A Spider on the Stairs (19 page)

“Perhaps Mittlesdon was having an affair,” suggested Bethancourt. “Or perhaps his son was cooking the books.”

“Or that clerk—what's his name, Dominic Bartlett—has a dark past.”

“If he does, it's well hidden,” remarked Gibbons, settling himself more comfortably in his seat. “Sergeant Rowett has already run background checks on all the Mittlesdon employees, even
those who weren't present over the holidays. They're all perfectly blameless individuals. But of course,” he added, “it needn't have been anyone who works at Mittlesdon's.”

Bethancourt considered this for a moment as he guided the car through the rain.

“Jody seems to have been a rather solitary person,” he said at last. “She had friends, but few who were very close to her, and she doesn't seem to have belonged to any particular group, either here in York or in Cornwall.”

“But she was welcome in several,” said Gibbons. “Rachel's group of friends in York, the bookshop's little coterie, and there's the set Dick Smale hangs out with in Cornwall. And from what we've gathered of her character, she probably knew secrets about people in all of them.”

“And about their friends and relations,” said Bethancourt gloomily. “It makes for a very wide field of suspects.”

“Ah, well, we'll narrow it down in time,” said Gibbons.

“I can't see what you're so bloody optimistic about,” said Bethancourt. “Half of York could have had reason to murder the woman.”

“But not that many people have secrets worth killing to protect,” pointed out Gibbons. “Tomorrow we'll have a go at the fellow she was staying with—it all may end right there. But if not, I think I shall begin to dig a little deeper into everybody's closets, starting with Rachel and the Mittlesdon lot. By the way, have you heard anything more from Alice?”

“Aside from the fact that she still fancies me?” asked Bethancourt, and, when Gibbons laughed, he added, “Well, it's damned awkward, Jack. I don't know how I got out of lunch alive yesterday, and this morning was a minor disaster.”

“This morning?” asked Gibbons, still amused. “Don't tell me you actually slept with her to get information. Phillip, how devoted of you!”

“Of course I didn't,” said Bethancourt with an air of wounded dignity. “I asked her to ring me if she thought of any little piece of gossip or anything about her co-workers. So she rang this morning to tell me—of all things—that she thought Dominic Bartlett might be gay.”

Gibbons laughed outright. “Figured that out all on her own, did she?”

“Apparently,” replied Bethancourt. “Really, I don't know how the woman became so parochial—I swear she wasn't like that at school.”

“So,” said Gibbons, “her theory of the case is that Bartlett murdered Jody to keep her from spreading the word about his homosexuality? That's rich, that is.”

Bethancourt laughed, too. “I don't think Alice took it quite that far. She was just obeying instructions to pass on any little thing she could think of. And, of course, to woo me further.”

“Oh, yes,” said Gibbons. “You left out the bit about the minor disaster.”

“Well, you remember that girl I met at the club the other night?” said Bethancourt. “I happened to meet up with her again last night after you'd gone. And her number is rather similar to Alice's, so when Alice rang this morning, I thought it was Catherine and answered accordingly.”

“Catherine, eh?” Gibbons shot his friend a sharp glance. “That's quick work, I must say. How long has it been since you and Marla broke it off?”

“Nearly a fortnight,” replied Bethancourt indignantly. “And I don't see how an innocent bit of flirting is cause for indictment on that account.”

“Your flirting is never innocent,” said Gibbons, dismissing this argument out of hand. “Has Marla rung you again?”

“Several times,” admitted Bethancourt.

“But you haven't spoken to her?”

“There is absolutely nothing to say,” replied Bethancourt.

“She doesn't seem to feel that way,” pointed out Gibbons.

And to this Bethancourt had no reply.

It was still raining in the morning. Bethancourt and Gibbons were up early, Gibbons quite chipper, having slept most of the way home from the airport; Bethancourt was far less so, as it had been left to him to spend two hours finding an unflooded route back to York. They sat at the breakfast table, Gibbons wolfing down eggs and toast, Bethancourt with only coffee, both with their attention fixed on Gibbons's laptop. Andy Rowett had been as good as his word, and the home-sale records from Appleton Roebuck and Nun Appleton had been in Gibbons's e-mail when he woke up.

“There's not much here,” said Gibbons, taking a mouthful of eggs while he ran his eyes down the list.

“We're probably not looking for anything too expensive,” said Bethancourt, adjusting his glasses. “Mrs. Haddam referred to it as a ‘bungalow,' and in general people's first houses aren't big ones.”

“Mmm,” said Gibbons.

They were both silent while they scanned the list.

“Look here,” said Gibbons suddenly, putting down his fork. “Wilfrid Jenks,” he read. “Wasn't that the name of Jody's friend whom Rhys-Jones mentioned and Rachel said wasn't in the area any longer?”

“I believe so,” said Bethancourt, finding the place on the screen. “Well, that's very satisfactory, isn't it?”

“He purchased a bungalow in Appleton Roebuck for two hundred forty-three thousand pounds on November twenty-fourth,” Gibbons read off the list. “As you thought, it's a small property—a two-bedroom bungalow it sounds like.” He looked up, his blue eyes bright. “Let's get on the road, shall we?”

The Land Rover had been returned the night before, so they took the Jaguar by default. Bethancourt, normally a rather erratic driver, was cautious and attentive on this occasion, particularly
once they had left the A road and were creeping along a series of country lanes. These were set amidst fallow fields and were frequently full of water, but he managed to maneuver the low-slung car through. In half an hour or so they had arrived and with a little trouble found the bungalow, a cozy-looking brick-built building standing apart from its neighbors in a small field. There was a light in the front window and a white Volkswagen Transporter van parked in the drive. Bethancourt pulled in behind it and they got out, following a flagged path up to the front door.

A thin man of about thirty answered their knock. He was a little stoop-shouldered, a rather average-looking man except for his eyes, which were large with long, thick lashes. He seemed more curious than alarmed by their visit and readily invited them in out of the rain. He did not, however, go so far as to usher them into the sitting room, whence the sound of a television came, so they remained standing in the little entrance hall.

“We've come about Jody Farraday,” began Gibbons.

“Oh, Jody,” said Jenks, smiling and revealing two deep dimples. “I've been wondering when she'd turn up again. Did she give me as a reference or something?”

“Not exactly, sir,” said Gibbons. “She was a friend of yours, then?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Jenks. “I've known her for years. We were at school together in York when we were kids.”

“Then I'm afraid I have some sad news for you, Mr. Jenks,” said Gibbons. “Miss Farraday was found murdered on Christmas day.”

Jenks's eyes narrowed, as if he suspected them of some monstrous practical joke, and then, when Gibbons's sympathetic expression did not waver, he drew in a sharp breath and passed a hand over his face.

“That's—that's dreadful,” he said in a low voice. “I—I had just seen her, for the first time in months.”

“It must come as a great shock,” said Bethancourt.

“Yes. Yes, it does.” Jenks took a deep breath and looked back at Gibbons. “What happened?” he asked. “Where was she?”

“In York,” answered Gibbons. “She was found at Mittlesdon's Bookshop, where I understand she was once employed.”

“Yes, she was there for a while,” said Jenks. “She only left a year or so ago. God, this is awful news, just awful.”

“We understood,” said Gibbons, “that she had planned to spend the holidays here with you.”

“That's right.” Jenks brushed impatiently at his eyes. “I'd invited her up from Cornwall, where she'd been staying. She arrived a couple of days before Christmas, but then she went off on Christmas Eve—I wasn't sure where.”

“Isn't that rather odd, when she was planning on being here with you for Christmas?” asked Gibbons.

Jenks shrugged. “Well, it is odd, but not for Jody,” he said. “She was terribly impulsive. One got used to it over the years. I was a bit disappointed, but I didn't think anything more about it.”

“So there was no argument between you?” asked Gibbons.

“God, no.” Jenks had been replying automatically, the larger part of his attention occupied with dealing with the blow he had just been dealt, but this suggestion seemed to rouse him. He looked at Gibbons, distressed. “I never thought . . .” He shook his head. “I can see it doesn't look very good,” he said, “but you must believe me—we were on the best of terms when we parted.”

Gibbons nodded neutrally.

“And she gave you no notion of where she might be going or with whom?” he asked.

“Not really,” answered Jenks. “But I definitely expected her back at some point—I mean, I didn't think she had given up the idea of moving back here or anything. She said something about a lead on a job, but she didn't give me any details. I rather thought,” he added, “that she had decided to go to Rachel's—another friend from school. She lives right in York, you see, and it would be more convenient for job hunting.”

Gibbons nodded. “But she gave you the impression she wouldn't be back the next day?”

“No; then I should have worried when she didn't turn up,” said Jenks. “And she took her bags, so I never thought she'd be gone less than a few days.”

“So you knew,” said Bethancourt, “that Miss Farraday was planning a permanent move back to York?”

“Yes, we talked about it.” Jenks sounded sad. “I thought it was a wonderful idea. I haven't been back in the area all that long myself, and I liked the idea that we were both coming back to our roots.”

“I see,” said Gibbons. “Were you the reason she was returning here, then?”

Jenks looked confused. “I'm sorry?” he asked.

“Was Miss Farraday moving to York in order to be with you?” clarified Gibbons.

Jenks seemed to find this idea distasteful; he drew back a little from them, frowning.

“You mean in a romantic sense?” he said. “Certainly not. Jody and I were never like that—we were just childhood friends, more like brother and sister than anything else. Frankly, I didn't fancy her in that way, and I'd be astonished if she'd harbored any sexual feelings towards me.”

His tone was very firm, almost as if they had indeed been siblings and Gibbons had accused him of incest.

“I understand, sir,” Gibbons said, interjecting a soothing note into his voice.

“We had heard,” said Bethancourt, “that although Miss Farraday had been talking of a return to York, she hadn't definitely decided on it until she heard you were here, you see.”

“But she knew I was here,” said Jenks. “I contacted her as soon as I came back—she was still at Mittlesdon's then.”

It was the detectives' turn to be confused. “Ah,” said Gibbons, “I think we've misunderstood. You only recently purchased this
house, but you've been living in the area for some time, is that right, sir?”

“Yes,” said Jenks. “I moved up here almost two years ago when I took a job in Leeds.”

His tone had gone flat again, his righteous indignation appeased.

Gibbons nodded. “To return to Miss Farraday's movements,” he said, “do you recollect what time she left here on Christmas Eve?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Jenks drew a deep breath and tried to concentrate. “Sometime after lunch. I had one or two things I wanted to pick up, so we drove in that afternoon. I let her off at Coppergate, she said she'd see me soon and we parted. . . .” He paused for a moment and when he spoke again, his voice was rough. “I didn't know it would be the last time I would ever see her,” he said.

“You spent the evening alone then?” asked Gibbons.

“That's right,” said Jenks. “I went to the midnight service at the Minster and then came back here.”

There seemed nothing more to learn from him and he had begun to have to fight to keep his composure, so Gibbons brought the interview to a close and they took their leave. As they left the bungalow and scurried back to the car through the rain, they heard the volume of the television inside turned up high.

“Making sure we can't hear him cry,” muttered Gibbons as he slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.

“Poor sod,” agreed Bethancourt. “Unless you think he killed her?”

Gibbons considered this question while Bethancourt reversed out of the drive and started back toward the A64.

“Might have done,” he conceded at last. “If he was lying about his feelings for Jody, that is. Do you think he was?”

Bethancourt frowned. “He seemed genuinely repulsed at the idea of their being a couple,” he said. “But perhaps he's a very
good actor. It does add up, you know. He invites her for the holidays, intending to propose to her, only she rejects him out of hand. She leaves for York, he follows her, words are exchanged, she tells him he's a disgusting toad, and he strangles her.”

“Very pretty,” said Gibbons. “But how did they end up in the bookshop?”

Bethancourt waved a hand. “Happenstance. They were arguing in the street and Jody didn't want to make a scene, so she said, ‘Here, let's get inside—I can let us into this place.' ”