Divorced and broke, self-employed Handy man George Gilmartin, was overjoyed when he got the phone call. He hadn’t had any enquiries in over a month, and he was struggling to scratch up enough to cover the bills, all while his ex-wife lived it up in Spain with her new ridiculously rich boyfriend, with her half of George’s money.
The phone call came from an elderly woman, who was responding to his pathetic little ad in the local paper. She lived alone in a big old house, which hadn’t seen a tin of paint or felt a nail in over twenty years.
The house sat ten miles from the motorway, out in the country surrounded by fields and trees and George had seen no sign of neighbours or any other kind of civilisation. With one look at the house, he knew he’d have his work cut out, whatever she asked him to do.
He headed to the front door and knocked and knocked again and again until eventually the door opened with a slow, ear piercing creak. He called in, but received no response, which he found strange, the lady was expecting him. He cautiously entered the hallway and followed it to the living room, where he found her.
His elderly customer was stone cold dead, but What George found even more unbelievable, was the neatly bundled bank notes that were spilling out of a sports bag that was sat on the dead woman’s lap.
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