Linden Carrick-Morgan

The Smell of Paint

This was a trap. That was the only logical explanation. As a cleaner of seven years, Irina had of course encountered these before. It wasn’t always in the form of cold hard cash, like she was looking at now. It could take the shape of a flash bracelet or knock-off Omega but it was always, every single time, a trap. Or a test of her honesty rather, as her clients would no doubt put it. For it was taken as given, among homeowners in the London Borough of Richmond, that cleaners could not be trusted.