A Spider on the Stairs (31 page)

“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.”

“I understand,” said Gibbons. “I'd still appreciate having the list.”

She nodded. “I'll print it out for you tomorrow morning—unless you need it tonight? I'd have to go back to the shop. . . .”

“No, no, tomorrow will be fine,” said Gibbons. He produced a card from an inner pocket. “If you could fax the list to this number?”

“Yes, of course.” She took the card, examining the number before laying it on the coffee table in front of her.

“Thank you,” said Gibbons. “Now I want to ask you about a girl named Veronica Matthews. She used to work at Mittlesdon's about two years ago.”

“Yes, I remember her,” said Catherine. “She was a nice enough girl and she was very good with children. She used to help me occasionally when I had a big crowd for story time.”

“Do you remember any customers she was particularly friendly with?” asked Gibbons.

Catherine shrugged and reached for a packet of cigarettes. “Not really,” she answered. “Honestly, I don't see that much of the rest of the staff since I'm always upstairs in the children's section. And Veronica wasn't with us for long.”

She lit a cigarette while Gibbons said, “Are you aware of what happened to Veronica once she left Mittlesdon's?”

Catherine frowned. “I think she moved away?” she suggested. “I'm sorry, I'm sure I knew at one time, but I simply don't remember anymore.”

Gibbons let this stand without bothering to elaborate.

“Then I think we're done,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Miss Stockton.”

“You're quite welcome, Sergeant.”

She rose with him and followed him back to the door to let him out. As he said good night, he paused and then added impulsively, “I know it's none of my business, but I'd just like to go on the record as saying my colleague Bethancourt really didn't know you worked at Mittlesdon's when he first met you.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “I'm beginning to believe the same thing,” she said.

“Ah,” said Gibbons, rather at a loss.

“And you want to know why I haven't forgiven him,” she said.

“I'm curious,” admitted Gibbons, “though, as I say, it's none of my business.”

“No, it's not,” she agreed, but she was still smiling. “The truth is that your friend is quite charming when he apologizes. I thought I'd let him do it another time or two before I gave in.”

“Oh!” said Gibbons. “I see.”

“But you're not to tell him that, mind,” she said, opening the door and holding it for him.

“My lips are sealed,” Gibbons promised. “Good night, Miss Stockton.”

“Good night,” she echoed.

Downstairs, he peered through the vestibule window in search of the Jaguar and was relieved to see Bethancourt double-parked directly in front of the building. He fastened his coat and dashed out into the storm.

“It's remarkable how wet one can get in just a few feet,” he said as he settled into the car.

“Isn't it?” agreed Bethancourt. “Are we for home, then?”

“We are.”

Bethancourt let in the clutch and guided the Jaguar down the narrow street, starting up the wipers again with a flick of his wrist.

“So how did it go?”

“You're right,” said Gibbons, “she really hates you.”

“You needn't rub it in,” said Bethancourt, shooting him an annoyed glance. “Did she tell you anything else, or was your conversation confined to her romantic troubles?”

“She hadn't much else to tell,” admitted Gibbons. “She's faxing me a list of her clients in the morning, but I doubt it will be much help. Most of them have children, for one thing, and it's difficult to conceive of Ashdon with a family.”

“That serial killer in America had one,” said Bethancourt. “Though I can't imagine how one could live day in and day out with a monster and not know something was wrong.”

“Oh, I know who you mean,” said Gibbons. “Yes, that was an unusual case, but I don't think we have that sort of thing to worry about with Ashdon. At least we don't if Brumby's profile is anywhere close to being on target.”

“No,” said Bethancourt reflectively, “no, I don't suppose we do.”

It was not a long drive back to St. Saviourgate, and both men were glad to reach their destination, having thoroughly tired of the discomfort of soggy clothing. But as Bethancourt brought the Jaguar into the bay behind the house, he stepped sharply on the brake and said, “Oh hell.”

Gibbons looked out the windscreen at the mud-splattered Volvo 4 × 4 and said, “I thought your aunt was going home to Ilkley today?”

“So did I,” said Bethancourt glumly. “She probably couldn't get through because of the flooding. And she's going to be cross with me for running out on her at St. Peter's today. Oh, well, there's nothing for it.”

They were already so wet that they did not even bother to quicken their pace as they walked up the length of the garden to the back door. They removed their dripping outer things in the boot room and then entered the kitchen quietly.

“She's here all right,” said Bethancourt in a low tone, indicating
the diet book open on the kitchen table, the place marked with a scrap of paper.

“She's been cooking,” remarked Gibbons, sniffing the air and bending to read the recipe in the book.

“I could do with a snack myself,” said Bethancourt. “But first, dry clothes.”

“Definitely,” agreed Gibbons, still reading.

“Let's nip out into hall—” began Bethancourt, when two things happened simultaneously: his aunt called out from the dining room, and Gibbons drew in a sharp breath of surprise.

“Phillip, is that you?” asked Evelyn.

“Yes,” answered Bethancourt as Gibbons seized him by the sleeve and held up the scrap of paper that had marked the recipe's place in the book.

“Is that your aunt's handwriting?” he demanded.

Evelyn was calling to them to stop lurking in the kitchen and come in to say a proper good evening, but Bethancourt was transfixed by his friend's intensity.

“Looks like it,” he answered, peering at the telephone number jotted on the paper. “It's her book after all.”

“Why would your aunt have Tony Grandidge's mobile number?” asked Gibbons.

“Is it really?” asked Bethancourt, taking another look. “I thought the number seemed familiar.”

“Is he a friend of the family?” asked Gibbons.

“Not that I know of,” answered Bethancourt. “It's easy enough to find out— Yes, we're coming, Aunt Evelyn,” he added, raising his voice. “Come along, Jack.”

Evelyn was sitting at one corner of the dining-room table with her meal on a woven placemat in front of her and an open magazine to one side.

“There you are,” she said. “I thought you were never coming in. Phillip, what did you mean by running off this morning? I thought I could at least depend on you to see the girls settled in.”

“I did get them settled,” protested Bethancourt. “They got their keys and signed in, and I carted every blessed piece of their luggage up to their room.”

“Yes, but—” Evelyn was beginning when Gibbons gave Bethancourt a nudge.

“Right,” he said. “I'm very sorry about this morning, Aunt Evelyn, but I need to know something.”

Evelyn was taken aback by the apology; she had clearly been prepared for an argument. Having had the ground swept out from under her feet, she was at a loss for a new tack to take, so she merely asked, “Yes?”

“How do you know Tony Grandidge?” asked Bethancourt. “Is his mother a friend of yours or something?”

And for the first time in his life, his aunt looked back at him awkwardly, as if unsure of what to say. He had not expected it, and found himself nonplussed in response.

“I think I've met Mrs. Grandidge,” said Evelyn uncertainly.

“I'm more interested in Tony, Mrs. Keams,” said Gibbons, intervening. “As you may know, his uncle was murdered recently, and we've had cause to interview Mr. Grandidge in regard to another matter as well. Can you tell me what your connection with him is?”

Evelyn listened to this speech, her blue eyes going very wide as it was borne in on her that he was talking about a police matter. Gibbons was generally rather quiet around the other members of Bethancourt's family, feeling himself a little out of place in their solid county sphere, but here he was on firm ground and it showed.

“I—well, Tony's been getting some of the supplements for my diet,” said Evelyn. “Some of them can be hard to find over here, you see—it's an American diet.”

“And Tony Grandidge has set up shop selling diet supplements?” asked Bethancourt skeptically.

“It's ever so much less expensive than on the Internet,” said Evelyn.

Gibbons was also looking unconvinced. “Just what kind of supplements are we talking about?” he asked.

“Well, there's Stevia,” said Evelyn nervously. “And a vitamin supplement . . .”

Bethancourt was casting back in his mind to the afternoon he had spent at Mittlesdon's looking over the diet book, and suddenly it all clicked. He stared at his aunt, rather horrified.

“Good Lord, Aunt Evelyn,” he said, “you haven't been taking human growth hormone, have you?”

And Evelyn blushed bright red.

“HGH?” said Gibbons, also seeing the light. “That's illegal. And you say Tony Grandidge was selling it to you?”

“I don't think it's really illegal,” protested Evelyn. “I mean, you can get a prescription for it.”

“Only in limited cases,” said Gibbons severely. “Certainly not for dieting. And Mr. Grandidge, to the best of my knowledge, is not a licensed physician.”

“But it's dangerous,” said Bethancourt, more concerned with his aunt's health than her criminal behavior. “Really dangerous—not at all the sort of thing you want to play around with.”

“That's a misconception,” said Evelyn, turning defiant. “Dana Dugan explains that in the book. It's perfectly safe and does wonderful things—”

“Aunt Evelyn, Dana Dugan is an
actress,
” said Bethancourt, “not a doctor. She doesn't even work in a health-related field—I'm not sure she even has a university degree.”

“But she takes HGH herself,” argued Evelyn, “and just look at her! She's lost weight and looks ten years younger than her age.”

“Probably genetics,” observed Gibbons tersely. “Do you have any of this stuff Grandidge's sold you?”

But Evelyn shook her head. “I was going to pick some up while I was here,” she answered. “But when I rang, Tony said there had
been a delay in his shipments and he wouldn't have any until later.”

“Oh, good grief,” said Bethancourt. He looked at Gibbons. “The bookshop shipments. That's how they're moving the stuff—that's why Grandidge's involved. I knew he wasn't the entrepreneurial type.”

Gibbons nodded. “Yes, that must be right,” he said. “Look here, Phillip, I'll have to go back out after all.”

“Yes, yes, I'll come with you,” said Bethancourt. “Aunt Evelyn, I will e-mail you links to credible HGH research. Read them.”

And he followed Gibbons back out to the kitchen, leaving his aunt spluttering in their wake.

It was getting late by this time, and it was later still when they arrived at Tony Grandidge's flat in St. Mary's Street. But Grandidge was still up, and seemed not to mind the hour, though his uncle's death had clearly left its mark on him. His first words upon recognizing them was, “Is everyone all right?”

“Yes,” answered Gibbons. “We're here on another matter, not with news.”

“Thank God,” muttered Grandidge, stepping back to allow them entry. He tried for a deprecating smile, and partially succeeded. “I'm nervous as a cat,” he said. “There's been so much upset, well, I don't know what's coming next.”