“Everyone’s aunt and mother have been having a go at it,” said Daniel. “Well, except your mother, of course—she’s kept her figure. It’s some new American diet and it’s all the rage this year. Anyway, Mum’s worked hard at it, so do say something, eh?”
“Will do,” promised Bethancourt. He finished his drink and reached for his dinner jacket. “I expect we’d better go down before they come to get us.”
As if his words were prescient, there was a knock on the door, and when he opened it, his cousin Bernadette said, “Aunt Ellen says to come down and bring Daniel with you.”
“We’re coming,” said Bethancourt. “Right this moment. You with me, Daniel?”
“Yes,” said Daniel, rising from the armchair and buttoning his jacket. “Let’s go face the horde together.”
Led by Bernadette, the two young men went to join the Christmas festivities.
Gibbons settled into a seat on a train packed with holiday-goers and pulled out his mobile to check the time. The train was already late starting, and it was not due to get into York until half ten even had it been on time. In addition, they had not yet been able to find him any place to stay, York being an extremely popular destination for the holidays. This in Gibbons’s opinion did not bode well for wherever he ended up, which was likely to be a rather nasty B&B, if he was any judge. For the first time, he really felt the absence of a Christmas spent with his family in the warmth of the old house in Bedfordshire.
With a sigh, he flicked over to his contact list and scrolled to Bethancourt’s number.
His friend, when he answered, sounded rather tipsy.
“Jack!” he said. “Are you here yet?”
“I’m on the train,” replied Gibbons, “but God only knows when we’ll get into York. I doubt I’ll get to view the scene of the crime until morning—I just thought I’d let you know.”
“Well, in the fullness of time and all that,” said Bethancourt.
“How’s your holiday going?” asked Gibbons.
“Oh, well enough I suppose,” said Bethancourt. “I can’t say I feel very festive, but that would mostly be because each agonizing minute that passes feels like an eternity. I can only speak for myself, of course. My sister Margaret seems happy enough, in her usual humorless way. Not that I want to put you off coming for Christmas dinner.”
“Not at all,” said Gibbons. “Is your father on about you finding a career again?”
“Hasn’t got to that yet,” replied Bethancourt. “They’re still in an uproar over Marla.”
Gibbons frowned, puzzled. “Marla?” he said. “What’s she done? I didn’t know she was up there with you.”
“Good God, of course she’s not,” said Bethancourt. “But Margaret saw fit to tell everyone at lunch that I was dating a dissipated fashion model—ironic, really, since I’m not anymore.”
“What?” Gibbons straightened up in his seat, startling his neighbor. “What do you mean? Have you and Marla broken up again?”
“I forgot you didn’t know,” said Bethancourt. “It happened at the last minute, before I had to head up here.”
“But what happened?” asked Gibbons.
“It was all quite tawdry,” said Bethancourt in a weary tone. “I’ll tell you later—I have to get back inside now before I’m missed. I only came out to smoke.”
“Are you all right then, Phillip?” asked Gibbons, rather concerned.
“Tip-top,” said Bethancourt. “Never better and all that. Ring me when you get here.”
“I will,” said Gibbons, but Bethancourt had already rung off.
He closed his phone and leaned back in his seat, shaking his head over his friend’s many problems, and reflected that for some people the holiday season was simply rife with peril, a time to tread carefully rather than celebrate with abandon.
On occasion, he envied Bethancourt his wealth—it was only natural, after all—but moments like these reminded him that nobody’s life was trouble-free, and if you had it easy in one way, there was always something else that you had to struggle with. Gibbons definitely did not envy Bethancourt his family, nor, despite her beauty, did he envy him his relationship with Marla Tate. Like any other man, Gibbons had daydreamed of bedding a woman like Marla, and of showing her off on his arm, but in reality he did not like her much better than she liked him, and months of watching his friend deal with her had convinced him that coping with her mercurial temper could not possibly be worth it. In that regard, he supposed, any difficulties could be said to be Bethancourt’s own fault: he had chosen to have such a girlfriend.
“Poor Phillip,” he said.
2
In Which Gibbons Gets a Christmas Surprise
York was decked out for Christmas and awash with holiday makers, of both the local and tourist variety. On Christmas Eve morning, the shops were filled to bursting with last-minute shoppers, and carols sounded from every doorway. It was in very strange contrast, thought Gibbons, to the scene in the small accessory boutique, where he was examining bloodstains on the carpet. It made him feel that the sordid aspects of humanity should not intrude themselves during the Christmas season.
That made him think of Superintendent Brumby, whom he suspected had studied the baser side of human nature for so many years that he no longer could wholly free himself of it, even at Christmas. The superintendent did a very necessary job—and did it well—but the price he paid was high, and Gibbons hoped he himself would be spared that.
The bloodstains in question were soaked into the carpet of Accessorize, and Gibbons was comparing them to the crime-scene photos taken while the body was still present. With a sigh, he dragged his mind back to the subject at hand.
“So the body was disturbed before you ever arrived at the scene,” he said.
Detective Constable Redfern, who had been appointed to escort Gibbons around, answered, “That’s right. The shop supervisor who opened yesterday morning rather lost her head. She tried to give the corpse CPR. She seemed to feel she had been quite heroic,” he added with a grim smile.
Gibbons laughed. “No doubt your superintendent disabused her of that notion.”
“He did that,” agreed Redfern, grinning. “Anyway, we sent along the crime-scene photos to your people, but then Superintendent MacDonald reconstructed what the scene had originally looked like as best he could, going by what the witnesses said. We took pictures of that, too, and then had our sketch artist come down and do a couple of representations. That’s what you’re looking at now.”
Gibbons nodded, returning his attention to the folder he held and flipping past the glossy photos until he came to the artist’s rendering of the scene. He studied it for a moment as a sinking feeling grew in the pit of his stomach, then raised his eyes to compare the drawing with the reality before him.
“I can see why you rang us,” he said at last.
Redfern nodded. “It was Superintendent MacDonald twigged it,” he said. “None of the rest of us realized what we were looking at, but something about the whole setup rang a bell in his mind.”
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 phon
e 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.”
A Spider on the Stairs Page 2