Page 1 of Glasshouses

Chapter One

Somehow, even after the storm, the glass was intact. Sunlight petered through, its beam trapped by the grime both inside and out, but it didn’t affect the plants that still thrived along the sides of the glasshouse. He didn’t know what they were, their labels long since vanished, and some might not have been planted there deliberately, but instead carried there by feathers or paws because he knew he wasn’t the sole visitor to this place.

He paused his watering, the metal watering can heavy in his hand, and looked at the ruin of a house that was just about visible through the trees. Half intact, half crumbling, a menace to the road or so he’d read on an online forum, a resident complaining about the state of the place, how it was a blot on the area and needed to be demolished, the notion of new builds more attractive than the house of horrors that stood there as a calcified monument to lives that didn’t have a natural ending.

There were ghosts in the house, he knew, their energy still present on each of the three floors. He’d never managed to get into the cellars; the external door was bricked up, the cement between the bricks worn away with the rain that pounded against that side, but still the bricks had remained firm. Inside, the steps down to the cellar were too unsafe for even him to risk, situated in the side of the house that had been gutted by the fire.

He hadn’t been born when it happened. His gran remembered it, a night of sirens and videos shared on social media, thoughts and prayers that no one had been inside and that the firefighters would get it under control. He’d asked her a thousand times about it, and she’d always told him the same story, never adding any more detail or insight. So as soon as he was brave enough, he’d found a way to get into the garden without anyone noticing, the wild forest that had been left untended for nearly two decades, the charred wood and burnt debris eaten up by the grass and the weeds and the buddleia that took over. He’d explored, balaclava’d up in case anyone saw him, videoing it each time, and each time venturing a little further, but he hadn’t uploaded the films, just kept them for himself so he could look at each one, study it, so he could see how time and nature let things rot and die.

The videos from the other places he visited were uploaded, because it didn’t matter so much if other explorers found them and copied him; his reputation of being one of the best was already set and that was without them knowing his age.

He wasn’t uploading this place though. It was his. One of the few things that was.

There was an old water butt that was fed from the guttering around the glasshouse, perfect for filling up the metal watering can that he’d picked up from the pound store, even though it hadn’t been a pound. He filled it up, ignoring the sound of rustling from overgrown borders that was probably a rat or a mouse, and went back into the glasshouse, watering the tomato plants and sunflowers he’d planted himself, something to do during the school holidays.

Growing things was fun, as long as he didn’t tell anyone about it. That wouldn’t go down too well at his school and they already thought he was a dweeb anyway.

The watering can was empty, really he needed a bigger one, or some watering system, but if anyone saw that they’d know someone was here regularly and that would cause him trouble.

He wasn’t alone here. He wasn’t the only person who visited the huge house and he didn’t know why they came here. They weren’t another urban explorer because nothing had ever been posted online about here, other than the stories about ghosts and curses, things you would’ve expected from a house where murder had been committed.

A bird dived onto a moss-covered bird bath, pecking at grubs or something. Then it froze, aware of being watched, and for the first time he was aware that he too was being watched.

What was watching him was another question.

He dropped the watering can and ran towards the place he’d hidden his bike, telling himself that it was nothing, he’d just weirded himself out, he was being stupid and there was nobody there, that there hadn’t been for years. He’d be back tomorrow and everything would feel just fine.

He was sure of it.

Chapter Two

“Twenty-seven, Longford Avenue, Harrowclough. Do you know it?”

My boss, DI Malcolm Wrigley was non-plussed, another day at the office, one of his last another days as retirement hovered at the end of next month, promising long summer days watching cricket without the sound of sirens.

“I know Harrowclough.” I indicated left. “I’ll find the road. What’s happened?”

“Did you see the fire on the news this morning? There was a body inside. The locals have just reported it through.”

The locals would be the responding officers. I was part of the Greater Manchester Murder Investigations Team which took on cases across the area that needed specialist officers.

“House fire. Started early hours. The road was cordoned off and neighbours evacuated.” Like most of my colleagues, I checked the news as soon as I woke up for a flavour of the day.

“That’s the one. Body inside. The fire is out but the building’s unsafe so we won’t be able to get the remains out as soon as possible. A Mike Mulligan is down as living there, aged seventy-one, but no identification has been made as of yet.” I heard the sound of a pen being clicked. “I’ve got no one to send with you, Mia, so you’re on your own until we know more.”

“Why’s it come to us at this stage?” I turned left, narrowly missing a woman and a pushchair who seemed to have forgotten that cars used roads and checking was a good idea.

“Obvious signs of arson. Petrol can in the bushes at the back and it looks like someone’s come through the hedges at the back of the garden. Jenna Osai’s there now. While it looks like arson, it’s ours. If it turns out to be some bloke cooked his bacon for too long, happy days, you can move back to the knife attack.” Just another day at the office for DI Wrigley. He’d had his fill of domestics with a happily ever after and gang turf wars. He dreamed of days filled with the slap of leather on willow, sunny afternoons outdoors with the smell of cut grass instead of the aroma of cannabis and stale human remains.

I could understand it.

“I’ll check straight in with Jenna. See where things are up to.”

“Good-o.” I was sure he yawned. “Give me an update after lunch. Jenna didn’t go into any detail about the state of the remains. I’m hoping they tally with this Mulligan, and even better, if it is arson, he pissed someone off and a camera has them setting fire to the place.”

“That might be wishful thinking.”

“If Lancashire can win a cricket game, everything is possible. Let me know how it goes.” He hung up, our conversation done for now and I carried on driving, avoiding busier main roads to take the country lanes and further away from the centre of Manchester to the outskirts where there were still too many people.