A Spider on the Stairs (23 page)

“Do you know these Heywoods well?” asked Brumby.

“I've known them a long time,” said Bethancourt. “They're friends of the family, and I saw them regularly while I was at school here, but I haven't kept up since I left the area. But they're very sociable people—they tend to hold open house during the holidays.”

Brumby glanced at MacDonald, who nodded and said, “Donald and Mary Heywood are leading citizens hereabouts, well known for their philanthropy and for their parties. A cocktail party of theirs would be an event Sanderson would have aspired to. I hear,” and he raised an inquiring eyebrow in Bethancourt's direction, “that if you're generous in your donations to certain causes, it's not too hard to come by an invitation to the Heywoods', though it's far more difficult to breach the inner circle. But Sanderson likely wouldn't have known the difference.”

“It's true enough,” agreed Bethancourt.

Brumby was nodding as he absorbed this information. “And what did you make of Mr. Sanderson?” he asked.

Bethancourt thought for a moment before replying. “I took him for a self-made man,” he answered, “and one who thought quite a lot of himself. He was commenting,” he added, “on the Ashdon case when we were introduced, in fact.”

“And?” asked Brumby.

Bethancourt smiled. “He was of the opinion that if only the media would stop covering such things, then the killer would give up murdering people.”

“God, if only it were that easy,” muttered Howard.

“Indeed,” said Brumby. “Very well, Mr. Bethancourt, you've been very helpful. If you think of anything else, do let Sergeant Gibbons know.”

“Certainly,” said Bethancourt, recognizing a dismissal when he heard one and retreating toward the doorway. This time, however, he stopped in the hallway, hoping to catch Gibbons's eye. In a moment he succeeded, and his friend came out to him.

“What's up?” he asked. “Have you thought of something else?”

“No,” answered Bethancourt, a trifle impatiently. “I just wanted to ask if you can get a ride home from somebody.”

Gibbons was surprised. “You're leaving?” he asked.

Bethancourt gestured. “There's really nothing for me to do here,” he said. “I don't know anything about serial killers, and I'm hardly likely to be helpful at a crime scene. And it'll be hours yet before you've got more information to share.”

“True,” said Gibbons, who had not thought of it in that light. “Yes, I expect anyone here will give me a lift back. You go ahead, and I'll let you know if anything exciting comes up.”

“Thanks,” said Bethancourt. “I'll see you later then.”

Before Gibbons could turn back to the crime scene, he saw Brumby's forensics team arriving, led by Dave Mason carrying a formidable case, and went to meet them while Bethancourt made his escape.

“Sergeant Gibbons,” said Mason, nodding a greeting. “Are we back there, then?”

“That's right,” said Gibbons, gesturing. “Jim, you might want to talk to that gentleman napping there in the hall—he's the local electronics genius, and he's the one first spotted Ashdon's signature here.”

“Good, good,” said Jim, glancing back over his shoulder. “What's his name?”

“Biddulph,” answered Gibbons. “Here, come along and I'll introduce you.”

Gibbons was thoughtful as he returned to the crime scene, and he looked at the room with fresh eyes. It had never occurred to him before to think what an outsider would make of the slow progress of police procedure at a scene. To him, the room was burgeoning with hidden information that had to be carefully collected, and he knew as well as any trained detective that a foot put wrong at the crime scene could result in an unsolved or at least untriable case. But there was, he had now to admit, a certain tedium that accompanied all the details that had to be attended to.

Brumby, Howard, and MacDonald were still discussing the case, now having moved on to a scenario in which Ashdon had
not
committed this murder, and MacDonald was expounding on the wide range of suspects they would then have.

Gibbons moved up and asked, “Do you think there might be anything to the Mittlesdon connection in that case?”

MacDonald shrugged. “Doesn't seem likely, not at least from the point of view of motive. Sanderson made a lot of enemies on his way up, and he was known to be a rather abrasive sort. So far as I know, his only connection with Mittlesdon's was that he bought books there—hardly a motive for murdering the poor sod.”

“And his nephew works there,” said Gibbons.

MacDonald raised a brow. “Does he now?”

“Obviously,” said Brumby, “our first step must be to either rule in or out the Ashdon angle. But if we conclude this
is
Ashdon's work, then, well, we'll have to look at people in Sanderson's life who fit our serial killer's profile.”

He looked almost hopefully at MacDonald, as if this suggestion might prod the Yorkshireman into a sudden remembrance of a homicidal associate of Sanderson's. But MacDonald merely nodded thoughtfully.

“What's the setup here, by the way?” asked Howard. “I mean, who lives here besides the victim, who found him, all that kind of thing.”

Automatically, MacDonald recited, “Sanderson lived here with his wife, Amy. Youngest daughter is currently in residence, though mostly she's away at university. There was a large party here for the holidays, but the last of them left for home yesterday. Tonight's the servants' night out, and Mrs. Sanderson and her daughter went out to a show in town. Because of the rain, they were planning to spend the night at the Sandersons' flat in York, but when Mrs. Sanderson couldn't get her husband on the phone, she became concerned and drove home after all. She's been sedated,” he added. “She was quite overcome.”

“It would be a disturbing sight for anyone,” agreed Brumby, though Gibbons noted that Brumby himself did not appear to find it disturbing in the least. Nor, to be honest, had Gibbons, and he wondered at his own reaction. That made him think of Bethancourt again, and he was curious as to what his friend's feelings about it had been.

But his thoughts were interrupted by one of the forensics team, who rather pointedly began vacuuming for trace evidence on the carpet near their feet.

“Sorry, Syms,” said Brumby. “Are we in your way?”

“It would be helpful if you could move into the hallway, sir,” said Syms respectfully but firmly.

Brumby smiled at MacDonald. “Run off from my own crime scene,” he said. “Let's adjourn, shall we?”

“Right,” said MacDonald, pushing away from the chair back he had been leaning on. “If you're all finished here, I'll just give my lads the word they can take themselves off.”

“Of course,” said Brumby, leading the way out. “And naturally all our findings will be available to your people.”

MacDonald bustled off back to the front of the house and his waiting team, while Brumby and Howard stopped just outside the door, ready to be called in if anything interesting turned up. But as the hours passed, not much that was worthy of note appeared. And Ashdon was notorious for leaving a very clean crime scene.

Bethancourt had indeed found the crime scene disturbing. Quite apart from the dead man himself, the whole room bore the stink of an unclean mind, and he had found the contact disquieting. He felt he had been somehow contaminated by the exposure, which was evidenced by the fact that, though it was close on 5:00
A.M
. when he returned home and he was undeniably tired, he still felt it necessary to shower before seeking his bed. He was weary enough that, once there, he fell asleep almost instantly, but his dreams were restless and permeated with a vaguely threatening atmosphere.

All things being considered, it was not so very surprising that when his aunt stormed into his bedroom at eight the next morning, he was not only considerably startled, but also disoriented.

“I can't imagine what's wrong with you,” she said.

Bethancourt started awake, heart pounding, and half sat up. He peered myopically at the figure marching into his room.

“Aunt Evelyn?”

“This is really unconscionable, Phillip,” she continued, brandishing a sheet of paper in her fist. “How could you leave this kind of thing out for the children to find?”

Bethancourt was looking blearily about, trying to ascertain his place in the space-time continuum. “Aunt Evelyn?” he said again. “What are you doing here?”

This seemed to enrage her further. “You had better get yourself out of bed this instant,” she said, “and get yourself downstairs to clean your mess up, young man.”

“Yes, all right,” said Bethancourt, hoping that agreement would make her go away.

“I never heard of such a thing,” she fumed. “Leaving that kind of graphic display out where anybody could find it, much less impressionable children. I want it out of the kitchen at once.”

And she stuck out the paper she held.

Bethancourt reached an arm out from under the covers and took it, squinting at it uncertainly. Without his glasses, he could not make out much, and all that he could think of was that he had certainly not been looking at pornography in the kitchen.

“I'll be right down,” he said.

She did not seem in the least appeased, but the sight of his naked arm had brought her to the realization that her nephew had no clothes on and thus was hardly likely to get out of bed while she was in the room.

“I'll be waiting,” she said, and abruptly turned and left.

Bethancourt sank back into the pillows, trying to force his brain into action and make sense of it all. A phone conversation with his father came back to him, and he cursed loudly. He had completely forgotten that his aunt was due in to take her daughter and friend back to school.

That just left the question of what all the fuss was about. He groped for his glasses on the nightstand, then refocused his eyes on the photograph he held. He was prepared, as unlikely as it seemed, to be faced with a graphic image of a naked woman, but
what met his gaze was infinitely worse. It was the graphic photograph of a dead woman.

“Christ,” he swore, flinging out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown. “The case files!”

He shoved his feet into slippers and went dashing downstairs, still tying up his belt as he went.

“So sorry, Aunt Evelyn,” he said, making a beeline for the kitchen. “There was another murder last night, and Jack and I ran out without a thought. I'm afraid I didn't even remember it was today you were coming.”

His aunt had never been one for excuses, though the apology seemed to count for something.

“Surely,” she said, following him, “these files are confidential in any case. You shouldn't be leaving them about where anyone can find them.”

“I didn't,” replied Bethancourt shortly. “I left them in a locked private house.”

“Where there were children,” said his aunt indignantly.

“There weren't any when I went to bed,” muttered Bethancourt, swinging off the last stair and moving rapidly down the passage to the kitchen door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two heads peering out from the dining-room door and he stopped abruptly, startled, which caused his aunt to barrel into him.

“Phillip!” she protested.

“That's not Bernadette and her friend,” he said, staring blankly at the now empty dining-room doorway.

Evelyn glanced back over her shoulder and frowned. “It must be the boys,” she said. “I told them to go upstairs.”

She took a step toward the dining room, but stopped as Bethancourt, now thoroughly bewildered, asked, “Boys? What boys? I thought you were bringing Bernadette and her little friend back for school.”

“And Jeremy and Arthur,” said Evelyn, and, when Bethancourt
looked blank, she added impatiently, “Humphrey's youngest sister, Denise's, children. You've met them.”

“Oh, right,” said Bethancourt, who dimly remembered a Christmas visit some years ago and two very small tow-headed boys. “They're that old already?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes at him and proceeded down the hall, calling sharply, “Jeremy! Arthur! Have you been back in the kitchen again?”

Bethancourt, momentarily reprieved, continued on to the kitchen, and swore when he opened the door and beheld the broad oak table.

Gibbons had, as he recollected, left a good half of it covered with notes and reports from the various case files, but there had been a kind of order to it, which he was certain they had not disturbed in the course of their hurried departure the night before.

It had been disturbed now. The reports had been tossed aside in the search to uncover the photographs of the bodies. There were, of course, other photographs as well, but it was naturally the ones of the corpses that intrigued the boys, and they had made a thorough mess of things to get to them.

“Dear God,” said Bethancourt, stooping to pick up an errant lab report that had landed on the floor. “And all before coffee,” he added, detouring to collect a sprawl of papers that had slid off one of the chairs.

He carried them over to add to the mess on the table, surveying the damage there and realizing with a sinking heart that all the files had been mixed together like shuffled playing cards. He was going to have to go through every sheet and determine which case it belonged to. He stared at it all for a long moment and then said firmly, “Not without a coffee first.”

He was adding coffee to the pot and waiting for the kettle to boil when Evelyn came in through the butler's pantry, saying with
a decided air, “That's the boys sorted—good Lord, Phillip, you haven't made a start at all.”

Bethancourt regarded her with a baleful eye. “I was at a crime scene until five o'clock this morning,” he said.