A Spider on the Stairs (3 page)

Gibbons turned back to the crime scene. The shop had a small raised dais at the back where there had been a display of scarves and hats. These had been tossed aside for the most part in order to create a space for the body of a young woman.

“Deborah Selden,” read Gibbons from the report Redfern had given him. “She was twenty-two?”

“That's right,” said Redfern. “Still living with her parents out in Bishopthorpe.”

Gibbons nodded, though he had no idea where Bishopthorpe might be; he was thinking how little he wanted to ring and interrupt Brumby's holiday.

“Will you be our liaison officer?” he asked.

“I don't know,” said Redfern, shrugging and spreading his hands. “It's Christmas, after all. And we're shorthanded—the flu's really taken a toll on our manpower this year.”

“Yes, I heard it's been bad up north this season,” said Gibbons. “Well, if you'll just give me a few minutes to go over all the details here, we can head back to the station and I'll write up my notes for my super.”

“You think it's Ashdon then, too?” asked Redfern, a little anxiously.

“I do,” answered Gibbons. “But I'm not the expert. The real determination rests with Detective Superintendent Brumby.”

“Of course.” Redfern nodded his understanding, then turned away to give Gibbons time and space in which to work.

Gibbons took his time over the sketches and the reconstruction photos, noting the details and matching them in his head with the salient features of the Ashdon cases, and taking particular note of the ways in which the scene had been disturbed before either police or paramedics had arrived.

He had never before had anything to do with the investigation of serial killings, but he felt confident of his ability to make a simple determination. All the same, he wanted to have all his ducks in a row when he spoke to Superintendent Brumby. He was well aware that he had been sent to look at this case only because the superintendent believed it was
not
a legitimate Ashdon killing; had Brumby thought otherwise, he would have come himself, Christmas or not. And he was not likely to be best pleased if Gibbons dragged him all the way up to Yorkshire over a red herring.

Nor, to be honest, would Gibbons be any better pleased with
himself. He had been somehow touched by the plight of the superintendent, so haunted by the twisted minds of the criminals he hunted that he was never truly free of his work. The least he could do, Gibbons felt, was not to unnecessarily interrupt the brief break the holidays gave the man.

Once he had finished, Redfern drove him back to the York police station and left him at a borrowed desk while the constable went off to answer yet another urgent call. Gibbons procured a fresh cup of coffee, laid his notes out on the desk in front of him, and rang the superintendent's number.

Brumby answered at once, as if he had been waiting for the call.

“Happy Christmas, sir,” said Gibbons after identifying himself.

“Happy Christmas, Sergeant,” Brumby replied. “How are you getting on up there?”

“Well,” said Gibbons, “there've been some developments, sir. The long and the short of it is that I think this is Ashdon's work after all.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“I know it's not very good news,” added Gibbons after a moment.

“No,” said Brumby at last, “not what I was hoping for—or expecting, for that matter.”

“Shall I go over everything so you can make your own determination?” asked Gibbons. “I've got my notes right here.”

Brumby hesitated before replying. “In a moment, Sergeant,” he said. “Let me ring you back.”

“Of course, sir,” said Gibbons, but Brumby had already disconnected.

It did not take long, however, for the superintendent to return the call: Gibbons barely had time to sip his coffee and idly pick up a newspaper before the phone rang again.

“That's better,” said Brumby. “We can talk for a bit now. Tell me what you've got, Sergeant.”

Gibbons went over the evidence he had gathered, rather expecting to be cross-examined on every point, but Brumby listened for the most part in silence, interjecting a question only once or twice. He let Gibbons finish and then let out the ghost of a sigh.

“That's it then,” he said, half to himself. “Very well, Sergeant. I'll start for the north at once. It's a pity it's Christmas Eve—the traffic is sure to be bad, so I don't know how long it will take me. I'll ring your mobile when I arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, rather startled to have it settled so quickly. “I'll be waiting.”

He rang off and sat silently contemplating how he might fill the next few hours. He did not feel much inclined to join the throngs of last-minute shoppers, and although he had noticed signs advertising a Christmas concert, he doubted tickets would be available at this late date. He could, he supposed, go to a museum or perhaps tour the Minster.

He wondered whether, after Brumby arrived, the superintendent would still want his help, or if he might be sent back to London to await another case. Either way, it did not look like he would be having Christmas dinner at Wethercross Grange. Sighing at his fate, he put his notes back together and wandered off to find someone in the station who could tell him where he might get some lunch.

He was standing at the door, watching the rain come down in torrents and wondering if it might abate, when Brumby rang him back. The superintendent sounded both harried and apologetic.

“I've had words with my sister,” he said. “Or, rather, she's had words with me. It seems I am not to be allowed to leave until after dinner tonight, since I won't be here for Christmas dinner tomorrow.”

“That makes sense, sir,” said Gibbons. “The traffic will have cleared by then, and you'll get here much faster.”

“So my sister pointed out,” said Brumby wryly. “Still, it will make me at least three hours later than I would have been.”

“That's perfectly all right, sir,” said Gibbons. “I can't see that the delay will cause any problem.”

“Is that your honest opinion, Sergeant?” asked Brumby, almost pleadingly. “Because if you were to feel differently, I want to assure you that I would prefer you to say so.”

“Truthfully, no, sir,” answered Gibbons. “I can't see that much can be done tonight beyond my filling you in and your going over the crime scene. And that won't hurt for being done a bit later.”

Brumby sighed. “That was the argument my sister made,” he said. “She also said if I were any kind of decent man, I'd let my team have Christmas Eve with their families before I curtailed their holiday. I suppose she's right.”

“I'm sure they'll all appreciate that, sir,” said Gibbons.

“Yes, well, I've told her I'm setting out by half eight, dinner or no, so I should be on my way by then.”

“That will be fine, sir,” Gibbons assured him. “I'll be waiting for your call.”

He rang off, feeling rather bemused. Brumby had struck him as such a reserved, disciplined man that this insight into his personal life had surprised him.

He turned back to the door, readying himself to make a dash through the rain, when he saw Redfern returning to the station, trotting through the parking lot with the hood of his parka up.

“There you are, sir,” he said as he came in, shedding rivulets of water. “I'm glad I caught you. I've spoken to Superintendent MacDonald, and he says I'm to go home for dinner tonight unless there's a major catastrophe. So I wondered if you'd like to come with me, seeing as how you're away from your own family.”

Gibbons was touched by this kindness. “Why, thank you, Constable,” he said. “That's awfully good of you—if you're sure the rest of your family won't mind?”

Redfern laughed. “Not at all—the more the merrier is how my mum looks at it. And she's got my wife and my sister helping her this year.”

“Then I'd be pleased to come,” said Gibbons. “Although I may have to eat and run—Superintendent Brumby's starting for York directly after his Christmas Eve dinner and I'll have to meet him whenever he gets here.”

“My family's used to that,” said Redfern. “I'll tell my mum you'll come then.”

Gibbons thanked him again and went out to brave the weather in a much cheerier frame of mind.

Bethancourt had expected to hear from Gibbons that morning, but it was after lunch before his phone rang. By that time he had escaped the rest of the company at the Grange by volunteering to walk the dogs, despite the continuing rain. It was then, as he was climbing up toward Appletreewick Pasture on a very soggy footpath, that his mobile at last began to vibrate.

“Oh, hell,” he said, casting about for shelter and finding none apart from a drystone wall. He was at least on the lee side of it, so he scurried through the wet grass to huddle against the stone while he pressed the phone to his ear and tried to shelter it from the rain.

“Are you all right?” asked Gibbons. “There's a funny sound.”

“I'm out walking the dogs,” said Bethancourt. “And it's windy and raining.”

“Oh, I see,” said Gibbons. “Well, Happy Christmas.”

“Oh, right—Happy Christmas,” replied Bethancourt. “Although I don't imagine you're having the best time looking at corpses in York.”

“It's not so bad,” said Gibbons. “To be quite honest, I feel I've spent more than enough time at my parents' house over the last few weeks. It's a relief to be out on my own, doing a useful job of work. Though of course,” he added, lest this seem too callous, “it's rather odd, not being with the family on Christmas.”

Bethancourt felt he could do with a bit of oddness, but managed not to voice this sentiment.

“So how is it going?” he asked instead.

“There's been an unexpected development,” said Gibbons. “It turns out this is another of Ashdon's victims after all. I've called in Brumby—he's arriving later this evening.”

“Oh.” Bethancourt was not sure how to react. He himself had no interest in the psychopathy of serial killers: their deviation from the norm was too extreme for him to comprehend, and it was always the personalities in a case that interested him. “Well, good job you spotted it,” he said.

“It wasn't difficult,” said Gibbons. “But I'm afraid it means it's not too likely I'm going to make it out to the Dales for Christmas dinner. I'm sorry.”

“Can't be helped,” said Bethancourt. “Do cheer my lonely exile with updates on the case, though.”

“Of course I will,” said Gibbons. “Although I'm not sure exactly what will happen. Brumby may send me home tomorrow—he has his team, after all. I'll ring you and let you know either way.”

“Yes, do,” said Bethancourt. “One way or another, I'll see you in a couple of days.”

Bethancourt straightened up as he returned the phone to his pocket and looked around for the dogs. They were nowhere in sight.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and began to stride up the path in search of them.

Mittlesdon's Bookshop was closed on Christmas Day, like everything else, but Mervyn Mittlesdon found reason to visit his shop anyway. His wife was accustomed to say that he preferred the company of his books to that of his family; she meant it as a joke, but there was a kernel of truth to it. The books were always in the back of his mind, calling to him like a siren on the rocks beckoning to a sailor, and he found it impossible to resist their song.

He didn't try very hard, if the truth were told. His little house in Victor Street was a bustle of activity during the holiday, with his daughter and her husband and their new baby arrived for the celebrations, his son home from university, as well as his sister-in-law popping in and out from her own house in North Street. Mittlesdon was very fond of his family—even his sister-in-law—but he disliked having his usual habits interrupted, and during the holidays the bookshop became his haven.

Especially once its doors were closed and the public's frenzied search for presents had faded away, leaving only the calm hush of
the books. There was a little space of time between opening presents and eating Christmas dinner, so Mittlesdon quietly absented himself and walked briskly through the rain to his shop. He let himself in by the back door, breathing in the slightly musty smell common to all bookshops like a perfume, and carefully locking the door behind him again. It was very dim inside, but he did not bother with lights, making his way without fuss through the narrow passage until he reached the front room of the shop. It, too, lay in shadow, the light from both the skylight and the windows muted by the inclement weather.

Here he paused, considering the disorder left when he had shooed his employees out the night before. Mittlesdon was by nature a very reserved man who did not possess the knack of easy camaraderie with his staff, but he was also considerate. He knew that the long hours required of retail employees around Christmas curtailed their own celebrations, and he made allowances where he could, like he had yesterday afternoon when he had dismissed his staff without first having them tidy the store as was usual. He himself had collected all the books left laying about by the customers, and this was the disorder he currently confronted: several higgledy-piggledy piles on the counter and an overburdened cart parked nearby. He spent a few minutes sorting the books into their sections, then took up a small stack and made his way to the stairs. There was a bookshelf on the landing, and as he bent over to replace a book there, he saw a spider sitting comfortably in one corner.

“Araignée du matin—chagrin,”
he murmured, but despite the old proverb, he did not kill it. Instead, he set down the books he carried, shook out his handkerchief, and scooped the spider into it. Then he carried it back down the stairs and released it outside the back door. The spider, a plain British brown, did not seem best pleased to find itself out in the cold drizzle and scuttled away quickly. Mittlesdon was not a superstitious man, but he was to remember this incident later and wonder to himself if there was more to proverbs than he had previously believed.