all to shame by figuring it out?”

  Gibbons flushed. “No, sir,” he answered. “I was only looking—he’s struck over a very wide area, hasn’t he?”

  Howard lifted his eyes to the map. “But nothing north of the Midlands,” he said. “Not, at least, until now.”

  Together they tracked the invisible line from Kettering north to York.

  “Perhaps on account of Christmas?” ventured Gibbons, voicing the stray thought before he could stop himself.

  Howard snorted a laugh. “God knows, it brings out the worst in a lot of people,” he said. “Ah, here’s Superintendent Brumby. I’ve got those lists you wanted, sir.”

  Brumby nodded, preoccupied. “I’ll be right there,” he said. “I just need a word with Gibbons here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brumby’s sober grey eyes rested on Gibbons for a long moment, making some kind of assessment.

  “So,” he said at last, unbuttoning his overcoat and tugging at the scarf around his neck to loosen it, “how are you coming with the Mittlesdon case? Here, let’s have a seat.”

  A couple of the conference-table chairs had been pushed to one side, out of the way; they shifted them to face each other, giving Gibbons a moment to marshal his thoughts before he launched into a report of his meager findings. Brumby took it all in silently, sipping occasionally at the takeaway coffee he had brought in with him.

  “You’ve made a good start,” he said when Gibbons was done. “The lack of records to trace her by makes it difficult. As does the fact that she may have had her own keys.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Gibbons.

  “MacDonald treating you all right?”

  “I haven’t seen much of him, to tell the truth,” answered Gibbons. “I’m off to report to him once I’m done here, but otherwise he’s been pretty busy with other business.”

  Brumby nodded. “The whole point of putting you on the case, I suppose,” he said. “Well, carry on, Sergeant. Let me know if there are any problems, or if you need any help.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gibbons hesitated. “Can I ask how the Ashdon case is going?”

  “We, too, have our work cut out for us,” said Brumby. “Still, every piece of information we gain brings us closer to catching him. Just at the moment, we’re waiting on lab reports and going through endless footage from both the CCTV cameras on the street, since the shop didn’t have a security camera.” He did not look enthusiastic at this prospect.

  “Are there any theories as to why he’s strayed so far out of his territory?” asked Gibbons.

  Brumby gave him a small, weary smile. “As many theories as we have detectives,” he said. “The most reasonable ones to date revolve around the idea that Ashdon is up here for the holidays, or that he’s recently moved. But until we find something to go on, it’s all just castles in the air.”

  “It must be very frustrating, sir,” said Gibbons sympathetically.

  “You have no idea, Sergeant.” Brumby’s expression turned grim. “The more so as we know perfectly well he’s out there somewhere, planning his next murder. . . .” He sighed. “Well, that kind of thinking never gets one anywhere. Carry on, Sergeant. And,” he added as Gibbons rose, “do remember to report in occasionally, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons.

  His interview with MacDonald was in marked contrast to his conversation with Brumby. He found MacDonald at his desk, rummaging through a pile of papers and case files and being periodically interrupted by the telephone. None of this activity ceased while Gibbons made his report.

  “You haven’t got far, have you?” demanded MacDonald when Gibbons had finished. The superintendent ran his eyes down a page of figures, tossed it aside, and selected another paper from the heap on his desk. “You don’t know who she was, you don’t know why she was there, and you don’t know if the bookshop people are suspects. Most importantly, you don’t know who killed her.”

  Gibbons had learned long ago not to dissemble in the face of this kind of tactic.

  “All that is true, sir,” he replied evenly.

  MacDonald shot him a sharp look before returning his attention to the report in his hand.

  “And what are you aiming to do about it all?” he asked.

  “I was going to start by interviewing Miss Farraday’s friend Rachel,” answered Gibbons. “I’m hoping she can shed some light on Miss Farraday’s latest activities, and possibly identify the body.”

  “Killing two birds with one stone there,” remarked MacDonald, dropping the sheaf of papers he was reading into the wastebasket. The phone rang as he was about to expand on this, and he signaled Gibbons to wait while he answered it. He listened intently for a moment, a frown growing as he did so, and then said, “Well, arrest him, for God’s sake. You can sort it all out once you’ve got him in nick. What? . . . No, DI Curtis isn’t coming back, he’s gone into hospital. . . . Yes, that’s right. So get on with it!”

  He swore under his breath as he hung up the phone, and focused an irate eye on Gibbons. “You’re feeling all right, are you, Sergeant?” he asked. “No sniffles or anything?”

  “No, sir,” said Gibbons. “I feel fine.”

  “Thank God,” muttered MacDonald, picking up a case file. “Be off with you then,” he said. “And if you do manage to catch the murderer, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”

  “I do apologize for not checking in last night,” said Gibbons, who did not wish to be taken as an arrogant Scotland Yard know-it-all. “I honestly did intend to.”

  MacDonald looked back at him. “Was there a girl or summat?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” said Gibbons. “To be honest, I simply fell asleep.”

  MacDonald opened his mouth, closed it again as a thought struck him, and pursed his lips. “I remember hearing,” he said, “that you had just recently come off sick leave. Is that true?”

  Gibbons nodded.

  “And what were you off for?”

  “Recovering from gunshot wounds,” answered Gibbons. “But I’m quite fit now, sir.”

  “Good God,” said MacDonald. “Well, I’d like to hear the story behind that, but I haven’t time. Very well, I’ll make allowances for your stamina. Bloody hell, does that phone never stop?”

  And this time he waved Gibbons away as he reached for the receiver.

  Bethancourt did not sleep as late as he had planned. He burrowed under the covers upon returnin
g to bed and dozed a bit, but found himself unable to get back to a sound sleep. Instead, he found himself thinking up various reasons for Jody Farraday to have returned to Mittlesdon’s on Christmas Eve, and trying to determine if there was any way of investigating any of them. His mind, if not his body, was firmly awake.

  So when the house phone rang some twenty minutes after Gibbons had left, he decided he might as well answer it as not and rolled out of bed.

  There was an extension in the master bedroom across the hall, and he reached it by the fourth ring.

  “Hello,” said a well-bred female voice. “Is that Phillip Bethancourt?”

  “Yes,” answered Bethancourt, searching in his dressing-gown pocket for his cigarettes. “Speaking.”

  “It’s Alice, Phillip,” said the voice, and for a moment he could not think who that was.

  Then, “Alice?” he repeated, a little dazed. “Alice Reynolds? I mean, Knowles?”

  “That’s right.” She gave a little laugh. “I thought you might be there, and I was right. How are you?”

  “Fine, fine,” replied Bethancourt, sinking down on the bed. He found his cigarettes and lit one. “And how are you?”

  “Oh, I’m doing very well, thanks.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “So nice to run into you the other day,” said Bethancourt. “Difficult circumstances, of course.”

  “Yes, so very sad. I find—well, it’s very odd, knowing someone who’s been murdered, however distant the connection.”

  “I imagine so,” replied Bethancourt.

  “I’d really no idea you had become interested in criminal work,” continued Alice.

  “Yes, well, I hadn’t planned to,” said Bethancourt, who was beginning to come fully awake and to wonder why she had rung. “Happened quite by accident, you know, through having met Jack at Oxford.”

  “Jack—oh, that would be that nice Sergeant Gibbons, would it?”

  “That’s right. We were both up at the same time.”

  “I see.”

  There was another pause.

  “Well,” said Alice, “I was thinking—if you liked—I thought it might be nice to get together and catch up.”