A Spider on the Stairs

by Cassandra Chan

  Grandidge was gaping at them, so Gibbons added, “Did you really think your uncle would worry that much about import taxes? He was a successful businessman after all.”

  “Well, Uncle Brian was known as a warm man,” said Grandidge weakly. He set down the box and dropped into the chair, half rising again to pull the bottle of vitamins out from under him before collapsing again. “And this was his way of making an extra bit on the side—I figured he looked on it more in the way of a windfall than a business.”

  He seemed quite dumbfounded at this revelation of the character of his uncle’s sideline. He picked up his bottle of beer and finished it in three gulps.

  “So how did you deliver the goods to the customers?” asked Gibbons. “They couldn’t have all come to the bookshop.”

  “God, no,” said Grandidge. “That would have aroused suspicions. No, I’d drop the packets round their places if they lived in York, or else I’d arrange for them to come here or to meet them somewhere, depending.”

  “And these ladies paid you cash?” asked Gibbons.

  “Mostly,” answered Grandidge. He ran his hands through his hair, shoving it out of his eyes. “Sometimes they’d give me a check—I never minded. Hell, I’ve put myself right in it, haven’t I? I should have kept quiet and got a solicitor.”

  “It might not turn out so badly,” Gibbons told him. “Provided your claim that you didn’t know the substances were contraband holds up, the prosecutor will probably go easy on you if you help them find the people responsible.”

  “But I don’t know who’s responsible,” protested Grandidge. “I tell you, it was my uncle’s show, not mine. All I know is there’s a fellow named Nate who works at TBS and packages the stuff up in the boxes he ships up to us.”

  “What’s TBS?” asked Gibbons.

  “The Book Service—they’re major distributors,” said Grandidge. “But that’s all I know—I don’t know where Nate gets it from—I don’t even know Nate’s last name. I’ve got his number, though. . . .”

  Grandidge pulled his mobile from a pocket and began searching through his contacts.

  Gibbons took down the number when he found it. “This isn’t really my bailiwick,” he told Grandidge. “But I’ll mention how helpful you’ve been when I hand it over.”

  Bethancourt had been silent for some time, only half listening to the details of the arrangement. Now he said suddenly, “Jody Farraday knew about it, didn’t she?”

  Grandidge looked at him, startled. “Yes, she found out,” he said. “But she didn’t make any trouble over it—in fact, she’d had it figured out for a while before I realized she knew.”

  “Who else knew?” asked Gibbons.

  “Nobody,” answered Grandidge. “Not unless Jody told someone, and she wasn’t a talker. I really don’t think she did.”

  “What about your aunt or your cousins?” suggested Gibbons. “Or someone else in your family.”

  Grandidge shook his head vigorously. “I never told anyone,” he said. “Not even my sister. I mean, why should I? I was making a pretty penny out of the deal, and Uncle Brian had been quite clear that he’d shut the whole thing down if so much as a whisper got out. So I kept it to myself. I suppose he might have told Aunt Amy, though I wouldn’t have thought so. I mean, I don’t think he usually discussed his business affairs with her.”

  “And you’re certain,” said Gibbons, “that he never approached anyone else at the bookshop about it? Not Mittlesdon or perhaps Rhys-Jones?”

  “God, no.” Grandidge looked scornful. “They’d never have gone along—especially not Mr. Mittlesdon.”

  “But Jody knew,” said Bethancourt, returning to his point. “Was your uncle aware of that?”

  Gibbons looked startled for a moment, then turned to look at his friend, a thoughtful frown on his face.

  “He found out,” admitted Grandidge. “We had quite a row about it, actually. I’d never seen Uncle Brian so upset—he wouldn’t take my word for it that Jody would never tell. But he didn’t find out until Jody was on the verge of leaving York anyway, and he calmed down about it after that.”

  “I see,” said Gibbons neutrally. “Well, Mr. Grandidge, you’ve been very helpful. There will have to be an investigation into this matter, but I’ll do what I can for you. And I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate that box.”

  Grandidge seemed almost eager to give it to him, as if by thus disposing of the evidence he could make the entire problem go away.

  They took their leave, but as soon as Grandidge’s door closed behind them, Gibbons turned to Bethancourt and said, “Sanderson? You really think so?”

  “It fits,” said Bethancourt in a low tone, mindful that Grandidge might overhear them. “Remember what kind of man he was, Jack: somebody who thought quite a lot of himself, and wanted everybody else to share that opinion. Any threat to his standing in the community would probably have made him see red.”

  Gibbons nodded; then gestured toward the stairs, wanting to remove this conversation further from Grandidge’s front door.

  “But was it really a threat to his standing?” he asked as they made their way down to the vestibule. “It is, after all, a very white-collar sort of crime.”

  “Making money under the table implies that your aboveboard earnings are lacking,” said Bethancourt. “Since money was how Sanderson reached his standing, I think this news would have put a pretty good dent in it. Not to mention that he was dealing ladies’ dietary supplements—he’d have been a laughingstock.”

  “Yes, I see your point.” Gibbons paused at the bottom of the stairs, resting the box he carried against the banister. “Still, from everything we know of her, Jody would have kept his secret—he was in no danger at all from her.”

  “He may not have realized that, though,” said Bethancourt. “It’s one thing when your nephew who’s trying to avoid your wrath and keep his extra income swears Jody is reliable—it’s another to actually trust that information. Sanderson likely saw Jody as one of those odd bookshop people: interesting, no doubt, but not reliable.”

  “But how did he come to know she was back in town when even her old friends hadn’t heard yet?”

  “That I don’t know,” admitted Bethancourt. “She certainly wouldn’t have contacted him. Coincidence, I guess?”

  “It could be,” said Gibbons. “It bears thinking about, anyway.” He peered out the window. “It’s coming down in buckets,” he announced.

  “No, really, is it?” said Bethancourt sarcastically.

  But Gibbons was still thoughtful. “Phillip,” he said, with a new note in his voice, “if you’re right, and Sanderson did murder Jody, then who killed Sanderson?”

  They looked at each other in the dim light of the vestibule sconce, realization dawning.

  “Ashdon,” breathed Bethancourt.

  “And it follows then, doesn’t it,” said Gibbons excitedly, “that his motive was revenge for Jody’s death? Ashdon may not have known Sanderson at all—he was part of Jody’s world, not Sanderson’s.”

  “God, you’re right,” said Bethancourt. He sank down to sit perched on the stairs. “We’ve been looking in the wrong place for him. Hell, Jack, you’ve probably spoken with him—you interviewed all of Jody’s friends you could find.”

  Gibbons’s mind was already racing through those interviews, as well as those who had been mentioned but whom he had not been able to find.

  “The age is right, according to Brumby’s profile,” he said. “I’ll have to look through my notes and see which of them could have been absent from York at the time of the murders. Damn, it could even be one of the bookstore crowd after all.”

  “It ought to be fairly easy to narrow it down,” said Bethancourt. “What else did Brumby say?”

  “About Ashdon? There’s a whole file’s worth of stuff,” said Gibbons. He thought for a moment. “Very smart,” he said. “A thorough and deliberate planner, but someone who can also react quickly when the unexpected arises.
Obviously, someone with either . . .”

  “With what?” demanded Bethancourt impatiently, recognizing a breakthrough of some kind. “What are you thinking, Jack?”

  Gibbons turned back to him, a faint smile on his lips. “I was going to say, someone with either a van or an isolated house, or both.”

  He expected Bethancourt to demand the answer, but the words had barely left his mouth when his friend’s eyes lit up and he said at once, “Jenks. Wilfrid Jenks. That’s who you’re thinking of, isn’t it?”

  “It’s positively annoying, how quick you are sometimes,” said Gibbons. “Yes, that’s who I’m thinking of. He was the only one who knew Jody was in town, so he was the only one who might have known where she went that night, might even have known if she ran into Sanderson.”

  “What does he do for work?” asked Bethancourt. “Could he have done the other murders?”

  Gibbons shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t remember,” he said. “I’m not sure I ever knew—something in Leeds, I think.”

  “Right,” said Bethancourt. “He mentioned that when we spoke.”

  There was a clattering of footsteps on the stairs above them. Bethancourt rose hastily, and Gibbons shifted the box back into his arms as Grandidge pelted into view, drawing up abruptly when he saw them.

  “What’re you still doing here?” he asked.

  “Hoping the rain will let up,” said Bethancourt, gesturing toward the door.

  Grandidge snorted and came the rest of the way down to join them.

  “Fat chance,” he opined, peering out at the deluge.

  “And where are you off to on such an inclement night?” asked Gibbons.

  Grandidge grinned sheepishly. “I’m off to make a clean breast of everything to Mummy and Daddy,” he said. “Best to get it over with, I think. I’m hoping I can make points on being led astray by Uncle Brian.”

  “Good luck to it,” said Bethancourt, who sympathized with the plight of having to explain difficult things to one’s parents.

  “Thanks,” returned Grandidge. “I’m going to need it. You might as well brave the elements with me—I don’t think it’s going to let up.”

  Bethancourt sighed. “It never does,” he said, and opened the door.

  13

  In Which the Detective Superintendents Take a Break for a Good Meal and Are Served a Solution Instead

  Brumby and MacDonald were enjoying a late and well-deserved supper. The evening now being too advanced to go knocking up witnesses, they had sent their interviewers home to get some rest, left their researchers intent at their computers, and had slipped out for some food.

  The two men did not have much in common beyond their jobs, but respectful admiration of each other’s professional abilities gave them a reason to make an effort to find some small talk—something that neither man was particularly good at. MacDonald, being the more voluble of the two, had already introduced several topics, only to find that Brumby knew little about sports, or the merits of various beers, or the onerous aspects of home-ownership, so they had fallen back on the beauty of the Yorkshire countryside and the current miserable weather. Both of them, however, remained determined to avoid shop talk during this brief recess.

  Until, of course, they should be called back to it. MacDonald was in the middle of consuming “the best fish and chips in York” with great gusto, while Brumby was eating his portion with neat efficiency when his phone rang.

  “There we go,” said MacDonald, checking his watch. “Well, we got a whole forty-five minutes away from it—not bad, considering.”

  Brumby smiled, acknowledging the truth of this, while he examined his mobile.

  “Gibbons,” he announced, answering it.

  MacDonald returned his attention to his meal, but pricked up his ears when he heard Brumby say, “Hold on a minute, Sergeant. What did you say?”

  MacDonald looked up and found Brumby’s eyes fastened on him in an effort to communicate silently. That something was up was clear, and MacDonald found himself somehow unsurprised that it was the young sergeant who had produced whatever information was currently giving color to his colleague’s pale cheeks.

  “I see,” said Brumby. “I think you and your friend had better join the superintendent and me over here, Sergeant.”

  His brows raised in question and MacDonald nodded eagerly.

  “We’re at a fish-and-chips place near the station,” said Brumby. “It’s—hell, I don’t know where it is. Here, MacDonald, you talk to the lad.”

  The directions were sorted out quickly and MacDonald rang off and handed Brumby back his phone.

  “Gibbons has come up with new information,” Brumby told him. “It throws a whole new light on both crimes, I’ll give him that, though I’m not sure if he’s really found Ashdon or not.”

  His tone was cautious and yet there was an underlying thread of hope.

  “He thinks he’s found Ashdon?” asked MacDonald, a little startled.

  “No proof,” said Brumby quickly, “just a theory. That’s why I asked him to come over. No reason for us not to finish our meal if this is just a flight of fancy on the sergeant’s part.”

  MacDonald nodded. “Do you think it is?” he asked.

  Brumby hesitated for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, I don’t think it is. Tell me, did you ever suspect Sanderson of dealing drugs?”

  MacDonald, on the verge of biting into a chip, froze. “Can’t say that I did,” he answered skeptically. He took the bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then shook his head. “No,” he said, “I still don’t. It doesn’t fit.”

  “Gibbons says he has evidence,” said Brumby neutrally, and MacDonald’s eyebrows went up.

  “Does he now?” he said. “I’ll be most interested to see it. But how do drugs tie in to the Ashdon case?”

  “They don’t, not directly,” answered Brumby. “Gibbons apparently thinks Sanderson killed Jody Farraday because she found out about his drug dealing.”

  “Ah,” said MacDonald. “Now that I can believe—Sanderson was an egomaniac, and they’ll do anything to protect themselves. But that still doesn’t explain how Ashdon fits in.”

  “It does if he was a friend of Miss Farraday’s,” replied Brumby, frowning thoughtfully.

  “Ah!” said MacDonald.

  They ate silently for a few minutes, both contemplating the possibilities, until the door of the tiny establishment opened to admit two very wet young men.

  They did not seem to mind their waterlogged state, striding rapidly across to the older men’s table with eager faces, leaving a trail of puddles behind them.

  “Hello, sir,” said Gibbons, allowing the greeting to encompass both officers and unintentionally splattering them as he came up.

  Brumby looked at his dripping subordinate.

  “Perhaps, Sergeant,” he suggested gently, “you might want to divest yourself of your rain gear before you sit down.”

  “Oh, are we sitting down?” said Gibbons. “Thanks, sir.”

  “Give me your gear and I’ll put it away,” offered Bethancourt, who was vainly trying to wipe his glasses dry.

  There was a few minutes of bustling about while Gibbons and Bethancourt got themselves sorted, but as soon as they had settled into the two spare chairs at the table, MacDonald demanded, “What’s this I hear about Sanderson being a drug dealer?”

  “Not the kind of drugs you’re thinking of,” said Gibbons.

  “Good Lord, what other kind are there?”

  “Ladies’ diet supplements, including human growth hormone,” replied Gibbons.

  Both superintendents’ eyebrows shot up toward their hairlines.

  “I’ve just finished putting it into evidence,” continued Gibbons. “It’ll have to be tested to confirm what Grandidge told us, but I have no doubt it’s true.”

  “Diet supplements?” said MacDonald, starting to laugh. “Well, I can easily see how he’d kill to keep that a secret.”

  “But how did yo
u come to suspect such a thing?” asked Brumby, eager to have the story start at the beginning. “I’ve seen no hint so far in Sanderson’s history of anything like this.”

  Gibbons looked at Bethancourt, who said, “It was my aunt. She’s been on the diet and has been getting her supplies from Tony Grandidge.”

  “Ah, yes, the nephew,” said MacDonald.

  “And you’ve spoken with him?” asked Brumby, sticking to the point.

  “Yes, sir.” Gibbons went through the night’s events, giving an orderly report of their discoveries and conclusions.

  “It’s all just theory right now,” he ended up. “I don’t even know where Sanderson was on Christmas Eve when Jody was killed—he may turn out to have been in full view of his loving family the whole time.”

  “But it’s sound reasoning nonetheless,” said MacDonald. “I’ll put forensics onto looking through the trace evidence from the Farraday crime scene for anything connected to Sanderson.”

  “Yes, it’s a clever solution,” said Brumby impatiently. “But who’s this Jenks person you mentioned on the phone?”

  “A friend of Jody Farraday’s,” replied Gibbons. “She was actually staying with him over the holiday. He lives in an isolated bungalow in Appleton Roebuck and drives a white panel van.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Wait a minute,” said MacDonald. “Are you trying to tell me that the bloody serial killer has friends?”

  “That’s not unknown,” murmured Brumby, never taking his eyes from Gibbons. “Were they more than friends?”

  Gibbon shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Even so,” said Brumby, “it’s a powerful motive for murder. And it does tie the Mittlesdon and Sanderson cases in with Ashdon’s crimes.”

  “It takes a bunch of disparate facts and makes sense of them,” admitted MacDonald. “It’s just—I truly never thought of Ashdon having a Christmas party. Are you sure he didn’t mean to murder Jody, too?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Gibbons. “I mean, he’d known her for years—they were childhood friends.”

  “In that case, no,” said Brumby, his lips twitching in a half smile. “It’s not likely he was planning to make her one of his victims. But let’s get all our facts straight before we go any farther—at this point, Ashdon’s identity is still just a theory. Andy can work on digging out Jenks’ records tonight, and by morning we may have a notion as to whether this man even had the opportunity or not. Then we can go from there.”