A Spider on the Stairs Read Free Page B

create a space for the body of a young woman.
    â€œDeborah Selden,” read Gibbons from the report Redfern had given him. “She was twenty-two?”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œWill you be our liaison officer?” he asked.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œYou think it’s Ashdon then, too?” asked Redfern, a little anxiously.
    â€œI do,” answered Gibbons. “But I’m not the expert. The real determination rests with Detective Superintendent Brumby.”
    â€œOf 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 withhimself. 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.
    â€œHappy Christmas, sir,” said Gibbons after identifying himself.
    â€œHappy Christmas, Sergeant,” Brumby replied. “How are you getting on up there?”
    â€œWell,” 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.
    â€œI know it’s not very good news,” added Gibbons after a moment.
    â€œNo,” said Brumby at last, “not what I was hoping for—or expecting, for that matter.”
    â€œShall 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.”
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œThat’s