Page 13 of Glasshouses

“Would a fourteen year old girl know about using different accelerants?” It sounded technical even for a professional.

“It depends. Why don’t you stop at that taco place in Chorlton? If she had an interest in fire and access to the internet, then yes. She could’ve run out of petrol or paraffin and it happened by chance. I don’t remember the investigation, just the forensics and the postmortem case notes. Jenna might be able to tell you more. Why do you want vegetarian?” He checked his phone, laughing at something he’d read or seen.

“I don’t think I’ll stomach the taste or smell of meat.” The thought of it made my stomach tighten.

“Well, I’m ordering char sui pork tacos.”

“Just because you didn’t get the chance to be a pain in the arse big brother when we were kids, doesn’t mean you get to do that now.”

The bickering continued until I’d parked outside the taco takeaway and sent Nate in with my order, killing time by searching for the fire that’d killed most of the Goodhew family.

We ate at his house, managing not to talk about work which meant I kept my dinner down where it belonged. Jenna was staying at her own place and Nate was booked onto some online lecture being streamed from America, so I opted to go home to my building site with freshly smoothed plaster, get changed and go for a run.

There was another motive other than fitness and the need to clear my head. It was just after nine and still light. I was a quick runner when I wanted to be and knew the area well for routes and potential hot spots for trouble.

I was also looking for someone.

Earlier in the year, I’d worked a case where an anonymous informant had emailed me information that led to me finding the killer. I’d met the informant a couple of times during the case, and then heard nothing for weeks, until I bumped into him while on a run through a local park. I knew less about him now than when I’d first met him, but there was a pattern to when he appeared – every second Tuesday just before dusk.

That was today.

He’d become my own personal detective case, wanting to find out who he actually was. Reverse image searches from a photo he’d once sent me brought up nothing, his emails had always come from a slightly different address and he was a master at not letting any information slip, and I was good at asking questions.

There was also the possibility he was a murderer or someone my dad was paying to keep an eye on me; anything was possible because I hadn’t managed to rule anything out.

I kept my pace steady, taking a path that ran alongside the River Mersey. It was a clear evening and a few local running groups were out, so it didn’t feel as lonely as it could. I could take care of myself, but I saw no reason to put myself in a position where I needed to. I didn’t wear headphones or earbuds, preferring the sound of the river and the birds, the faint chatter of the other runners and the sound of my soles as they hit the ground.

I was half way round when I sensed that someone was running behind me, catching me up. The path was narrow at this point, although there was a grass verge to the side opposite the river. I shifted onto this, narrowly missing something brown and runny looking, then turned to see who was behind me.

Atlas.

My anonymous, secretive informant. He’d had his hair cut which made him look like he was about to join the military, and there was a bruise to his left cheekbone and a cut near his eye. Someone had taken a punch to the face.

“Injury?” He slowed down when he drew level with me. I joined him, the pace slow enough to talk easily.

“Is that your new greeting?”

“That’s how I say hi to everyone these days. Seriously, that looks nasty.” I wanted a glimmer of information, something I could use.

Atlas laughed. “Fight with my brother. He came off worse.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. I can video call him if you want to check.” He pulled his phone out of his shorts’ pocket.

“Go on then.” We came to a stop, moving out of the way so we didn’t block a couple of dog walkers.

I caught sight of his brother’s name as he dialled. It wasn’t going to break the case.

Dimwit Fuckhead

The profile picture was a clown fish. I wondered what would be on his brother’s screen.

The call was answered and a man in a suit answered, looking nothing like a dimwit fuckhead, apart from the fact he had a black eye and what looked like a busted nose.

“The lady with me wanted proof that it was you who momentarily spoiled my looks.” He held the phone up so the man on screen could see us both.

“He came off worse, didn’t you, Dipshit?”