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Grace and Bong reached Lilac’s block of flats, a red brick, modern design of apartments and maisonettes grouped around communal gardens and accessed by elevated footpaths. “People streets in the air” the architect had described them, and on the whole they worked well. Lilac’s flat was on the top, third level, and they passed it to get to her neighbour’s front door where they knocked to collect the key.
A diminutive elderly woman, hunched, grey hair in a bun, encapsulating a prune-like face and dressed in a floral apron ten sizes too big for her, answered. ‘Yes?’ she asked, her hands dusted in flour, waving inexplicably. Maybe it was Parkinson’s, Grace thought.
Bong took charge. ‘Hello, Debs from next door…’ and he flung his hand to reassure the elderly woman he knew the flat next doo
