With echoes of British council housing, another row rose up behind these in a paler hue. And behind these, another, and then another, the cancer finally curtailed by a main road, which carved a thoroughfare through them. The farm had not sold easily, as the agent had predicted. The market was flagging, and trying to sell a farm that had once been the scene of a murder was a big ask. Carla felt as if she was selling off some stained, second-hand garment. A developer finally bought it, haggling her down to well below the government valuation. ‘Love to offer you more, Mrs Reid. I really would. But my hands are tied. I’ll barely recover costs. People are superstitious creatures, you know, and the farm is very run-down.’ Her agent advised her to accept. It was the only offer they’d received and he was right, the place was run-down. The garden had reverted to weeds and the charm of the homestead had long since expired. Then again, a farm in the fastest-growing district in the country should not have needed charm to sell.
