Not Dead Enough

111

Grace was driving his Alfa up the hill, past ASDA and British Bookstores, about to turn in through the gates of Sussex House, when DC Pamela 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 gum boots, 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, milkjug, sugar bowl, cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits. She had removed her gardening gloves and replaced her gum boots with pompom slippers. ‘Would you like tea, Derek?’ she asked, raising her voice.

‘Got a bloody rugger bugger in the house,’ he grumbled, then appeared to fall asleep again.

‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked Grace, setting the tray down. He eyed the plate of biscuits on the tray hungrily, realizing it was lunch time and he’d barely had any breakfast.

‘Milk, no sugar, please.’

She handed the plate over to him. It was laden with digestives, Penguins and marshmallows. He took a Penguin gratefully and unwrapped it.

She poured his tea and passed it to him, then pointed at the silver-framed photograph. ‘We didn’t like the name Frederick, did we, Derek?’

A small, negative-sounding moan came from the man’s mouth.

‘So we renamed him Richard,’ she said.

‘Richard,’ the old man echoed, with a grunt.

‘After Richard Chamberlain, the actor. Dr Kildare. Did you ever see Dr Kildare?’

‘Before his bloody time,’ her husband mumbled.

‘I remember it vaguely,’ Grace confessed. ‘My mum was a fan.’ He stirred his tea, anxious to get to the point of this visit.

‘We adopted two children,’ Joan Tripwell said. ‘Then our own came along. Geoffrey. He’s doing well – he does research for a pharmaceutical company, Pfizer. Working on cancer drugs for them.’

Grace smiled. ‘Good.’

‘Laura’s the problem one. That’s what I thought you had come about. She’s always been in trouble. Drugs. It’s a bit ironic, isn’t it, our Geoffrey doing so well with a drugs company and Laura in and out of homes, always in trouble with the police.’

‘And Richard – how is he doing?’ Grace asked.

Her little mouth closed, her eyes all over the place again suddenly, and Grace realized he had touched a nerve. She poured her own tea and added two lumps of sugar, using silver tongs. ‘What exactly is your interest in talking about Richard?’ she asked, her voice suddenly full of suspicion.

‘I was hoping you could tell me where I can find him. I need to speak to him.’

‘To speak to him?’ She sounded astonished.

‘Plot 437, row 12,’ the old man suddenly said.

‘Derek!’ she admonished.

‘Well, that’s where he bloody well is. What’s the matter with you, woman?’

‘Excuse my husband,’ she said, picking her cup up daintily by the handle. ‘He’s never really got over it. I suppose neither of us has.’

‘Got over what?’ Grace probed, as gently as he could.

‘He was a premature baby, like his brother, poor little soul. He was born with a congenital weakness – malformed lungs. They never developed properly. He had a weak chest, you know? Always getting infections as a child. And really bad asthma.’

‘What do you know about his brother?’ Grace asked, too interested now to take a bite of his Penguin.

‘That he passed away in the incubator, poor little mite. That’s what they told us.’

‘What about their mother?’

The woman shook her head. ‘The Social Services were terrible on giving out information.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Grace said bitterly.

‘It took us a long time to find out that she was a single parent – of course that was a bad thing in those days. She was killed in a car crash, but we never really knew the details.’

‘Are you sure that Frederick – I’m sorry, Richard,’ he corrected himself, ‘that Richard’s brother died?’

‘You can’t be certain of anything the Social Services say. But that’s what they told us at the time.’

Grace nodded sympathetically. There was another roar on the television. Grace glanced at it and saw a replay of a silly-mid-on fielder making a catch. ‘Can you tell me where I can find your son, Richard?’

‘Already bloody told yer,’ the old man grumbled. ‘Plot 437, row 12. She goes there every year.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘What my husband is trying to tell you is that you are twenty years too late,’ she said.

‘Too late?’ Grace was getting all kinds of bad, confused signals.

‘When he was twenty-one,’ Joan Tripwell said. ‘Richard went to a party and forgot to take his Ventolin inhaler – he always had to carry it with him. He had a particularly bad asthma attack.’ Her voice was faltering. She sniffed and dabbed her eyes. ‘His heart gave out.’

Grace stared at her in astonishment.

As if reading some uncertainty in his face, Joan Tripwell said emphatically, ‘Poor soul, he died. He never really had his life.’