Such a Nice Guy

We call them The Smugsons. Or we used to, before one of them was found dead on the Astroturf at the cricket club.

Because it’s difficult to look smug when you have landed face down after falling from the balcony of a bar, blood spilling out from your head like a mane of wild red hair.

His trainer has come off. I feel a strange surge of pleasure at seeing a hole in his sock. The impeccably maintained vegetable patch; the car that must have been cleaned as regularly as my teeth: I knew there had to be flaws. A little depressing that it’s in the low-level area of a sock, but still: take what you can.

I am a few feet from his body, staring even though I want to look away.

Because nobody who knows – knew – Jake could think this was an accident. I’ve rarely met a man more murderable

I gag.

Mrs Smugson