A Spider on the Stairs (39 page)

Jenks relaxed again. “I rang her,” he said. “But she couldn't get away and I didn't want to drive all the way out to Cornwall. It's not like it's next door to Wiltshire, you know.”

“No, but it's considerably nearer it than Yorkshire,” said Brumby. “I just wondered, was all. It seemed a little strange, with you and she being so close, that you hadn't made the effort to meet up.”

Jenks said nothing.

Brumby continued on, dancing around the Ashdon murders, but always somehow tying his questions back in to the Farraday case. Gibbons watched as Jenks grew suspicious, was reassured he still held the upper hand, and then had his suspicions rearoused by a new tack from Brumby. Gibbons couldn't have said when exactly it happened, but there came a point at which Jenks's attitude underwent a subtle change, and Gibbons was sure he knew they were talking, however obliquely, about the serial killings and no longer about Jody. Jenks's confidence seemed undiminished, but his attention sharpened, and he watched Brumby with a new look in his eyes.

Why at that point Brumby continued to avoid any direct mention of Ashdon, Gibbons didn't know, but he was convinced that Jenks did. It was as if the two men were playing a game only they understood the rules of, and as it went back and forth, the tension ratcheted up.

Brumby brought up the cottage in Buckinghamshire; Jenks admitted his use of the place freely.

“As you've pointed out, Superintendent,” he said, “I work a great deal down south. It makes more sense for me to rent a place than to stay in hotels all the time.”

“Yes, it certainly would, from your employer's point of view,” agreed Brumby. “Far less expensive. And yet, they didn't seem to know you had such a place. They were under the impression that you stayed with a cousin when you were working in the south.”

“I did stay with my cousin on the first couple of jobs, before I found the cottage,” countered Jenks. “My boss must have remembered that, although I'm sure I told him about renting my own place.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said Brumby.

Brumby accepted nearly all of Jenks's explanations, and to the uninitiated it might have sounded as if Jenks was indeed innocent. But innocent people protest when the police show too close an interest in their private affairs. To Gibbons's mind, the very fact that Jenks had not once asked what all this had to do with Jody's death gave him away.

“I understand,” said Brumby, “that you were living in the United States until the last few years.”

“Yes,” answered Jenks. “I finished school there, in fact.”

“And you learned your trade there, too, didn't you?” asked Brumby.

Jenks nodded. “Yes, I did. I picked it up working summers while I was still in school.”

Brumby picked up a sheet of paper from the file and looked at it. “There was a crime in Indianapolis almost three years ago. I believe you were still living there at the time?”

“Three years ago?” asked Jenks, thinking it over. “Yes, I would have been there then. I didn't leave Indiana until June of that year.”

“They recovered DNA evidence in that case,” continued Brumby.

“That must have helped the prosecution at trial,” said Jenks.

“No doubt it would have, had there been a trial,” said Brumby. “Unfortunately, they had no suspect to compare the DNA to.”

“A pity,” said Jenks. “What was the case about?”

“Didn't I say?” asked Brumby. “A young girl, name of Brenda Turner. She was killed with a blow to the head. They found her body displayed on the side of a road. The—let me see—Rockville Road,” he read from the report, and then set it down and looked at Jenks over his glasses.

“I'm familiar with it,” said Jenks. “US thirty-six it's called.”

“Do you remember the murder?”

“No.” Jenks shrugged. “I may have heard about it at the time, but it doesn't ring a bell now.”

“It's a funny thing about it, though,” said Brumby. “I was talking to my counterpart at the FBI recently, and he said there was another case, over in Hendricks County, that he thought might have been tied to the Brenda Turner case. They were quite similar, another girl abducted and then found dead some miles away, again killed with a stab to the head.”

“Did they find the same DNA evidence?” asked Jenks.

“No,” replied Brumby. “There was very little trace evidence in that case. The FBI agent I spoke to seemed to think the killer had learned from his mistakes the first time.”

“Then it would be difficult to tie the two cases together,” said Jenks. “Unless, of course, there was some connection between the girls?”

Brumby shook his head. “Not that anyone could find.”

“Too bad, that.”

“Hmm, yes,” said Brumby, looking back down at the file. “They had a few other cases they thought they could tie in to the Turner murder, too. In fact, I gather they thought they had a serial killer on their hands. But then the killings stopped.”

“Perhaps the killer went to prison for some other crime,” suggested Jenks. “It happened that way in a movie I saw once.”

“That's not unknown,” said Brumby. “Or he might have moved—that's also been known to happen.”

“Of course,” said Jenks politely.

Brumby turned over pages in the file, almost idly. “The thing is,” he said, “those killings in Indiana stopped just before the Ashdon killings started over here. I expect you've heard of the case?”

In the control room, everyone held their breath, staring at the monitor.

An odd light had come into Jenks's eyes, but he replied casually, “It's been in the papers.”

Brumby nodded. “And there are a remarkable number of similarities in the cases,” he continued, still examining the papers in the file, as if picking out the similarities as he spoke.

“Are there?” said Jenks, but not as if he was interested.

“Yes, quite a few,” answered Brumby. “It occurred to me, you see, that if we were to find a suspect in the Ashdon cases, it might be useful to compare his DNA to that found over in the States, in the Turner case.”

“And do you have a suspect?” asked Jenks.

Brumby raised his eyes to meet Jenks's.

“I think I do,” he said.

And then, at last, Gibbons saw that all that had gone before was merely preamble. The game in earnest began now. Brumby completely discarded his glasses and the file on the table in front of him; Jenks abandoned his pose of indifference and leaned forward on his elbows. Their eyes met and did not flinch away, but held each other mercilessly as Brumby went on the offense and Jenks parried. Gibbons, watching Brumby at work, thought it was as if he were burrowing into Jenks's brain and staking out a place to live there. There was something frightening in his intensity.

“Do you really think,” asked Brumby at one point, “that there's absolutely no trace left of your victims in either that van or in Bluebell Close?”

“Trying to plant seeds of doubt, are you?” returned Jenks.

“We all have doubts,” answered Brumby. “I imagine
you used a tarp to torture your victims on and then tossed it in the bin afterwards. You're too clever to keep something like that, not even if you doused it with bleach ten times over. And those tarps are probably long gone. Except for the last one. That one would still be in the system, still traceable from the tip back to your bin.”

“Throwing out a tarp is not a crime,” pointed out Jenks.

Gibbons had watched many interrogations over the years and had seen many suspects broken, or boxed into a corner they could not escape from. He had seen them persuaded that it was in their best interests to confess, and he had seen them stolidly demand their lawyers. But this one did not end in any of those ways. It ended differently.

Jenks was still maintaining his innocence when Brumby changed tacks and said, “I'll be honest with you here, Mr. Jenks. I would probably never have suspected you if it hadn't been for the Sanderson murder. It was so clearly your work, and yet it broke from the pattern completely. I had to ask myself why you'd done it.”

There was a subtle change in Jenks's countenance when he heard this. “And what did you think the reason might be?” he asked. His tone was light and conversational, but it was belied by his expression, which for the first time evinced emotion.

“Because he murdered Jody Farraday,” said Brumby simply, “and she was your friend.”

For the first time in a long while there was silence. Jenks was staring at Brumby as if trying to read the detective's mind. Then he smiled and inclined his head, in the manner of a chess player conceding the game before checkmate is reached.

“Yes, he did,” said Jenks. “And you would never have caught me if he hadn't.”

A collective sigh of relief went through the control room, but if Brumby felt it, too, he gave no sign. He was not yet done.

“You handled it very cleverly,” he said. “I've never seen such clean crime scenes.”

And that introduced an entirely new phase of the interview. Gibbons watched with a growing sense of revulsion as Brumby
became the admiring student, with Jenks as the arrogant instructor. Brumby played it perfectly, never making himself out to be too much of a dullard, but nevertheless appearing ignorant enough to encourage Jenks's boasts. He coaxed every detail out of the monster in front of him, and did it all as if the two of them were somehow in collusion.

When at last it was over, when Jenks was officially charged and Brumby had let him be escorted out by uniformed officers, chatter broke out in the control room, everyone wanting to comment on various points. But Gibbons felt only the need for some fresh air. He was still feeling quite sick from some of the descriptions he had listened to, so, while the others fell into a discussion of the case, he slipped out, making his way through the empty halls of the station to the side door.

Outside, it was still snowing and everything looked clean and white. Gibbons took deep breaths of the frosty air, as if by doing so he could cleanse his mind.

He had not been there long when the door opened and Brumby appeared, alone.

“Hello, Sergeant,” he said, joining Gibbons under the eaves.

“Hello, sir,” said Gibbons, and watched while Brumby pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, inhaling deeply and then blowing the smoke back out in a long stream. Gibbons would have expected him to be jubilant, if a bit weary, but Brumby appeared quite calm and neither tired nor worn out, but instead almost eviscerated, empty. Some of his usual intensity had faded from his grey eyes and the hollowness lurking in their depths was more evident.

“Very well done, sir,” ventured Gibbons. “I've never seen an interview so masterfully conducted.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Brumby. A slight smile touched his lips. “Do you know,” he said, and his tone was nearly regretful, “the first time I did one of those I had to come out and be sick afterwards?”

“I'm feeling a bit queasy myself, and I didn't have to face up to him,” admitted Gibbons, knowing this was the reason why the insight had been vouchsafed to him.

Brumby only nodded, looking out at the snow as he smoked. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but Gibbons felt the need to express the sentiment growing within him as he watched the superintendent.

“We're all lucky to have someone like you,” he said. “Most people may not know what you have to do to put someone like Jenks away, but they're grateful for the results anyway. I hope you know that.”

Brumby glanced at him then. “Thank you for saying it,” he said quietly. “In my position, one often forgets.”

It was more than a week before Gibbons at last returned to London. He got in late on a Friday, had a lie-in on the Saturday, and turned up at Bethancourt's Chelsea flat that evening for drinks and dinner. He had endeavored to keep his friend abreast of developments with frequent phone calls, but these often had to be cut short; and Bethancourt, back in his milieu, had been busy and not always available to chat.

“I want to hear it all, from beginning to end, in a coherent manner,” said Bethancourt, handing Gibbons a glass of single-malt scotch. “The bits and pieces you've given me lately have me more muddled than informed.”

“That's hardly my fault,” said Gibbons. “I've barely been able to get through to you this last week.”

He took his drink and settled himself in his favorite armchair, a deep, overstuffed one upholstered in green and beige stripes. Bethancourt took his usual place at the end of the couch, propping his feet up on one of his many coffee tables. Cerberus was
curled up on the hearth rug, his nose tucked under his tail, while on the mantel above, the ship's clock quietly ticked away the minutes. Altogether it was a very comforting and relaxing atmosphere.

Bethancourt raised his glass. “Here's to your promotion,” he said. “That's really splendid news, old man.”

“Well, it's not certain yet,” warned Gibbons. “Brumby only said he was recommending I take the inspector's exam—but what I didn't tell you is that he got MacDonald to endorse it, too.”

“Did he?” said Bethancourt, enormously pleased for his friend. “That ought to cinch it—you'll be an inspector by February.”

Gibbons laughed. “Hardly that quickly, if it happens at all,” he said. “But I admit I've got my hopes up.”

“Here's to it,” said Bethancourt, raising his glass again, and this time Gibbons joined in the toast.

Then he paused, sniffing. “Something smells good,” he said.

“I've made a daube,” said Bethancourt. “It'll be ready about eight or so—I thought it would taste good on a cold night.”

“It will,” said Gibbons with a satisfied sigh. “All right then, where shall I start?”