She parked the Lexus across the street and started towards the house. She walked through the front gate and crossed the front yard briskly – if she lost momentum she might chicken out – and knocked loudly on the front door.

Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Nobody came to the door, so she knocked again, louder this time.

‘Jesus, fuck,’ called a voice from inside. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

The front door popped open and a man appeared, his features dark and distorted behind a tattered old screen door.

‘Yeah?’ the man asked.

‘Are you Marcus Stemple?’ Kate asked.

The man yawned, scratching his balls. ‘What are you selling? Insurance, charity or religion?’

‘I’m not selling anything,’ she said, keeping her tone light. ‘My name is Kate Keddie. You knew my husband, John. He was a physician at Trinity Health Centre. He looked after your mother.’

He opened the screen door and stepped out onto the verandah to get a look at Kate. He was a slim man, somewhere in his late twenties, with long limbs connecting to a solid, compact torso, like a daddy-long-legs spider. His face was vampire-pale, his hair black and greasy. His eyes were deeply set and etched with worry lines.

He let the screen door fall shut behind him. It slammed loudly, startling Kate.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘John came to Belport a couple of weeks ago,’ she said. ‘Then, four days ago, he was killed.’

Marcus belched, then nodded. ‘Yeah, I heard something about that. It’s got everyone in town on their toes. What’s it got to do with me?’

Kate took David Stemple’s obituary from the pocket of her jeans and handed it to him. Marcus read it, expressionless. He then folded the obituary and handed it back.

‘I’ve never seen this before,’ he said. ‘It’s twenty-three years old. Where’d you get it?’

‘I found it among John’s things.’

‘Why would he have it?’

‘I was hoping you might be able to help answer that.’

Marcus shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand and looked into the street. Kate’s Lexus stood out against the grey landscape like a shiny sore thumb. ‘Did you come out here by yourself?’

It was an unsettling question, but Kate nodded.

‘I suppose you can come inside,’ he said. ‘But I don’t get many visitors so I don’t have any coffee or tea or scones or anything.’

‘That’s fine,’ Kate said.

Marcus Stemple’s home was sparse and felt almost transient. There were no pets and no plants. The only items of furniture were a wooden desk and chair, an armchair by the window that the Salvation Army would reject, and a coffee table covered with empty beer bottles, ash trays and an extravagant glass bong. The walls were the colour of burned mustard, and a musty, second-hand smell hovered in the air.