“So if I follow you,” said Gibbons, “you’re thinking somebody found out she knew a secret she shouldn’t have. And they decided not to trust her discretion.”
Rachel nodded. “It’s all I can think of,” she said. “Just hearing about her and how eccentric and independent she was, you might think that would have made her enemies. But it never did. I couldn’t tell you why, but people always accepted Jody—her odd bents just made them chuckle and shake their heads.”
Which, thought Bethancourt, seemed an appropriate epitaph.
Gibbons was excited to find some trace of Jody before her arrival in York and headed off to the police station to pursue this lead. Bethancourt, who had no patience for that kind of research, left him to it and went to keep his luncheon appointment with Alice Knowles.
The warming weather together with the cessation of the endless winter rain had brought the holiday crowds out in force, and he dodged impatiently around them, making his way through the busy streets. He paused once, when his mobile rang, and moved out of the stream of foot traffic to answer it, thinking it must be Gibbons. But when he looked at the caller ID, he saw it was Marla.
“Hell,” he said, pressing the End button and returning the phone to his pocket.
He endeavored to dismiss the call from his mind as he hurried on. He had been brought up always to arrive before his date, and he strove to meet this goal, though in fact he rarely achieved it.
Nor did he in this case. Loch Fyne was a large establishment with a broad bar at the back of the high-ceilinged room. Alice was waiting for him there, seated in one of the high bar chairs with her legs crossed, nursing a glass of white wine. She had clearly dressed with some care, discarding the tweed skirt and comfortable flat boots she had worn to the bookshop the day before in favor of heels and a dress in a flattering shade of blue.
She smiled at him as he came up, slightly breathless and tugging his coat open in the sudden heat of the restaurant.
“Sorry to be late,” he said, smiling back. “I see you’ve got yourself a drink.”
“I don’t usually indulge so early,” she said with a little laugh. “But this is sort of a special occasion, isn’t it? I hope you’re going to join me.”
Bethancourt, looking down at her, thought that a drink—or perhaps several—was an excellent idea, and said so.
“But let’s get a table, eh?” he said, holding up a hand to attract the bartender’s attention. “I’d like to have a look at the menu, perhaps order a bottle of wine, if that’s all right with you?”
They got themselves settled at a quiet table off to one side. Discussion of the meal to come and the wine offerings got them through the initial stages, but it was not long before the first reminiscence of their school days was introduced. Bethancourt was exceedingly relieved when the bottle of wine arrived.
It was not that he particularly wished to avoid discussion of his years at St. Peter’s, or even that he disliked reliving anecdotes from that time; it was only painting the period in rosier colors than it deserved that he objected to. In his view, there had been good times and bad times, and he had moved on from both.
“So how long have you been working at Mittlesdon’s?” he asked, in an effort to stem the tide.
“Oh . . .” Alice waved a plump, bejeweled hand. “Soon after I got married. I had quit my job, you see, but I found I needed something to do. I was never one to act the lady of leisure, you know.”
“Of course not,” said Bethancourt, smiling to show his intent to compliment.
Alice took it as such, simpering through her lashes at him.
His smile faltered in consequence as a sudden qualm assailed him: was he leading her on?
“So you’re quite the fixture there these days?” he said.
“Yes, I expect you could put it that way,” she replied. “I always liked the place, as you know. Do you remember that day we were snogging in the back room and got surprised by Mr. Mittlesdon himself? Do you know, he never in all this time twigged it was me, not until I happened to mention it recently. And then he blushed bright red!”
Bethancourt joined her laughter, a trifle more heartily than was called for, but he was feeling increasingly awkward. Virtually all her reminiscences had referred to the more intimate moments of their former relationship, and Bethancourt was slowly becoming convinced that she was expecting far more from this encounter than luncheon. He was not unaccustomed to advances from the opposite sex, but he had never before had to deal with his own ulterior motives. He looked back at Alice and wondered if there was really anything she could tell him about the case.
As if divining his thought, she rested her chin on her hand and looked pensive, saying, “I have to admit I never thought I’d see the day when anything like this would happen at Mittlesdon’s. Even when we heard of Veronica’s death, well, it was at a remove, as they say. Murder just seems so very—very inappropriate.”
She grinned sheepishly when Bethancourt laughed.
“That did come out sounding foolish, didn’t it?” she said.
“No, no,” said Bethancourt, “I know exactly what you mean. I don’t think my friend Sergeant Gibbons quite grasps the idea, but I feel just the way you do. Mittlesdon’s is such a staid, solid sort of place, a kind of bulwark against just this sort of thing, it’s outrageous that murder should rear its ugly head there.”
Alice nodded in satisfaction with this sentiment.
“You’ve put it very well,” she said.
“Actually,” said Bethancourt, “the more we find out about Jody Farraday, the more she seems anomalous. To Mittlesdon’s, I mean.”
“Oh, no.” Alice shook her head. “A proper bookshop is always full of characters. Jody fit the bill quite nicely. I don’t think it so much matters,” she added thoughtfully, “how odd you are, provided you have a curious mind.”
“But you’re not odd,” protested Bethancourt.
“Well, no,” Alice admitted. “I’m not saying oddity is a prerequisite, mind you. Most of us are, well—perhaps not altogether ordinary—but quite mainstream. I still find it difficult to believe any one of us killed Jody.”
She looked at him hopefully.
“It’s not certain that any of you did,” said Bethancourt, reckoning that this was safe enough territory. “It’s perfectly possible that Jody still had keys to the shop and let herself and her murderer in.”
Alice seemed surprised. “But Jody wouldn’t have had keys,” she said earnestly. “Only the managers have those.”
“Very true,” agreed Bethancourt. “But I understand it would not be difficult to come by a copy.”
“Well, no,” said Alice, picking at her salad thoughtfully. “When you put it that way, no, it wouldn’t. But why on earth should Jody have wanted to go to the bookshop on Christmas Eve?”
Bethancourt shrugged. “That’s what we would all like to know,” he said.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their meal, and when it resumed they fell into a catching-up mode free of reminiscences, to Bethancourt’s great relief. From time to time he caught a glimmer of the old Alice, who had so entranced him in their school days, but for the most part the bold, lively girl he had known then seemed to have disappeared along with her figure. She still had a curious mind, as she had said, but the duties of life and motherhood had changed her outlook and tempered her desires. He was slightly surprised to find that, even had she remained slim and taut, he would not now be interested in her as anything but a casual dalliance.
And yet, if he was fair, the traits Alice exhibited in the present had been evident even in their school days, although back then they had been dominated by youthful enthusiasms. He could not with honesty say that he was surprised by the way she had turned out.
Which led him to wonder if he would be at all interested in the Marla of ten years on. She, even more than the youthful Alice, was the epitome of a man’s sexual desire, which had certainly been the basis of Bethancourt’s initial intere
st in her. The relationship on his part had flourished largely because he enjoyed her boundless energy and found circumventing her mercurial temper mentally challenging. But he had never given any thought as to how he might feel a few years on; he had been content to take each day as it came.
Well, he decided, it was all moot now.
Gibbons spent the lunch hour on the phone with various members of the Cornwall constabulary, while nearby Sergeant Rowett worked his magic on the computer. At some point, another member of Brumby’s team delivered sandwiches and coffee; these were consumed silently, in between answering the phone and tapping on the keyboard. Periodically, the two men compared notes until at last, late in the afternoon, Gibbons tucked his mobile away, slapped Rowett on the shoulder in a gesture of thanks, and went to find Superintendent Brumby.
Brumby, it developed, had stepped outside to smoke, and Gibbons found him there, leaning back against the brick of the police station and watching the rain fall with a pensive air.
“Have you got news, Sergeant?” he asked as Gibbons came up to join him.
“A bit of news on the Mittlesdon case, yes, sir,” replied Gibbons. “We’ve discovered that our victim had been living in Cornwall for most of the past year. Sergeant Rowett is still searching the Cornwall records for some sign of her, but I’ve got hold of a Detective Sergeant Ogburn in Cornwall, who’s managed to track down her employer for me. I’d like permission to go down there and investigate further.”
Brumby nodded. “Good work, Sergeant,” he said. “What does MacDonald say?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Gibbons. “I came to you first, sir. After all, my going to Cornwall may be of some help to MacDonald, but it’s no use to you at all, and you are my immediate superior.”
“Very well reasoned, Sergeant,” said Brumby dryly. “Well, if MacDonald agrees, I’m all for it. We might as well clear any case we can, because I don’t think York is destined to be a breakthrough in the Ashdon matter. Let’s leave MacDonald with fond thoughts of us—tell him the Yard’ll bear the cost of the trip.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons.
“Yes, all right. Off you go, Sergeant. Let me know what you find out.”
MacDonald was considerably more difficult to find than Brumby had been. He was not in his office and did not answer his mobile. Gibbons tried Constable Redfern’s number and got an answer almost at once.
“The super?” asked Redfern, sounding preoccupied. “Try down in interrogation—I believe he brought in a couple of suspects in the Deanery robbery.”
“Thanks, Dave,” said Gibbons. “I’ll check there.”
“Are you getting anywhere with the Mittlesdon case, then?” asked Redfern.
“There’s a couple of things have turned up,” answered Gibbons. “Nothing substantive yet, but I’m hoping.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” said Redfern, “but I’m full up right now. Perhaps a pint later in the week?”
This, Gibbons agreed to happily. He thanked the constable and rang off to make his way down to the interrogation rooms.
MacDonald was indeed ensconced in one of the rooms, but Gibbons had no intention of interrupting him in the middle of an interview. Resigned, he kicked his heels in the hallway for half an hour before MacDonald at last emerged. He looked well satisfied, from which Gibbons deduced that the interview had gone well.
“Well enough,” agreed MacDonald. “These blighters can’t keep their story straight. One of them,” and he began to chuckle, “had the gall to blame it all on his girlfriend. A real charmer, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, laughing.
“So how are you getting on, Sergeant?” asked MacDonald. “I take it there’s been some developments? Or have you only come to tell me you’re flummoxed?”
“Not yet,” said Gibbons, and gave him the details of what he’d found.
“It’d be useful to know what our Jody was up to and with whom,” admitted MacDonald when Gibbons had done. “Aye, fly off to Cornwall by all means, particularly if the Yard’s paying.”
After his lunch with Alice, Bethancourt found himself reflecting on his past relationships with women. Ordinarily he would have said that he enjoyed very good relations with the women in his life, but for some reason on this afternoon he found the whole topic depressing. As an anodyne, he fetched his dog from the house and went shopping, joining the crowds looking for after-Christmas bargains. Cerberus was much pleased with this activity; he was a beautiful dog and garnered many compliments—as well as petting and treats—when he was out in public. His feathered tail waved gently as his master wandered from store to store in search of something he wanted to buy. When at length Bethancourt found himself absently admiring a pair of jade earrings and wondering whether or not he should pick them up for Marla, he abruptly tired of his shopping expedition and returned to the house.
He was surprised to find Gibbons already there, packing a bag.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Is the case solved or something?”
“No,” replied Gibbons, stuffing a pair of socks into his duffel. “But I’m off to Cornwall to follow up on Jody’s life there. I tried to ring you, but your mobile’s off.”
“It is?” Bethancourt dug the phone out of his pocket and stared at it. “So it is,” he said. “I wonder when I did that.” He thumbed it back on and was immediately alerted that he had messages.
“See?” said Gibbons. “One of those is from me, asking if you want to come along to Cornwall. Do you?”
Bethancourt raised his eyes from his phone and thought for a moment.
“I don’t see how I can,” he answered. “I’ve got Cerberus, you see, and I take it you’re flying?”
“That’s right,” said Gibbons. He paused, hands on his hips, and surveyed the room to see if there was anything else he needed. “It won’t be a long trip,” he added. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”
“That’s all right then,” said Bethancourt. “Shall I take you to the airport and you can tell me all about it on the way?”
“I’d appreciate that,” said Gibbons. Satisfied that he had forgotten nothing, he bent and zipped the duffel closed.
Bethancourt had returned his attention to his phone. He was staring down at it in a perplexed manner, his lips tightened together.
“What is it?” asked Gibbons.
“Nothing,” answered Bethancourt. “Marla apparently left a message.”
“Did she?” said Gibbons. “Maybe she rang to apologize.”
Bethancourt shot him an incredulous look. “You must be mad,” he said. “Marla never apologizes.”
“Well, what did she say, then?” asked Gibbons practically.
“I don’t know,” said Bethancourt. “I’m debating whether or not I should listen to it. On the whole, I think not.”
“But—” began Gibbons, but Bethancourt had already deleted the message. “Are you really sure that was a good idea?” he asked.
“Quite sure. Now, here’s one we had better pay attention to: my father’s rung up about something.”
He set the phone on speaker and in a moment Robert Bethancourt’s clipped tones were heard.
“Glad to hear the cellar’s still dry,” he said. “Will you let me know if you plan to leave? There’s no hurry—your aunt will be bringing the children back to school in a few days, but there’s plenty of room for you all. And your mother says to tell you that Mrs. Carter will be coming in to clean on the third. Hope your case is coming well.”
Bethancourt erased the message and made a face. “I forgot about my aunt Evelyn,” he said.
“Will she not want us here?” asked Gibbons.
“She won’t mind,” replied Bethancourt. “It’s me that doesn’t want her here. My father may think there’s plenty of room, but I’m not convinced that there’s enough room in all England for my aunt and I to coexist comfortably together.”
Gibbons laughed.
8
In Which Gibbons Looks to the
Past, and Bethancourt Has An Awkward Morning
Detective Sergeant Benny Ogburn of the Devon and Cornwall constabulary was older than Gibbons by almost a decade, but that did not prevent their hitting it off from the moment they met at the airport. Gibbons was relieved: he was on the young side for his rank, and he had previously encountered some prejudice on the part of older sergeants. Ogburn, however, greeted him as an equal, took him off to a pub for a beer, and ran down a list of interviews he had arranged for Gibbons on the morrow. It was surprisingly comprehensive for something done on such short notice, but Ogburn shrugged it off when Gibbons complimented him on it.
“It wasn’t hard,” he said. “You gave me the employer, and he and her co-workers gave me the boyfriend, who gave me the other friends. And her neighbor gave me the landlord—though, truth to tell, he doesn’t know much beyond the fact that she paid her rent regularly.”
“I don’t suppose my landlord knows much more about me,” said Gibbons. “So what time tomorrow do we start the interviews?”
“Eight o’clock do you?” asked Ogburn. “I thought we’d best begin early so as to make sure we had enough time—you never know what’s going to crop up as you go.”
Gibbons agreed: it was a rare investigation that did not turn up the unexpected.
But as they worked through the schedule the next day, they found no cause to deviate from Ogburn’s original program. Bit by bit, Gibbons garnered a picture of Jody’s life in Cornwall that bore a remarkable resemblance to her life in York: a wide circle of friends, but few if any of them close ones; well liked at her work and casual friends with several of her co-workers; a boyfriend who, like Rhys-Jones, seemed more a convenience than a deep emotional bond.
The one surprise that emerged was that, according to everyone, she had left Cornwall for good and was moving permanently back to Yorkshire. None of her acquaintances seemed to know why, or at least not until Gibbons’s last interview of the day, with Jody’s erstwhile neighbor, Irene Haddam.
Mrs. Haddam was a divorced woman of forty-five or so, living alone with her dog. She was attractive for her age, with good bones in her face and sun-streaked, flyaway hair. Gibbons did not expect to gain much from the interview; it had struck him as unlikely that such a woman would have much in common with a twenty-seven-year-old from Yorkshire. But in this he was wrong.
A Spider on the Stairs Page 13
