A Spider on the Stairs (12 page)

Gibbons was currently involved in trying to work out the same question. He had found Mittlesdon at home in his house in Victor Street, but he seemed to know little about any of his employees' personal lives.

The house was in a quiet, pleasant neighborhood, one in a row of midsized Victorian terraces. In the normal way of things, it would have ample room for Mittlesdon, his wife, and his son when the latter was home from university, but at the moment it had a crowded feel. Or at least that was the impression Gibbons had, when he arrived to find a bustle of activity going on in the kitchen while a more sedate party occupied the drawing room, occasionally interrupted by the babysitters and their charges from upstairs.

Mittlesdon made introductions in a slightly flustered manner and then ushered Gibbons into a small office.

“There,” he said, closing the door behind them and seating himself behind the desk. “That's better, I think?”

He looked anxiously at Gibbons, as if the detective might have some objection to this arrangement.

“Yes, indeed,” said Gibbons, sitting in the only other chair, a straight-backed one by the door. “I'm sorry to interrupt your holiday party, sir.”

“Not at all, not at all.” Mittlesdon waved a hand. “This sad business must come first, of course.” He hesitated. “Might I ask how things are coming along?”

“Well,” said Gibbons, “we've made a very tentative identification of the body. There's still plenty of room for error there, but my working theory is that she was an ex-employee of yours named Jody Farraday.”

Mittlesdon looked considerably surprised.

“Jody?” he echoed. “Oh, I don't think it could be she, Sergeant. As I understood it, she left York altogether when she left the bookshop. Indeed,” he added, “I should be very sad to hear anything had happened to her—she was a very lively young lady, very well liked among the staff.”

“It may not be her,” said Gibbons. “On the other hand, it's not impossible that she had returned to York recently. And I understand there is a considerable physical resemblance.”

Mittlesdon thought that over, looking a little bewildered.

“Jody was a very tall girl,” he said. “I suppose her most striking feature was her hair—it was a bright red. But natural, not dyed. Or at least so the other women at the shop said—I know little about such things myself.”

“Just so,” said Gibbons, hiding a smile. “In the event it is her, I should like to know anything you can tell me about her background or her family.”

“Well, well,” said Mittlesdon, clearly still startled by the idea that the victim might be a onetime employee. “Let me see. I believe Jody was with us for two or three years. And a very good worker she was, too.” He adjusted his spectacles and directed his gaze to Gibbons. “Most people think there's not much to do at a bookshop,” he said. “They think we spend all our time sitting about and reading. But that's not the case at all, not at all. In fact, there's a great deal of work to be done, quite apart from the special orders. I'm always grateful when we take on someone who's willing to work hard.”

Gibbons nodded patiently. “And how did you come to hire Miss Farraday?” he asked.

Mittlesdon frowned in thought. “I seem to remember that she started early in the autumn,” he said slowly, working it out. “Yes, I believe it was that September, or just possibly October, when she joined the staff. It was after Kennedy left us at any rate.”

“Kennedy?” said Gibbons.

“Yes, Broderick Kennedy, a very intelligent young man,” answered Mittlesdon. “He was at university here, and stayed the summer in York after he graduated. But then he went on to a new job in Leeds in his field—computer science, it was.”

“Which meant you had an opening at the shop,” prompted Gibbons, trying to steer the conversation back to Jody Farraday.

“That's right,” agreed Mittlesdon. “I believe Gareth found her. At least, he had me interview her.”

“Gareth,” repeated Gibbons. “That would be Mr. Rhys-Jones,
the shop manager?” When Mittlesdon nodded, he continued, “So as manager, he would vet job applications before passing them on to you, would he?” he asked.

“Yes, yes—and he's much better at it than I am,” said Mittlesdon. “Picking them out, I mean. He seems to have a knack for it.”

“So you wouldn't know exactly how he came to choose her?” said Gibbons, refusing to be diverted from the point.

“Well, no,” admitted Mittlesdon.

“What about her family?” asked Gibbons. “Did she come from York originally?”

But here Mittlesdon was of no help at all. He did not remember Jody ever referring to any family in the area, although she seemed familiar with the city.

“Of course,” he added, “we would have an emergency contact on file for her, but I don't remember now who that might have been.”

He seemed aware that he was failing to provide any useful information, because he suddenly sat up straighter and said, “But perhaps my son could help us—I've noticed the younger people seem to pick up all kinds of information about each other. I'll just call him in, shall I?”

“By all means,” said Gibbons. “Did he know Miss Farraday well?”

“Better than I did, at any rate, although she was somewhat older than he. Still, several of the younger members of the staff sometimes go for a drink after we close up the shop.”

“Does your son work at the shop, then?” asked Gibbons, annoyed that he had overlooked someone with such obvious access to the shop keys.

“He helps out in the summer,” answered Mittlesdon. “He's away at Cambridge most of the time these days, but of course he's worked at the shop ever since he was old enough.” He opened the door and called out, “Matthew! Matthew, could you come into the office for a moment?”

In a minute, Matthew Mittlesdon appeared, looking very much like a typical college student. He took after his mother rather than his father, being leaner and browner than Mittlesdon and with a luxuriant mop of wavy hair.

“Jody?” he said, sounding shocked when told the news. “That's very sad. I liked her—everybody did. I do hope you find whoever did it.”

“Do you remember anything about her family?” asked his father.

Matthew shrugged. “I don't think she ever mentioned anyone to me,” he answered. “I'm fairly certain, at least, that she didn't have family hereabouts.”

“Was she from the area originally, do you know?” asked Gibbons. “Or do you recollect how she came to be taken on at the shop?”

Matthew perched himself on the edge of his father's desk, looking thoughtful. “I think she was a friend of Tony's,” he said. “At least, I seem to remember that he put her up for the job. But it's Gareth you should be talking to—it was an open secret that they were seeing each other.”

“It was?” demanded Mittlesdon. “I never knew that. It doesn't seem like Gareth at all.”

“No, he's usually more circumspect,” agreed Matthew with another shrug. “But Jody was like that—she brought things out in people you never knew were there.”

Which, thought Gibbons, was a very interesting observation, given the circumstances.

By the time Gibbons made his way from Victor Street back to the other side of the Ouse it was getting late, but he thought he could still fit in one more call. The temperature had dropped and he shivered a bit as he waited to cross the street.

“And where the devil has Phillip got to?” he muttered to
himself. As if in answer to this plaint, his mobile began to vibrate agitatedly in his pocket and he pulled off his glove to dig it out.

“Hello,” said Bethancourt cheerfully. “Are you still at the station?”

“No,” answered Gibbons. “I'm on my way to Rhys-Jones' flat—it's over on Granville Terrace, which is somewhere off of Lawrence Street, or so I was told.”

“I know Lawrence Street,” said Bethancourt. “It's actually just a continuation of Walmgate. I'll meet you there, shall I, and we'll ferret out Granville Terrace together.”

“All right,” said Gibbons. “I'll wait for you before I ring the bell.”

But he found Bethancourt waiting for him instead when at last he reached the place. In truth, Gibbons, normally accustomed to working long hours without a break, was finding his return from the sick list more arduous than he had anticipated. He was also beginning to want his dinner, and to think it would have been wiser to have stopped for a meal before conducting this interview.

“There you are,” said Bethancourt, pitching his cigarette into the gutter. “I was just beginning to wonder if you'd got lost along the way. I've found the house—it's just up the street there.”

“Good man,” said Gibbons. “Let's get this over with.”

Rhys-Jones had changed from the flannels and dress shirt he had worn that morning to a pair of jeans and a rugby shirt. The casual clothes looked better on his lanky frame, and caused Gibbons to upgrade his opinion of Rhys-Jones's looks from “bookishly attractive” to simply “attractive.”

He seemed surprised to see them, but did not demur at Gibbons's request for another interview.

“Of course, of course,” he said, motioning them in.

The door opened directly into the sitting room of a modest flat, furnished with one or two good pieces and filled out with functional, inexpensive stuff. There were, as might be expected, a great many books: one entire wall had been shelved right up to
the ceiling, and was filled to capacity with books of every description, from lavish art books to dog-eared mass-market paperbacks. In addition, there was a pile of books on one end table and another on a corner of the dining table.

Sitting on the sofa was a slender, dark-haired woman, who threw a questioning glance at Rhys-Jones as he shut the door and hurried forward to perform introductions.

“These are the police detectives,” he told the woman. “This is Sergeant Gibbons and Mr. Bethancourt. This,” he added, turning to the two young men, “is Laurel Brooks, my fiancée.”

Laurel rose to shake hands with them, saying, “Gareth has been telling me about the trouble over the holidays—I've only just come back into town this evening.”

“Ah, yes,” said Gibbons. “I believe Mr. Rhys-Jones mentioned you were away. Having Christmas with the family, was it?”

“Yes,” she answered. “We all do our best to get home for the holidays.”

“That's nice,” said Gibbons genially. “And where's home?”

“Essex.” She smiled as she said it, but it did not reach her eyes; she clearly understood that this was an inquiry into her movements, no more and no less.

“Well, do sit down,” said Rhys-Jones.

“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons, but he turned back to Laurel. “Could I ask you to excuse us, miss?” he said politely. “We have a few questions to ask Mr. Rhys-Jones involving details of the crime, which we would prefer to keep as confidential as possible. I'm sure you understand.”

Both Rhys-Jones and his fiancée looked alarmed, but Laurel had little choice but to acquiesce.

“Of course,” she said uncertainly. “I'll just go into the study.”

She and Rhys-Jones exchanged worried looks as she made her way out of the room, but Bethancourt thought he could detect a slight expression of relief on Rhys-Jones's face as he watched her go.

“Please,” he said, turning back to the detectives and gesturing toward the sofa and chairs.

This time Gibbons took the seat offered. He was still wearing a pleasant smile, but Bethancourt, knowing him as he did, could see the cold calculation in his friend's eyes.

“I thought,” Gibbons began, “we might talk a little more freely without Miss Brooks. I'd like you to tell us everything you know about Jody Farraday.”

A sick look came over Rhys-Jones and he swallowed before asking, “It's her, then? The—the body in the shop?”

“We don't have a certain identification yet,” answered Gibbons. “But so far, we've found no one else missing who fits the description. Unfortunately, we can't find Miss Farraday, either.”

Rhys-Jones passed a hand over his face; he looked shaken, and his voice when he spoke was broken.

“I—I don't know what to say.”

Gibbons was gentle. “Let's not jump to any conclusions,” he said. “Tell me about Jody. The two of you were close?”

Rhys-Jones nodded. “At least,” he said, “I thought we were. Now, well, I have to say I don't think I ever understood her, not really. She was unlike anyone I've ever known.”

“How did she come to work at Mittlesdon's?”

“Tony brought her in,” said Rhys-Jones. “Tony Grandidge, our stock man. I don't know where he'd met her, but I remember interviewing her and hiring her on the spot, and saying it was a good job he'd found her.”

“Mr. Mittlesdon said she was a good worker,” put in Bethancourt.

“That's right,” agreed Rhys-Jones. “And a fast learner. She was a godsend that Christmas season—the customers liked her, and by then she seemed to know the stock as well as any of us.”

Gibbons nodded. “And when did you begin seeing each other?”

Rhys-Jones was startled by the question, and he cast a swift
glance toward the staircase before saying, in a low voice, “Laurel doesn't know about that.”

“Ah,” said Gibbons. “So you were involved with both of them at the same time?”

“No!” Rhys-Jones said indignantly. “I would never do anything like that. No, I quite liked Jody—I suppose you could say I was fascinated by her—but I was dating Laurel and that was that. And then, well, Laurel got a job offer at the University of Bedfordshire, down south.”

He paused, as if searching for words.

“Had you been dating long?” asked Bethancourt, to help him over the hump.

“For about a year,” said Rhys-Jones. “I—well, I don't expect that's true, not really.” He looked up and met Gibbons's eyes. “I'm trying to be honest,” he said, rather awkwardly.