Free A Spider on the Stairs by Cassandra Chan

Rhys-Jones, looking bewildered. “I usually leave the shop keys on my desk at home when I’m not at work.”
    â€œDo you live alone?” asked Gibbons.
    â€œNo,” answered Rhys-Jones. “My girlfriend moved in with me a few months ago. She was gone over the holidays, though, if that’s what you mean. Her family’s from Essex, and she spent the holiday there.”
    â€œOh?” Gibbons asked. “Not with you?”
    Rhys-Jones shook his head ruefully. “Anyone who works in retail isn’t around much during the holidays,” he said. “And there’s certainly no time to plan anything or decorate.”
    Gibbons nodded understanding and asked for the girlfriend’s name.
    Rhys-Jones flushed. “Her name’s Laurel Brooks,” he answered, “but you can’t possibly imagine she had anything to do with this.”
    â€œProbably not,” said Gibbons soothingly. “At the moment, I’m just trying to track down all the shop keys to eliminate them.”
    Rhys-Jones did not seem much appeased by this, but he nodded.
    â€œNow,” said Gibbons, “I’d like to ask you to look at a picture ofthe victim. I must warn you, however, that it was taken at the autopsy and is rather graphic.”
    â€œYou mean you want to know if I can identify her,” said Rhys-Jones.
    â€œYes,” said Gibbons. “Though I’ll admit, her face is not in the best shape—I’m hoping to have a sketch of how she might have looked while alive to show people later today, but all I’ve got right now is the autopsy photograph.”
    Rhys-Jones swallowed but nodded. “I’ll have a look,” he said.
    â€œExcellent, thank you,” said Gibbons, turning to his briefcase. He withdrew a glossy color photo and passed it over to Rhys-Jones.
    â€œGood Lord,” he said mildly, drawing back a little. Then he frowned and, resettling his glasses more firmly on his nose, bent over the picture.
    In the next moment, a sick look came over his face and he sat back, looking a little pale.
    â€œI think it’s Jody,” he whispered.
    â€œJody?” asked Gibbons. He did not remember the name from the employee list Mittlesdon had given him.
    â€œI think so,” replied Rhys-Jones, clearly shocked. “Like you said, it’s hard to tell, but, well, that carroty hair—there’s no mistaking that, is there? Dear God, how did this happen?”
    â€œIs Jody a friend?” asked Gibbons gently.
    â€œWhat? Oh, yes. Yes, she is—or was, at any rate.”
    Rhys-Jones pushed his hair impatiently back from his face and Gibbons waited for him to collect himself.
    â€œShe used to work here,” he said in a moment. “Jody Farraday. She left almost a year ago, just after Christmas.”
    â€œHave you kept in touch?” asked Gibbons.
    Rhys-Jones shook his head. “No, Jody wasn’t like that. She moved away from York when she left the bookshop, no forwarding address or anything, just moving on, as she put it. God, I can’tbelieve she’s dead.” He glanced down again at the picture laying in his lap and shuddered. “It might not be her,” he said, but not as if he believed it. “The face is—very disfigured.”
    â€œI know,” said Gibbons, taking back the photograph. “Thank you for taking the trouble to look at it. We’ll investigate the possibility.”
    â€œWill you let me know, one way or the other?” asked Rhys-Jones.
    â€œCertainly,” replied Gibbons, tucking the photo away. “We usually release the identity of the deceased as soon as their people have been informed. Tell me, had you seen Miss Farraday since she left York last year?”
    â€œNo. No, I hadn’t.” Rhys-Jones shook his head as if to clear it. “I still can’t quite believe . . . I mean, if it wasn’t for the hair . . .”
    â€œIt must