A Spider on the Stairs (27 page)

“The police don't believe so,” answered Bethancourt, mindful of what he could and couldn't give away. “But, of course, there's been no inventory taken as yet, so that hasn't been ruled out altogether. At the moment, they're taking the view that it was a deliberate crime.”

“He was a most detestable man,” said Daphne, “but that's hardly reason to murder someone. Goodness, if I were to go about murdering all the unpleasant people I encounter, why, the population of York would drop by half.”

Everyone chuckled.

“Only half?” asked Bethancourt, and she winked at him.

“Well,” said Heywood, resuming his seat, “I expect poor Sanderson had more enemies than most. Not that he seemed to mind, I must say.”

“So I hear,” said Bethancourt. “But who and why exactly?”

“Oh, Lord, I don't know,” said Heywood.

“I know Harry Wellbourne wouldn't have anything to do with him,” said Mary Heywood. “Don't you remember, dear? There was that charity event when Mrs. Crowley put them at the same table.”

“Oh, yes, quite a dust-up, that,” said Heywood. “Very bad form.”

“I believe,” put in Peter Heywood, in an attempt to answer Bethancourt's question, “that was over some property. Wellbourne felt he'd been cheated, though I don't know the details.”

“There was some bad blood in the city council, too,” said Daphne. “Rory used to tell me about it. He said Sanderson took advantage wherever he could.”

“He pushed Dora Heald out of her tea shop when he wanted to expand the carvery in Stonegate,” said Pamela. “I did think he might at least have helped her relocate—she'd been there for years, after all.”

Bethancourt nodded, making a mental note of all these incidents to report to Gibbons later.

“Surely,” said Heywood with a laugh, “you're not suggesting poor Dora Heald murdered the man—she wasn't half his size.”

“Well, Harry Wellbourne wouldn't hurt a fly,” retorted Pamela.

“What about his personal life?” asked Bethancourt. “Any jealous husbands or angry fathers about?”

Daphne Stearn gave a peal of laughter. “Good heavens, no,” she said. “You'd met the man—what woman would have him?”

“His wife, I imagine, for one,” said Heywood dryly. “He wasn't so very bad-looking a chap, Daphne.”

She shrugged to show her disagreement.

“I always liked Amy Sanderson,” said Mary. “I can't say I know her well, but from all I ever heard, they were happy enough together.”

“He wasn't known as a womanizer, one has to give him that,” said Rimmington.

“If he was, he was damned discreet about it,” said Peter. “There was a lot of talk about him, but I never heard anything of that nature.”

“But, here, Phillip,” said Heywood, “you've hardly told us anything. What on earth happened?”

“Is it true he was killed in the house?” chimed in Mary.

“Quite true,” answered Bethancourt.

“But didn't the servants hear anything?” asked Pamela.

“It was their night out, I gather,” said Bethancourt. “The last of the Sandersons' Christmas guests had left the day before, you see. Amy Sanderson and her daughter had gone to a show, so Sanderson was alone in the house. The police are working on the theory that the murderer saw his chance and took it.”

“And a rare chance it was,” said Daphne. “From all I could make out, the man was perennially incapable of spending time by himself. I'm surprised he didn't take himself off to the nearest pub.”

“Now, Daphne,” chided Mary, “that's not fair. Lots of people go out a lot.”

Daphne sighed. “I didn't like him,” she said. “I suppose I rather resent having to feel sorry for him now he's been murdered. I much preferred poking fun at him.”

“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.

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.