The room was dimly lit by five neat little wall lights; one on the left-hand side of the door, two on the adjoining wall to the right, and the remaining two on the wall to the left. A window looking out at the business complex on the opposite street took up the majority of the fourth wall. Sweeping grey curtains obscured most of the view.

Elle had taken all of this into account within her first minute of being in this room. She now sat with one leg draped over the other on the edge of a dark grey couch. It complimented the spaghetti rug beneath the ovular coffee table she'd noticed, too.

She swirled the contents of the glass she held in one gloved hand, and then took a sip. It was a sweet wine, with a tang of bitterness. Perfect.

There was a rustling from behind her, the rush of water from a faucet, and then muffled whistling which grew in volume as her host returned from the kitchen.

He was an older gentleman: handsome in the quaint sense with a suggestion of stubble across a square jaw. He had deeply engraved frown lines, and hair just longer than a buzzcut. It had at one point been dyed black, but the streaks of silver creeping up from his temples told Elle he was older than he looked.

He moved with an enchanting grace, each step powerful and confident. He was more than enough to make many a woman swoon, Elle thought to herself.

He was Darius McGallogat; the twice divorced, rich, successful businessman. He was the man who had it all, and yet he spent the majority of his evenings in high-end clubs and bars.

Darius sat down next to her. He reached over to place his hand delicately atop her own. "How do you find the wine, my dear?" There was a gruff edge to his voice that suggested he'd been a heavy smoker at some point, although from what Elle knew, that had been a long time ago.

"Oh, yes, it is most exquisite." Elle shot him a charming smile. She brushed a strand of model-blonde hair behind her shoulders and took another sip from the glass.

"Quite." He smiled charmingly. "This is one of the finest French exports; aged for twelve years for that..." He rubbed his fingers together, searching for the right word, "...most wonderous tang at the back of the tongue." Darius picked his own glass up from the table, observing the cherry red contents admiringly.

"The French do have their ways with wine grapes. I have always found Côtes du Rhône to be amongst the best wines money can buy." Elle mused, watching Darius closely.

A car blared its shrill horn somewhere outside, presumably in the street below. The sound was followed by a rush of angry voices and the slamming of doors. A brawl perhaps, in the middle of the street. She would be sure to steer clear of that when she left.

Darius sat back, brushing her hand with his own one last time. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long sip. He sighed to himself, enjoying the flavour. He raised the glass to Elle, and she did the same in return. Both took a long sip, eyes trained completely on each other.

Further shouts rang from outside. There was just one voice at first. Elle couldn't quite make out the words, but it sounded furious.

Darius' throat spasmed, like he was choking on air. Elle reached out towards him and took the glass from his trembling hand just before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed sideways onto the couch. She took them both to the kitchen and poured the contents into the sink.

The shouting outside became louder. There were three voices now, all yelling over each other with audible aggression. One was particularly shrill, almost like a shriek. Elle wondered if there would be bloodshed.

By this point, Darius was turning a deep shade of red. His whole body convulsed and his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Elle washed the glasses until they shone and placed them into a cupboard with others of the same shape. She came back into the main room. The shouting was louder now, and yet she still couldn't make out a single word. It was escalating, she could tell that much.

She turned her gaze to Darius. Cyanide was a funny sort of poison. It had such specific effects, and it affected its target so, so quickly. She had been unsure of the quantity she'd have to use to bring down a man like Darius, but apparently a 200mg dose of hydrogen cyanide was more than enough. She knew the signs to look for with this specific chemical, even though it had been at least two decades since she'd used it last.

Elle wondered if Darius had any idea at all what was happening to him. She'd always figured it would be a painless thing, but maybe he could feel his lungs failing. Maybe he could feel how difficult it was to breathe.

The voices outside had died down now. A car door slammed shut, and then an engine backfired. Good. That would make leaving the complex all the easier.

Darius didn't seem to be breathing much at all. He was foaming at the mouth, his body shaking and twitching weakly. Cardiac arrest, Elle guessed. That was the outcome she'd been hoping for. Suffering a cardiac arrest was, for a man like Darius, with such an extravagant and unhealthy lifestyle, something that was more a matter of 'when' than a mere possibility.

Elle brushed her gloved hand through his hair as she strode past the back of the couch. Her heels clicked on the marble floor. She retrieved her purse from the coffee table, and continued out of the door.

She didn't hurry, no, she took her time. By the time she'd reached the elevators at the end of the long hallway, she'd had time to apply a lilac purple lipstick and spray the new perfume she'd bought especially for this night.

Elle opened her purse once she had entered the elevator and pressed the ground floor button. Immediately, she removed a slightly smaller, wider bag from within her purse. Elle took off her blonde wig and the steep high heels she had donned upon leaving her own home that day. She shoved both of these into her purse, and brought out a pair of black flats and a shorter-haired wig. Quickly, she slid them on and made sure her hair looked presentable in the mirror behind her. She shoved her purse inside the bag, and took a few moments to ensure everything was perfect.

By the time she exited the elevator, she was a changed woman.

She had made note of where the CCTV cameras that may record her were throughout the building long before she'd even considered taking the case at all. There had been three in the stairwell, two in the Lobby, and – rather unwisely in her opinion – none in the elevator.

At eleven in the evening, there were still a number of younger couples in the lobby. She could hear low, romantic music from somewhere nearby. There had been a local band performing tonight, she recalled Darius saying.

This made it easier for Elle to take her leave without raising suspicion. After all, who would expect the well dressed, middle aged woman with the eccentric, expensive handbag to be capable of the atrocities soon to be discovered upstairs?

It was something that had worked just fine for as long as she could remember, as far back as the seemingly historic seventies.

The front doors slid open automatically once Elle was in their close proximity, and then she was outside. The chill September air enveloped her immediately.

She looked up and down the street. There were no signs of the earlier altercation, not even a spot of blood on the pavement.

There was, however, a taxi cab stand with three taxis waiting at it. A taxi was as good a way to get where she needed to go as any other. Before she went home, she had something to check. It was probably better if she didn't take a taxi home, anyway.

While Elle walked, she unlocked her phone – an older Samsung that only just had internet access – and signed into her PayPal account via a private browser page.

It ran under the name Vivian Ross, which she'd used for a number of years now to keep her identity under the radar. So far, it had worked without fail.

The page took a while to load, but when it did, Elle read the balance. £17,548. Exactly as she'd expected. A pay-out of £10,000 for the murder of a business competitor was acceptable, especially since it had been a while since she'd been in this particular field.

Elle slid into the back seat of the taxi just seconds after a group of women left. She held her bag in her lap, adjusted her knee-length dress, and smiled at the driver.

"Westhall Avenue, please."

The driver nodded. "Can do, madam. Should be about ten minutes." The cab pulled away.

Elle leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, her lips pulled up into a smile.

She clicked her phone back on and sent a quick text to her husband, informing him that she would be home before midnight struck. There was just one place she had to go to first.

Oh, how good it felt to be back.