Page 28 of Glasshouses

Wrigley carried on driving, eventually parking in a spot that wasn’t outside anyone’s house. I wondered how much like cops we looked as we walked the few metres down to Lily’s house and checked to see if there were any twitching curtains.

Lily’s door opened before we could ring the bell, and I guessed she was watching for us on the doorbell camera.

“Hi, come in.” She gave us a smile as she let us through, but it was forced. “Do you want a drink?”

“If you don’t mind, that would be great. Coffee if you have it.” I didn’t pause in the living room, following her into the small kitchen dining room. “My boss is with me, DI Wrigley. He’s fussy with his coffee – you’ve got to get his sugar levels just right.” Wrigley, in fact, had three sugars, but we were under instructions from his wife to get it down to one and a half if we made a coffee for him. He’d cottoned on and kept some sachets he’d nabbed from a café in his drawer, but when we weren’t at the Fishbowl there wasn’t much he could do.

“Sure. It’s just instant. I usually have tea.” She opened a cupboard door and pulled out a glass jar filled with tea leaves and bits in it. I caught a glance of what else was in there – bog standard beans, spaghetti hoops and a selection of tinned soups.

No home-made preserves.

“What’s in that?”

“I add chamomile that I grow and a few other herbs. Nothing illegal.” She looked worried for a second. “I don’t do anything like that. I don’t even drink.”

“You did when you were younger though. What changed?”

She shook her head. “Do you want sugar in the coffee?”

“None for me and three for DI Wrigley.” I gestured no as I said three, and stuck one finger in the air.

This got a smile and a nod.

“Do you grow your own veg as well as designed gardens?” I could see her back garden from the kitchen window, clusters of flowers between lush green shrubs, some in bloom. It was spectacular, even for a small space.

“Yes, I have an allotment when I grow a lot of my own.” She opened another cupboard and pulled out the sugar. This time I saw rows of jars, but there were no labels.

“And you preserve some of what you grow?” I pointed to the cupboard.

“I do. I learned to do it from when I was living with my parents.” Her choice of words was considered.

“From your mum? I saw lots of jams and chutneys in her kitchen.” I pushed, knowing that Wrigley would be listening to me from the living room, as well as having a good root round.

“From her, yes. I just like growing things and cooking, really.” The kettle boiled, the noise filling the room. Lily kept her gaze away from me, looking out at the garden instead.

I carried mine and Wrigley’s drinks into the living room, making sure to place them on a mat. Lily had filled a teapot with her homemade blend, bringing just a cup with it.

“This isn’t sweet enough.” Wrigley pulled his face at the first sip.

“Probably because it’s just boiled, Sir. It’ll be too hot to taste.”

He gave me the dirtiest of looks, then rearranged his expression when he looked at Lily. “I’m DI Wrigley from the same unit as DS McAllister here. Thank you for having us round so we can try to find out some more information about Amanda Goodhew.” His tone was softer than normal and he was giving out the kind uncle vibe that I’d seen him do once or twice. Wrigley was one of the best at interviewing; he was experienced and quick thinking, never missing a beat when something threw a curve ball. I’d learned a lot from working with him and I’d miss him when he retired. But I could see he was ready to retire, and a new DI would spice up the team. “I understand it might be difficult to talk about her, but your help would really be appreciated.”

Lily sat up a little higher, looking a little surprised at Wrigley’s tone. “Like I said to DS McAllister, I haven’t seen Amanda for seventeen years, so I’m not sure I can offer much.”

“We’re looking into more than seventeen years ago. We don’t think your mother was living much differently than what she did then; growing her own veg and plants, living off the grid, and still involved with a group called The Holding.” He paused, giving space for Lily to interrupt.

She didn’t. The silence was left hanging.

“We believe your parents were active members of the group and that the beliefs of the group impacting on your upbringing. We’re trying to find out as much information as we can about The Holding, or any adults your parents were friendly with.” It was without dressing, unacknowledging of any distress she might have about the past.

Lily didn’t respond, taking a few sips of her tea like she was drawing precious oxygen from it.

“I understand that it might be difficult to remember, and we’re sorry for dredging up the past. We’re searching for leads about how your mother died, and this is one of the few we have.” I said, wondering if she needed more of a “softly softly” approach, one that showed her more care.

She put the cup down and looked at Wrigley then me, deliberately done, as if she was about to address her audience.

“The Holding was a co-operative. It was a group of local people who met and helped each other to grow their own. They would plan who was growing what, and then look at trading goods between each other. It became a bit more shared equally than trading. Amanda would make jams and preserves from the fruit in the garden which people liked. I suppose it was very wholesome and a simpler way of living.” She topped her cup up from the teapot, maybe congratulating herself because she’d not given away a single thing about her.