A Spider on the Stairs (38 page)

He had finished the coffee and was turning off the engine again when his mobile rang. He reached for it eagerly, but it was only Bethancourt.

“Ringing to cheer my lonely hours are you?” he asked.

“Are you lonely?” replied Bethancourt. “I thought you were in an incident room full of people. Or is this one of those existential situations where you are never more alone than when surrounded by other people?”

“No,” said Gibbons. “I am, in fact, alone in a car in Appleton Roebuck, waiting in case Jenks should return to his bungalow.”

“You might be in for a long wait,” said Bethancourt. “I was actually ringing because Marla and I just saw a bevy of police cars surrounding a white van in the M1 service area near Leicester. I take it you haven't heard anything yet?”

“No, but that would be good news,” said Gibbons. “Those would be the local lads—they may not have called it in to the Yard yet. Or,” he added, as another thought occurred to him, “it may be the wrong van. I gather there have been a lot of those.”

“Oh.” Bethancourt sounded crestfallen. “I hadn't thought of that,” he said.

“But Leicester makes sense,” said Gibbons. “What is it, an
hour north of Milton Keynes? Because Andy Rowett found another property Jenks has been renting west of there.”

“He did?” said Bethancourt. “Well, I expect Jenks would have needed someplace to stay in the south—I assumed he'd been putting up at an hotel.”

“I don't know,” confessed Gibbons. “I never heard all the details, but I would have assumed the same.”

“Well, ring me if you hear anything,” said Bethancourt. “I've got to go—Marla's coming back.”

“All right,” said Gibbons. “I'll talk to you later.”

He set the phone aside, greatly wondering if Jenks had indeed been found and, if so, how long it would take somebody to call him off his wait here. He would give it another half hour, he decided, before he rang the station to check in. In the meantime, the snow was very pretty. He much preferred it to the endless rain.

It had been something under a half hour when he heard the sound of an engine and saw the beams of headlamps approaching. He waited, squinting, till the vehicle was passing and he could identify it as a white panel van.

His heart skipped a beat and he snatched up his mobile even while he watched the van slow and make the turn into the lane. He could not see the number plate in the dark, but he had no doubt it was Jenks.

Detective Inspector Trimble answered the phone in the incident room.

“Jenks is back, sir,” reported Gibbons. “The van just passed me.”

“Damn it,” said Trimble. “And Brumby's halfway to Milton Keynes. Well, there's no help for it. Hang on, Sergeant— Bill! Ring Brumby at once and tell him we've got Jenks up here. Gibbons, you there?”

“Yes,” said Gibbons. “What do you want me to do?”

“Sit tight,” replied Trimble. “If Jenks leaves again, ring me and
follow him. But I don't want you going in there without backup. Ford and I are on our way.”

“Right,” said Gibbons. “I'll be here.”

It did not take them long. In fifteen minutes, another police Rover sped into the car park and slid into the space beside Gibbons. Trimble got out and switched cars, joining Gibbons.

“All serene, Sergeant?” he asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Yes, sir,” answered Gibbons. “Jenks hasn't moved, not unless he's taken a walk across the fields.”

Trimble grunted. “Not likely in this weather,” he said. “I've spoken to Brumby and he and Howard are on their way back. They think they can make it in a little over an hour—they hadn't got farther than Nottingham.”

“Are we to wait then?” asked Gibbons doubtfully.

“No, no.” Trimble shook his head. “We're to take Jenks back to York for questioning and execute the search warrants for the bungalow and the van. The SOCKOs are following on. I'm going to leave Ford at the scene to head up the search while you and I take Jenks back.”

Gibbons nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Shall we start then?”

“If you please,” said Trimble. “I think,” he added as Gibbons started up the car and began to back out, “I'll let you take the lead when we get there, since you've already spoken to Jenks. That way he'll see this as being connected to your earlier visit and your investigation of the Farraday case.”

“I'll do my best,” said Gibbons.

He led the way, following the trail of the van's tire tracks in the snow, down the narrow lane and around the curve to where the bungalow was situated. This time, knowing what might have taken place here, the setting looked sinister to Gibbons. He parked the Rover carefully behind the white van, and he and Trimble got out, making their way toward the front door while Ford, in the second car, pulled in behind them.

Gibbons rang the bell and waited, feeling unusually nervous and hoping it did not show. There was the sound of footsteps and then the door opened to reveal Jenks, looking much as he had on their previous encounter.

Gibbons smiled. “Hello, Mr. Jenks,” he said. “I've been trying to get in touch with you. Been out of town, have you?”

“Sergeant Gibbons, isn't it?” said Jenks. “Here, come in. Yes, that's right—I've only just come back, as a matter of fact. What was it you wanted?”

Gibbons and Trimble stepped into the little hallway and Jenks closed the door behind them. As on the last occasion, though, he did not invite them farther into his domain, but turned politely to await their pleasure. He did not seem to Gibbons to be overly suspicious.

“It was a matter of helping us in the Jody Farraday case,” said Gibbons. “This is my colleague, by the way, Detective Inspector Trimble.”

“Hello, sir,” said Trimble, shaking hands.

Jenks raised an eyebrow. “What happened to the other fellow?” he asked.

For a moment, Gibbons did not know whom he meant, but then the light dawned. “Mr. Bethancourt had to return to London,” he answered. “But the inspector and I are managing to get along without him. In fact, there have been some developments in the case since I last spoke with you, Mr. Jenks. It's one reason I've been so anxious to get hold of you. I'd very much like to have you come back to the station with me to go over it all.”

“What, now?” Jenks seemed surprised. “I'm afraid it's not a very good time—I'm in the middle of cooking a fry-up for my supper, you see.”

“Thought I could smell cooking,” said Gibbons genially. “Well, sir, I'd be glad to have a sandwich or something brought in for you if you wouldn't mind helping us with our inquiries. It's really
become quite urgent—I've been trying to get in touch with you for two days.”

Jenks looked from one to the other of them, sizing up the situation, and a faint smile appeared on his lips.

“I see,” he said. “You think I did away with Jody, don't you? Well, I don't mind coming along to put you straight on that account. But I'll hold you to that promise of a sandwich, Sergeant. Just let me switch off the hob.”

Both policemen tensed as Jenks turned away, retracing his steps down the hall to what was presumably the kitchen door. He disappeared through it and Gibbons listened intently to the sound of his footsteps. To his great relief, he heard them returning in a moment, and then Jenks reappeared.

“Here I am then,” he said, rejoining them and reaching for his coat, which was hanging from a peg on the wall behind the door. “How does this work? Will you bring me back, or do I follow you in my car?”

“We'll give you a ride,” said Gibbons.

“It wouldn't be possible for you to take your vehicle anyway, sir,” said Trimble, producing some papers from his breast pocket. “I have a search warrant for it and the house.”

For the first time, Jenks looked angry. He pressed his lips together as he took the papers Trimble offered him and opened them, holding the pages under the sconce while he scanned them.

“You didn't need to do this,” he said. “I never killed Jody, and these won't help you prove something that isn't true. But I don't suppose I've any choice.”

“No, sir,” said Gibbons. “It's standard operating procedure, I'm afraid.”

Jenks still did not look happy. He thrust the documents into his coat pocket and zipped the garment up.

“I hate having my things mucked about,” he muttered. “All right then, Sergeant, let's have this over with.”

And he pushed past the policemen to open the front door and lead the way out into the snow.

Gibbons, feeling greatly relieved and not a little proud of himself, followed his suspect out to the car.

Wilfrid Jenks sat alone in the small grey interview room. He seemed quite at ease, sitting up at the table and munching his way steadily through a sandwich and a packet of crisps.

The gathered detectives watched him intently on the monitors in the crowded control room, all of them juggling for the best viewing position, all of them tense and impatient.

“Is Brumby back yet?” asked someone.

“Been back for half an hour,” replied Howard. “He's getting himself sorted.”

“Look at the blighter, eating his sandwich as if he hadn't a care in the world,” said Rowett, at Gibbons's shoulder. “You should have poisoned it, Jack.”

Gibbons smiled at the jest but did not shift his focus from the monitor in front of him. He opened his mouth to reply, then cut himself off to point at the screen and say, “There he is.”

Instant quiet fell as they all watched Brumby enter the room. Brumby's manner was quiet and contained, but even in the grainy image on the monitor his eyes betrayed a laser-sharp focus.

Jenks looked up as he came in, and Brumby inclined his head.

“Mr. Jenks?” he said. “I'm Detective Superintendent Brumby. Thank you for coming in to help us.”

“You're welcome,” said Jenks.

“Was the sandwich to your liking?” asked Brumby, settling himself at the table and opening the thick file he had brought with him.

“It was very nice,” said Jenks politely. “Sergeant Gibbons has been most accommodating.”

Brumby nodded, put on his reading glasses, and peered at the first page of the file. Jenks, too, was staring at it, but Brumby had positioned it in such a way that it would be difficult for Jenks to make out.

“Good, good,” said Brumby. “Well, shall we start?” He cleared his throat before rapidly repeating the date and time and enumerating those present for the camera.

Then he proceeded to take Jenks meticulously through the day of Jody's arrival in York—what train she had come in on, how crowded the station had been, where Jenks had parked his van, how much luggage Jody had brought with her; Brumby covered every detail. Jenks responded to all these questions amiably, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, like a parent indulging a small child. Gibbons, watching him, thought that the man truly had no inkling he might be suspected of more than Jody's murder.

And then Brumby changed the subject.

“What about the day before?” he asked, and Jenks looked startled.

“The day before?” he echoed.

“Yes, the twenty-second,” said Brumby. “What did you do on the twenty-second?”

“Lord, I don't remember,” said Jenks with a laugh.

“Don't you?” asked Brumby. “Did you go to work, perhaps?”

“No.” Jenks shook his head. “No, my holiday began on the Monday. Let's see.” He paused, thinking. “Well, I suppose I must have tidied up a bit,” he said. “Yes, I remember putting fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room, and hoovering the lounge, that sort of thing.”

Brumby nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You wanted to have everything ready for Miss Farraday on the morrow.”

“Yes, of course,” said Jenks, a little impatiently. “That's normal when one's expecting guests, isn't it?”

“Quite,” said Brumby. “So you got everything ready. Yes, I see. And then what did you do?”

“When?” asked Jenks.

“After you'd finished tidying up,” said Brumby. “That evening, the evening before Miss Farraday arrived. Did you go out, perhaps? Take a run into York?”

Jenks's eyes had narrowed. “No,” he answered. “I spent the evening at home.”

“Finishing up a few last-minute things?” suggested Brumby.

“I already told you I tidied up the bungalow.”

“Of course, but I thought there might have been other business you wanted out of the way, so as to be able to give all your attention to your guest.”

“No,” said Jenks. “There was nothing else.”

“Very well then,” said Brumby. He put his glasses on and looked down at the file, turning over several pages.

“You do a lot of work down south, don't you, Mr. Jenks?” he asked.

Jenks was wary now and seemed more engaged than he had at the start of the interview; all trace of condescension had left his manner.

“Yes,” he replied. “My company sends me all over England.”

“But mostly to the south,” said Brumby, still focused on the papers in front of him. “For example, last August you were working in Wiltshire.”

“I may have been,” said Jenks. “I'd have to check my diary to be sure.”

“But you recollect doing a job in Wiltshire last year?” asked Brumby, looking up.

“Yes, of course,” replied Jenks. “In Warminster, it was. I put in a security system at a little shop there—I don't remember the name of it now, but they sold antiques.”

Brumby nodded and returned to the file in front of him. “Muckle's Antiques, it says here,” he read. “You were there a fortnight.”

“That sounds about right,” said Jenks.

“But you never made plans to see Miss Farraday while you were there,” said Brumby.