He walked back up the street, and when he reached the house neighbouring Lamar’s, he cut left into the driveway and followed the common boundary down the slope, keeping close against the wall between the two properties. At the bottom of the slope he climbed over the wall to Lamar’s side, walked up through flowerbeds and past the swimming pool to Erin’s room. He unlocked the sliding glass door, stepped in and then locked the door behind him.

Total silence. He moved through Erin’s room to the internal door. The alarm pad showed the security system was inactive. He went up the stairs to the main house and waited at the top of the landing. Still nothing. The broken glass had been removed from the living-room window, and there was no blood, or evidence markers. He walked along the upper-floor hallway, open doors leaking dawn light on the carpet, and went into Freeman’s office. The desk drawers were almost empty. Just a paperweight and some blank envelopes. He continued down the corridor to Lamar’s office. More austerity, but in addition to the phone on the desk, there was a pen and a handwritten note.

Dad,

My talk was cancelled, so I’m back at the house for a couple of days. Let’s have dinner tonight if you’re free? Let me know.

Erin

Lamar had never seen that. Vincent sat behind the desk. He wondered if it was some kind of bad luck, reading correspondence intended for a dead man. He checked the drawers. Paperclips, and a diary for next year. No cell phone, no computer. Nothing digital, other than the cordless phone on its base station at the corner of the desk. The note centred there in empty space, as if left for poignancy. Things unfulfilled.

He went back down the hallway to the kitchen, using his phone as a flashlight. It was a restaurant-grade set-up: stainless-steel benchtops, an oven big enough to cook a horse. The magnet-covered fridge was the only domestic touch. He passed the phone light over them slowly, like an airport cop scanning for bomb residue. Ads for pool cleaners, plumbers, builders, gutter maintenance. Everything the fastidious homeowner could desire. No gardener, though. He checked the kitchen drawers. The contents were all food-related. Cutlery and pots and plastic containers holding ranks of little spice packets. He went back out into the hallway and opened a drawer in a side table. Loose pens and papers and torn envelopes. The clutter was encouraging. He dumped a handful of paper on the table and sifted through it.

And found a receipt from Express Gardens.

It was a copy of a handwritten original, dog-eared carbon-paper furred on one edge, as if torn from a perforated book.

Cut grass, $40.