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.
Throughout this period, the world's press had camped out in Taunton Avenue, trying to find out what anyone who lived there might have known about Steve's relationship with Grove, or indeed about Grove himself This woman, Steve's mother, would have borne the brunt Of all that.
Having been through something very like it herself back home, Teresa had only sympathy for her.
When she reached the end of the concrete path, she turned to glance back. Mrs Ripon was still standing at the door, watching to see that she left. Teresa felt an impulse to go back to her and try to explain, to say that what she was probably thinking wasn't true. But she had been trained never to explain unnecessarily, always to ask, wait for answers, evaluate carefully afterwards. Every situation with a member of the public had a procedure that had to be followed. Do it by the book.
