Finding a corpse in his compost heap was not what Graham Peters expected to do when he embarked on an afternoon of gardening one spring Sunday, but he had to admit it was more intriguing than deadheading.
Which was a funny choice of words, given that the corpse was dismembered.
A limb here, a digit there… he could count almost as many body parts as he could grass cuttings and vegetable peelings. He was grateful for the vegetable waste; it seemed to have soaked up most of the blood.
When he rang the police, there was an element of doubt in the voice of the young operator. Well, she might not have been all that young, but Graham suspected only a rookie would allow surprise to creep into their voice when repeating ‘there’s a chopped-up body in my compost bin.’
When the police arrived and trudged down the garden to inspect the scene, they concurred with Graham’s original assessment of disembodiment. In fact, they even suggested that the deed was done with gard

‘Reg, dear, would you mind doing the washing up?’ Clarissa asked her husband as he slouched on the sofa. The TV was showing something sport-related, and the volume was one notch higher than Clarissa found comfortable.
‘Hm?’
‘The washing up,’ Clarissa repeated. ‘It’s just that Robbie and Hannah will be here soon.’ In fact, they would be here in precisely one hundred and forty minutes, allowing for traffic. Which meant that Clarissa had one hundred and forty minutes to finish making dessert, chop the vegetables, adjust the leg of lamb that had been simmering in the oven for hours already, have a shower and do her hair. And do the washing up. ‘I’ve done three lots already, and we’re going to need the counter space.’ What they really needed was a dishwasher and a kitchen that wasn’t the size of a small prison cell, but as Reg did not personally cook he couldn’t understand why his wife’s deepest

  ‘Did you know,’ Elisa announced from her perch at the bay window, duster hanging limply from one hand, ‘that number seven down the road have four cars? A Beetle, a transit van and a Range Rover. And a Beetle.’ Her husband, Anthony, wasn’t sure if the family at number seven had a fondness for Beetles or if Elisa’s contact lenses needed a new prescription. Either way, Mr. and Mrs. Number Seven’s teenage offspring needed to be thrown from the nest before they could purchase any more vehicles. ‘Oh,’ Elisa added, ‘across the road have their Mercedes back, and Theresa next door has got the carers in for her mum, so you’ll probably have to park along another road later. Don’t bother looking for spaces here.’
  In the five years since the couple across the road had moved in, Anthony and Elisa had never once received a hello, a Christmas card or an introduction. Anthony thought the wife