Free Last to Leave by Clare Curzon

comfortable glow at the prospect of relaxing over a chilled jug of crushed lemon, and mooching around in a state of undress with the windows open to a cooling breeze off the river. The early morning’s haze had turned by noon into a cloudless heat that built by the hour, making her grateful she’d exchanged city streets for open fields.
    Circling the house, she saw a green sports model parked by the open door to her garage, so Max was here. He wasn’ t in her flat, which meant he’d be downstairs with Beattie, catching up with gossip on the other residents.
    Two of the seven flats were for resale since the double murder * in the house the previous winter. Potential buyers had visited and been put off by the crime’s bad odour. Other visitors with a taste for scandal had for a while been attracted by the notoriety, roamed the rooms and gazed their morbid fill before going off furnished with a gloating subject for social chat. But by now even that interest had waned.
    Only the ground floor flat opposite Beattie’s had received a second visit and an offer from a bank manager impressed by the exceptional security arrangements. Z had grown accustomed to the apartment opposite her own remaining empty. Until now the suicide jump from its balcony had outweighed the low price which the estate agent had twice felt obliged to reduce.
    Z, untroubled by ghosts, since her work desensitized her to such fancies, welcomed silence across the landing. Now, having showered and changed, she prepared to go down and discover why Max hadn’t instantly appeared when her car swept past Beattie’s windows.
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    * A Meeting of Minds.

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    As she double-locked her door she paused at the unaccustomed sound of music. An old Eric Clapton recording, surely coming from the unoccupied apartment. And the door stood invitingly ajar.
    Closer, she listened for a moment, could detect no movement, then knocked quietly. She heard chair legs slide against woodblock flooring and someone padded in sock soles from the direction of the drawing-room.
    â€˜Hello, my sweet,’ Max greeted her, grinning like a monkey. ‘Come in and tell me what you think.’
    The room was transformed. Gone were the silks and velvet-swagged drapes, the peachy creams and thick pile carpet. Exposed wood flooring gleamed like pale honey. Here and there the bare walls had been daubed with tester shades of matt paint.
    â€˜You’re not serious,’ she accused him.
    â€˜It’s an idea I had. It came over me gradually, after I suggested to Dr Fenner it would make a better sale if it was brought up to date, with all the flimmery flammery removed.’
    â€˜When did you see Dr Fenner?’ she demanded, suspicious.
    â€˜A couple of weeks back. I had a job to do in Cambridge. He dined and wined me in College like a prince.’
    â€˜And you kept it under your hat! You’re telling me he gave you carte blanche to take over the redecoration?’
    â€˜And have all the furniture removed. Yes, with a view to considering its potential for myself. I am sometimes allowed to make decisions on my own, you know.’
    He was all wide-eyed innocence. ‘I still haven’t quite made up my mind. If you’ve any objections to me as a neighbour, naturally I’ll call it off, hoping he likes the alterations.’
    She walked past him to sit on one of the wide windowsills. ‘It’s unexpected.’

    â€˜You don’t have to say straight off …’
    â€˜I thought things were fine the way they were, that’s all.’ She sounded uncertain. Then, ‘You want to move your toothbrush out, I take it?’ It was an attempt to sound unaffected. A dab at weak humour.
    â€˜Oh, I could just about afford a second toothbrush. And the lease will be up on the Pimlico place in September. The truth is I’m not sure I want to go on living in London. But I can’t impose on you all the time. Being close