'Yes, a lot of people. Some of them come in here.' Nick
nodded towards the pool table, where the two young men were still playing. 'Those lads were at school with Grove. Amy also knew him, 1 think. He was one of the locals. Most people only knew him by sight, though. He didn't have many friends. After the massacre, when it was known who had done it, there was a feeling of shock. You don't expect someone you've seen around town for half your life to go mad with a gun in his hand.'
'So you think no one could have predicted what happened?' Teresa said.
'How could they? Grove was typical of a lot of young people who come off the estate up there on the hill: he was unemployed, he was often in trouble with the police, but never anything really serious, he did drugs when he had a bit of spare cash, he liked a drink or two. But he was quiet. Afterwards, everyone said how quiet he was. He was an only child, he stayed at home a lot, always looked a bit lonely and distracted when you saw him, never had much to say for himself A bit of an obsessive, someone said. Always collecting things and making lists.
When the police searched his house they found a pile of notebooks, full of numbers he had written down. He never threw away magazines, and the house was full of them.'
Nick paused, staring down at his glass of beer.
'That's not a lot,' Teresa said. 'What it amounts to is it basically lets the police off the hook.
They got away with a crappy investigation.'
'What do you mean?'
'Isn't it obvious? For starters, which guns did Grove actually use while he was killing people?
Which guns did he pick up from his house, which ones did he leave in the car when he went into the ExEx building, and which ones did he use afterwards in the town? Was the rifle he used at the filling station the same one he used here? And the handgun, in the woods, was that the same one he used later? If not, where did he get them from? Which ones did he leave in the car? How can two sets of guns give identical ballistic test results? Then you've got the lousy police response to explain. When there was a shooting at the filling station, why didn't they put up roadblocks and haul him in straight away? When he started shooting in the town, why didn't they have armed marksmen out on the streets within five or ten minutes?'
'We don't do that sort of thing over here, 1 suppose,' Nick said, hearing the primness in his voice even as he spoke. 'Not straight away, at least.'
'Right, and so Gerry Grove gets away with it because you're a bunch of tightassed Brits.'
Nick said, defensively, 'People get away with it in America too.'
'Sometimes.
At last he realized what he had been getting at, if only subconsciously. He said, 'That's how your husband was killed, wasn't it?'
She turned away, looked across the almost empty bar to where the kids were playing pool.
'Yes,' she said. 'You're right.'
'I'm sorry,' Nick said. 'I didn't think. I'd forgotten that, for a moment.'
'I deserved it.'
There was a long silence between them, while the jukebox played and the pool balls clacked intermittently. Nick was ashamed, not just of what he had said, but of having said it in the dowdy bar in the old hotel he ran, where people came for a couple of hours to be less bored than they were at home, but still bored. Ashamed of being still here in Bulverton. Of doing what he did, of the drinks he got through, of holding on to Amy, of being frightened of the future.
Finally, Teresa said, 'May I have that bourbon now?' 'OK.' 'No, 1 don't want it.' Then she pushed her glass across to him. 'Yes, 1 do, but only one.'
CHAPTER 2 2
It was a blisteringly hot day, and the Duke Ellington Orchestra was on the radio playing
'Newport Up'. Teresa backed the car away from the sidewalk, did a Uturn, and drove south along 30th Street. She eased herself more comfortably on the wide bench seat, and glanced up into the rearview mirror, straining to see herself; an elderly black woman's face, full of mild concern, looked back at her.
'Hi, Elsa!' Teresa said aloud, smiling at her own reflection. 'Let's go to Mexico!'
She followed signs across town towards the Montgomery Freeway, Highway 5, and turned south again. The sea was on her right, glimpsed through palm trees and apartment blocks. A new track came on: Artie Shaw playing 'I'm Coming Virginia'. The Mexican border was not far ahead. She drove until the rest of the traffic had disappeared, and the buildings of San Diego were static in her rearview mirror.
The sea remained out of reach, far away, glistening out to the horizon, still and tranquil.
When she was sure she could go no further, Teresa returned the gun to the glove compartment. She waited until the Artie Shaw record ended.
LIVER.
Teresa was a man, sweating in the heat, jacket off, cap on, dark glasses on her eyes, gun on her belt, gum in her mouth, itch in her crotch. Her name was Officer joe Cordle, San Diego City Police. Officer Rico Patresse stood beside her, his pistol resting on the whitepainted hood of the car. They were on duty at a roadblock across Route 8, three miles east of downtown San Diego. Another police unit was parked at a similar angle on the opposite side of the highway. Two officers stood at the ready there. In case there was an attempted getaway, backup units were parked at other strategic points on the road, most of them hidden from view.
Traffic moving towards San Diego was being monitored by a team of four other armed officers standing at the roadside. They gave each vehicle a quick lookover before waving it through. The car they were interested in was a dark blue '47 Pontiac being driven by a single white male: William Cook. A second man, Cook's hostage, identity still unknown, was tied up and lying on the rear seat. The Pontiac had been identified
