“Oh, yes,” said Bethancourt glumly. “It’s definitely over. I accused her of infidelity, you see, and she’s not about to forgive me.”
“Infidelity?” asked Gibbons, thinking that this did not sound much like his friend. “Why did you think she’d been unfaithful?”
“Well, she was,” said Bethancourt defensively. “And I didn’t so much accuse her of that as I did accuse her of having no discretion at all. Which is true, damn it all.”
Gibbons felt as though his head were spinning. “So Marla was having a bit on the side and when you confronted her she broke up with you?” he asked. “Is she in love with this other chap?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Bethancourt. “At least, I don’t imagine so. Damn it all, that never occurred to me.”
“Sorry,” said Gibbons, who was still largely confused. “I’m trying to work it out is all. You’re not being very clear, you know.”
“I can’t see what you think there is to work out,” replied Bethancourt. “It’s simple enough: Marla had an affair with the photographer on that shoot she did in Aruba last week and in consequence I’ve broken it off with her.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” said Gibbons sincerely. “But, well, it just seems to me that you’re being a bit draconian about it all. I mean, not to be rude or anything, but you haven’t always been faithful yourself, you know.”
Bethancourt sighed. “I know,” he answered. “And it’s not the first time I’ve suspected that she was mixing pleasure with business when she’s been off on those location shoots. It’s not that so much as it’s the lack of discretion, and consequently the lack of consideration for my feelings. I mean, if I have occasionally strayed from the straight and narrow, at least I made sure that all her friends weren’t discussing it behind her back.”
“I see,” said Gibbons. He was silent for a moment. “I think,” he said, “that you’re trying to tell me that there are rules for infidelity. Well, Phillip, I believe infidelity itself is against the rules.”
“Don’t preach, Jack,” said Bethancourt wearily. “I really can’t take being preached at just now. All I’m saying is that when one commits an indiscretion, one should make certain that no one else ends up bearing the consequences.”
And Gibbons could not disagree with that. It was a kind of morality, if not the one he had been brought up with.
“Well, I’m sorry about it all,” he said. In his mind he was still far from certain that the death knell had been sounded for the relationship, but he could not very well tell Bethancourt that. Still, it would do no harm to inquire.
“You don’t think you could forgive her, then?”
“She doesn’t want to be forgiven,” said Bethancourt in a grim tone. “She apparently feels it was quite rude of me to bring the subject up and broke up with me on the spot.”
“I thought you broke up with her?” asked Gibbons, feeling confused again.
“I did, directly after she refused to apologize for putting me in the embarrassing position of hearing about the affair in a club from a passing acquaintance. It was really very awkward.”
“I can see it would be,” agreed Gibbons. “Er, are you trying to say that Marla broke up with you because you found out she’s been unfaithful to you?”
“Well, it sounds silly when you put it like that,” said Bethancourt. “Although I suppose that was more or less the sequence of events.”
“It’s not silly, it’s completely mad,” said Gibbons firmly.
“Well, it is what it is,” muttered Bethancourt. “Oh, look, here’s the bill. We’d better get on, don’t you think?”
Gibbons readily agreed.
“Who are we going to see?” asked Bethancourt, reading over the bill before placing his credit card in the folder with it.
“Libby Alston,” said Gibbons. “She’s the assistant manager of the bookshop.” He plucked out the contact sheet on which he had made various notes. “She’s been with the store for the last seven years, and lives in Holgate.”
“Yes, I remember you said that,” answered Bethancourt. “It shouldn’t take us long to get there.”
The walk out to Holgate was longer than Gibbons had anticipated, and the rain started up again about halfway through the trek. Bethancourt seemed not to feel the distance, but Gibbons was aware that he was more tired than he should have been at the end of it. He made an effort to pull himself together as they approached the address.
Libby Alston’s house was a modern one on Beech Avenue, a modest, two-story brick affair. She answered the door herself, a big woman of about forty with color-tinted auburn hair and intelligent, light blue eyes. The detectives were rather surprised: as she was the assistant manager to Rhys-Jones, they had both expected her to be younger than he, but in fact she was the oldest employee of the bookshop. She was wearing a patterned dress, and a small, tow-headed child was peering round her skirts.
“Hello,” she said, smiling but with a certain reserve in her eyes. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Gibbons. “We’re looking for Libby Alston?”
“That’s me,” she answered readily. “What can I do for you?”
Gibbons held up his ID card. “I’m Detective Sergeant Gibbons,” he said. “And this is my colleague, Phillip Bethancourt. We’d like a word about Mittlesdon’s Bookshop.”
Libby was clearly startled, as well as instantly curious.
“The bookshop?” she asked. “Here, do come in—Jonathan, sweetie, move out of the way. Amanda,” she raised her voice, “come take your little brother, please.”
From the back hallway Alice in Wonderland appeared, complete with hair band and a blue dress, though without a pinafore. She regarded the two men with wide eyes while she came forward and reached for her brother’s hand.
“You two go along to your father,” said Libby. “I’ll be back in in a few moments.”
The little girl nodded and, with one last glance at the intimidating strangers, led her brother off.
“Come into the sitting room,” said Libby, beckoning them toward the front room on the right. “Do sit down.”
She took one end of the sofa with the air of assuming her accustomed place, while Bethancourt and Gibbons distributed themselves in two of the armchairs.
“Now do tell me what’s happened,” said Libby, looking more curious than worried.
Gibbons went through the usual explanation and inquiry about the shop keys. Unlike the youthful Tony Grandidge, Libby knew exactly where her keys were: in her purse, which she kept on the hall table. Asked to identify the autopsy picture, she looked at it carefully, biting her lip but otherwise not showing any sign of distress. At first nothing particular seemed to register with her, but then she suddenly cocked her head and frowned.
“Did you say this was a young woman?” she asked.
“That’s right,” answered Gibbons. “The medical examiner estimates her age at between twenty-five and thirty. He says she was a very fit woman—not, perhaps, an athlete, but someone who might go hiking or bicycle riding.”
Libby nodded slowly. “It could be someone who used to work at the shop,” she said, and for the first time the facts of the case seemed to hit home for her as a certain uneasiness appeared in her eyes. “There was a girl named Jody Farraday—she was a tall, rangy girl in her twenties. But to be perfectly honest,” and she lifted her eyes from the photograph to look at Gibbons, “I’m mostly reminded of her because of this woman’s hair. Jody’s was like that, and about that length.”
Gibbons was excited, though he did not show it; having a second person independently identify the victim as Jody Farraday was a great help.
“In fact,” continued Libby thoughtfully, “I believe I have a picture of Jody somewhere . . . yes, I think I do.”
She rose and went to a chest in one corner of the room and opened the drawer, while Gibbons said, “A photograph would be wonderful, Mrs. Alston. It might enable us to identify the victim without waiting for the artist’s s
ketch.”
“Well, I’m not sure it’s her,” said Libby, shuffling through a batch of snapshots. “Like I said, it’s the hair made me think of it. Right, here we are.”
She turned back to them and proffered a photo, which Gibbons took eagerly. It depicted a group of people standing in the office at Mittlesdon’s, including all the employees Gibbons had already interviewed. They were gathered about a birthday cake placed on one of the desks, with Mittlesdon himself in the center, smiling self-consciously. In the back was a tall woman with bright red hair and an infectious grin. Gibbons—and Bethancourt, who had risen to look over his friend’s shoulder—peered intensely at the small image.
“I think it might be her,” said Gibbons.
“She’s got distinctive bone structure,” said Bethancourt. “That ought to help.”
“You can keep it if you like,” said Libby.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Alston,” said Gibbons, tucking the photo away. “This will prove very useful.”
“Pleased to be of help,” she answered.
For the rest, Libby Alston had no alibi other than being at her in-laws with her family on Christmas Day, and she had no notion what might have brought Jody Farraday back to Mittlesdon’s, if indeed the corpse was hers.
When they emerged from the house, the short winter day was already drawing to a close, the sun rapidly sinking below the rooftops and casting the street into deep shadow. Bethancourt shivered and turned up the collar of his coat.
“What’s next?” he asked.
“It rather depends,” answered Gibbons, consulting his notebook. “I’d like to get this photograph back to the station to see if it will help at all with identification. But there’s one more employee, another sales assistant let’s see—he lives in Heworth.”
He looked up at Bethancourt questioningly.
“Nothing’s very far out of the way in York,” said Bethancourt. “But let’s get a taxi, shall we? I think the wind’s picking up and it’s a bit of a tramp to Heworth.”
Dominic Bartlett was wearing a bow tie and a sleeveless pullover when he opened the door of his flat to them. He was a tall, heavyset man of about thirty, who looked down his nose at them through round spectacles that seemed constantly to be sliding down from the bridge of his nose, ensuring that their wearer was always tilting his head back in order to see through the lenses. He had the appearance of an intellectual snob, but in fact was quite pleasant in his manner, if somewhat nonplussed to find the police on his doorstep.
“My family lives in Bristol now,” he told them as they settled into chairs in his sitting room. “Not really much sense in making the trip just for one day, even if it is Christmas. I stayed in York over the holiday. Excuse me, did you say someone had died in the shop?”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “A woman was killed there. So you were alone here on Christmas Eve?”
Bartlett was still frowning over the death.
“What?” he said. “Oh, no, I went to a dinner party at a friend’s house. But I don’t understand—how did anyone get into the shop after it was closed?”
“We’re still investigating that aspect of the matter,” said Gibbons. He produced the autopsy photo again, but Bartlett failed to recognize the victim. Bethancourt, watching him silently, thought he did not try very hard; he seemed principally disturbed to be confronted with the evidence of violence. But he did remember Jody Farraday.
“Oh, yes, I knew Jody,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “She had a wonderful wit. And she was so brave.”
“Brave?” asked Gibbons.
Bartlett waved a hand. “Perhaps that’s the wrong word,” he said. “She was just—very confident, I suppose. Not afraid of being out on her own, or of trying new things, new places. I found her very refreshing.” He paused, sobering. “Do you really think it’s her?” he asked anxiously.
“We don’t know as yet,” answered Gibbons. “At this time, it’s only a possibility.”
“I see, I see,” Bartlett muttered. “This is very disturbing. I don’t like to think—well, of course not.”
This was said half to himself, but despite its incoherence, his listeners understood his feelings very well.
“It’s an unnerving situation,” said Gibbons sympathetically.
Bartlett bobbed his head in agreement and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. Behind the lenses, his eyes looked at them blankly, a man at a loss for how to deal with such an unexpected state of affairs.
“So those are our suspects?” asked Bethancourt as they left Bartlett’s flat, turning their backs to the wind and walking southward, toward police headquarters. “I missed meeting this Tony Grandidge chap, but I can’t say they seem a likely bunch to me. Didn’t you say there were a couple of others, who were out of town?”
“Exactly,” responded Gibbons dryly. “Out of town, as in out of town for the holidays.”
“Oh,” said Bethancourt. “As in out of town during the murder. That is a bit difficult. Fairly far out of town, I take it?”
“As I recollect,” answered Gibbons, tugging on his gloves, “one is on a cruise in the Mediterranean, and the other is visiting her family in Cornwall.”
“Well, that puts paid to that,” said Bethancourt.
“On the other hand,” said Gibbons, “the key-holders are not our only suspects.”
“They’re not?” asked Bethancourt, and then, before Gibbons could answer, he added, “Oh! I’d forgotten about the proliferation of keys.”
“Which widens the field considerably,” said Gibbons.
“Yes,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully. “In fact, if nearly any employee could have had a copy made, then it follows that Jody Farraday herself might have had a set. In which case, she could have let both herself and her murderer into the bookshop.”
Gibbons nodded. “Always assuming that our corpse really is Jody Farraday. That’s the first thing to nail down. I don’t think the photo Libby Alston gave us is good enough on its own to give us a positive ID, but it ought to help. And meanwhile we can be finding out about Miss Farraday in case it is her.”
“Yes, surely someone has seen the woman in the last year,” said Bethancourt. “And yet, I rather thought our witnesses were telling the truth when they said they hadn’t.”
Gibbons shrugged. “Murderers are often very good liars,” he said. “I’ve noticed that.”
And Bethancourt had to agree.
6
In Which Bethancourt Goes A-Wassailing and Wee Willie Winkie Chases Gibbons Down
Gibbons frowned at the computer screen. He was back at police headquarters, in the conference room Detective Superintendent Brumby’s team had taken over, doing a basic background search on Jody Farraday. Normally, this would turn up all sorts of information, but he was finding next to nothing on the mysterious Miss Farraday. There was a birth certificate on file, indicating that she had turned twenty-eight last October, and a driver’s license had been issued to her eight years ago in Northumberland. Other than that, nothing. No credit cards or bank accounts, no address beyond the one given eight years ago in Northumberland, and no telephone number or even an electricity bill in her name. Gibbons was beginning to think he had input something wrong.
Thoughtfully, he rose and looked around for Detective Sergeant Andrew Rowett, Brumby’s expert in electronic records.
Rowett, a dour-faced man of thirty-five or so, grinned at Gibbons when he saw him.
“Thought you might come looking for me sooner or later,” he said.
His tone was a little smug, but Gibbons did not begrudge it him. He grinned back good-naturedly and said, “So you’ve already had a look at Jody Farraday, have you?”
“Brumby mentioned she might be your victim,” said Rowett, “so I just thought I’d run her through the system. You know, at least find out if she were missing or no.”
“I didn’t see her in the missing-persons database,” said Gibbons. “But then, I didn’t see anyone there who could be our victim.
Did you find something I missed?”
Rowett shook his head. “I started with the same check,” he answered, “and came up with nothing. So I ran a few others, but our Miss Farraday doesn’t show up anywhere. I think what we have here is someone living under the radar, probably deliberately so. I didn’t go a lot further, since I didn’t think we were sure yet she was our victim?” He raised an eyebrow in question.
“No,” admitted Gibbons, “we’re not. They’re still working on identification, and I’ve contributed a bad snapshot of Jody to help, but it’s possible the victim is someone else altogether.”
“Not someone recently reported as missing,” Rowett assured him. “I ran that search first, locally and then nationally, but the only possible matches I came up with were obviously wrong.” He paused and stroked his chin. “I didn’t look very far back,” he said. “I could do that, if you think it worth the time?”
Gibbons considered. “I have a kind of feeling,” he confessed, “that it is Jody Farraday. I think I’d like to go a little further in that direction before you spend a lot of time slogging through cold cases. But I’ve never come across anyone off the grid before. I take it that means she was engaged in some kind of criminal activity?”
“Not necessarily,” said Rowett. “You’d think so, but there are a lot of odd people about. Some of them just don’t like the idea of the government knowing too much about them. Career criminals, on the other hand, tend to have lots and lots of identifying information—sometimes in triplicate, if you take my meaning.” He grinned again.
“I see,” said Gibbons, with a smile to show he appreciated the humor. “But sometimes there are criminals who live off the grid?”
“Sometimes,” said Rowett. “They tend to be either very low-ranking or else they’re very dangerous characters indeed. Spies and assassins or, just once in a while, serial killers.” He sighed.
Gibbons fervently hoped he was not dealing with a dead spy.
“I’ll keep on with the research,” added Rowett. “A titbit or two will turn up eventually, if experience is any guide. Let me know what more you find out—anything could turn out to be helpful.”
A Spider on the Stairs Page 8