Diana Hunter lived at the end of a terrace, in a stucco townhouse which might at one stage have abutted several others of its type, but which now stands alone in a scrub garden. It observes an almost pointed distance from the other buildings in the street, so that the Inspector can imagine the ground floor lifting its crinolines and turning away from the importunate social climbing of the twenty-first-century developments. It is the last house, and beyond the scrub, the gentle slope of the hill becomes more vertiginous until a retaining wall with a chickenwire fence drops away to a disused railway line, and beyond that, the valley of the teeth.