A Spider on the Stairs (6 page)

He had put his mobile in his pocket when dressing that morning out of habit rather than any expectation of hearing from Gibbons, and so was caught off guard when it began to vibrate. He started, spilling some of his coffee.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “I'll just run and grab a towel.”

And he slipped out hastily, pulling his phone out as he went.

“Hullo,” he said, keeping his voice down and retreating farther
from the drawing-room door. “I thought you'd be knee deep in serial killers by now.”

Gibbons chuckled. “Actually,” he said, “I'm doing something altogether different. There's been another unexpected development.”

“Good God, another one?” asked Bethancourt. “Are you still in York?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Gibbons. “Do you know a bookshop called Mittlesdon's?”

“Of course I do,” answered Bethancourt. “I used to go round there quite regularly in my school days. And I believe my father still buys the occasional book there. But I thought you said the Ashdon victim was found in a shop called Accessorize.”

“So she was,” agreed Gibbons. “But there's been another murder, not connected to Ashdon. It's a young woman found strangled in the back office of Mittlesdon's Bookshop. I'm helping the local CID out with the case.”

“That sounds interesting,” said Bethancourt hopefully. “Was the shop broken into?”

“It doesn't look like it,” said Gibbons, “but I don't know a lot yet—I'm still waiting for forensics.”

“I expect it's probably Mittlesdon,” said Bethancourt. “I remember him as being very prim and proper—it's always that sort who have a monomania about something. Or someone.”

“I thought I'd wait and at least find out who the victim is before I arrested anybody,” said Gibbons dryly. “Very cautious of me, I know.”

“Well, if you must be sensible, I suppose you must,” said Bethancourt good-naturedly. “I'll come by when I get let out of here, shall I?”

“I thought you might like to,” said Gibbons. “When are you leaving, by the way?”

Bethancourt sighed. “Not till tomorrow afternoon—I'm stuck till after lunch. I should be able to get away then, though.”

“Well, I'll ring you later then and let you know where I've got to,” said Gibbons. “I've got to go—I think I hear the SOCKOs arriving.”

“All right,” said Bethancourt, and rang off.

Gibbons had rather thought the medical examiner would arrive first, but instead it was the forensics team, led by a lean, older man with very sharp eyes named Bert Mason.

“This is a change,” Mason said cheerfully as he ushered his team into the shop, all carrying heavy cases. He looked about him, seeming to take in everything with a single glance.

“The body's upstairs,” said Gibbons. “I'd like you to take a look at the locks on both the front and back doors, though, as well as the lock to the office.”

“Right,” said Mason. “Jim, did you hear? Good man. Lead the way then, Sergeant, and we'll get started.”

Upstairs, Mason paused on the threshold of the office for a moment, his brown eyes flickering over everything, while the rest of the SOCKOs peered at the room from behind him, like greyhounds waiting to be unleashed.

“Right then,” said Mason, drawing a deep breath. “There's going to be a lot of trace here, so let's go carefully and collect as much as we can.”

“One thing I haven't found is her handbag, if she had one,” said Gibbons.

“Murderer might have taken it away with him,” said one of the female SOCKOs, kneeling to unlatch her case.

“Or she mightn't have carried one,” added another. “Don't worry, sir, we'll keep an eye out for it.”

Gibbons stood back, out of their way, watching their quiet efficiency at work and turning things over in his mind until he was interrupted by Constable Murphy peering in at the door in search of him.

“They're back from dropping Mr. Mittlesdon off, sir,” he announced. “And I've got that contact list for you.”

“Thank you, Constable,” said Gibbons, moving to take it. “The doctor's not come yet then?”

“No, sir, but I'll show him up as soon as he does,” answered Murphy, and Gibbons nodded.

Murphy withdrew while Gibbons ran his eye down the sheet. There were more names than he had thought there would be, which, he thought, just went to prove that he knew very little about running a bookshop.

Jim, the locks man, tramped up the stairs, breathing a little heavily as he reached the top. He saw Gibbons standing in the doorway and headed for him.

“I've had a good look at the locks downstairs,” he reported, “and I can't see any signs of tampering on them. If you ask me, our killer had a key, or else a door was left open for him.”

Gibbons nodded; it was what he had expected to hear. “Check this one out, too, will you?” he asked. “It's apparently kept locked all the time, and the owner says it was locked when he let himself in this morning.”

He moved out of the way so Jim could have room to work, and returned his attention to the list of names in his hand. Next to some of them Mittlesdon had placed asterisks, and at the bottom of the page he had written, in a very neat hand, “*keyholders.”

“Well, well, well,” murmured Gibbons. “I wonder what you lot were doing last night or thereabouts.”

“Would you mind if I stopped at the house in York for a bit?” Bethancourt asked his father. “It's no bother if you were planning to use it.”

Robert Bethancourt looked up in surprise.

“I didn't know you were planning on visiting York,” he said. “I thought you were off back to London tomorrow.”

“If you did go,” put in his mother practically, “you could check on the place and make sure it hasn't flooded again—Carter's away for the holidays, so he won't be checking in until the end of the week.”

Bethancourt nodded. The family's townhouse in York had had problems in the past with water in the basement when there had been heavy rains.

“I was going to head home,” Bethancourt answered his father, “but something's come up. Jack's in York, looking into a murder, and I thought I might join him there and have a look in.”

“Oh,” said Robert. He eyed his son speculatively.

When Bethancourt had first shown an interest in criminal cases, Robert had prevailed upon his old school chum, currently the chief commissioner of New Scotland Yard, to allow Bethancourt access to official investigations, in the hope that his son would be inspired to take up a career with the police. But that had been some time ago, and Bethancourt did not seem any nearer to collecting a policeman's salary than he had been at the beginning.

“Certainly,” said Robert now. “The house is empty at the moment, there's no reason you shouldn't use it. Have Jack in to stay, too, if you like. It's sure to be more comfortable than wherever he's billeted.”

“There's not much available in York at the last minute,” agreed Ellen. “Not during Christmas at any rate. The poor lad's probably stuck in some grotty B and B.”

Bethancourt had not thought of that. “I didn't think to ask,” he admitted.

“What kind of case is it?” asked Robert.

“He came up on the trail of a serial killer,” answered Bethancourt, “but I think now he's helping the Yorkshire CID with something else—half the force is apparently down with the flu.”

“I heard about that,” said Robert. “The Ashdon killer, isn't it? The first time he's struck this far north.”

“That's right,” said Bethancourt. “I don't actually know too
much about the case—Jack got put onto it after I left town. I'll drive over tomorrow after lunch then.”

“Do let us know whether or not the house is all right,” said Ellen.

“Of course,” said Bethancourt. “Thanks.”

But his luck seemed to have turned. A fresh squall swept over the Dales during dinner and heavy flooding was predicted as a result. The guests who were not staying at the Grange left soon after the meal in order to make sure they would reach their homes before the rivers rose.

Bethancourt's father, having seen the last of them out, remarked, “You might want to leave tonight, Phillip, instead of tomorrow. I doubt any of us will be getting out of Wharfedale by morning.”

Margaret looked up from her seat by the fire. “But tomorrow's Boxing Day,” she said. “Aren't we taking the donations down to Harrogate in the morning?”

“I doubt it,” answered Robert. “If they're right about the rain keeping up, I imagine the road will be flooded at either end by morning. Half your mother's luncheon guests won't be able to make it here, either.”

“Well,” said Bethancourt, doing his best to control his eagerness, “if we're not going to make it to Harrogate anyway, I might as well go to York tonight.”

“I don't see why not,” said his father. “You could be stuck here for days otherwise, depending on the weather. I swear, I've never seen such a holiday season.”

“I'll just go pack my things then,” said Bethancourt happily.

He drove into York just after midnight under a pitch-black sky with not a star to be seen. He had left most of the rain behind him in the Dales, however; in York it had been reduced to a steady drizzle.

Gibbons was waiting for him at the back gate, having been alerted to his friend's imminent arrival by phone.

“Hello, Cerberus,” he said, bending down to scratch the big
dog's ears as Bethancourt let him out of the car. “Happy Christmas, Phillip.”

“If you say so,” replied Bethancourt ungraciously. “Let's get in, shall we? I'm not dressed for this weather.”

He led the way up the garden, fishing in his jacket pocket for the keys.

“It's good of you to ask me to stay,” said Gibbons, slinging his duffel over one shoulder. “That place they had me staying in was positively depressing.”

“Are the rest of the Scotland Yard team still there?” asked Bethancourt. “Damn this lock—oh, wait, I've got the wrong key.”

“No,” answered Gibbons. “Mine was the last room open at that B and B, and besides, they had to come up with something better than that for a detective superintendent. Someone high up pulled strings and got him a suite at the Best Western. They didn't have anything else open, so I understand the rest of the team is camping out in the sitting room.”

“I'd really rather not invite them here unless you think it necessary,” said Bethancourt, finally succeeding with the door.

“Why the devil should you?” said Gibbons ruthlessly. “You're my friend, not theirs.”

“Thank God,” said Bethancourt mildly. “I don't know what my mother would have said if I had turned the place into a police headquarters. Here we are then—doesn't look like it flooded.”

“Carpet's dry,” agreed Gibbons, maneuvering with his duffel a little awkwardly in the narrow hallway in order to close the door. “Does it flood often?”

“You have no idea,” said Bethancourt darkly. “Here, let's leave the luggage till later and search out a drink. It's Christmas—you'd think my father would have the bar fully stocked, just in case. Let me get a light on. . . . There we go.”

“Can I put the electric fire on?” asked Gibbons as they entered the drawing room. “It's chilly.”

“By all means,” replied Bethancourt, making for the drinks
cabinet standing in one corner. “As I thought,” he said, opening the doors, “the pater stocked up. What will you have?”

“Is there scotch?” asked Gibbons, who from previous experience knew that the Bethancourts' taste in whisky ran to expensive single malts.

“There's a twenty-five-year-old bottle of Bowmore,” said Bethancourt. “Will that do?”

Gibbons sighed in pleasure. “Very nicely,” he said, sinking into a very comfortable armchair and stretching his feet toward the glow of the electric fire. The drawing room was very elegant, meant for entertaining, but it was comfortable, too, and infinitely preferable to the B&B he had come from, which had smelled like cabbage.

“I think I'll join you,” said Bethancourt, pulling out a couple of crystal glasses. “So how's this new murder shaping?”

“I haven't got very far yet,” answered Gibbons. “There was no identification on the body, so we're not even sure who the victim was. The medical examiner confirms that she was strangled and puts the time of death at sometime after seven on Christmas Eve.”

“Quite a nasty Christmas present,” remarked Bethancourt, handing him a glass and collapsing into a second armchair. “Cheers.”

“Cheers. Ah, that's good,” said Gibbons, savoring the taste of the liquor on his tongue. “Where was I?”

“The medical examiner,” prompted Bethancourt.

“Right,” said Gibbons. “Well, he puts her age at about twenty-five, and she was apparently in perfect health before she was murdered. She struggled with her attacker, so we're looking for a reasonably strong specimen—our victim was a tall woman. She took a couple of punches to the head before she was killed, so it's possible she was unconscious when she was strangled. Anyway, the murderer used something—possibly a scarf or a cloth belt, the doctor said.”

“It sounds fairly straightforward,” said Bethancourt, disappointed. “A quarrel of some kind, and things get out of hand.”

“Ah, but here's where it gets interesting,” said Gibbons. “How did she and her killer get into the bookshop in the first place?”

Bethancourt shrugged and lit a cigarette. “The killer's probably someone who works there and has a set of keys,” he answered.

“Possibly,” conceded Gibbons. “But why were they in the bookshop on Christmas Eve?”

“Stealing something, most likely,” suggested Bethancourt. “Old Mittlesdon has some very nice editions, some of them worth thousands. Christmas would certainly be an excellent opportunity to loot the place—it's probably the one time you could be certain Mittlesdon wouldn't be there.”