Page 83 of Glasshouses

There were more Polish dumplings in the fridge, with some other containers, labels written in the now familiar handwriting. I followed the instructions, microwaving a selection, more than I’d probably manage to eat but starving suddenly.

All of the times Taz had popped up when I hadn’t imagined he would, and the one time I needed him, he was out of range, and I still didn’t have his number.

I cursed him while eating his mother’s cooking and admiring the tiling in the bathroom, finding the energy to have an under-pressured shower on the top floor before dragging myself to bed and dreaming of being locked in damp toilets with no way out.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I woke up in the morning with no sudden epiphany as to who’d locked me in, just a raging headache and a craving for painkillers. My unwilling chauffeur was five minutes late and tried to make up time by literally cutting corners. It was too early to talk, and he had turned up with coffee, so I didn’t pass comment on his kamikaze steering skills; that could wait for later.

My phone went just as we got onto the Princess Parkway, Wrigley’s name flashing up and I thought about how it would be one of the last times I saw it.

“Mia,” I answered, heart rate increasing as it always did at the start of one of those calls. It was just before six-thirty, briefing was at seven-fifteen, a call now shouted that something had changed.

“Head to Wethersett. Andrew Smith’s in the middle of a park hanging from a tree.”

“Fuck.” I relayed the information to Vinny who used it as an excuse to change lanes and take a wild U-turn, causing a couple of drivers to beep. “Who found him?”

“Kids on the way to school. Think they might’ve been given the day off to deal with their trauma, and I doubt they’ll piss about round there again.” Wrigley was full of heart. “Local cops did two welfare checks last night at nine and eleven, when he said he was going to bed. They did a drive by at three this morning and everything was locked up.”

“What about Lily Mayhew? Did they check her house?”

“House was dark and no answer. They weren’t sure if she was there or asleep and not answering, but no sign of anyone hanging around. Her van was on the drive. I’ve sent Lachy to Damian Fairburn’s to check that Lily was there last night or if she’s there now. A welfare call.” Wrigley sighed, because it wasn’t really a welfare call. “It looks like a suicide, Mia, but the post-mortem will tell us more.”

I ended the call, pulling at my hair into my fist, frustrated and angry.

“He sounded like a man confessing yesterday evening,” I said to Vinny, who was now aiming for Formula Two rather than Formula One, mainly because the traffic was hampering him.

“Nothing any of us could do, Mia,” Vinny said, surprisingly quiet. “He was obviously feeling guilty yesterday.”

“I should’ve at least seen if we could’ve sent a FLO round.” I was cross with everything today; me, lack of sleep, Taz, Andrew Smith, Lily.

Vinny shook his head. “He would’ve turned them away and you know that.”

I did, he was right. A rare thing, but he was.

I said nothing else for the rest of the journey, both of us unusually quiet. Vinny turned up the radio, a sports channel that he was mildly obsessed with and for once, I didn’t complain.

We reached Wethersett Park and ducked under the crime scene tape, the place awash with forensics. Jenna Osei was there, which always filled me with confidence, as was my brother. He was bent over a stretcher, the body of Andrew Smith already taken down and covered, after all the necessary notes and photos had been taken. In cases like this, things were done swiftly; preserving dignity, maintaining privacy. No need for media drones or telescopic camera lenses because there would be nothing to see.

Nate was deep in conversation with one of the CSIs when I reached him, face solemn, finger pointing at the tree from which rope still hung. The CSI scuttled away, someone I hadn’t seen before.

“Mia,” Nate said. “Not what I was expecting this morning.”

“No. We had some good news though – Cade, the boy in the fire at Roselea, is conscious and talking.” Wrigley had called back when we were in the car to let us know. Cade’s prognosis was good; his grandmother was ecstatic.

My brother nodded. “Good. Not so good for this fella.” He looked over to the rope that’d been used.

“Suicide?”

“I can’t say yet. The PM will be later this afternoon and I’ll know more then, but the logistics look a bit odd for that.” He pointed to the branch. “That’s high. How’s he got up there?”

The tree was at the top of a steep slope, which peaked about three feet higher than the ground below. Andrew Smith would’ve had to climb high enough up the tree to wrap the rope around the branch, get back down and then bring the rope to the edge of the slope.

“You’d have to lean off the top to get your head through the noose. That wouldn’t be easy.”

“And if you were heightened, you’d probably drop the rope a few times and would have to get hold of it again. There are easier ways to go than like this.” Nate nodded at two of the CSIs to stretcher the body over to the van to return to the morgue. It was a macabre scene, even under what was going to be a brilliant summer sky. Maybe even more because of that.

“Any signs of anything that he’d stood on – but if he had, it’d still be here.” I shook my head, frustrated. “He could’ve had help.”