A Spider on the Stairs Read online

  “We’ve had two cases where the victim was abducted in a place she didn’t ordinarily frequent,” put in Howard.

  “He uses a Taser to capture them,” continued Brumby, “and then ties them up and tortures them for a brief period before killing them—our average estimate is that they die within twenty-four hours of being taken. His signature, as you all know, is his expertise with alarm systems and his arrangements of the bodies in various shops, as if they were merchandise for sale.”

  MacDonald looked intrigued by this remark, as if he had not considered the positioning of the victims in that light before, but he said nothing, and Brumby went on without interruption.

  “One departure from the norm—so far as serial killings can be said to have a norm—is that instead of being grouped in a specific area, Ashdon’s victims turn up all over the south of England. They began in Essex, with the first two murders, and then moved into nearby Hertfordshire, but after that, they’re all over the map. One in Bath, and then another three months later in Buckinghamshire. That was why,” he added to MacDonald, “when we got your call, I didn’t think at first it could be Ashdon.”

  “I wasn’t sure myself,” agreed MacDonald. “But it just rang a bell.”

  “Thank God it did,” said Brumby. “But it begs the question: why the departure? Did Ashdon relocate? Does he travel a great deal and just kills whenever he finds a suitable victim, wherever he is? Is this merely his first trip north?”

  MacDonald quirked a dubious eyebrow. “And?” he asked.

  Brumby gave him a tight smile and a shrug. “We don’t know, of course. But the Sanderson murder makes me think this is Ashdon’s home territory. And the fact that both Ashdon’s first victim and Sanderson were connected to Mittlesdon’s Bookshop makes me think Ashdon also knows the place. And that brings us to the Farraday murder.” He turned to Gibbons. “You’re the one to give the overview on that case, Sergeant,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, taken thoroughly by surprise, but rising to the occasion. He succinctly outlined the investigation to date, ending with, “So Veronica’s brief tenure at Mittlesdon’s would have coincided with Jody’s time there—they would have known each other.”

  “It’s a very thin connection,” said Howard doubtfully.

  “It’s what we’ve got,” said Brumby, “so let’s see what we can make of it. Now, any number of Sanderson’s enemies also patronized the shop, but I’d like to also look at Mittlesdon’s itself. Sergeant,” he said, turning to Gibbons, “you investigated all the Mittlesdon employees pretty thoroughly. Let’s take another look at them with Ashdon in mind.”

  Gibbons was doubtful. “I don’t think any of them could be Ashdon,” he said. “I mean, I don’t think they could have been down south when all the murders were committed.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Brumby, a little impatiently. “But you never know. And in any case, they probably know him, perhaps only as a customer, but possibly as a friend or even a relation. I’d like to go over everything you’ve uncovered about these people.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Gibbons, feeling rather chastised.

  MacDonald fixed a stern gaze on Bethancourt. “And you,” he said, “you chime in as we go through this. I’m getting the impression that you’ve been making your own study of these people.”

  “Glad to be of help,” murmured Bethancourt obediently.

  “Well,” said Gibbons, “let’s start with Mittlesdon then.”

  For the next two hours they discussed the minutiae of the bookshop employees’ lives, trying to find the interstices where a mysterious killer might lurk. Since Gibbons’s investigation had focused on ruling them either out or in as potential suspects in Jody’s murder, there were many gaps in his knowledge of their friends and relations, all of which were noted down for further inspection.

  “There’s a connection to that bookshop somewhere,” declared Brumby, though Howard seemed less convinced.

  “But is there a connection to Jody’s murder?” asked Gibbons, and there Brumby seemed less sure.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It would seem so on the face of it, but so far there’s nothing concrete, is there?”

  Despite MacDonald’s admonition, Bethancourt was largely silent, speaking up only when appealed to. It was not that he felt uncomfortable in his admittedly unusual surroundings, or that he found the police detectives intimidating, but he was acutely aware that Gibbons would be judged by his words far more than he himself would, and he was loath to make any kind of unfavorable impression.

  But he found the discussion fascinating, and he was gratified to learn some of the details of the profile Brumby had constructed of the killer he searched for. The mania of serial killers still held no particular interest for him, but Brumby himself he found a fascinating study, in much the same way Gibbons had when he first encountered the superintendent.

  Eventually, the long meeting broke up and they were dismissed to go and have some supper before heading out to reinterview the Mittlesdon employees, this time with a view to discovering what, if any, connections they might have to a multiple murderer. Bethancourt, who had had very little to eat so far that day, eagerly led Gibbons off to a restaurant.

  “So what do you think?” asked Gibbons as they sat at a cramped table in a little bistro, waiting for their meals.

  Bethancourt shrugged. “I like motives,” he said. “Serial killers don’t have them—or at least not ones that ordinary people can understand. I don’t think I’ll be much help in this kind of case.”

  Gibbons considered this for a moment, sipping his beer. “There’s other things besides motive,” he said. “Opportunity, method, that sort of thing. Surely all the facts we’ve accumulated about these cases suggest something to you.”

  “Oh, I’m an inventive sort of chap.” Bethancourt grinned at him. “I can make all kinds of stories out of the facts at hand. But without a personality to tie them together, well, it’s hard to choose between them.”

  “But neither Sanderson’s murder nor Jody’s was part of Ashdon’s pattern,” objected Gibbons. “He didn’t kill them to satisfy whatever twisted pleasure he gets out of killing—he killed them for more ordinary, garden-variety reasons.”

  “Well, yes and no,” said Bethancourt. “The first part may be true enough, but from what Brumby said, someone as drunk on murder as Ashdon could have killed either one of them for some imagined slight. And the connection to Mittlesdon’s could be purest coincidence.”

  “We’re more or less agreed on that,” said Gibbons. “But I still can’t help feeling that if we could ferret out the coincidence, it would tell us something. Although I find it incredible that any of the Mittlesdon employees could be Ashdon.”

  “Well, and what would they want to kill Sanderson for if it were one of them?” said Bethancourt. “I’m sure he was a very tedious customer, but he can hardly have been the only one, and I should have thought anyone working in a shop would become accustomed to dealing with that sort of thing.”

  “I should have thought so, too,” agreed Gibbons. “And as improbable as it may be that the Mittlesdon connection is coincidence, well, odder things have happened.”

  “True,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully. “So what if it is nothing but coincidence? Where does that leave us then?”

  “No place very good,” said Gibbons glumly.

  The waitress arrived then with their plates, lavishing attention on them since they were her only customers. They smiled back at her, giving their assurances that they wanted for nothing, and eventually she took herself off.

  “I should ring Alice,” said Bethancourt once the waitress had gone, and felt in his pocket for his mobile.

  “What?” Gibbons looked up from his contemplation of his meal, startled.

  Bethancourt paused. “Aren’t we going on to interview her first?” he asked. “I thought that was the plan.”

  “It is,” said Gibbons. “I just don’t see why you think it a good idea
to warn the witness of our intentions.”

  “But it’s Alice,” said Bethancourt. “She’ll be thrilled at the idea of you coming to talk to her again, and if I let her know now, she’ll spend the intervening time dredging up all manner of things in order to be helpful. You’ll get far more out of her than if we show up unexpectedly. That only works with people who have something to hide. You don’t think Alice does, do you?”

  “Not really.” Gibbons sighed. “Go ahead then.”

  “Right,” said Bethancourt, producing his phone.

  He had a sudden qualm, however, as he searched through his contacts for Alice’s number. Their last conversation, he remembered, had been rather odd and he had promised to return to it; he hoped she did not assume his call now was for that purpose.

  But in fact, she sounded quite like her usual self when she answered, and their conversation was not long.

  “All set,” he said, returning the phone to his pocket and gazing with anticipatory pleasure at his meal.

  “Was she thrilled?” asked Gibbons dryly, but his sarcasm failed to hit its mark.

  “Naturally,” replied Bethancourt, the larger part of his attention on his food. “I told you she would be. I don’t think, Jack, that you properly appreciate what a thrill it is for the innocent bystander when Scotland Yard comes calling. It’s like a telly program come to life for them.”

  “I can’t see how you would know,” retorted Gibbons. “You never watch television.”

  “I know because they tell me so,” retorted Bethancourt, scooping up a bite of pork. “And I do watch the occasional program. You seem very cross all of a sudden.”

  “I am not—” began Gibbons, but then he broke off with a sigh. “I expect it’s because deep down I don’t think any of this is going to solve Jody’s murder.”

  Bethancourt looked up, alert at once. “But you started off by saying you thought working out how Mittlesdon’s was connected would tell us something,” he said.

  “I think I let myself get carried away by Brumby’s enthusiasm,” said Gibbons. “He badly wants there to be a connection because that would give him more possible evidence against Ashdon. But when I consider it more objectively, it just doesn’t make sense to me. Ashdon is a clever, careful killer. Jody’s murder was neither. Even if he had reason to kill her on the spot like that, I don’t think that’s how he would have done it. And if he somehow did, then I don’t think he’d have rushed out without cleaning up the scene. It’s just totally out of character.”

  Bethancourt chewed and thought about this. “I have to admit,” he said at last, “your reasoning strikes me as sound. I also recollect that Brumby was somewhat reluctant to come out and declare Ashdon her killer, which makes me think he secretly shares your opinion.”

  “There you are then.”

  They fell into a contemplative silence while they devoured their dinner, the rain drumming against the plate-glass window, beads of water glistening with reflected light in the dark.

  When at length they left the restaurant, they found the rain had not abated in the slightest, and they were soaked by the time they retraced their steps to the Jaguar.

  “God, I’m tired of this,” said Bethancourt, settling himself behind the wheel and banging the car door closed against the elements. “Will it never stop raining in this benighted town? You do realize, don’t you, that even if we solve the case tonight, we’ll never be able to leave until the water recedes?”

  “I’m more concerned about making it out to Mrs. Knowles’ house,” replied Gibbons.

  “Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem,” said Bethancourt, starting up the car. “She only lives over in Heworth. It’s not far.”

  So they crept along the rain-soaked streets, moving out of the city’s center and into a more residential area.

  “It’ll be along here somewhere,” said Bethancourt, peering out the windscreen. “Number seventy.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Gibbons, “we should just find a place to park and walk from there.”

  “I was hoping there would happen to be a spot out in front,” said Bethancourt, “but I expect you’re right. Yes, you are—there’s number seventy now. Well, it was worth a try.”

  “I think I see a space a little farther on,” said Gibbons. “Down past that tree.”

  In the end, they had less than a hundred yards to walk, though, as Bethancourt pointed out, since they hadn’t dried out from their previous immersion, it hardly mattered.

  Alice’s home belonged to a row of well-kept-up Regency houses; hers was on the end with a black door and a shiny brass doorbell. She welcomed them in eagerly, but insisted they divest themselves of their dripping coats and boots in the entrance hall before allowing them further into the house. Then she led them to a back sitting room where two young boys were lying on a rug, watching television.

  “These are my sons,” Alice said proudly. “Boys, say hello to Mr. Bethancourt and Sergeant Gibbons.”

  The three-year-old was shy, but the five-year-old stood up politely and said, “How do you do?” in a credible manner.

  “We’ll be next door in the front room,” Alice told her children. “Try to be good while I speak to these gentlemen.”

  She ushered her guests into a well-appointed reception room with a real fire burning in the grate and offered them drinks.

  “Nonsense,” she said when Gibbons tried to decline, “it’s a cold, miserable night and you must be chilled to the bone. Do you drink scotch?”

  Gibbons admitted that he did.

  He produced his notebook while Alice brought the drinks over from the liquor cabinet, and, the pleasantries out of the way, they got down to business. Alice, as Bethancourt had predicted, was quite eager to help, and readily answered Gibbons’s questions, while Bethancourt settled in one corner of the large sofa, sipping his drink and watching the fire. By subtle observation, he was trying to discover whatever it was that had been bothering Alice that afternoon, but there seemed no trace of her earlier melancholy tone. If anything, she seemed a little brighter than usual, which he had certainly not expected. He mulled over their conversation in the bookshop that afternoon, but could still make neither head nor tail of it. With a sigh, he gave up on this particular mystery and returned his attention to what the others were saying.

  Alice knew no more of Veronica Matthews than she had already told them, but she was able to tell them of other employees—since gone—who had worked at Mittlesdon’s during Jody’s time, and gave them a list of regular customers who would have known her.

  And she was the only member of Mittlesdon’s staff who knew anything at all about Brian Sanderson’s milieu, and where she really shone was in associating him with other bookshop patrons, or, in many cases, eliminating a connection.

  “Of course, I’m mostly there in the mornings while the boys are in playschool,” she said. “There are a lot of other regular customers whom I wouldn’t know.”

  “But you might recognize their names if they were acquainted with Mr. Sanderson?”

  Alice nodded. “I might,” she said. “At least some of them.”

  Gibbons smiled at her. “Then I may be back to pester you, Mrs. Knowles,” he said. “My colleagues will be gathering names from your fellow employees, and I’d like to run them by you, if I may.”

  “By all means,” she said. “I’m glad to help. It’s rather exciting, really, although it’s a bit scary as well. The thought of that man, roaming about York . . .”

  “Hopefully we’ll put an end to that soon,” Gibbons told her, rising. “Thanks very much again for your assistance.”

  Reluctantly, they donned their still-wet coats and ventured back out into the rain. Bethancourt grumbled over the weather during almost the entire drive out to the university neighborhood where Catherine Stockton lived, and Gibbons humored him, aware that the real source of his bad temper was the fact that he would have to wait in the car while Gibbons spoke with Catherine. In fact, it was Bethancourt himself who
had suggested it.

  “It was good of you to nab the interview with Catherine,” he had said as they left the police station. “I do appreciate your covering up my indiscretion.”

  Gibbons had merely grinned at him.

  “But you’d better interview her without me,” Bethancourt had continued, and Gibbons had been surprised.

  “You don’t want to sit in?” he had asked.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” Bethancourt replied. “It just that things are going to go a lot smoother if I’m not there. She thinks I’m pretty awful, really.”

  “But she asked you out,” protested Gibbons. “She can’t hate you that much.”

  “She still thinks I only chatted her up in order to get information about Mittlesdon’s,” said Bethancourt gloomily. “I haven’t been able to convince her otherwise, though God knows I’ve tried.”

  So, when they reached Catherine’s flat, Bethancourt left Gibbons off at the door and then drove idly round the block. There was no parking, so he stopped the Jaguar in the road outside the door, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror, and lit a cigarette.

  Gibbons, meanwhile, having announced himself and been buzzed in, climbed the stairs to the second floor and found Catherine standing in her open doorway. Unlike Alice Knowles, she did not look thrilled to be receiving this visit. Perhaps, thought Gibbons as he greeted her and was ushered in, Catherine did not watch enough television. At least, there was not a set in evidence in her sitting room.

  “I don’t know,” she said, once he had acquainted her with the reason for his visit. “Brian Sanderson wasn’t a particular client of mine—I got him one or two things for his niece. I know he liked a lot of attention whenever he was in the shop because Gareth would complain about it, but I didn’t know him very well myself. I can certainly give you a list of my regular clients, but half of them rarely come into the store and the other half are usually there with their children. I’m not saying none of them knew Mr. Sanderson, but I doubt they knew him through time spent at Mittlesdon’s.”