Page 18 of Glasshouses

“I had an older brother but he died when he was in his twenties in a car crash – black ice on the road and no one’s fault. I will inherit what’s left of the house and whatever he had left in savings. I’ll probably put it in trust for my kids; he’d have like that.” The sob subsided. “How long until we can organise the funeral?”

“I’m not sure, but not too long. The post mortem is being done as we speak and we try and release the body as soon as possible. Can you tell me anything about your dad’s life? What were his interests? Did he still work at all?” It was always difficult finding out information from family members straight after a loved one had died.

“He was retired – he hadn’t worked for years. He’d invested sensibly over the years and his accountant told him that he wouldn’t live long enough to spend his money if he carried on working. The irony. He retired and then Ursula died about three years later, and after that he was most interested in his garden. I encouraged him to move to a smaller place, but he said he needed the space for his archives, although I’ve no idea what they held.”

“What was his job?”

“Oh, he was an actuary. The world’s most boring job. He had interests outside of work – his gardening took up so much of his time.”

I remembered the gardens at the house. “He’d done a really good job of them at home.”

“He was involved in a group that tried to do as much farm to table as possible, you know, all the grow your own and sustainability. He did a lot for them as well; in fact, I think they met three or four times a week. I suppose I’ll need to arrange a wake so they can attend.” She sounded thoughtful. “I’d best book a flight.”

“Hang fire until the body is released for burial. It’s unlikely, but there could be delays.”

“I will do that.” She sounded relieved.

“Do you know the name of the gardening group?” This could’ve been something Amanda was involved in too.

“I think it was The Holding. He spoke about it quite a lot; I think it was a group of very like-minded people who ideally would revert back to how life was about fifty years ago. My dad wasn’t very woke and he was a technophobe. I wanted us to video call, but he didn’t have a tablet or a smart phone, just an old mobile with no internet. I really can’t believe he died like that.” Her sobs started again.

“Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt him?” I didn’t have high hopes that she would.

“He was such a lovely man, or he was when I spoke to him. I can’t say I knew that much about him as we didn’t spend much time together – we never really spent a lot of time together, but I looked forward to seeing him.” She burst into tears again.

I waited, giving her space to feel.

“He was more of an uncle than a father. I spent a lot more time with my step-dad – still do. Him and my mum live over here with us. Anyway, I can’t think of anyone who had anything against my dad. He had a couple of rows with some local company about how they were polluting the area, but that was ages ago. He was involved in protesting about a potential new housing development on nearby fields as well, the ones that back onto his house. But that all stopped – someone else bought the fields, I think, or something happened.”

My ears pricked up at that and I made a note on my pad. “That’s helpful. Did your father have any siblings?”

“None that are still alive. He had a sister but she died of cancer in her forties. That’s it for his side of the family.” She sniffed. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go. One of my kids is off school poorly and they want my attention. It never stops.”

I let her go, spending the next couple of minutes processing while I doodled, letting ideas form.

“Carly,” I called one of the DC’s over. “Can you do some digging, if we’ve not covered this already?”

She nodded, picking up a notebook and pen.

“Find out who owns the fields at the back of Micky Mulligan’s house, and see if you can get a copy of his will and his accounts. His daughter seems to think he was quite wealthy and money makes anyone a target.” I tapped my pen on the pad, noticing I’d drawn a man on the roof of a house. “See if there’s a gardening group in the area too.”

“I’ve already requested his will and accounts; I did the same for Amanda Goodhew too. If I haven’t had anything back by early afternoon, I’ll chase them up. I’ll find out who owns those fields.” She closed her notebook.

I thanked her and headed off to my seat to find Verity. I wanted a different pair of eyes with me to search through Amanda’s house; another take on what we might find there. I grabbed my car keys and wondered if Atlas had actually been on my roof and whether or not he might’ve fallen through.

Chapter Seven

There was no point being in school, so he’d nicked off at the start of lunch, slipped out of the door at the back of the building that the teachers usually forgot to lock when they were coming back from their vape breaks. That gave him a quick dart across the back car park and then he was in the valley, an area full of trees and shrubbery and the river. All he needed to do was cross the river and scramble up the bank and then he was at the football field. It had been PE this afternoon, double rugby, and he didn’t want to be the last one to be chosen again. It used to be a lad called Paul Adams, only he’d gone to a special school, so now he was last. He was uncoordinated and a gust of wind could knock him over, so his grandmother said. But he was fast and good at squeezing through small spaces, and he was really good at filming and editing.

He'd decided to spend the afternoon in the abandoned house. There was some work to be done in the glasshouses, and he might squeeze half an hour in, but really, he wanted to explore the top floor, somewhere he’d only been once and hadn’t filmed. It was only an hour’s walk from school to get there, and he could avoid seeing many people, just the odd dog walker and once a bloke who liked flashing, which had made him run faster than he’d ever done in his life. When he got there, he checked that the thin transparent thread he’d put across the gates was still intact. It was his way of making sure that no one else was knocking around. At some point, he supposed, the house would be bought and they’d probably put a new one there, or maybe some posh apartments. He didn’t understand why anyone wanted to live in a posh apartment; he’d always take somewhere old, somewhere he could discover secret rooms and staircases, old window shutters sealing into walls and maybe an old diary.

He was thinking about old diaries as he slipped in through the back door, unlocked as usual, not that a lock would’ve made much difference. The kitchen had been gutted in the fire, everything blackened and melted, and he knew that this was where one of the boys had died. Nothing much remained of back then, time had gotten rid of most of it, which made it less spooky than it should’ve been.

The stairs in this part of the house were stable. The old servants stairs were not – he’d once fallen right through them, but luckily it’d been near the ground floor. He went up to the first floor and then carried on, the staircase narrower, and headed up to the top floor.

The roof was gone in one part, and the floor wasn’t stable. Falling wasn’t an option, so he kept to walking along where the supporting walls were like he was a tightrope walker, preparing to crawl flat if he needed to so he could spread out his weight. He’d learned a lot about the structure of old buildings and he’d become interested in architecture because of his exploring. He’d mentioned it to one of his teachers, and they’d said he’d be good at that and he had the sort of grades you needed. He might’ve been crap at PE but he was good at maths and science and art.

There were four rooms on the top floor. One, the biggest, was completely wrecked and the best he could do was stand near the door and film. Rain had come through the roof, which had been damaged by the fire. The floor was missing boards and there was a big hole in the middle of it. Wallpaper was still peeling off in places, the pattern indistinguishable, and there was still a bed in the corner, a single bedframe, metal and cheap, the sheets, or what remained of them, pulled back as if someone hadn’t bothered to make it because they were intending on getting back in it that night. He slowly filmed around the room, just using his phone. He’d do the voiceover when he was back home, so he could disguise it, but also so he could think a bit more about what to say and reference what he’d found out about the family that had lived there, anonymising it of course, so no one else strayed onto his territory.