A Spider on the Stairs

by Cassandra Chan

  “I understand,” said Gibbons. “I’d still appreciate having the list.”

  She nodded. “I’ll print it out for you tomorrow morning—unless you need it tonight? I’d have to go back to the shop. . . .”

  “No, no, tomorrow will be fine,” said Gibbons. He produced a card from an inner pocket. “If you could fax the list to this number?”

  “Yes, of course.” She took the card, examining the number before laying it on the coffee table in front of her.

  “Thank you,” said Gibbons. “Now I want to ask you about a girl named Veronica Matthews. She used to work at Mittlesdon’s about two years ago.”

  “Yes, I remember her,” said Catherine. “She was a nice enough girl and she was very good with children. She used to help me occasionally when I had a big crowd for story time.”

  “Do you remember any customers she was particularly friendly with?” asked Gibbons.

  Catherine shrugged and reached for a packet of cigarettes. “Not really,” she answered. “Honestly, I don’t see that much of the rest of the staff since I’m always upstairs in the children’s section. And Veronica wasn’t with us for long.”

  She lit a cigarette while Gibbons said, “Are you aware of what happened to Veronica once she left Mittlesdon’s?”

  Catherine frowned. “I think she moved away?” she suggested. “I’m sorry, I’m sure I knew at one time, but I simply don’t remember anymore.”

  Gibbons let this stand without bothering to elaborate.

  “Then I think we’re done,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Miss Stockton.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Sergeant.”

  She rose with him and followed him back to the door to let him out. As he said good night, he paused and then added impulsively, “I know it’s none of my business, but I’d just like to go on the record as saying my colleague Bethancourt really didn’t know you worked at Mittlesdon’s when he first met you.”

  A slow smile spread across her face. “I’m beginning to believe the same thing,” she said.

  “Ah,” said Gibbons, rather at a loss.

  “And you want to know why I haven’t forgiven him,” she said.

  “I’m curious,” admitted Gibbons, “though, as I say, it’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s not,” she agreed, but she was still smiling. “The truth is that your friend is quite charming when he apologizes. I thought I’d let him do it another time or two before I gave in.”

  “Oh!” said Gibbons. “I see.”

  “But you’re not to tell him that, mind,” she said, opening the door and holding it for him.

  “My lips are sealed,” Gibbons promised. “Good night, Miss Stockton.”

  “Good night,” she echoed.

  Downstairs, he peered through the vestibule window in search of the Jaguar and was relieved to see Bethancourt double-parked directly in front of the building. He fastened his coat and dashed out into the storm.

  “It’s remarkable how wet one can get in just a few feet,” he said as he settled into the car.

  “Isn’t it?” agreed Bethancourt. “Are we for home, then?”

  “We are.”

  Bethancourt let in the clutch and guided the Jaguar down the narrow street, starting up the wipers again with a flick of his wrist.

  “So how did it go?”

  “You’re right,” said Gibbons, “she really hates you.”

  “You needn’t rub it in,” said Bethancourt, shooting him an annoyed glance. “Did she tell you anything else, or was your conversation confined to her romantic troubles?”

  “She hadn’t much else to tell,” admitted Gibbons. “She’s faxing me a list of her clients in the morning, but I doubt it will be much help. Most of them have children, for one thing, and it’s difficult to conceive of Ashdon with a family.”

  “That serial killer in America had one,” said Bethancourt. “Though I can’t imagine how one could live day in and day out with a monster and not know something was wrong.”

  “Oh, I know who you mean,” said Gibbons. “Yes, that was an unusual case, but I don’t think we have that sort of thing to worry about with Ashdon. At least we don’t if Brumby’s profile is anywhere close to being on target.”

  “No,” said Bethancourt reflectively, “no, I don’t suppose we do.”

  It was not a long drive back to St. Saviourgate, and both men were glad to reach their destination, having thoroughly tired of the discomfort of soggy clothing. But as Bethancourt brought the Jaguar into the bay behind the house, he stepped sharply on the brake and said, “Oh hell.”

  Gibbons looked out the windscreen at the mud-splattered Volvo 4 × 4 and said, “I thought your aunt was going home to Ilkley today?”

  “So did I,” said Bethancourt glumly. “She probably couldn’t get through because of the flooding. And she’s going to be cross with me for running out on her at St. Peter’s today. Oh, well, there’s nothing for it.”

  They were already so wet that they did not even bother to quicken their pace as they walked up the length of the garden to the back door. They removed their dripping outer things in the boot room and then entered the kitchen quietly.

  “She’s here all right,” said Bethancourt in a low tone, indicating the diet book open on the kitchen table, the place marked with a scrap of paper.

  “She’s been cooking,” remarked Gibbons, sniffing the air and bending to read the recipe in the book.

  “I could do with a snack myself,” said Bethancourt. “But first, dry clothes.”

  “Definitely,” agreed Gibbons, still reading.

  “Let’s nip out into hall—” began Bethancourt, when two things happened simultaneously: his aunt called out from the dining room, and Gibbons drew in a sharp breath of surprise.

  “Phillip, is that you?” asked Evelyn.

  “Yes,” answered Bethancourt as Gibbons seized him by the sleeve and held up the scrap of paper that had marked the recipe’s place in the book.

  “Is that your aunt’s handwriting?” he demanded.

  Evelyn was calling to them to stop lurking in the kitchen and come in to say a proper good evening, but Bethancourt was transfixed by his friend’s intensity.

  “Looks like it,” he answered, peering at the telephone number jotted on the paper. “It’s her book after all.”

  “Why would your aunt have Tony Grandidge’s mobile number?” asked Gibbons.

  “Is it really?” asked Bethancourt, taking another look. “I thought the number seemed familiar.”

  “Is he a friend of the family?” asked Gibbons.

  “Not that I know of,” answered Bethancourt. “It’s easy enough to find out— Yes, we’re coming, Aunt Evelyn,” he added, raising his voice. “Come along, Jack.”

  Evelyn was sitting at one corner of the dining-room table with her meal on a woven placemat in front of her and an open magazine to one side.

  “There you are,” she said. “I thought you were never coming in. Phillip, what did you mean by running off this morning? I thought I could at least depend on you to see the girls settled in.”

  “I did get them settled,” protested Bethancourt. “They got their keys and signed in, and I carted every blessed piece of their luggage up to their room.”

  “Yes, but—” Evelyn was beginning when Gibbons gave Bethancourt a nudge.

  “Right,” he said. “I’m very sorry about this morning, Aunt Evelyn, but I need to know something.”

  Evelyn was taken aback by the apology; she had clearly been prepared for an argument. Having had the ground swept out from under her feet, she was at a loss for a new tack to take, so she merely asked, “Yes?”

  “How do you know Tony Grandidge?” asked Bethancourt. “Is his mother a friend of yours or something?”

  And for the first time in his life, his aunt looked back at him awkwardly, as if unsure of what to say. He had not expected it, and found himself nonplussed in response.

  “I think I’ve met Mrs. Grandidge
,” said Evelyn uncertainly.

  “I’m more interested in Tony, Mrs. Keams,” said Gibbons, intervening. “As you may know, his uncle was murdered recently, and we’ve had cause to interview Mr. Grandidge in regard to another matter as well. Can you tell me what your connection with him is?”

  Evelyn listened to this speech, her blue eyes going very wide as it was borne in on her that he was talking about a police matter. Gibbons was generally rather quiet around the other members of Bethancourt’s family, feeling himself a little out of place in their solid county sphere, but here he was on firm ground and it showed.

  “I—well, Tony’s been getting some of the supplements for my diet,” said Evelyn. “Some of them can be hard to find over here, you see—it’s an American diet.”

  “And Tony Grandidge has set up shop selling diet supplements?” asked Bethancourt skeptically.

  “It’s ever so much less expensive than on the Internet,” said Evelyn.

  Gibbons was also looking unconvinced. “Just what kind of supplements are we talking about?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s Stevia,” said Evelyn nervously. “And a vitamin supplement . . .”

  Bethancourt was casting back in his mind to the afternoon he had spent at Mittlesdon’s looking over the diet book, and suddenly it all clicked. He stared at his aunt, rather horrified.

  “Good Lord, Aunt Evelyn,” he said, “you haven’t been taking human growth hormone, have you?”

  And Evelyn blushed bright red.

  “HGH?” said Gibbons, also seeing the light. “That’s illegal. And you say Tony Grandidge was selling it to you?”

  “I don’t think it’s really illegal,” protested Evelyn. “I mean, you can get a prescription for it.”

  “Only in limited cases,” said Gibbons severely. “Certainly not for dieting. And Mr. Grandidge, to the best of my knowledge, is not a licensed physician.”

  “But it’s dangerous,” said Bethancourt, more concerned with his aunt’s health than her criminal behavior. “Really dangerous—not at all the sort of thing you want to play around with.”

  “That’s a misconception,” said Evelyn, turning defiant. “Dana Dugan explains that in the book. It’s perfectly safe and does wonderful things—”

  “Aunt Evelyn, Dana Dugan is an actress,” said Bethancourt, “not a doctor. She doesn’t even work in a health-related field—I’m not sure she even has a university degree.”

  “But she takes HGH herself,” argued Evelyn, “and just look at her! She’s lost weight and looks ten years younger than her age.”

  “Probably genetics,” observed Gibbons tersely. “Do you have any of this stuff Grandidge’s sold you?”

  But Evelyn shook her head. “I was going to pick some up while I was here,” she answered. “But when I rang, Tony said there had been a delay in his shipments and he wouldn’t have any until later.”

  “Oh, good grief,” said Bethancourt. He looked at Gibbons. “The bookshop shipments. That’s how they’re moving the stuff—that’s why Grandidge’s involved. I knew he wasn’t the entrepreneurial type.”

  Gibbons nodded. “Yes, that must be right,” he said. “Look here, Phillip, I’ll have to go back out after all.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll come with you,” said Bethancourt. “Aunt Evelyn, I will e-mail you links to credible HGH research. Read them.”

  And he followed Gibbons back out to the kitchen, leaving his aunt spluttering in their wake.

  It was getting late by this time, and it was later still when they arrived at Tony Grandidge’s flat in St. Mary’s Street. But Grandidge was still up, and seemed not to mind the hour, though his uncle’s death had clearly left its mark on him. His first words upon recognizing them was, “Is everyone all right?”

  “Yes,” answered Gibbons. “We’re here on another matter, not with news.”

  “Thank God,” muttered Grandidge, stepping back to allow them entry. He tried for a deprecating smile, and partially succeeded. “I’m nervous as a cat,” he said. “There’s been so much upset, well, I don’t know what’s coming next.”

  “That’s very understandable,” said Gibbons, as Grandidge closed the door and led the way into the sitting room. Grandidge waved a hand at the sofa while he himself dropped into an armchair and looked at them expectantly.

  “We understand,” said Gibbons, settling himself on the couch, “that you’ve gone into business for yourself in a small way.”

  Grandidge’s expression was quizzical. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, and he appeared sincere.

  “Don’t you?” asked Gibbons. “Well, perhaps I’ve misunderstood the situation.”

  “What situation?” said Grandidge, exasperated.

  “I’m sorry,” said Gibbons. “I’ll try to be clear. I was talking about your little business in selling dietary supplements to ladies who wish to lose weight.”

  Grandidge’s expression changed at once: from tired and confused he became alarmed and wary.

  “Oh,” he said, and Gibbons could almost see his mind racing as he tried to decide whether to deny it or not. In another moment he realized he had passed the point where a denial would hold water. It was then that Gibbons said, “Would you care to tell us about it?”

  Grandidge snorted. “I might as well,” he said, “but you’re the day after the fair, you know. It was my uncle’s gig.”

  Bethancourt’s eyebrows shot up, but Gibbons was remembering Henry Collins telling him that Sanderson had had an extra source of income. Still, he had no desire to let Grandidge get away with none of the blame, so he said, “It’s convenient that your uncle is no longer able to confirm that.”

  “It’s true all the same,” said Grandidge, shrugging. He took a sip from a half-empty beer bottle on the table at his elbow, and shook out a cigarette from the packet there. Both Bethancourt and Gibbons noticed that his fingers trembled as he brought the cigarette to his lips and lit it. “I don’t even know where Uncle Brian came up with the idea,” said Grandidge. “But I think he’d been running the business for a little while before it occurred to him to involve me. At least, I know he’d been making a lot of trips to London and that he stopped after I started receiving the stuff at the bookshop.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” said Gibbons. “How and when did you come to know about this sideline of your uncle’s?”

  Grandidge took a deep breath. “All right,” he said, thinking briefly. “There was a family party about two years ago now. I apparently talked about my job at Mittlesdon’s, because later on Uncle Brian took me aside and asked me the details of how the books came in and all that sort of thing. It seemed an odd thing for him to be interested in, but I told him and didn’t think much more about it.”

  “No,” murmured Bethancourt, “why would you?”

  “Exactly.” Grandidge puffed at his cigarette. “It was maybe a month later that Uncle Brian came back to me and asked if I would like to make a bit of extra money. I said sure, and that’s when he told me about the whole thing, and how he had figured a way to ship his supplements through the book-supply chain. All I had to do was separate his packages out from the books when they arrived and set them aside.” He gave a wry half smile. “That didn’t last long, of course. Uncle Brian wasn’t one to do the work himself if he could get someone else to do it for him. Before long, I was packaging the stuff up and dealing with all the ladies who wanted it. The one rule was that I never used the mail—Uncle Brian didn’t fancy the kind of charges that would come from misusing Her Majesty’s Royal Mail.”

  “Very wise of him,” said Gibbons dryly.

  “But how did you get your shipments out of the shop?” asked Bethancourt. “Didn’t they notice you carrying boxes out?”

  “No; I was careful,” answered Grandidge. “And the boxes were small—it was easy to take them out to my car when I stepped out to smoke. Besides, there was no reason for anyone to suspect anything since I wasn’t stealing from the shop.”

  “True,”
said Bethancourt thoughtfully.

  Gibbons was eyeing Grandidge with disapproval. “You don’t seem,” he said, “to have had any misgivings about engaging in a criminal activity.”

  “Oh, come now,” said Grandidge, looking irritated. “I suppose technically it wasn’t legal, but let’s be honest here: it was more on the lines of exceeding the speed limit than it was dealing cocaine or something.”

  Gibbons seemed to find this droll. “I’m curious,” he said. “Exactly where do you draw the line on banned substances? Hashish perhaps?”

  “What banned substances?” demanded Grandidge, sitting up a bit. “There wasn’t any of that kind of thing. I admit, Uncle Brian was cheating the Exchequer out of the import taxes, but none of the stuff was illegal, just hard to find over here.”

  Gibbons just looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, “I almost believe you didn’t know.”

  Grandidge was looking from one to the other of them, alarmed.

  “Know what?” he said. “Look, I swear—there’s no illegal drugs involved.” He started to rise. “I’ll show you—I’ve got a package in the bedroom right now.”

  Gibbons let him go without a word and then turned to Bethancourt and raised a brow.

  Bethancourt shrugged and took off his glasses to polish the lenses. “I almost believe him, too,” he said.

  Grandidge returned, carrying a cardboard box.

  “Look,” he said, pulling out a package labeled STEVIA. “Artificial sweetener. And this,” he produced a plastic bottle, “this is just some special kind of multivitamin.” He dropped the bottle on the chair and pulled out a small vial. “And this is some injection,” he said. He squinted at the bottle. “ ‘Somatropin,’ ” he read. “I don’t know exactly what that is, but I know what it’s not: heroin or cocaine or even hash.”

  “I know what it is,” said Bethancourt. “It’s mentioned in Dana Dugan’s book. It’s synthetic human growth hormone.”

  “Which,” said Gibbons, “is quite illegal.”