Not Dead Enough

Buckley rang him. He stopped.
    ‘I’m not sure if it’s good news or bad, Detective Superintendent,’ she said. ‘I’ve checked the phone directory and the electoral register. There are no Tripwells in Brighton and Hove. I’ve done a broader sweep. There is one in Horsham, there are two in Southampton, one in Dover and one in Guildford. The one in Guildford matches your names, Derek and Joan.’
    ‘Let me have their address.’
    He wrote it down. 18 Spencer Avenue . ‘Can you get me directions?’

    The traffic system in the centre of Guildford, Grace decided, had been designed by an ape, out of its mind on hallucinogenic mushrooms, who had tried to copy the Hampton Court maze in tarmac. He had got lost every time he had ever come to Guildford previously, and he got lost again now, stopping to check his street map twice and vowing to buy himself a SatNav system at the next opportunity. After several frustrating minutes, his temper worsening along with his driving, he finally found Spencer Avenue, a cul-de-sac near the cathedral, and turned into it.
    It was a narrow road on a steep hill, with cars parked on both sides. There were small houses above him to the right and below him to the left. He saw the number 18 on a low fence to his left, pulled his car into a gap a little further on, parked and walked back.
    He went down the steps to the front door of a tiny, semi-detached house, with a trim front garden, nearly tripping over a black and white cat which shot across his path, and rang the doorbell.
    After some moments the door was opened by a small, grey-haired woman in a strap-top vest, baggy jeans and gumboots, wearing gardening gloves. ‘Hello?’ she said cheerily.
    He showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace of Sussex CID.’
    Her face dropped. ‘Oh dear, is it Laura again?’
    ‘Laura?’
    ‘Is she in trouble again?’ She had a tiny mouth that reminded him of the spout of a teapot.
    ‘Forgive me if I’ve come to the wrong address,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a Mr Derek and Mrs Joan Tripwell, who adopted a boy called Frederick Jones in September 1964.’
    She looked very distressed suddenly, her eyes all over the place. After a few moments she said, ‘No, you haven’t – haven’t come to the wrong address. Would you like to come in?’ She raised her arms. ‘Excuse my appearance – wasn’t expecting visitors.’
    He followed her into a tiny, narrow hallway, which had a musty smell of old people and cats, then through into a small living and dining room. The living area was dominated by a three-piece suite and a large television set on which a cricket match was playing. An elderly man, with a tartan blanket over his thighs, a sparse thatch of white hair and a hearing aid, was slumped in one of the armchairs in front of it, asleep, although from the colour of his face he could have been dead.
    ‘Derek,’ she said, ‘we’ve got a visitor. A police officer.’
    The man opened one eye, said, ‘Ah,’ then closed it again.
    ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked Grace.
    ‘If it’s no trouble, that would be very nice, thank you.’
    She indicated the sofa. Grace stepped over the slumbering man’s legs and sat down as she went out of the room. Ignoring the cricket, he concentrated on looking around the room, searching for photographs. There were several. One showed a much younger Joan and Derek with three children, two boys and a rather sullen-looking girl. Another, on top of a display cabinet filled with Capo Di Monte porcelain figures, was in a silver frame. It contained a picture of a teenage boy with long, dark hair in a suit and tie, posing for the camera with what appeared to be some reluctance. But he saw in the boy’s looks what resembled, very definitely, a young Brian Bishop.
    There was a cheer on the television, followed by clapping. He glanced at the screen and saw a helmeted batsman walking away from the crease, the middle stump behind him bent sharply back.
    ‘Should have just blocked it,’ the man who appeared to be asleep beside him said. ‘Silly idiot tried to hit it through the covers. You a cricketing man?’
    ‘Not really. Rugger’s my game.’
    The man grunted and fell silent.
    The woman came back into the room with a tray containing a china teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits. She had removed her gardening gloves and replaced her gumboots with pompom slippers. ‘Would you like tea, Derek?’