Catalyst by Michael Knaggs

twenty years ago as a celebration of council accommodation, providing aesthetically pleasing housing with a sense of individuality. Throughout the estate there were wide margins of grass, expansive flowerbeds and small parks dotted around, avoiding any over-concentration of red brick and white rendering. One third of the residences were apartments, but these were accommodated in three-storey blocks designed to look like large houses. The houses themselves, of which there were six different designs, were built to the highest architectural and environmental specifications, and each one had an open plan front garden and enclosed rear one. From the air, the estate as a whole was precisely symmetrical, but at ground level it was pleasingly varied from road to road, close to close, which achieved that feeling of individuality.
    On the edge of the estate was a large shopping mall, designed to attract shoppers from a wide surrounding area as well as to provide for the residents themselves. Cullen Hall, like the estate itself, was a high quality show-piece, with domes, arches and manicured gardens giving it the appearance of a huge ancient temple from the outside.
    Early signs had been encouraging. Community pride was clear to see in the neatness of the gardens and quality of both internal and external décor. Coach parties flocked to the mall and local businesses thrived. Then the street gangs took over, culminating in the iron grip of the Bradys and their disciples. For the past few years, the estate had been in freefall.
    David and Jo turned into the road leading to the square where the disturbance had taken place on the evening of the killings. As they walked together towards the end of the road, Jo stopped and looked round, getting her bearings.
    â€œI have a feeling there’s a green dot around here somewhere,” she said. Taking a battered notebook from the inside pocket of her jacket, she opened it and removed a folded A4 sheet with the list of addresses. “This is Kingdom Road and the four closes off it are St Andrew’s, St David’s, St Patrick’s and – bet you can’t guess. And here we are,” she added, as they arrived at St George’s Close. She checked the sheet. “Number 12 is on our hit list. A Mrs Alma Deverall. Shall we take a look?”
    They walked down the close. The front gardens were all lawned and fairly well tended. The houses themselves looked neat and clean.
    â€œI spent nearly a full day around here just after the disturbance – and the killings,” she said, “and it didn’t look anything like this. It fits the pattern of pride returning to the community. All these gardens were overgrown and full of rubbish only a week ago, and there were broken windows and graffiti all round the close. Whoever our killer is, he’s touched this place with the hand of God.”
    The one exception was Number 12, where the grass was over a foot high and the weeds were already wrapping around the ‘For Sale’ sign which reached up out of the undergrowth. The front door was slightly damaged but someone had daubed a couple of coats of paint on it to try and make it look respectable.
    â€œI’m sure the sign wasn’t here before, either,” said Jo. “Mind you, they make great kindling, don’t they? I couldn’t imagine one lasting very long on this estate before the Bradys left us. Do you know that over three hundred of those five-hundred-and-odd cases involved arson, usually along with something else?”
    â€œThose bastards really did run the place, didn’t they? Run it and ruin it,” said David. “Good riddance, I say. Not officially, of course,” he added.
    They walked up the path to the front door of Number 12. There was no point in knocking; it was clear no-one was living there even though a few items of furniture remained inside.
    â€œStuff must have been moved out since I was here,” said Jo,