A Spider on the Stairs (24 page)

“That hardly means you can't clear away some papers,” Evelyn retorted, moving to make the required start herself. “Really, Phillip, you may have become quite accustomed to this sort of thing, but you should remember most of us aren't so jaded.”

“I am not accustomed to it,” contradicted Bethancourt, who had set the coffee brewing and now went to help her. “This stuff gives me nightmares—or it would, if I'd had any sleep. No, just put it all in a pile and I'll take it upstairs to sort.”

He made good his escape as quickly as he could, piling case files and coffeepot on a large tray and carting the whole thing up to the bedroom. He darted back out for a moment to peek into Gibbons's room, but, as he'd suspected, his friend was not there. He fled back to his own bedroom with a sigh of relief, closing the door firmly behind him. Cerberus, who had not moved from his bed in the corner, opened an eye.

“And a great lot of help you were,” Bethancourt told the dog. “You might have warned me she was coming in.”

Cerberus closed his eye again, and settled his nose under his tail. Bethancourt looked at his bed longingly, but decided he had better get Gibbons's files and notes back in order before the detective returned and wanted them. Resigned, he poured himself some of the coffee and then sat down on the floor with the stack of case files.

It took quite some time to sort them all out, and he could only hope that the boys had not absconded with any of the photographs. He decided, upon consideration, to leave the pictures till last, judging them to be too much for his newly opened eyes. He sipped his coffee and selected a forensics report from the pile: at the top of the page was a lengthy file number. He placed it on the carpet to his right, and next picked up several sheets
stapled together. They bore a different number, so he set it to the left of the first page. And so on, and so forth, through the entire stack.

He did not read the reports, although he did not think Gibbons would have minded if he had. Still, a line here and there jumped out at him: “. . . body was arranged like a display . . .”; “upon arriving at the crime scene . . .”; “. . . chemical analysis of the stains found that . . .”; “The victim was identified as Veronica Matthews, of number 4 Privet Drive . . .”

Bethancourt frowned at that last one; the name struck a chord, but he could not remember where he'd heard it before. He skimmed over the sheet in his hand, discovering that Veronica Matthews had been Ashdon's first victim, her body found in the window of an antiques shop in Essex. So, very likely he had read about the murder in the papers. And yet, it seemed to him that he had heard it more recently than that.

“Jack probably mentioned it,” he muttered, laying the report aside and reaching for the next one.

By the time he had got it all sorted, he had finished the pot of coffee he had brought up with him and was beginning to feel hungry. He dressed and went cautiously downstairs, finding to his relief that Evelyn had apparently taken the children out somewhere. He let Cerberus out into the rain in the back garden and found Gibbons just coming home, looking pale and tired.

“You're up,” said Gibbons, surprised, as he bent to greet Cerberus and then hurried to join his friend in the shelter of the porch. “I thought you'd still be asleep or I would have rung.”

“By all rights I should be asleep,” said Bethancourt. “But we were invaded this morning by my aunt Evelyn, come to take the children back to school. Are you just coming back from Upper Poppleton?”

Gibbons shook his head. “We've been at the incident room for the last couple of hours, going over everything with London.”

“Do they still think it's Ashdon?” asked Bethancourt.

“No one knows.” Gibbons spread his hands. “It seems as if it must be, but it's so very unusual a development that nobody knows what to make of it. Brumby and his entire team are completely flummoxed.”

“And what about the Mittlesdon case?” asked Bethancourt. “Do you think there's any connection?”

“Not likely, is it?” said Gibbons, staring out at the rain. “And yet . . .” He looked back at Bethancourt with a shrug. “Nobody else thinks so.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Bethancourt said slowly, “Still, it's a bit odd, you know, that they should both be connected to Mittlesdon's.”

“I know.” Gibbons sighed. “I keep thinking the same thing. But I'm damned if I can see
how
they're connected.”

“I can't either,” admitted Bethancourt.

“Well, it's on the back burner now, in any case,” Gibbons said. “I've apparently been elected liaison between Brumby and MacDonald, and I've got to get back to it. I only came by to pick up my notes and computer. And,” he added, “a change of clothes.”

Bethancourt looked at him with some concern. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked. “You've only just come off the sick list, you know.”

Gibbons brushed this aside. “I'll manage,” he said. “A wash'll put me right.”

“I'll put on some coffee whilst you change,” said Bethancourt. “And I'm just about to make some breakfast—do you have time to eat?”

“It would be heaven,” said Gibbons appreciatively.

Bethancourt whistled for Cerberus, and they turned to go inside, where Bethancourt got to work in the kitchen while Gibbons repaired upstairs. Bethancourt was not usually much of a breakfast eater, but little sleep and early rising had made him hungry and he thought Gibbons could probably do with a large meal. He was a good cook, and busied himself quietly, and when Gibbons
came down he found a traditional English breakfast spread upon the kitchen table.

They were mostly silent as they ate, Gibbons because he was wolfing down his meal at a great rate, with one eye on the clock, and Bethancourt because he did not want to distract him.

“Thanks,” said Gibbons at last, drinking off the last of his coffee and rising from the table. “That was marvelous. I'll ring you whenever I get a free moment and let you know how it's going.”

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

And Gibbons ran back out into the rain.

Left to himself, Bethancourt could not help but poke at the idea that Jody's murder and Sanderson's were connected. As he cleared away the breakfast dishes, he mulled over both cases, trying to determine if there was anything other than Mittlesdon's Bookshop to connect them. Not, he decided, if Sanderson's death was the work of Ashdon; in that case, Jody's murder stood out as an anomaly. But if Sanderson's was a more prosaic murder, perhaps there might be some tie between the two cases. It was then that he remembered that it was Sanderson's nephew, Tony Grandidge, who had introduced Jody to Mittlesdon's in the first place. It did not seem to be much of a connection, but it was worth looking into, he thought. So, when he had finished with the dishes, he rang the bookshop and asked for Alice.

“Did Tony Grandidge come in to work this morning?” he asked her.

“His uncle was killed last night,” said Alice, sounding shocked. “Murdered.”

“Yes, I know,” said Bethancourt patiently. “It's why I was asking if he had come in.”

“Oh!” said Alice. “Of course you would know, wouldn't you? I'm sorry—we're all feeling a little stunned here this morning. Yes, Tony came in. He said he'd rather keep his mind occupied.”

“Perfectly natural,” said Bethancourt. “I think I'll drop round—I have a quick question for him.”

“Well, then, I'll see you when you get here,” said Alice. She sounded as though she was anticipating a long discussion of this latest event.

“Er, yes,” said Bethancourt. “Till then.”

He rang off, shaking his head over Alice, and went to pull on a pair of Wellies and a coat before calling to his dog and leaving for the bookshop.

Bethancourt found Tony Grandidge working in the stock room amid stacks of boxes and carts half full of books. It seemed, at first glance, utterly chaotic, but as Bethancourt took it all in, he realized there was an order to it after all. Smaller and odd-size boxes, representing the special orders and rare books, were stacked by the door, ready to be taken up to the office, and were separated by addressee, while the larger boxes were divided between the used stock and the new.

Grandidge was sorting the books out of the boxes and onto carts, but he paused and looked up as Bethancourt came in, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Hullo,” said Bethancourt. “They said I could come back and talk to you.”

“I remember you now,” said Grandidge, straightening and pushing a dark lock of hair out of his eyes. “You were in with that police detective. I'm sorry—I've forgotten your name.”

“Phillip Bethancourt,” said Bethancourt. “I heard about your uncle—I'm very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” replied Grandidge automatically. He looked more baffled than grief-stricken, however, as he held a hand out to Cerberus. “It's been quite a shock. I don't know quite what to think about it. I mean, you don't expect people you know to get murdered, do you? First Jody, and now my uncle . . .” He shook his head.

“It helps sometimes to keep your mind occupied with mundane
things,” suggested Bethancourt, gesturing to the boxes stacked all around them.

“That's what I thought,” said Grandidge. “And it's not as if they don't desperately need me—it's amazing how quickly things back up. All this,” he waved around, “should have been out in the shop days ago, not to mention all those special orders. I mean, I know old Mittlesdon and Gareth would have taken on the receiving and sorting, but to tell you the truth, I'd really rather do it myself.”

“Because you'd have to clear up after them when you did come back?” asked Bethancourt, his lips quirking in amusement.

“Too right,” agreed Grandidge. He returned his attention to Bethancourt. “But you haven't come to have me tell you how to run a bookshop.”

“No,” said Bethancourt. “I came to ask about your uncle and Jody. Did they know each other?”

“They'd met,” replied Grandidge. “I mean, they didn't know each other particularly well or anything, but Uncle Brian met her when she and I were going round together, and then of course they often saw each other here, in the shop.” He paused, then added, “Jody loved to talk about books, and so did my uncle. They got on rather well, really.”

Bethancourt nodded, absorbing the information.

“Why do you ask?” said Grandidge. “Do you think there's some connection between them?”

“I don't know,” said Bethancourt honestly. “It doesn't look like it on the face of it, and yet, on the other hand . . .”

“It's quite a coincidence,” finished Grandidge. “Here,” he asked, almost desperately, “is there anything you can tell me? The police are being very closemouthed, and my aunt Amy is laid out. All we know is she came home last night and found him dead. And apparently there was no robbery or anything.”

“So far as I know,” said Bethancourt, “the police haven't yet settled on a theory. I'm afraid it's often like that, despite what one sees on the telly. But I think they believe it was a premeditated
murder, which means they'll want to know about anyone who had it in for Mr. Sanderson.”

Grandidge shrugged. “Then they'll have plenty to choose from,” he said. “Uncle Brian was good at offending people. Although, if you're looking for someone who wanted Jody dead as well, then you're in for a struggle. As I told you before, I can't think of anyone who would have wanted to harm her.”

“Which makes a connection even less likely,” said Bethancourt. He hesitated. “Look here, I don't mean to be offensive or anything, but is there any possibility at all that your uncle and Jody, er, well, knew each other rather better than you were aware of?”

At first Grandidge looked merely blank, but then realization dawned and he laughed. “No offense taken,” he said, “but no. Jody wasn't my uncle's type—he liked petite women. Her taste was more eclectic, but I never saw any evidence she fancied him.”

“Oh, well,” said Bethancourt, “it was only an idea.”

And apparently not a very good one,
he thought as he bade good-bye to Grandidge and wandered back out into the shop proper. He wondered if he was engaging in mental gymnastics, trying to connect the two cases merely because he really had no role to play in the investigation of Ashdon's crimes.

“Hello.” Mittlesdon blinked up at him through his spectacles. “Mr. Bethancourt, isn't it?”

“Yes,” admitted Bethancourt. “How are you, sir?”

“Very well, thank you,” replied Mittlesdon automatically. “It's a great relief to have the shop open again.”

“I imagine it is,” said Bethancourt. “And business seems quite brisk.”

“Well, people have been waiting for their orders, you see,” said Mittlesdon. He hesitated. “Have there been any developments?” he asked. “I mean, in the, er, the—”

“The case,” Bethancourt finished for him. “Yes, I think you could say there have been, but I'm afraid I can't discuss any of it. Police business and all that.”

“Of course, of course,” agreed Mittlesdon, but he asked anyway, “Do you think there's any chance of its being cleared up anytime soon?”

He looked so anxious that Bethancourt longed to be able to tell him they were on the verge of an arrest.

“I don't know,” he said. “These things are hard to estimate. There's no doubt the police are a lot forwarder, but that doesn't mean they're ready to wrap the case up yet.”

“I suppose these things take time,” said Mittlesdon despondently.

“A bit,” said Bethancourt. “But not forever. And there has been progress. You'll be able to put it behind you soon enough.”

“Well, thank you for all you've done,” said Mittlesdon vaguely, since he had no idea what exactly Bethancourt did do.