driveways, alleys. AH the roads were lined by rows of vehicles parked with two wheels up on the kerbs. A short row of shops included a convenience store, a satelliteTV supplier, a betting shop, a video rental store and a pub. A main road ran along the crest of the hill, and through the line of trees up there she could glimpse the high sides of trucks moving quickly along.
There was a smell of traffic everywhere.
When she had found a place to park her car, and had climbed out to walk the rest of the way, Teresa felt the sharp edge of the cold wind. lt had not been too noticeable in the lower parts of the town; here the uneven dips in the rising land created natural funnels when the wind came in from the direction of the sea. From the angle at which some of the more exposed trees were growing, she presumed it must do so most of the time.
The house she was looking for was not difficult to find. In this most unappealing of neighbourhoods it presented an even harsher aspect than the others. lt was clearly unoccupied: all the windows in the front were broken, and the ones at street level had been boarded up, as had the door. Remains of an orange policeline tape still straggled on the concrete step and round the corner into the alley alongside. The grass in front of the house had not been trimmed for several weeks or months, and in spite of the winter season it was long and untidy.
lt was the end house of one of the long terraces. The number 24 on the visible part of the door confirmed that this was the house Gerry Grove had been living in during the weeks leading up to the massacre. Apart from its recent decrepitude it had obviously been neglected since its moment of notoriety there was little to distinguish the house from any of the others. Teresa found her compact camera in her shoulderbag, and took photographs from a couple of angles. Two women, trudging wearily up the hill and leaning low over the child strollers they were pushing, paid no attention to her.
She worked her way round to the rear, but here an old wooden fence, several feet high, blocked her access. A garden door had been sealed with a wooden hasp nailed across it. She peered through the loose slats of the fence, and could see an overgrown garden and more boardedup windows. If she had really wanted to she could have forced her way through the battered fence, but she wasn't sure of the rules. The police had once scaled this place; was it still protected by them from intruders? Why should anyone, other than the curious, like Teresa herself, want to look round this unexceptional house?
She stepped back and took some more photographs of the windows of the upper storey, wondering even as she did it why she was bothering. lt was just one more lousy house in a street full of identically lousy houses; she might as well take pictures of any of them.
Except, of course, for the fact that this was the actual one.
Feeling depressed about the whole thing, Teresa put her camera away and again consulted her map. Taunton Avenue was two streets away, parallel to Brampton Road and higher up the hill. She left the car where she had parked it and walked up.
The women pushing their children were still ahead of her. It was not a steep hill, but it was a long one. When she paused for breath and turned to look back, Teresa could see the road trailing down and away towards the main part of the town for at least a mile. She could imagine all too easily what it must be like to slog up and down this long hill with small children to push, or when laden with shopping bags.
When she reached Taunton Avenue the two women ahead of her continued slowly upwards, and Teresa felt a
guilty relief that she would not have to catch them up and perhaps speak to them. She was still acutely conscious of her status as an outsider in this shattered place, deserving nothing much from anyone. She was having enough difficulty explaining even to herself why she had made this expensive trip to England, and was not yet ready to explain herself to strangers.
Number 15 Taunton Avenue was a rnidterrace house, maintained to a reasonable standard of neatness with flowery curtains, a recently painted door and a tidy approach up the concrete path. She went to the door without glancing at the windows, as if to do so would give away the purpose of her visit, then rang the bell. After a wait the door was opened by a middle-aged, stoutly built woman wearing a clean but faded housecoat. She had a tired expression, and a fatalistic manner. She stared at Teresa without saying anything.
'Hi,' said Teresa, and immediately regretted the casual way she had brought with her from the US. 'Good afternoon. I'm looking for Mrs Ripon.'
'What do you want her for?' the woman said. A boy toddler came out from one of the rooms and lurched up to her. He clung to her legs, peering round them and up at Teresa. His face was filthy around the mouth, and his skin was pale. He sucked on a rubber comforter.
'Are you Mrs Ripon? Mrs Ellie Ripon?'
'What do you want?'
'I'm visiting England from the United States. 1 wondered if you would be willing to answer a few questions.'
'No, I wouldn't.'
Teresa said, 'Is this the house where Mr Steve Ripon lives?'
'Who wants to know?'
'I do,' Teresa said, knowing it was an inadequate and
irritating answer and that she wasn't doing this well. She was out of her depth in this country, without the usual backup. She was used to holding out the badge, and getting her way at once. Her name alone wouldn't mean anything to Steve Ripon himself, any more than to anyone else in the town. Come to that, neither would the badge. 'He won't know me, but'
'Are you from the benefit office? He's out now.'
'Could you say when you think he'll be back?' Teresa said, knowing she was getting nowhere with this woman, who she was now certain was Steve's mother.
'He never says where he's going nor how long he'll be. What do you want? You still haven't said.'
'Just to talk to him.'
Something was cooking inside the house, and its smell was reaching her. Teresa found it appetizing and repellent, all at once. Home cooking, the sort of food she hadn't eaten in years, with all its implicit pluses and minuses if you were someone like her who had to watch what she ate.
No you don't,' Mrs Ripon said. 'It's never just talking, what people want with Stevie. If you're not from the benefit office it's something to do with Gerry Grove, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'He doesn't talk about that any more. And no one else does, see?'
'Well, 1 had hoped he might speak with me.' She could not help but be aware of the woman's deliberately blank expression, which had barely changed since she opened the door. 'All right.
Would you tell Steve 1 called? My name is Mrs Simons, and I'm staying at the White Dragon, in Eastbourne Road'
'Stevie knows where it is. You from a newspaper?'
'No, I'm not.'
'TV, then? AH right, FE tell him you were here. But don't expect him to talk to you about anything. He's all clammed up these days and if you want my opinion, that's how it should be.'
'I know,' Teresa said. 'I feel that way too.'
'I don't know why you people can't leave him alone. He wasn't involved with the shooting.'
'I know,' Teresa said again.
She was suddenly taken by a tremendous compassion for this woman, imagining what she must have been through over the last few months. Steve Ripon was one of the last people to see Gerry Grove before the shooting began. At first he was assumed to be an accomplice, and had been arrested the day after the massacre, when he drove back into town in his battered old van. He claimed he had been visiting a friend in Brighton overnight. Although this alibi was checked out by the police, a search of his van and this house in Taunton Avenue had been ordered anyway. In the van they had found a small supply of the same ammunition Grove had used, but Ripon had vehemently denied knowledge of it. When it was forensically examined the only fingerprints found on the box or its contents were Grove's. By this time a sufficient number of eyewitness accounts had been assembled for it to be certain not only that Grove had acted alone but that any plans he might have made in advance had also been his alone. Steve Ripon had not been charged with an offence for having the bullets, but they got him anyway: for not having insurance or a test certificate for the van.