When his trance was broken in the pre-dawn hours, he found he'd written a screenplay. On bedstand next to her are a lighted candle and glass of red wine. Book with half-obscured title, Adventures of Harry Potter. Know that I seek not the first of the sacred books, because that book has been read by everyone and their mother. And just as no cart ever pulled itself from a hole in the ground, so do I seek not the third book.
Bright daylight fills the bedroom.
Curtains are tussled but undamaged. A few loose papers are scattered about the room. Just outside the doorway stands a British constable who is speaking softly to a tall man, Martin's husband, Lambrecht, who has his back to camera. After all, if you was indeed a vict'm of a burglary, one would expec' some sor' a' valubools to be burgooled from this vicinity. Given that noffin' was burgooled, one could dejuce that no buglahry had transpoired.