The address was 81 Charter Street, Reading. Wendy found it with little difficulty. It was an attractive house, indicative of the area. A neat garden out the front, some flowers; the season was unfavourable for them to bloom, although they looked ready to once the coldness in the air had been replaced with the rays of the sun. A small dog yapped inside the house as Wendy pushed open the gate at the front. The yapping was quickly accompanied by a woman’s shrill voice. ‘Stop the barking, or I’ll have the neighbours complaining,’ it said.
Wendy noticed that the dog took no notice. She had had a dog when she first married. A spritely Yorkshire terrier who would jump up when she came in, but not for her husband, who was more disciplined with the animal. Still, her husband had shed more tears than her when it had died at the age of thirteen.
After that, both of them vowed no more dogs, although their two sons had had a collection of rabbits, guinea pigs, even salamanders, but none ever lived for long, and no one ever formed an emotional attachment. Wendy could not say that about the two cats she now owned. She realised that she had become fond of them, and she would be sad when they departed.
After two attempts at ringing the bell on the house, a two-storey terrace built in the 1950s, the door opened.
‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street Police Station. I’m with Homicide,’ Wendy said.
‘No bodies here,’ the woman replied. She was attempting to hold back the dog which wanted to surge forward and welcome the visitor.
Wendy could see that making friends with the dog would gain the confidence of the woman. She bent down and patted it, even though it was old and scruffy, a mongrel of indeterminate parentage.
‘He doesn’t take to strangers,’ the woman said.
The dog barked at Wendy’s touch but stopped soon after. It was clear that the dog did not go out often, and it was in need of a good bath.
‘You’d better come in. No point standing out there in the cold. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
Wendy noted that the house had seen better years; the wallpaper was fading, and the carpet was threadbare in certain areas. It was a good house in a good street, but the inside showed neglect, whereas the gardens, front and rear, showed love and affection. It seemed incongruous, but probably not related to Wendy’s current line of enquiry.
The woman came back with two mugs of tea. ‘Sorry, there’s no sugar, although I have sweetener if you prefer.’
‘Sweetener is fine,’ Wendy answered. The dog had taken his place next to her. The smell of it was distracting.
‘May I ask your name?’
‘Victoria Sullivan.’
‘And your husband is George?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask where he is?’
‘He will be back soon,’ the woman replied. ‘Why are you interested in George?’
‘You are aware of a body that was found in a fireplace?’
‘It was on the news.’
‘We believe that your husband visited that house at some time.’
‘You don’t believe he killed the man?’ The woman looked alarmed at the prospect, not sure what to say, other than the inevitable defence of her husband.
‘Not at all,’ Wendy replied, although George Sullivan could have been as guilty as any of the others.
‘Does the name Solomon mean anything to you?’
‘Other than it was the name of the body.’
‘And Grenfell?’
‘My maiden name.’ Wendy sat up, disturbing the dog, at Victoria Sullivan’s reply.
‘Lord Penrith?’
‘He was my second cousin. We shared the same grandfather, that’s all.’
As the old woman hobbled over to make them another cup, Wendy took the opportunity to SMS Isaac. ‘Found him.’
Isaac’s reply. ‘Good.’
‘What was your relationship with Albert Grenfell?’
‘We exchanged Christmas cards, attended weddings, but apart from that, not a lot.’
‘Any reason?’
‘The title and the wealth followed Albert’s line of the family. I’m from the poor side.’
‘But you kept in touch.’
‘Yes. He was a good man.’
The dog jumped up and ran to the front door. Its tail was wagging, but it was not yapping. ‘My husband’s home,’ Victoria Sullivan said. A key in the lock and the door swung open.
‘Down, boy, down,’ the man said.
Even though he was in his eighties, George Sullivan looked to be a fit person. Wendy noticed that he stood firm, although he carried a wooden cane in one hand. He took off his coat and came into the room.
‘We have a guest,’ his wife said.
Wendy stood and introduced herself.
‘Not often we have a visitor from the police.’
George Sullivan beckoned Wendy to sit down again. He walked over to the electric fire, the fake flames trying to create the look of a real fire but missing the effect entirely. He stood with his back to it, enjoying the heat.
‘What can I do for you? I see that Victoria’s provided you with a cup of tea.’ He looked over at his wife. ‘Any chance of one for me, love?’
Once his wife had left the room, George Sullivan whispered, ‘Is this about Garry Solomon?’
‘Yes.’
‘I never met him, but I knew the name.’
‘You’re a material witness, but you never came forward?’
‘I thought about it, but my wife doesn’t know.’
‘The parties.’ Wendy ventured a guess.
‘I’m embarrassed to tell you now.’
‘We need to talk in detail,’ Wendy said.
‘Not with my wife around.’ The man appeared concerned not to upset his wife. According to
