Peter James - Not Dead Enough

‘All right, Detective Superintendent. You won’t need to explain all of this to the post-adoption social worker – I will get her to bring you the file and let you have the information you require. Is it the names of the people who adopted Frederick Roger Jones that would suffice for your purposes?’

‘That would be a good starting point,’ Grace responded. ‘Thank you.’

A bus rumbled past the first-floor window of the small, sparsely furnished conference room in the Council office building. Grace glanced out, through the venetian blinds, at the pink banner advertising the television series Sugar Rush below its top deck. He had been sitting in this damn room with Nick Nicholl for over a quarter of an hour, with no offer of a coffee or even a glass of water. The morning was slipping by, but they were at least making some progress. His nerves were badly on edge. He was trying to concentrate on his own cases, but he could not stop thinking and worrying about Cleo, almost every second.

‘How’s your lad?’ he asked the young DC, who was yawning and pallid-faced despite the glorious summer weather.

‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘Ben’s just amazing. But he doesn’t sleep very well.’

‘Good at changing nappies, are you?’

‘I’m becoming world class.’

A leaflet on the table was headed Brighton & Hove City Council Directorate of Children, Families and Schools . On the walls were posters of smiling, cute-looking children of different races.

Finally the door opened and a young woman entered, managing to put Grace’s back up even before she opened her mouth, just from the way she looked, combined with her scowl.

She was in her mid-thirties, thin as a rake, with a pointed nose, a hoop-shaped mouth ringed with red lipstick, and her hair was dyed a vivid fuchsia, gelled into small, aggressive-looking spikes. She was wearing an almost full-length printed muslin dress and what Grace thought might be vegan sandals, and was carrying a buff file folder with a Post-it note stuck to it.

‘You’re the two from the police?’ she asked coldly, in a south London accent, her eyes, behind emerald-framed glasses, finding a gap between the two detectives.

Grace, followed by Nicholl, stood up. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Constable Nicholl from Sussex CID,’ Grace said.

Without giving her name, she said, ‘The director has told me that you want to know the adopted name of Frederick Jones, who was born on 7 September 1964.’ Now she looked straight at Grace, still intensely hostile.

‘Yes, that’s right. Thank you,’ he said.

She pulled the Post-it note off the folder and handed it to him. On it was written, in neat handwriting, the name Tripwell, Derek and Joan .

He showed it to Nick Nicholl, then looked at the folder. ‘Is there anything else in there that could give us any help?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not authorized,’ she said, avoiding eye contact again.

‘Did your director not explain that this is a murder inquiry?’

‘It’s also someone’s private life,’ she retorted.

‘All I need is an address for the adoptive parents – Derek and Joan Tripwell,’ he said, reading from the yellow note. Then he nodded at the folder. ‘You must have that in there.’

‘I’ve been told to give you their names,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been told to give you any more.’

Grace looked at her, exasperated. ‘I can’t seem to get it across – there may be other women in this city whose lives are in danger.’

‘Detective Superintendent, you and your colleague have your job to do, protecting the citizens of Brighton and Hove. I have my job to do, protecting adopted children. Is that clear?’

‘Let me make something clear to you then,’ Grace said, glancing at Nicholl and clenching up with anger. ‘If anyone else is murdered in this city, and you are withholding information that could have enabled us to prevent it, I’m going to personally hang you out to dry.’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she said, and left the room.

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.