A Spider on the Stairs (2 page)

He pushed over a second folder, open like the first, and Gibbons bent over the two sets of color photographs. He was by this time tolerably accustomed to the gory scenes such photographs generally depicted, but there was something in these that sent a shiver down his spine.

Both of them portrayed the body of a young woman lying on the floor of a shop: in the first instance, a clothing boutique, and, in the second, a shop specializing in scented soaps and bath salts. Both women had been carefully arranged in coyly suggestive poses, and the fact that they were obviously dead made the positioning grotesque.

“You can see the obvious discrepancies,” said Brumby, though in fact Gibbons had not got beyond his initial horror. He hurriedly tried to make a better assessment.

“There's an artistic quality to Ashdon's work,” continued Brumby in his even, dispassionate voice, “and a certain care displayed which is lacking in the York murder. Here's another set from the second of Ashdon's killings—I think you can see what I mean.”

Another girl, another shop—this time a stationer's—and another deliberately arranged body, the scene for it set with scatterings of brightly colored Post-it notes and a greeting card pressed open against her bosom. Gibbons's eye ranged over the photographs, picking out the details, and he began to have an inkling of what the superintendent meant.

“I'll go over all the fine points with you,” said Brumby. “Because although this doesn't look very much like Ashdon's work on the surface, these things are never consistent. His plans for this particular body might have gone awry, or he might have had to hurry for some reason. And,” he added, a note of exasperation coming into his tone, “most of the Yorkshire detective force is down with the flu, so I've not been able to contact the detective on duty. But if you get there and have any reason to think this could be another Ashdon murder, don't hesitate to ring me at once.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons automatically, the larger part of his attention still focused on the photographs before him.

“Let's make a start, then,” said Brumby, opening yet a fourth folder.

Bethancourt had finished dressing and was idling in his room, putting off joining the company downstairs for as long as possible, when there was a knock on the door.

“Open up,” came a familiar voice. “I've brought you a drink.”

Grinning, Bethancourt swung open the door and beheld Daniel Sturridge with a glass in either hand.

“Happy Christmas,” he said, taking the proffered glass and adding, “Ta very much.”

“Happy Christmas to you,” said Daniel, raising his own glass.

The Sturridge family lived in Burnsall, and Bethancourt and Daniel Sturridge had grown up together, attending the same local prep school and then going off to St. Peter's at age eight. They had grown apart thereafter, Bethancourt going on to Oxford while Daniel got a law degree at York University, but they were still on good terms and were accustomed to join forces to withstand their elders at Christmastime.

“Ah,” said Bethancourt, setting down his glass on the bureau. “That's just what was needed—I haven't had a drop since the sherry this afternoon.”

“God, I hate sherry,” said Daniel, collapsing into the armchair as though the very thought of the liquor wore him out. “Scotch for me every time. So what's this I hear about you dating Kate Moss?”

Bethancourt gave him a severe look. “I am not dating Kate Moss. I have never even met Kate Moss.”

Daniel shrugged, unrepentant. “To hear my mother tell it, you've been disporting yourself all over London with the most notorious women and have probably taken up heroin as well.”

“Dear God,” said Bethancourt mildly, and took a drink.

“Yes, but what's all the fuss about then?” asked Daniel. “My mother couldn't have dreamed that up herself—she's not that imaginative.”

“The fuss,” said Bethancourt, “began because my cousin Neil is apparently going out with some baronet's daughter.”

Daniel let loose a whistle. “Neil found someone to date him?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

“As unlikely as it seems, it appears to be true.”

“Well, pigs must be flying tonight is all I can say,” said Daniel, shaking his head and taking another drink of his whisky. “But where do fashion models come into it? The baronet's daughter isn't one, is she? Because you'll never get me to believe any respectable model would date Neil.”

“No,” admitted Bethancourt. “So far as I know, the baronet's daughter has no aspirations to a modeling career.”

“Probably just as well,” muttered Daniel.

“Possibly, although not having seen her, I couldn't say,” replied Bethancourt. “Anyway, the model came up because my sister Margaret couldn't stand the thought of having to congratulate Neil on his coup in catching a member of the aristocracy, so she nicely diverted attention from it by announcing that I was dating a fashion model.”

“Ah, the light dawns,” said Daniel. “Margaret was always very good at diversions.”

“Age has only improved her abilities,” Bethancourt told him glumly.

“Shall I call her ‘Mags' all evening for revenge?” offered Daniel.

Bethancourt sighed. “Let's not provoke her further. I shudder to think what other bits of my personal life she might drag out for public examination.”

“Speaking of your personal life,” said Daniel, “let's get back to the model. Are you actually dating one then?”

“I was,” admitted Bethancourt. “But she's nothing like Kate Moss. She's not notorious or a drug addict or bulimic or anything like that. She's just a very pretty girl from Kent.”

“It's probably better that she's not a drug addict,” opined Daniel. “And bulimia is so off-putting. Well, my hat's off to you, old man. I always said, if ever anyone of us is going to date a fashion model, it will be Phillip. It was a pity they didn't have that as a category in the yearbook.”

Bethancourt laughed. “I like to fulfill my friends' expectations when I can,” he said. “But honestly, the entire thing's been blown out of proportion.”

“I'll be sure to tell my mother that,” said Daniel dryly. “I'm certain she'll see your side of things if I can only get her drunk enough. Oh, by the way, be sure and tell her how nice she's looking, will you?”

“Of course,” said Bethancourt, surprised. “Any particular reason?”

“Well, she is looking nice,” said Daniel. “She's been on some new diet recently, and she's dropped at least a stone. She'd never admit it, but she's hoping everyone who hasn't seen her for a while will notice and say something.”

“I'll be sure to say something then,” said Bethancourt. “Coming from a connoisseur of fashion models, possibly it will have some impact. Wait a moment, is this the same diet my aunt Evelyn's been on? She's lost a good bit of weight lately, too.”

“Everyone's aunt and mother have been having a go at it,” said Daniel. “Well, except your mother, of course—she's kept her figure. It's some new American diet and it's all the rage this year. Anyway, Mum's worked hard at it, so do say something, eh?”

“Will do,” promised Bethancourt. He finished his drink and reached for his dinner jacket. “I expect we'd better go down before they come to get us.”

As if his words were prescient, there was a knock on the door, and when he opened it, his cousin Bernadette said, “Aunt Ellen says to come down and bring Daniel with you.”

“We're coming,” said Bethancourt. “Right this moment. You with me, Daniel?”

“Yes,” said Daniel, rising from the armchair and buttoning his jacket. “Let's go face the horde together.”

Led by Bernadette, the two young men went to join the Christmas festivities.

Gibbons settled into a seat on a train packed with holiday-goers and pulled out his mobile to check the time. The train was already late starting, and it was not due to get into York until half ten even had it been on time. In addition, they had not yet been able to find him any place to stay, York being an extremely popular destination for the holidays. This in Gibbons's opinion did not bode well
for wherever he ended up, which was likely to be a rather nasty B&B, if he was any judge. For the first time, he really felt the absence of a Christmas spent with his family in the warmth of the old house in Bedfordshire.

With a sigh, he flicked over to his contact list and scrolled to Bethancourt's number.

His friend, when he answered, sounded rather tipsy.

“Jack!” he said. “Are you here yet?”

“I'm on the train,” replied Gibbons, “but God only knows when we'll get into York. I doubt I'll get to view the scene of the crime until morning—I just thought I'd let you know.”

“Well, in the fullness of time and all that,” said Bethancourt.

“How's your holiday going?” asked Gibbons.

“Oh, well enough I suppose,” said Bethancourt. “I can't say I feel very festive, but that would mostly be because each agonizing minute that passes feels like an eternity. I can only speak for myself, of course. My sister Margaret seems happy enough, in her usual humorless way. Not that I want to put you off coming for Christmas dinner.”

“Not at all,” said Gibbons. “Is your father on about you finding a career again?”

“Hasn't got to that yet,” replied Bethancourt. “They're still in an uproar over Marla.”

Gibbons frowned, puzzled. “Marla?” he said. “What's she done? I didn't know she was up there with you.”

“Good God, of course she's not,” said Bethancourt. “But Margaret saw fit to tell everyone at lunch that I was dating a dissipated fashion model—ironic, really, since I'm not anymore.”

“What?” Gibbons straightened up in his seat, startling his neighbor. “What do you mean? Have you and Marla broken up again?”

“I forgot you didn't know,” said Bethancourt. “It happened at the last minute, before I had to head up here.”

“But what happened?” asked Gibbons.

“It was all quite tawdry,” said Bethancourt in a weary tone.
“I'll tell you later—I have to get back inside now before I'm missed. I only came out to smoke.”

“Are you all right then, Phillip?” asked Gibbons, rather concerned.

“Tip-top,” said Bethancourt. “Never better and all that. Ring me when you get here.”

“I will,” said Gibbons, but Bethancourt had already rung off.

He closed his phone and leaned back in his seat, shaking his head over his friend's many problems, and reflected that for some people the holiday season was simply rife with peril, a time to tread carefully rather than celebrate with abandon.

On occasion, he envied Bethancourt his wealth—it was only natural, after all—but moments like these reminded him that nobody's life was trouble-free, and if you had it easy in one way, there was always something else that you had to struggle with. Gibbons definitely did not envy Bethancourt his family, nor, despite her beauty, did he envy him his relationship with Marla Tate. Like any other man, Gibbons had daydreamed of bedding a woman like Marla, and of showing her off on his arm, but in reality he did not like her much better than she liked him, and months of watching his friend deal with her had convinced him that coping with her mercurial temper could not possibly be worth it. In that regard, he supposed, any difficulties could be said to be Bethancourt's own fault: he had chosen to have such a girlfriend.

“Poor Phillip,” he said.

York was decked out for Christmas and awash with holiday makers, of both the local and tourist variety. On Christmas Eve morning, the shops were filled to bursting with last-minute shoppers, and carols sounded from every doorway. It was in very strange contrast, thought Gibbons, to the scene in the small accessory boutique, where he was examining bloodstains on the carpet. It made him feel that the sordid aspects of humanity should not intrude themselves during the Christmas season.

That made him think of Superintendent Brumby, whom he suspected had studied the baser side of human nature for so many years that he no longer could wholly free himself of it, even at Christmas. The superintendent did a very necessary job—and did it well—but the price he paid was high, and Gibbons hoped he himself would be spared that.

The bloodstains in question were soaked into the carpet of Accessorize, and Gibbons was comparing them to the crime-scene
photos taken while the body was still present. With a sigh, he dragged his mind back to the subject at hand.

“So the body was disturbed before you ever arrived at the scene,” he said.

Detective Constable Redfern, who had been appointed to escort Gibbons around, answered, “That's right. The shop supervisor who opened yesterday morning rather lost her head. She tried to give the corpse CPR. She seemed to feel she had been quite heroic,” he added with a grim smile.

Gibbons laughed. “No doubt your superintendent disabused her of that notion.”

“He did that,” agreed Redfern, grinning. “Anyway, we sent along the crime-scene photos to your people, but then Superintendent MacDonald reconstructed what the scene had originally looked like as best he could, going by what the witnesses said. We took pictures of that, too, and then had our sketch artist come down and do a couple of representations. That's what you're looking at now.”

Gibbons nodded, returning his attention to the folder he held and flipping past the glossy photos until he came to the artist's rendering of the scene. He studied it for a moment as a sinking feeling grew in the pit of his stomach, then raised his eyes to compare the drawing with the reality before him.

“I can see why you rang us,” he said at last.

Redfern nodded. “It was Superintendent MacDonald twigged it,” he said. “None of the rest of us realized what we were looking at, but something about the whole setup rang a bell in his mind.”