THE MURDER FLAT

They were a quiet couple, the Palmers. If you saw them in the car park or in the lobby, they’d nod and hurry along, Mrs Palmer meek behind her husband, shopping clinking. He was average. Everything about him was average. She was ordinary. Nothing about her attracted a second glance. Although, sometimes, as she padded meekly behind Mr Palmer, you might notice a tightening of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes, and if you let yourself look down you might see her neat fists curled rigid, unpainted nails digging into palms. 

One evening, waiting for the lift with them, pleasantries exchanged, when it came I ushered them in ahead of me, my floor below theirs. As I moved forward to exit I happened to look in the mirror on one side of the lift and I saw Mrs Palmer staring with intense hatred, no other word to describe it, at her husband's back.

I couldn't speak. I waved and gave them a nod and a smile, neighbourly. 'Bloody hell,' I thought, 'That was scary.' I'd never seen a mark on Mrs Palmer, nothing to suggest physical abuse, but now I began to think about the way they must be in private. I was up at three that night down a rabbithole when I heard a heavy crunching sound. Couple of hours later the ambulance left. He had died in a sweaty, stinking stupor on top of her, we learned. Took her an hour to free herself, she said, and to call the emergency services. They had found him with his face buried in her pillow. The jury took ten minutes to send her home.