A Spider on the Stairs Page 21

  “I don’t know as your sorrow has been very noticeable,” said Heywood with a grin to take the sting out of the words.

  “Ah, well.” Daphne shrugged.

  They had a great many more questions, but Bethancourt, having revealed as much as he dared, managed to fend these off successfully and steer them back to gossip about Sanderson.

  At least, he thought, as he wound his way home—once again feeling rather tipsy—he had managed to find a few nuggets that Gibbons might find useful in his investigations.

  The rest of the house was asleep when he arrived back in St. Saviourgate. Gibbons’s portion of dinner remained uneaten in the refrigerator, and when he checked on his friend upstairs, he found him still fast asleep, with no sign he had awakened during his host’s absence. So Bethancourt removed the note he had written earlier and substituted one containing the gossip he had gathered at the Heywoods’. That done, he let Cerberus into the garden and smoked a cigarette while the great dog attended to business. The night sky was dark and there was a gusty northwest wind which blew splatterings of rain on him, the harbinger, he was sure, of more to come.

  11

  In Which the Investigation Becomes Waterlogged

  Gibbons slept through the night, logging a solid fourteen hours’ sleep and waking more or less refreshed. He arose feeling enormously hungry and very eager to discover what progress had been made in the investigation during the night. Bethancourt was still abed, and Evelyn was getting the children up and ready for their return to school, so after he had washed and dressed, Gibbons escaped the chaos of the house and went out to breakfast. He took with him a note he had found on the dresser from Bethancourt and read it over his meal, committing most of the sketchy details to memory.

  He was among the first to arrive at the station, where he typed up the gist of Bethancourt’s note for the case file while he waited for everyone else to arrive. Detective Inspector Trimble wandered in first, holding tightly to a take-away coffee; he mumbled good morning and slid into a chair in front of his computer monitor.

  Redfern came in soon after, with MacDonald in his wake, both of them puffy-eyed and not quite awake.

  “Brumby not here yet?” MacDonald grunted. “Well, no matter. What have you got there, Gibbons?”

  “Just some gossip from some of the local worthies, sir,” he answered. “I don’t know if any of it’s worth checking out or not.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said MacDonald. He took the sheet and ran his eyes down it while he sipped at his coffee. “Mm, yes, we’ve got some of these names already. But add the other ones on, by all means. In fact, you and Redfern here can get busy collecting alibis from all these fellows. You have the list, Redfern?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Redfern. “I’ll have to find addresses for these new ones, though.”

  But MacDonald waved him off. “You’d best get started,” he said. “Rowett can dig the addresses out when he gets here—that man’s a bloody marvel at the computer. Call in when you’ve finished with the first lot and I’ll have the rest for you. Or somebody will—Brumby and I are off to see Sanderson’s solicitors as soon as their offices open.”

  “Right you are, sir,” said Redfern, yawning. “Should have known,” he muttered to Gibbons as they turned and left the incident room. “Nasty, raw morning—I would get sent back out in it.”

  “I’m not looking forward to tramping about all day in the rain,” agreed Gibbons.

  Redfern glanced at him. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “You looked pretty ragged yesterday.”

  “I’m fine,” Gibbons assured him. “All I needed was a bit of rest. What’re these alibis we’re supposed to be collecting?”

  Redfern took his notebook from his breast pocket and pulled a sheet of paper out of it.

  “Here you go,” he said. “It’s a list of Sanderson’s enemies—we spent most of yesterday evening putting it together. Not,” he added, “that anyone thinks it’s complete. And if your Brumby is right, and Ashdon killed the fellow, then it’s all for naught in any case.”

  “You never can tell,” said Gibbons, pausing and looking at the list. In a moment, he handed it back. “I’ve no idea where most of these places are,” he said. “Shall I drive, and you can direct?”

  “Sounds fine to me,” replied Redfern. “I’d be grateful for the rest. Good God,” he added as they came up to the outside door. “I think it’s actually raining harder, if that’s possible.”

  “Here’s for it,” said Gibbons, turning up his collar. “Where’s the car?”

  “Over there,” answered Redfern, pointing.

  And with that, the two young men dashed out into the rain.

  It was still raining when at last they returned that afternoon, having interviewed not only everyone on their list but several other people suggested by those they had spoken with, plus a few added on when they rang in to the incident room.

  “Do you suppose,” said Redfern longingly as they emerged from the police panda and hunched against the cold, sleety rain, “that they’ll at least let us have lunch before they send us back out?”

  “I certainly hope so,” said Gibbons. “I can’t think how it got so late.”

  “I don’t know either,” said Redfern as they came up to the door. “It all seemed to go quickly enough—in and out, collecting alibis and moving on.”

  Inside, the hallways were awash with activity, and Gibbons and Redfern, breathing a sigh of relief as they were enveloped in the warmth of the central heating, were swept up in it as they made their way to the Sanderson incident room.

  “Hullo, Henry,” said Gibbons to a middle-aged man who was walking in their direction, frowning over a sheaf of papers as he went. “How’s it going at your end?”

  “Eh?” Henry paused and peered over the tops of his glasses. “Oh, Jack, is it? It’s going well enough, I suppose. At least, it’s a bit confusing just at the moment.”

  Gibbons was intrigued. Henry Collins was the Yard’s financial man and he was not normally confused. More often he was to be found clucking his tongue over the nefarious financial activities of those he was investigating.

  “Sanderson not paying his taxes?” asked Gibbons.

  “Oh, no, I think he was,” answered Collins. “No, it’s not that. The accounting all looks quite aboveboard really. It’s just that there’s not quite enough of it.”

  Gibbons exchanged glances with Redfern, who only raised his brows and shrugged.

  “How do you mean, Henry?” he asked.

  “Not sure yet,” said Collins, looking back at his papers. “But there’s income, and then there’s the outgoings. And the bills have been paid, but the accounts don’t seem to have been debited. Or at least not in all cases. I’ll work it out eventually, though.”

  “I never doubted it,” said Gibbons.

  They had reached the door of the incident room, and Gibbons reached to hold it for the older man, who nodded absently in return.

  “What do you make of that?” Redfern asked Gibbons as Collins veered off to a computer terminal in one corner while they made their way to the back of the room where Brumby and MacDonald were conferring.

  “He suspects Sanderson may have had an outside source of income,” replied Gibbons. “Of course, it may be perfectly legitimate, just something Sanderson kept apart from his regular finances. But if it’s not, if it’s unexplained cash . . .” Gibbons trailed off, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  Redfern looked doubtful. “I really don’t think Brian Sanderson was a secret drug baron,” he said.

  “Hmm?” said Gibbons, recalling himself. “Oh, now there’s an idea. I was actually thinking of blackmail.”

  Redfern considered this for a moment. “I would have thought,” he offered, “that Sanderson was more likely to be blackmailed than to extort it from someone else.”

  “But would he be capable of blackmail?” asked Gibbons.

  “I can’t say no,” said Redfern. “Although of course I didn’t
know him well.”

  “Blackmail?” echoed MacDonald, looking up as the two young men approached. “You think Sanderson was a blackmailer?”

  “We were only speculating on possible sources of extra income,” replied Gibbons. “Henry thought Sanderson might have been making a bit on the side—he’s not sure yet, though.”

  “Was Sanderson the type who would blackmail someone?” asked Brumby.

  “Sure,” answered MacDonald. “So long as he could work out a reason it was justified, I can’t see him balking at a bit of extortion. But that leaves your Ashdon out in the cold—Sanderson didn’t have very high principles, but I don’t think he’d have kept quiet about a murder.”

  Brumby sighed. “It’s hell, not knowing where we are. I wish forensics would get a move on.”

  “Well,” said Gibbons, “whether he was a blackmailer or not, I don’t think any of the people we talked to this morning killed him. Some of their alibis will need checking, of course, but they seem pretty straightforward. Only this Louis Orgill doesn’t have one worth mentioning.”

  “Orgill?” said Brumby. “Which one was he?”

  “He’s an estate agent,” supplied Redfern. “There was bad blood between him and Sanderson over a couple of deals back in 2003.”

  “Doesn’t seem very immediate.” Brumby grunted.

  “It’s early days,” said MacDonald. “We’ll put Orgill in the ‘maybe’ column. What does he say he was doing last night, by the way?”

  “Spent the night at home alone, watching telly,” answered Gibbons. “His wife and daughters are off visiting her mother in Essex, and they have no live-in servants.”

  “Well, and he probably did do,” said MacDonald, shaking his head. “Never mind—the most obvious suspects had to be looked at.” He cocked his head at Brumby. “If I’m to interview the sister, shall I take the sergeant here with me, in the spirit of joint cooperation and brotherly love? I’ll leave you Redfern in turn.”

  Brumby’s lips twitched in a smile. “By all means, Superintendent,” he said.

  “Come along then, lad,” said MacDonald, clapping Gibbons on the shoulder.

  Gibbons hid a sigh, thinking of the coffee he would not now have time for, and fell in behind MacDonald.

  “Who are we going to see, sir?” he asked.

  “Sanderson’s sister,” replied MacDonald. “Name of Lydia—she lives alone out in Nun Monkton. Bit of an oddball, so I understand, and just the opposite of her brother—reticent where he was expansive and so on.”

  “I see,” said Gibbons. “Is she a suspect?”

  MacDonald snorted. “Everybody’s a suspect, lad.” He glanced back at Gibbons, who was frowning as he went through his pockets. “Lose summat?”

  “I think Redfern must have the panda keys,” answered Gibbons, drawing up. “I’ll run back and fetch them.”

  “Nay, don’t bother.” MacDonald looked amused. “I’m not riding around in that little bit of a thing in this weather—we’ll take my Land Rover. And I’ll be doing the driving, Sergeant—it takes a countryman to get along on these roads. Let’s make a dash for it then.”

  Bethancourt had planned to have a lie-in that morning, but was thwarted by his aunt, who saw no reason why he should not help her install the children at St. Peter’s.

  He had not slept well, having been plagued with visions of Marla, and did not wake well, having something of a hangover from the scotch at the Heywoods’. He was thus impatient with his charges as he tried to settle the two girls into their house, earning him disapproving looks from the housemistress.

  “Did you say Mrs. Keems would be checking in as well?” she asked with steely politeness.

  “That’s right,” said Bethancourt, who was carting in a large trunk and not inclined to stop. “She’s just seeing to the boys over the way.”

  The housemistress’s eyebrows rose. “Boys?” she asked. “I was not aware the Keems had any boys at school here at this time.”

  “They’re not hers,” retorted Bethancourt, and turned his back on her to heave the trunk up the stairs.

  He escaped as rapidly as he could, electing to have Bernadette tell Evelyn he had left rather than telling his aunt himself, and set out to walk back to St. Saviourgate. It was a walk often undertaken in his youth and still tolerably familiar, but one that was just long enough to leave him completely drenched by the time he reached his front door.

  He had planned to go back to bed, but a glance at the bags assembled in the hall told him his aunt would be returning before setting out for Ilkley, and he knew she would be in no very good temper with him. The better part of valor, he decided, would be to be absent when she arrived. So he changed into dry things, collected a large umbrella from the assortment in the hall stand, and set out for Mittlesdon’s. He did not actually expect to garner any information there, but it had the advantage of being close-by and provided a convenient excuse for his absconding from his aunt at St. Peter’s.

  It was still raining in earnest, so he left Cerberus at home since otherwise the big dog’s first act on entering the bookshop would be to give a mighty shake, liberally coating everyone and everything with a spray of water. Cerberus, having poked his nose outside, did not seem to mind.

  The bookshop was quiet. Libby Alston was ringing up a customer’s order at the counter while Rod Bemis shelved books in the narrow hallway beyond. It seemed unbelievably peaceful to Bethancourt, who propped his umbrella by the door, nodded to Libby, who smiled back, and then wandered in past the bestseller displays in search of nothing more than idle diversion. He turned toward the stairs that led to the children’s section and Catherine’s office above, pausing to examine the framed photographs that were clustered on either side of the doorjamb. He had looked at them, he remembered, on that first day in the shop with Gibbons, but at that time he had not known any of the principals, other than the more famous authors represented. Or at least he hadn’t thought he knew any of them. Catherine Stockton was very prominent in a photograph with Brian Jacques, and Alice was pictured in two of the others, though he did not blame himself for failing to recognize her with only his memory of an eighteen-year-old girl to go on.

  “Jody isn’t in any of them, you know,” said Libby Alston softly from behind him.

  He turned to smile down at her.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t see her. There’s you there, though.”

  He pointed to an older photograph, in which several members of the staff were pictured with an upright middle-aged man Bethancourt did not recognize.

  “That’s Malcolm Neesam,” said Libby, “the Harrogate historian. It’s funny you should pick that photograph—if I remember aright, it was Jody who took it.”

  Bethancourt looked back at the picture with renewed interest.

  “And I remember the occasion rather well,” continued Libby with a laugh. “You can’t see it because Veronica’s sitting in front of me, but I was pregnant with my youngest at the time.”

  Bethancourt froze, struck for the third time by the old-fashioned name, and this time he remembered where he had encountered it before. He pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and peered at the very ordinary English girl seated in front of Libby Alston in the photograph.

  “That’s Veronica?” he asked. “Didn’t Alice tell me something had happened to her?”

  “Yes, it was very sad,” said Libby. “She had been gone from here for some time by then, of course. Oh, excuse me—there’s a customer waiting.”

  “Wait—” yelped Bethancourt, swiveling around, but she was already bustling off. “Damn,” he muttered. He thought for a minute and then went off in search of Alice.

  After scouring most of the endless rooms, he found her on the top floor, shelving a carton of used books. The room was rather dim, giving it a musty air, and the rain beat against the old-fashioned mullions in a steady tattoo. Alice sat near one corner on a footstool with the box of books beside her on the floor. She looked up from her work as he ca
me in, but when she saw who it was, she smiled with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  “Hullo,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Oh, hello,” she said, and looked back at the book in her hands.

  Undaunted, he squatted beside her in one smooth movement.

  “I need to ask you something, Alice,” he said.

  She gave a little laugh, but it had a desperate sound to it, and her eyes as she looked at him were tinged with sadness.

  “I can’t do that anymore, you know,” she said.

  “Eh?” he asked, taken aback. “Do what?”

  “Get down on the floor so easily like you just did,” she answered. “How did you stay so young while I got so old?”

  “What?” he said, feeling completely at sea. “Alice, what are you talking about? We’re exactly the same age—we always have been.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, we’re not, not in the ways that matter. I realized that when I met your Marla.”

  “I told you not to take any notice of her,” said Bethancourt. “She has atrocious manners. Look here, Alice, can we talk about this later? I really need to know something.”

  Alice waved a hand. “Oh, don’t mind me,” she said unconvincingly. “What did you need?”

  “This Veronica girl who used to work here,” said Bethancourt. “What exactly happened to her?”

  It was Alice’s turn to be surprised. “She was murdered,” she answered. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “I think you did, but I wasn’t paying proper attention,” said Bethancourt. “Tell me again.”

  “I don’t really know that much about it,” said Alice. “Veronica worked here for a year or so, maybe less, and then she moved south to take care of her mother or aunt—some elderly relation at any rate who needed someone to live in. She’d been gone for some months when we heard she’d been murdered. They thought it was by a boyfriend at first, but then it turned out to be a random crime.”

  “Do you remember any other details?” asked Bethancourt.