The thing was Trevor was sick of doing murders. He’d been paid to do murders for almost ten years. The fun had gone out of it.
Being a respectable owner of a florist shop had been a great cover-up. He was forever arranging flowers for special occasions. There had been many a time when he was paid to provide flowers for the funeral service of someone he’d murdered. That was always amusing! Every wreath for a victim had a red flower in it, no matter how tiny the red flower. Sometimes red would clash with the colours of the bouquet, so it had to be insignificant. Sometimes the whole wreath was a bold red. He had photographed every bunch and kept them orderly in a scrap book. Of course no one knew they were in fact a list of who was who; a list of his murder victims.
But now he was sick of it. He wanted to retire from the florist shop, and that meant murdering as a livelihood should come to an end as well.
So that’s what he did. It’s been five years. He spends his days in his little cottage by the sea, although he did take a trip overseas once but it wasn’t much to his liking. He’s taken up knitting as a hobby, mainly fluffy little woollen toys for toddlers. They’re quite cute.
Occasionally, just for the sake of old times, he poisons an ear of one of the little knitted critters.