Mr. Thompson said, “Can I help you?”

I said, “Do you know who killed Wellington?”

I did not look at his face. I do not like looking at people’s faces, especially if they are strangers. He did not say anything for a few seconds.

Then he said, “Who are you?”

I said, “I’m Christopher Boone from number 36 and I know you. You’re Mr. Thompson.” He said, “I’m Mr. Thompson’s brother.”

I said, “Do you know who killed Wellington?”

He said, “Who the fuck is Wellington?”

I said, “Mrs. Shears’s dog. Mrs. Shears is from number 41.”

He said, “Someone killed her dog?”

I said, “With a fork.”

He said, “Jesus Christ.”

I said, “A garden fork,” in case he thought I meant a fork you eat your food with. Then I said, “Do you know who killed him?”

He said, “I haven’t a bloody clue.”

I said, “Did you see anything suspicious on Thursday evening?”

He said, “Look, son, do you really think you should be going around asking questions like this?”

And I said, “Yes, because I want to find out who killed Wellington, and I am writing a book about it.”

And he said, “Well, I was in Colchester on Thursday, so you’re asking the wrong bloke.”

I said, “Thank you,” and I walked away. There was no answer at house number 42. I had seen the people who lived at number 44, but I did not know what their names were. They were black people and they were a man and a lady with two children, a boy and a girl. The lady answered the door. She was wearing boots which looked like army boots and there were 5 bracelets made out of a silver-colored metal on her wrist and they made a jangling noise.