A Spider on the Stairs (14 page)

“I don't see how you make that out,” objected Rhys-Jones.

“Because in all probability, she used them to let herself and her killer into Mittlesdon's on Christmas Eve,” answered Bethancourt.

Once they left Rhys-Jones, Gibbons was all for continuing on to interview Jody's friend Rachel, but he was clearly not up to it, and Bethancourt put his foot down.

“Dinner first,” he said firmly. “You won't be any better pleased
if you rush the interview because you're hungry. Besides, everyone thinks better on a full stomach—it's been scientifically proven.”

Gibbons argued this last point, but he allowed himself to be led to a restaurant while he argued, and Bethancourt was relieved. He thought his friend was looking rather pale, and Gibbons shifted about in his chair in a way that indicated to Bethancourt that his newly healed injuries were paining him.

“So what did you make of what Rhys-Jones told us?” asked Bethancourt after they had settled in at their table and ordered.

“That he should have told us all this before,” replied Gibbons crossly. He took a sip of the wine Bethancourt had ordered. “And our victim was a nutcase.”

“Really now,” protested Bethancourt. “Surely
nonconformist
would be a better word. I don't think she was crazy.”

“Whatever. This wine's very good—I think I needed a drink.”

“So did I,” said Bethancourt, also sampling the wine. “Not bad, not bad at all,” he said. “But what I meant to ask was, do you think Rhys-Jones could have done it? Because it strikes me as unlikely on the face of it.”

“Me too,” agreed Gibbons. “But ‘unlikely' isn't ‘impossible.' And at least we now have a better sense of who Jody Farraday was. Not,” he added, “that it helps.”

“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.

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.”