Page 50 of Glasshouses

“Pass. At least this one’s a bit closer.” We’d had a previous case where the killer had been in a secure hospital at one point. I’d had another connection to that place; my old university mentor and professor had worked with her. It was a situation I was trying not to think about.

“True. Who were you running with last night?” Wrigley frowned at me.

I frowned back, wondering why he was asking as he’d never shown any interest in my personal life before.

“Just a friend.”

“I’m glad you weren’t stupid enough to go on your own.”

I decided not to respond, knowing full well Wrigley wouldn’t be saying the same thing to Vinny.

I took my own car out to Millstone, becoming more familiar with the country roads and noting places I could park and go for a run. It was Friday, and I had every intention of spending the weekend outside or attempting to make a start on the bathroom. I travelled through the city centre and the inner city urban areas, redesigned for a designer generation, then through the towns that merged into one another, old council houses and high rises, converted pubs and churches that were now nurseries, up through Hollinwood and Werneth into Oldham and then to the other side, towards Yorkshire and the picturesque scenery wrapped around a building that had been birthed to Brutalism.

This was the secure unit where Lily Goodhew had been held from eighteen until her release six years ago, the place where she’d spent most of her adult life. Given she now had her own successful business and her own home, she was a successful story for what the system could do, even if that was sticking a plaster on an open wound.

I signed in, subject to the usual security. The place was like any other secure hospital; clinical, white, with attempts to be friendly in terms of faded art prints on the walls and a wilting bunch of supermarket flowers.

“Come through here, love,” the receptionist said with a smile. “Doctor McKay’s free already and said to bring you through when you got here.”

I was charmed by her warmth which reminded me of home, and for a second I wanted to curl up somewhere and just have someone call me love and tell me everything would be okay.

I found myself balancing on the tightrope between sanity and confusion. It was time for a holiday; time to agree terms with builders and at least start properly towards not living in a building site.

Fobbed doors and tempered glass were standard. Emergency call buttons were placed here and there, always for just in case. This was an admin area, a place for meetings and to dictate notes or make calls, not for patients, but there was always the need for just in case, because that case could happen.

I looked through the window of the door to Dr McKay’s office. She was a red haired woman wearing thin framed glasses, typing quickly. The receptionist knocked and opened the door without being told to.

“There you go, love. Let me know if you need anything.”

I walked in on feet that didn’t feel anything.

“Hi, I’m Grace McKay. Lily phoned to tell me she’d given me permission to speak to you.” She stood up and offered her hand.

I shook it, wondering why this building was having such an effect on me.

“Have a seat, and would you like a coffee?” She pointed to a coffee pod machine. “It was my treat for my fiftieth birthday because I figured I deserved better than NHS coffee.”

“That would be great, thank you.” I sat down, looking around the room, concentrating on my breathing while the coffee machine whirred.

“It’s a latte. Do you want sugar?”

“No, thank you. Have you worked here long?” She seemed settled in the room, a few family photos on the long desk with two computer screens.

“Thirteen years. I moved from adolescents to adult when Lily did, so I’ve been one of her psychiatrists for seventeen years.” She passed me the drink and then started to make herself one.

“Why did you move into adult?”

“Career development more than anything, and I was planning a family, so I wanted a bit more distance from adolescents. I’ve enjoyed the journey, but I wouldn’t do it in reverse.” She watched the machine dispense the drink, taking her time to wipe up a slight splash, then took the cup and sat in her desk chair, spinning it round to see me. “I’ve been one of Lily’s lead clinicians since she was admitted, so I can try to help you, but I’d like to know what you want help with. She isn’t a suspect for this current fire, is she?”

“No,” I said, surprised with her directness. “But we are following a lead that suggests a link between the fire at Lily’s childhood home and the fire in which her mother died.”

“Has Lily been able to shed any connection?” She sat with her hands on her lap, relaxed but still.

“No. She’s very vague about her childhood, and doesn’t want to talk about her mother. She has said that she didn’t start the fire when she was a child; she’s adamant about that. I wondered what your thoughts about that were.” No point dancing around it.

“I’m a psychiatrist, not a judge or member of a jury, so it’s not my job to decide whether someone is guilty of a crime, Detective. My job is to help them reflect on themselves and find a way to move forward as a healthy human being.” She sighed, giving me a half smile. “I don’t know if Lily did start that fire. I’m not sure if Lily knows if she started that fire either. What I do know is that she was traumatised from more than just that night.”

“How so?”