The Florist by C. L. Pattison

Author:C. L. Pattison [Pattison, C. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-09-06T16:00:00+00:00

Now

16

‘You have a beautiful flat; the light in here’s amazing.’

I set two mugs of tea down on the low table between us.

She’s right; my home is beautiful. I used to love coming back here after a long day at work, but it feels different now. All that wonderful positive energy gone, replaced by an uneasy stillness. I find myself walking softly across the stripped pine floorboards, as if wary of disturbing someone below, even though I know there’s no one there. But how do I even begin to explain that to my visitor?

I paste a smile on my face, as if she’s an old friend I haven’t seen for ages and I’m trying to put a brave face on things. ‘Thank you. This room is south facing; it gets bags of natural light. It was a big draw for me when I was looking at places to buy – that and the size of the kitchen. Mind you, I had to rip the whole thing out before I moved in. The previous owner was an elderly gent; I swear some of the appliances were older than he was.’

This makes her laugh a little. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Seven months or so. I came here after my husband died; I felt I needed a change of scene.’

‘Too many memories?’ she says gently.

I give a small nod. ‘Something like that.’

She smooths her skirt across her lap. She’s very feminine: softly spoken, shoulder-length hair, nails painted a delicate shell-pink. Not what I was expecting at all.

‘Was Amy Mackenzie already living in the ground-floor flat when you moved in?’ she asks, indicating that it’s time to get down to business.

‘That’s right. I remember being pleased when the estate agent told me there was another single woman living downstairs. I’d got on very well with the neighbours at my previous home and I hoped the two of us would become friends.’

‘And were you?’

I think back to the only two occasions that Amy and I socialised together formally. A few days after I moved in, I knocked on her door and invited her up to mine for coffee. The conversation was strained, even for people who’d only just met, and there was something off about her; something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then, a month or two later, when the weather was warmer, she asked if I’d like to join her in the garden for a drink. I thought it only fair to give her another chance, but ended up wishing I hadn’t. I drank a glass of wine and then, as soon as I felt it was polite to do so, scuttled back to my flat. She asked me round two or three times more, and on another occasion suggested a trip to the cinema. However, I was always armed with a ready excuse and eventually she stopped asking.

DI Kilner is looking at me expectantly and I have a drink of tea to give myself time to formulate a response. I know

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