The Wendy House was as it had been, when he had last visited it, though in the kitchen the glasses and mugs had been put away. Presumably Elizabeth had been in to clean.

They went into the bedroom first, and George looked carefully through the pine chest of drawers. There was nothing to see. Each drawer contained a messy and random pile of clothes. Checked shirts and fair-isle sweaters were mixed with odd socks and grey underwear.

“It’s almost as untidy as yours,” George said. Molly ignored him. She was looking at a framed photograph which hung beside the bed. It was a posed wedding photograph, a family grouping around the bride.

“Who is this?” she asked.

George joined her to look at the picture. “The bride is Pamela Marshall,” he said. “I should think it was taken sixteen or seventeen years ago, but she hadn’t changed much. The old man must be Albert, Charlie’s father. He’s still alive. I’d like to meet him, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make the opportunity. The two couples are Ernest and Laurence, and their wives.” The women were wearing the unbecoming short skirts of the late sixties. One of them was carrying a plump baby. “I suppose that’s Jonathan, the other beneficiary of the will,” George said. At the edge of the group, looking bemused but grinning widely, was a round-faced, middle-aged man.

“And that,” Molly said, “must be Charlie.” She was studying the photograph intently.

George by this time had moved into the sitting room. On one of the dresser shelves a sheaf of papers had been propped in an old toast rack. He sat at the small table and sorted through them. Most of them were unpaid bills and demands for payment. Many referred to the cottage in the Storr Valley. There was a strongly worded letter from the council about rates, and final demands from the South-West Electricity Board and British Telecom. There was a letter from a hire-purchase company threatening court action because only one payment had been made towards the purchase of a motorcycle. These bills seemed to be in no order and there was no indication that they had been paid. Mixed with them were a number of programmes of the Canal Theatre Company and an entrance ticket for Alton Towers.

“No wonder he wrote such good children’s stories,” Molly said. She had come into the living room and was looking at the mess spread across the table. “He never really grew-up, did he?”

“He must have had an accountant to deal with all this,” George said. “But perhaps he just refused to accept financial advice.”

He collected the papers together and put them back in the toast rack. He felt disappointed, frustrated. He had learned that Charlie had owed money, but there was nothing about Todd Leisure Enterprises. His only hope now was that Connibear, with his privileged access to official information, would make the vital discovery. Molly sensed his disappointment, took his arm and led him out of the building.