A Spider on the Stairs (33 page)

“With what?” demanded Bethancourt impatiently, recognizing a breakthrough of some kind. “What are you thinking, Jack?”

Gibbons turned back to him, a faint smile on his lips. “I was going to say, someone with either a van or an isolated house, or both.”

He expected Bethancourt to demand the answer, but the words had barely left his mouth when his friend's eyes lit up and he said at once, “Jenks. Wilfrid Jenks. That's who you're thinking of, isn't it?”

“It's positively annoying, how quick you are sometimes,” said Gibbons. “Yes, that's who I'm thinking of. He was the only one who knew Jody was in town, so he was the only one who might have known where she went that night, might even have known if she ran into Sanderson.”

“What does he do for work?” asked Bethancourt. “Could he have done the other murders?”

Gibbons shook his head, frustrated. “I don't remember,” he said. “I'm not sure I ever knew—something in Leeds, I think.”

“Right,” said Bethancourt. “He mentioned that when we spoke.”

There was a clattering of footsteps on the stairs above them. Bethancourt rose hastily, and Gibbons shifted the box back into his arms as Grandidge pelted into view, drawing up abruptly when he saw them.

“What're you still doing here?” he asked.

“Hoping the rain will let up,” said Bethancourt, gesturing toward the door.

Grandidge snorted and came the rest of the way down to join them.

“Fat chance,” he opined, peering out at the deluge.

“And where are you off to on such an inclement night?” asked Gibbons.

Grandidge grinned sheepishly. “I'm off to make a clean breast of everything to Mummy and Daddy,” he said. “Best to get it over with, I think. I'm hoping I can make points on being led astray by Uncle Brian.”

“Good luck to it,” said Bethancourt, who sympathized with the plight of having to explain difficult things to one's parents.

“Thanks,” returned Grandidge. “I'm going to need it. You might as well brave the elements with me—I don't think it's going to let up.”

Bethancourt sighed. “It never does,” he said, and opened the door.

Brumby and MacDonald were enjoying a late and well-deserved supper. The evening now being too advanced to go knocking up witnesses, they had sent their interviewers home to get some rest, left their researchers intent at their computers, and had slipped out for some food.

The two men did not have much in common beyond their jobs, but respectful admiration of each other's professional abilities gave them a reason to make an effort to find some small talk—something that neither man was particularly good at. MacDonald, being the more voluble of the two, had already introduced several topics, only to find that Brumby knew little about sports, or the merits of various beers, or the onerous aspects of home-ownership, so they had fallen back on the beauty of the Yorkshire countryside and the current miserable weather. Both of them, however, remained determined to avoid shop talk during this brief recess.

Until, of course, they should be called back to it. MacDonald was in the middle of consuming “the best fish and chips in York”
with great gusto, while Brumby was eating his portion with neat efficiency when his phone rang.

“There we go,” said MacDonald, checking his watch. “Well, we got a whole forty-five minutes away from it—not bad, considering.”

Brumby smiled, acknowledging the truth of this, while he examined his mobile.

“Gibbons,” he announced, answering it.

MacDonald returned his attention to his meal, but pricked up his ears when he heard Brumby say, “Hold on a minute, Sergeant.
What
did you say?”

MacDonald looked up and found Brumby's eyes fastened on him in an effort to communicate silently. That something was up was clear, and MacDonald found himself somehow unsurprised that it was the young sergeant who had produced whatever information was currently giving color to his colleague's pale cheeks.

“I see,” said Brumby. “I think you and your friend had better join the superintendent and me over here, Sergeant.”

His brows raised in question and MacDonald nodded eagerly.

“We're at a fish-and-chips place near the station,” said Brumby. “It's—hell, I don't know where it is. Here, MacDonald, you talk to the lad.”

The directions were sorted out quickly and MacDonald rang off and handed Brumby back his phone.

“Gibbons has come up with new information,” Brumby told him. “It throws a whole new light on both crimes, I'll give him that, though I'm not sure if he's really found Ashdon or not.”

His tone was cautious and yet there was an underlying thread of hope.

“He thinks he's found Ashdon?” asked MacDonald, a little startled.

“No proof,” said Brumby quickly, “just a theory. That's why I asked him to come over. No reason for us not to finish our meal if this is just a flight of fancy on the sergeant's part.”

MacDonald nodded. “Do you think it is?” he asked.

Brumby hesitated for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, I don't think it is. Tell me, did you ever suspect Sanderson of dealing drugs?”

MacDonald, on the verge of biting into a chip, froze. “Can't say that I did,” he answered skeptically. He took the bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then shook his head. “No,” he said, “I still don't. It doesn't fit.”

“Gibbons says he has evidence,” said Brumby neutrally, and MacDonald's eyebrows went up.

“Does he now?” he said. “I'll be most interested to see it. But how do drugs tie in to the Ashdon case?”

“They don't, not directly,” answered Brumby. “Gibbons apparently thinks Sanderson killed Jody Farraday because she found out about his drug dealing.”

“Ah,” said MacDonald. “Now that I can believe—Sanderson was an egomaniac, and they'll do anything to protect themselves. But that still doesn't explain how Ashdon fits in.”

“It does if he was a friend of Miss Farraday's,” replied Brumby, frowning thoughtfully.

“Ah!” said MacDonald.

They ate silently for a few minutes, both contemplating the possibilities, until the door of the tiny establishment opened to admit two very wet young men.

They did not seem to mind their waterlogged state, striding rapidly across to the older men's table with eager faces, leaving a trail of puddles behind them.

“Hello, sir,” said Gibbons, allowing the greeting to encompass both officers and unintentionally splattering them as he came up.

Brumby looked at his dripping subordinate.

“Perhaps, Sergeant,” he suggested gently, “you might want to divest yourself of your rain gear before you sit down.”

“Oh, are we sitting down?” said Gibbons. “Thanks, sir.”

“Give me your gear and I'll put it away,” offered Bethancourt, who was vainly trying to wipe his glasses dry.

There was a few minutes of bustling about while Gibbons and Bethancourt got themselves sorted, but as soon as they had settled into the two spare chairs at the table, MacDonald demanded, “What's this I hear about Sanderson being a drug dealer?”

“Not the kind of drugs you're thinking of,” said Gibbons.

“Good Lord, what other kind are there?”

“Ladies' diet supplements, including human growth hormone,” replied Gibbons.

Both superintendents' eyebrows shot up toward their hairlines.

“I've just finished putting it into evidence,” continued Gibbons. “It'll have to be tested to confirm what Grandidge told us, but I have no doubt it's true.”

“Diet supplements?” said MacDonald, starting to laugh. “Well, I can easily see how he'd kill to keep that a secret.”

“But how did you come to suspect such a thing?” asked Brumby, eager to have the story start at the beginning. “I've seen no hint so far in Sanderson's history of anything like this.”

Gibbons looked at Bethancourt, who said, “It was my aunt. She's been on the diet and has been getting her supplies from Tony Grandidge.”

“Ah, yes, the nephew,” said MacDonald.

“And you've spoken with him?” asked Brumby, sticking to the point.

“Yes, sir.” Gibbons went through the night's events, giving an orderly report of their discoveries and conclusions.

“It's all just theory right now,” he ended up. “I don't even know where Sanderson was on Christmas Eve when Jody was killed—he may turn out to have been in full view of his loving family the whole time.”

“But it's sound reasoning nonetheless,” said MacDonald. “I'll
put forensics onto looking through the trace evidence from the Farraday crime scene for anything connected to Sanderson.”

“Yes, it's a clever solution,” said Brumby impatiently. “But who's this Jenks person you mentioned on the phone?”

“A friend of Jody Farraday's,” replied Gibbons. “She was actually staying with him over the holiday. He lives in an isolated bungalow in Appleton Roebuck and drives a white panel van.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Wait a minute,” said MacDonald. “Are you trying to tell me that the bloody serial killer has
friends?
”

“That's not unknown,” murmured Brumby, never taking his eyes from Gibbons. “Were they more than friends?”

Gibbon shook his head. “No, I don't believe so.”

“Even so,” said Brumby, “it's a powerful motive for murder. And it does tie the Mittlesdon and Sanderson cases in with Ashdon's crimes.”

“It takes a bunch of disparate facts and makes sense of them,” admitted MacDonald. “It's just—I truly never thought of Ashdon having a Christmas party. Are you sure he didn't mean to murder Jody, too?”

“I don't think so,” said Gibbons. “I mean, he'd known her for years—they were childhood friends.”

“In that case, no,” said Brumby, his lips twitching in a half smile. “It's not likely he was planning to make her one of his victims. But let's get all our facts straight before we go any farther—at this point, Ashdon's identity is still just a theory. Andy can work on digging out Jenks' records tonight, and by morning we may have a notion as to whether this man even had the opportunity or not. Then we can go from there.”

“If he checks out, you'll want a search warrant then?” asked MacDonald.

“Eventually,” said Brumby. “Hopefully, we'll turn up something that will give us cause.”

He had entirely abandoned the food left on his plate and his
eyes had an abstracted look as he mentally cataloged the possible ways to come at this suspect. “I think I'd like to meet Wilfrid Jenks,” he said. “Where's this place of his again?”

“Appleton Roebuck,” answered Gibbons.

“And you'll not be getting there tonight,” said MacDonald. “I doubt there's a country lane in all the district that's passable by now. We'll have to hope the rain stops before morning, then we might have a chance.”

Brumby nodded reluctantly.

“Meanwhile,” said MacDonald, taking his last bite of fish, “I think I'd better start looking into this bit of contraband that's been making the rounds right under my nose.” He shook his head. “Illicit diet drugs,” he muttered. “What will they think of next?”

Andy Rowett did not seem much bothered by the crowd gathered around his computer terminal as Gibbons, standing over Rowett's left shoulder, read off Wilfrid Jenks's name and address. Rowett's stubby fingers moved rapidly over the computer keys, and in a moment the home-sale record for the bungalow in Appleton Roebuck appeared on the screen.

“Here we are,” said Rowett, adjusting his glasses. “He banks at Barclays and is employed by Revetment Limited in Leeds.”

“And what's Revetment Limited when it's at home?” asked Brumby.

“Good question,” said Rowett, but his fingers were already dancing over the keyboard again. A page of dense prose came up and everyone unconsciously leaned forward to decipher it.

“They install alarm systems and security gates for small businesses,” announced Rowett, a note of triumph in his voice.

“Ah.” Brumby breathed. “Do they indeed?” He grinned at Howard, who grinned back, elated.

In fact, with those few words, the tension in the room eased and was replaced by an air of excitement.

“Looks like they started as a local company,” continued Rowett, scrolling down the page before anyone else was ready. “They've grown slowly into a national concern, but they've got a very small footprint outside of the north.”

“Nothing in the home counties?” Brumby squinted at the monitor.

“Hmm, hmm,” said Rowett, abruptly switching to a different screen and typing in the name of the company. “A lot of business in Lincolnshire,” he murmured to himself as the page on the screen shifted rapidly at his command. “Ah, yes, here we go—Revetment has been trying to expand its business to the south. Over the last four years—let's see here—they've acquired clients in Buckinghamshire, Essex, Surrey; all the counties around London. Oddly, they haven't done so well in the Midlands. I wonder why . . .”

Brumby breathed again.

“Jenks looks like your chappie, right enough,” said MacDonald. “So what's next?”

“We have to be sure of our ground,” said Brumby. “Before I go after Jenks, I want a talk with Revetment. We have to find out if and where Jenks has been traveling for them, and exactly what his job is.”

“Getting to Leeds tomorrow could be dicey,” said MacDonald doubtfully.

“A phone call first would be in order,” replied Brumby. “If Jenks is in the office tomorrow, we don't want to spook him. Andy here will ferret out a number to reach someone in authority.”

Rowett, his gaze still fastened on the screen, nodded automatically.