A Spider on the Stairs (40 page)

“You were telling me about Brumby's interview with Jenks,” said Bethancourt. “You had just got to the part where he told you about Jody—you said he confirmed what we thought?”

“Yes, it was pretty much as we'd figured it,” said Gibbons. “According to Jenks, Jody ran into Sanderson as soon as she arrived, getting off the train. He was there to meet some guests and they bumped into each other. That was the single thing Jenks seemed sorry about—that he hadn't realized Sanderson was any kind of threat. Anyway, Sanderson must have been considerably startled to see Jody, but he was fast on his feet, and got her number. He called her the next day, and when he found out she and Jenks were planning on attending Christmas Eve midnight Mass at the Minster, he suggested they meet beforehand. He implied he might have a job for her.”

“Which was probably being paid for keeping her mouth shut,” said Bethancourt.

“Yes, well, Jenks didn't know about that,” said Gibbons. “Jody never told him anything about Sanderson's sideline. He thought it all a bit odd, but, as he said himself, so much was odd about Jody that he didn't pay it much mind. They went into York together that evening and had dinner and then she went off to see Sanderson. She was to meet Jenks at the Minster in time for the service, but of course she never arrived.”

“Then how did Jenks find out what happened?” asked Bethancourt.

“Well, he knew where she was meeting Sanderson,” said Gibbons. “Apparently Mittlesdon's was Jody's own idea—Jenks said she seemed to find it amusing, though he couldn't see why. When she didn't turn up to midnight service, Jenks went along inside anyway, thinking she was just late, and then waited by the door for her after it was over. When he realized she'd never arrived at all, he walked over to Mittlesdon's to search for her. The back door was still unlocked—he found her keys and locked it when he left—so he just slipped inside and looked around for her.”

“And found her dead, of course,” said Bethancourt quietly. “I can almost feel sorry for him there.”

Gibbons nodded. “He seemed the most, well, the most like a normal person when he was telling Brumby about the events on Christmas Eve.”

“He seemed normal enough to me the one time I met him,” said Bethancourt. “You know, so many people are a little odd in one way or another—I never thought Jenks was any different. It seems strange to me now, that I could have talked to a madman and never had a clue, not even a frisson up the spine.”

“But you should have seen him after he admitted to being Ashdon,” said Gibbons. “He was so proud of himself, and there was a gleam in his eyes—I don't know, I found it eerie.”

“How far do you think his version of events is to be trusted?” asked Bethancourt.

“You mean about what Sanderson told him?” asked Gibbons. “Oh, I think he was honest about that. Sanderson was terrified and at the last was willing to tell him anything he wanted. And the story Jenks got from him makes sense—he offered Jody money to keep what she knew quiet, and she took offense. She told him to stick his money and he took that to mean she would tell anybody she pleased. They argued about it, she laughed at him, and he grabbed her and shook her. She fought back and pushed him away, but slipped and fell in doing so and hit her head. That dazed her, and Sanderson, now more frightened than ever, strangled her to death and then fled. He claimed to Jenks that he never meant to kill her, that the fight had simply got out of hand, but I'm not sure I believe that, and Jenks certainly didn't.”

“Didn't he? You never told me that.”

“He told Brumby that you know when you're killing someone. He actually laughed, and said, ‘Do you think I would do it if I couldn't tell when it was happening? It only feels good when you can see the death in their eyes.' ”

“Ugh.” Bethancourt shuddered.

“Exactly,” said Gibbons, and took a healthy swallow of scotch.

Bethancourt sipped his drink, too, as if the whisky were an anodyne to the uglier things in the world.

“So,” he said, setting his glass down carefully, and reaching for his cigarette case, “now that you've got a full confession, does that mean all the other evidence is for naught?”

“Oh, no,” said Gibbons. “They like to have a fully rounded-out case. They collected tons of trace evidence from the van, and more from the Buckinghamshire cottage. Oh, and they found Jody's missing bags in the bungalow, stowed away in the guest room, where she must have left them.”

“I'd forgotten about the bags,” admitted Bethancourt.

“So had everyone else,” said Gibbons with a chuckle. “The
SOCKOs were most perplexed when they found them—at first they thought they'd got Jenks' souvenir trove from his murders, but the deeper they got into the bags, the less that seemed to fit. Nobody could figure it out until Howard happened to mention them to Brumby in front of me.”

“Did Jenks have a souvenir trove?” asked Bethancourt curiously.

“Oh, yes,” said Gibbons. “According to Brumby, they always do. But it was in the Buckinghamshire cottage, not in Yorkshire. He kept an earring from each of them, which Brumby says is pretty mild compared to other collections he's seen. I didn't ask further.”

“No, neither would I,” said Bethancourt. “There are some things I don't want to know.”

“And I hope I never have to,” said Gibbons. He paused, then said slowly, “Brumby, well, he's an odd case. He knows what delving into the brains of these people is doing to him, but he does it anyway because he's the one who can. One's got to admire that, but I don't think it's something I could do.”

“No shame in that,” said Bethancourt. “ ‘From each according to his abilities,' you know, and we can't all be Brumbys.”

“No,” said Gibbons.

“By the by,” added Bethancourt, “I do appreciate you not going into great detail over Jenks' confession. The version the papers get is as much of that as I want.”

“It's as much as I want, too,” said Gibbons. “I'll be happy to leave the criminally insane to Brumby and his team—it's not a place I want to visit again.”

“I'm quite selfishly glad of that,” said Bethancourt. “It would mean the end of my hobby if you were to join Brumby's team permanently. Give me a nice, ordinary murder any day of the week.”

“Hopefully, I'll be back to that shortly,” said Gibbons. “Anyway, Carmichael is due back from his holidays on Monday, and I'm to report to him.”

“A new case?” asked Bethancourt.

Gibbons shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “If so, I won't find out till Monday.”

Softly the clock began to chime.

“That means dinner should be done,” said Bethancourt. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”

“By all means,” said Gibbons, finishing his scotch and rising. He stretched a bit and then started as the sound of a car alarm began wailing outside.

“All right?” asked Bethancourt, misinterpreting the start as a wince.

Gibbons grinned. “It's wonderful to be back in London,” he said.

First and foremost I must thank Kelley Ragland and Matt Martz for their extraordinary patience in the seemingly endless wait for this book. And also my thanks to any readers out there who were feeling the same way.

Jack and Mary Dodge made delightful traveling companions on my research trip to Yorkshire—I really don't know what I would have done without them. Our days in the Dales are some of my fondest memories.

Linda Pankhurst once again proved herself willing to discuss all aspects of British vernacular and to correct me where I went wrong. Plus she came all the way up to Yorkshire to visit. And Beth Knoche again volunteered her eagle eye for proofing. Thank you, ladies.

Jennifer Jackson is the best agent anyone ever had. Nuf said.

I love my cover art—thank you, Sergio Baradat.

I must also acknowledge the enormous role played by Mark Alicea in the writing of this book. I'm not sure exactly what he did,
but his contribution was huge—I know this because he has assured me of it several times. (I think mostly he made me laugh at work.)

And Luis Cruz: your turn is next.