A Spider on the Stairs (15 page)

“It must be very frustrating, sir,” said Gibbons sympathetically.

“You have no idea, Sergeant.” Brumby's expression turned grim. “The more so as we know perfectly well he's out there somewhere, planning his next murder. . . .” He sighed. “Well, that kind of thinking never gets one anywhere. Carry on, Sergeant. And,” he added as Gibbons rose, “do remember to report in occasionally, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons.

His interview with MacDonald was in marked contrast to his conversation with Brumby. He found MacDonald at his desk, rummaging through a pile of papers and case files and being periodically interrupted by the telephone. None of this activity ceased while Gibbons made his report.

“You haven't got far, have you?” demanded MacDonald when Gibbons had finished. The superintendent ran his eyes down a page of figures, tossed it aside, and selected another paper from the heap on his desk. “You don't know who she was, you don't know why she was there, and you don't know if the bookshop
people are suspects. Most importantly, you don't know who killed her.”

Gibbons had learned long ago not to dissemble in the face of this kind of tactic.

“All that is true, sir,” he replied evenly.

MacDonald shot him a sharp look before returning his attention to the report in his hand.

“And what are you aiming to do about it all?” he asked.

“I was going to start by interviewing Miss Farraday's friend Rachel,” answered Gibbons. “I'm hoping she can shed some light on Miss Farraday's latest activities, and possibly identify the body.”

“Killing two birds with one stone there,” remarked MacDonald, dropping the sheaf of papers he was reading into the wastebasket. The phone rang as he was about to expand on this, and he signaled Gibbons to wait while he answered it. He listened intently for a moment, a frown growing as he did so, and then said, “Well, arrest him, for God's sake. You can sort it all out once you've got him in nick. What? . . . No, DI Curtis isn't coming back, he's gone into hospital. . . . Yes, that's right. So get on with it!”

He swore under his breath as he hung up the phone, and focused an irate eye on Gibbons. “You're feeling all right, are you, Sergeant?” he asked. “No sniffles or anything?”

“No, sir,” said Gibbons. “I feel fine.”

“Thank God,” muttered MacDonald, picking up a case file. “Be off with you then,” he said. “And if you do manage to catch the murderer, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know.”

“I do apologize for not checking in last night,” said Gibbons, who did not wish to be taken as an arrogant Scotland Yard know-it-all. “I honestly did intend to.”

MacDonald looked back at him. “Was there a girl or summat?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Gibbons. “To be honest, I simply fell asleep.”

MacDonald opened his mouth, closed it again as a thought
struck him, and pursed his lips. “I remember hearing,” he said, “that you had just recently come off sick leave. Is that true?”

Gibbons nodded.

“And what were you off for?”

“Recovering from gunshot wounds,” answered Gibbons. “But I'm quite fit now, sir.”

“Good God,” said MacDonald. “Well, I'd like to hear the story behind that, but I haven't time. Very well, I'll make allowances for your stamina. Bloody hell, does that phone never stop?”

And this time he waved Gibbons away as he reached for the receiver.

Bethancourt did not sleep as late as he had planned. He burrowed under the covers upon returning to bed and dozed a bit, but found himself unable to get back to a sound sleep. Instead, he found himself thinking up various reasons for Jody Farraday to have returned to Mittlesdon's on Christmas Eve, and trying to determine if there was any way of investigating any of them. His mind, if not his body, was firmly awake.

So when the house phone rang some twenty minutes after Gibbons had left, he decided he might as well answer it as not and rolled out of bed.

There was an extension in the master bedroom across the hall, and he reached it by the fourth ring.

“Hello,” said a well-bred female voice. “Is that Phillip Bethancourt?”

“Yes,” answered Bethancourt, searching in his dressing-gown pocket for his cigarettes. “Speaking.”

“It's Alice, Phillip,” said the voice, and for a moment he could not think who that was.

Then, “Alice?” he repeated, a little dazed. “Alice Reynolds? I mean, Knowles?”

“That's right.” She gave a little laugh. “I thought you might be there, and I was right. How are you?”

“Fine, fine,” replied Bethancourt, sinking down on the bed. He found his cigarettes and lit one. “And how are you?”

“Oh, I'm doing very well, thanks.”

There was a slight pause.

“So nice to run into you the other day,” said Bethancourt. “Difficult circumstances, of course.”

“Yes, so very sad. I find—well, it's very odd, knowing someone who's been murdered, however distant the connection.”

“I imagine so,” replied Bethancourt.

“I'd really no idea you had become interested in criminal work,” continued Alice.

“Yes, well, I hadn't planned to,” said Bethancourt, who was beginning to come fully awake and to wonder why she had rung. “Happened quite by accident, you know, through having met Jack at Oxford.”

“Jack—oh, that would be that nice Sergeant Gibbons, would it?”

“That's right. We were both up at the same time.”

“I see.”

There was another pause.

“Well,” said Alice, “I was thinking—if you liked—I thought it might be nice to get together and catch up.”

“Er,” said Bethancourt, caught off guard.

His first instinct was to say no. He was not a man who dwelled much on the past, and he had no present interest in Alice Knowles at all. He was ready to admit to himself that had she preserved her face and figure he might not have said no to renewing the relationship—at least on a temporary basis—but as it was, he would refuse that honor.

But then it occurred to him that, regardless of his personal feelings, Alice was his one legitimate tie to the Mittlesdon murder.

“I'd love to,” he said. “Are you free for lunch today by any chance?”

“Why, yes,” said Alice, sounding a little surprised at the promptness of his invitation. “Yes, that would be fine.”

“I don't know how much longer I'll be in town, you see,” said Bethancourt.

“Oh! Oh, of course.”

“And I'm afraid I'll have to depend on you to suggest somewhere to meet,” he continued. “I'm quite out of touch with things here nowadays.”

“Naturally,” she answered. “Let me think a moment. . . . Well, why not Loch Fyne? They've got a quite pleasant bar. And it's just down the street from the bookshop, so you can't miss it.”

“I think I know the place you mean,” said Bethancourt. “Just past the bridge, isn't it?”

“That's right. Will that do?”

“Perfectly,” said Bethancourt. “Shall we meet there at one?”

“Half past would be better for me, if it's not too late?” said Alice.

“Not at all. Half one it is. I'll see you then.”

“I look forward to it.”

He rang off and turned to find that Cerberus had followed him and was sitting patiently by the bed.

“I have no idea what I just got myself into,” Bethancourt told him.

An hour later, he had showered, shaved, and, seeing that the rain had stopped and the sun was out, given his dog a good walk instead of just letting the animal out into the garden. They had returned and he was consuming his third cup of coffee when Gibbons rang.

“All serene?” asked Bethancourt.

“There was some sticky going, but all's well,” replied Gibbons. “I'm on my way to call at Rachel's house now.”

Bethancourt checked his watch. “She'll have left for work by now, won't she?” he said.

“Only if she has a regular office job,” said Gibbons. “I'm feeling lucky—I think she works nights.”

“That sounds indecent,” said Bethancourt, “but I'm on—at least, I assume I can come with you?”

“Certainly,” said Gibbons. “I'll meet you there. You remember the address?”

“Yes,” said Bethancourt. “It'll take me ten minutes or so to walk over.”

“I'll meet you on the corner then,” said Gibbons and rang off.

Bethancourt finished his coffee while he donned his boots and coat, and he was on the verge of leaving the house when his mobile rang again. It was not a number he recognized, but he answered it anyway.

“This is Catherine,” said a languid voice. “I think you must be that charming man I met at the club last night?”

“I certainly hope I am,” responded Bethancourt, a smile playing about his lips.

“Tall? Blond? Glasses?”

“That sounds like me,” said Bethancourt. “As I remember, you are a heavenly creature with long hair in a green dress.”

“Alas, I took the dress off,” said Catherine. “Does that disqualify me?”

“It depends,” he said. “Are your eyes still green?”

Her laughter was a soft trill. “Do you know,” she said, “I believe they are.”

“Then we're all set. My, that's a relief.”

“Isn't it? I thought, since you were so interesting last night, you might want to come by Club Salvation tonight and give a reprise. Only, of course, if you felt up to it.”

“Well, well,” said Bethancourt. “All that interesting stuff does take it out of a chap, I'll admit.”

“Does it? I rather thought it came naturally.”

“No, not at all. Still, I think I might be able to pull it off once more. Actually, now that I think about it, I believe I'm feeling particularly interesting this season. I might be good for a week.”

Catherine laughed again. “Then I'll look forward to it. Till tonight.”

“Till tonight,” echoed Bethancourt.

He rang off with a broad grin on his face, and was whistling as he locked the front door and went off to meet Gibbons.

Gibbons's luck was holding. Rachel Morrison, as it turned out, was a nurse who worked at the hospital and today was her off-shift. They met her on her doorstep as she was returning from the grocer's.

She was a thin, sharp-featured woman, but with a wide, warm smile. Bethancourt responded with one of his own, which caused her a moment's self-consciousness, expressed in a flustered patting of her hair.

“We were hoping,” continued Gibbons, “that you could give us some information about Jody Farraday.”

“I know her, of course,” Rachel answered, looking from one to the other of the men and taking in their somber expressions. “I'm surprised to hear she's come to the law's attention,” she added. “Here, come inside where we can talk properly.”

“Thank you,” said Gibbons. “We'd prefer to have a private conversation.”

“Though I'll warn you,” she said, allowing Bethancourt to take her bag of groceries while she unlocked the front door, “I haven't heard from Jody recently, and the last I did hear, she was down south.”

“She keeps in touch with you, then?” asked Gibbons.

“In a manner of speaking,” answered Rachel with a laugh. “Here, I'll show you.”

She let them into the front hall and led the way back to the
kitchen. Just inside the door was a small drop-front desk, and above it hung a cork board filled with various notes, cards, and newspaper cuttings. Rachel reached up and unpinned a postcard from one corner and handed it to Gibbons.

The picture was of a coastal village. On the reverse was scrawled: “R—I'm settled here at last and think I'll stay the summer. Got an interesting job at the marina. You know how to reach me if you want to. Or I'll turn up again. Love, yr. bp.”

It was dated last April.

Gibbons read it carefully with Bethancourt peering over his shoulder.

“How did you reach her?” he asked, looking up.

“Message on MySpace,” Rachel answered cheerfully. “Jody doesn't always have a computer, but she finds a place somewhere to check my page once a week or so.”

Gibbons looked hopeful. “Then she had an e-mail address? How about a MySpace page of her own?”

“She's got both,” Rachel confirmed. “But she doesn't use either one much. She's funny that way—doesn't like to be tied down.” She shrugged. “She used to say she was an analog spirit living in a digital age. Really, she's just eccentric.”

Bethancourt was still looking at the postcard.

“What's ‘bp'?” he asked.

“ ‘Bp'?” repeated Rachel, looking puzzled.

“Yes, she signs herself here as ‘yr. bp.' ”

“Oh, that means ‘bad penny.' You know, a reference to turning up again?”

“Oh, yes, I see.”

“And this card was the last you heard from her?” asked Gibbons, handing it back.

“No,” answered Rachel, pinning it once again to the board and moving to deal with the bag of groceries Bethancourt had set on the counter. “She rang on my birthday in June. She was still in Port Isaac then.” She paused to face them, a jug of milk in her
hand. “Has she got herself into trouble, then?” she asked, a worried frown on her face.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Gibbons carefully.

Bethancourt, who had come forward to help with the grocery unpacking, saw the expression in her eyes change. He reached out to take the jug of milk from her hand and said, “Yes, it's bad news. Perhaps you'd like to sit down?”

Numbly, she let him take the milk while she stared, frozen, at Gibbons.

“Dead?” she asked at last. And when Gibbons nodded she turned away, putting her hands to her face.

Gibbons gave her a moment while Bethancourt deposited the milk in the refrigerator, and then caught his friend's eyes, jerking his head toward their witness.