A Spider on the Stairs (37 page)

“But the boys aren't going to lunch with you today,” said Bethancourt.

And Alice colored slightly as she replied, “Well, no. George rang quite unexpectedly yesterday afternoon to ask me to lunch.”

Bethancourt beamed at her. “And you said yes,” he said. “I take it you were impressed with him on the boys' outing the other day?”

“Well, yes, rather,” Alice admitted with a laugh. “I never dreamed he would ask me out, though. And then I found out from my son that he'd seen quite a bit of George and liked him—he'd never mentioned that before.”

“So he's a good father, too,” said Bethancourt.

Alice nodded and then cocked her head. “Haven't you ever thought of having children yourself?” she asked.

“I've thought of it,” said Bethancourt. Then he grinned unrepentantly. “I don't think I'm enough of a grown-up yet,” he said.

Alice laughed. “Well,” she said, “we all grow up at different rates. One never understands that when one's a child, but it's clear as day once you're a parent.”

And Bethancourt, thinking this over, saw how true it was and suddenly began to understand what she had been speaking about the day before. But looking at her now, he rather doubted she wanted to have that conversation anymore.

“I'm glad you came by before you left,” she continued, growing serious. “I know you're not to talk about the case, but I was hoping you might give me some kind of information. Because, what with Brian Sanderson's murder and the Ashdon case, Jody seems to have got lost. And, well, we're still walking on eggshells over at the bookshop.”

Bethancourt considered this. “It's rather awkward just now,” he confessed. “As you've so cleverly intuited, I'm heading home because the cases are all but solved. On the other hand, the police are at a very delicate moment, and if I were to let the cat out of the bag . . .”

“Of course, I understand,” said Alice. “But surely it couldn't hurt to just tell
me.
I do promise not to say anything until you give me permission, or it becomes public knowledge.”

Bethancourt knew perfectly well that he should say nothing, but he had never held himself to the standards required of Her Majesty's officers of the law. And he really didn't feel it was fair to leave Alice in the dark.

“All right,” he said abruptly. “I'll tell you what I know—in general outline. But it must go no farther until after Superintendent Brumby has made an arrest in the Ashdon murders. If anyone else gets wind of it before then, it could jeopardize his case and result in a serial killer going on about his business.”

Alice nodded, frowning a little in puzzlement over the connection between Jody Farraday and the Ashdon killer. But she seemed to take his point.

“I would hate to be responsible for anything like that,” she said.

“Well, then,” said Bethancourt, “where to start?”

The question was addressed to himself, but Alice answered it.

“Start with Jody, if you can,” she said.

“All right,” said Bethancourt. “It's as good a place as any. Did you know that Jody had rather a habit of picking up bits and pieces of other people's secrets?”

Alice looked appalled, and opened her mouth to reply, but then a thought struck her and she said thoughtfully, “I'm not certain I know what you mean by that. Jody was very discreet, but, well, I did sometimes get the feeling that she knew more than she let on about some things.”

“That's it,” said Bethancourt. “Well, through her involvement
with Tony Grandidge, Jody became aware of a secret he knew about his uncle. She had,” he added, “no intention of using the information or telling anyone else about it—it was just something she happened to know.”

“Yes,” said Alice. “That sounds like the Jody I remember. I take it I'm not to know what the secret was?”

Bethancourt smiled apologetically. “I'm afraid not,” he said. “Suffice it to say that it was something which, if revealed, might have harmed Sanderson's standing in the community.”

Alice's mouth made a little O, and then a horrified look came into her eyes.

“You don't mean . . .” she said.

“It's not proven,” answered Bethancourt. “It may never be, although Jack assures me forensics will do their best. But, yes, we think that Sanderson killed her. Tony confirmed that his uncle was aware that Jody knew his secret, but he only found it out just before she left York. As best we can piece things together, Sanderson must have encountered Jody on her return. We don't know what she might have said to provoke him, but the idea that she was back in York and in possession of his secret was untenable to him.”

“But if Sanderson was the murderer,” said Alice, bewildered, “then who killed him? We've all been thinking it was the same person.”

“We believe it was Ashdon,” replied Bethancourt. “And there is some evidence for that. If Superintendent Brumby is right, Ashdon was actually a friend of Jody's—not that she knew anything about his, er, recreational activities. He would have killed Sanderson in revenge.”

“Well,” said Alice, sitting back to think it through, “at least that makes some kind of sense.”

“A lot of it is supposition, however,” Bethancourt warned her. “The police haven't yet picked up this friend of Jody's, and it may be that when they do, they'll find they were mistaken. You can see
how crucial it is that nothing should come out about this until the police have completed their investigation.”

“Yes, of course,” said Alice. “I do assure you I won't breathe a word.”

“I trust you, Alice,” said Bethancourt, hoping that he did. “And I did want to thank you for all the help you've been in this case. Really, I don't think we'd have figured it out without you.”

“Oh, I didn't do much,” said Alice. “Just passed along gossip, really. Women are always better at that sort of thing than men, I think. But it was delightful to see you again, Phillip.”

“And you,” said Bethancourt, taking this as a dismissal and rising. “Wonderful, really, to run into you like that.”

Alice had risen as well; it had nearly been half an hour since his arrival, and she no doubt wanted to be rid of him before her date came by.

They bade each other good-bye while Bethancourt donned his coat and bent to kiss her on either cheek.

“You're off today then?” she asked as she opened the door to a blast of arctic air.

“That's right,” said Bethancourt, wrapping his scarf more firmly about his neck. “Or at least sometime tonight,” he amended, remembering his original plan to get an early start, which had slowly dissolved upon contact with Marla and the real world.

“Better go earlier rather than later,” Alice advised, “else you'll find yourself snowed in.”

“Snow?” demanded Bethancourt, swiveling round to look at the clear blue sky.

“Yes, they're expecting the storm to come in sometime this evening,” Alice told him. “By this time tomorrow, we should be a foot deep in it.” She sighed. “We really have had the worst weather this season.”

But Bethancourt was now thoroughly alarmed by the prospect of being snowed in and forced to extend his stay. He took his leave of her politely enough, but he was already pulling his phone from his pocket as he walked down the street.

“Marla?” he said when she answered. “We're going to have to speed things up—there's a snowstorm on the way and God knows when we'll be able to get away if we don't go before it hits. Yes, I'll pick you up at the hotel.”

Everything was set in motion. Inspector Howard had been called back from Leeds in preparation for a departure for Buckinghamshire, and the local police had been alerted to keep an eye on the M1 north of Milton Keynes. The search warrant was in the works, and Brumby hoped to have it in hand by the time he reached Little Horwood. The uniformed branch had already reported back that there was no van or vehicle of any kind parked at Bluebottle Close. The nearest neighbor had been interviewed, but had been able to say only that the cottage's tenant was there infrequently, and that she had not noticed him in the last day or two. But she had no direct view of the property because of the trees, and so would have been likely to see Jenks only as he came and went.

“He'll show up at one place or the other,” predicted Brumby. “And I want a look at this cottage—it's far more likely to be the scene of the crimes than the bungalow here is.”

Gibbons, having waited all day for an assignment, had in the end drawn the short straw and been sent to relieve the team presently watching the house in Appleton Roebuck. He would much have preferred to drive south with Brumby and Howard, but he supposed it was only reasonable of them to choose one of their regular team members as a driver. So he made a quick stop back at the house for his warmest things, hoping to find Bethancourt
there, but finding instead only a hastily scribbled note with the caretaker's phone number and the news that Bethancourt had headed back to town with Marla.

He provided himself with a thermos of hot coffee and his iPod and then climbed back into the police Rover and drove off to Appleton Roebuck as the sun was dipping toward the rooftops and clouds were gathering to the northwest.

Since Jenks's bungalow was the last house on the road, the detectives had only to watch the intersection with the larger way, and to this end they had simply parked in the village school car park, which handily overlooked the main road and the lane that branched off from it, leading to Jenks's bungalow.

Gibbons eased his Rover in beside his cohort's, glad to see that there were still other vehicles in the car park as well.

“Glad you've come,” said DS Ford. “It's not so bad here, but it's deadly dull—hardly a car goes by.”

“Won't I rather stand out once the car park empties out?” asked Gibbons, trying to judge how it would look from the road.

“Doubt anyone'd even notice,” returned Ford. “There's no lights here, and apparently it's not unknown for some of the staff to leave their cars here and walk up the road to the pub. I think you're safe enough.”

Gibbons nodded. “All right then,” he said. “Don't forget to have someone relieve me.”

Ford laughed. “Never fear. Got your mobile? Good, then. I'll see you back at the station.”

He reversed out of the parking space and Gibbons watched him drive off. Then he made himself as comfortable in his seat as he could, and turned on his iPod. He had bought an audio book to listen to on the train ride up, but had never got further with it than that; this, he reckoned, would be a good time to catch up on it. He left one earbud dangling so as to be able to hear any traffic that came past and settled in for a long wait.

It was full dark by the time Bethancourt and Marla reached Leicester and pulled off the M1 for a break. As he guided the Jaguar into the service area, Bethancourt could make out the flashing lights of police pandas, several of them, all gathered in front of the refreshment center.

“I wonder what's up,” said Marla, shading her eyes from the glare.

“I don't know,” said Bethancourt, slowing the car. “But I don't think here is the best place to stop—there wouldn't be that many police unless they've got a serious situation.”

Marla nodded. “Next one, then,” she said.

Bethancourt agreed, and angled the Jaguar away from the restaurant and toward the petrol station, heading for the exit and the ramp leading back to the M1. Marla craned in her seat, releasing her safety belt so she could boost herself up for a better look at the commotion.

“Looks like they've surrounded a white van,” she said as they passed by. “There doesn't seem to be much action, though—they're all just standing about.”

“A white van?” said Bethancourt, pausing for just a moment and glancing back. But he had driven too far and could make out nothing beyond the ring of police cars. “Well, well,” he said, returning his attention to the road. “I think, Marla, they may have just caught the Ashdon serial killer.”

“Thank God for that,” said Marla, settling back and reaching to relock her belt. “It's creepy, having one of those on the loose.”

“We'll ring Jack from the next service area,” said Bethancourt, “and see what the news is.”

If it had not been for the cold, and the feeling that more-exciting things were going on elsewhere, Gibbons would not have been
unhappy with his lot. He was comfortable enough in the car, and the audio book was continuing to hold his attention. He could see, however, why Ford had complained: he was two hours into his watch and had counted a grand total of three cars passing by.

He was contemplating starting the car up again to run the heat for a bit when he saw the first snowflake, pale against the dark sky. He leaned forward to gaze up through the windscreen and saw a full snowfall in the making.

“No wonder I'm cold,” he muttered, and switched on the engine. He poured himself a cup of the coffee he had brought and watched the snow drift steadily down until there was a light frosting on the railings of the car park.