Page 3 of Glasshouses

“You sound really glad to be rid of this.” It wasn’t every time that the local cops were keen for us to take over a case.

“I’m booked on a flight to Tenerife at six tomorrow morning and for a moment, I thought I might need to change it. But you’re here.” Her smile grew. “I’d catch up but I think you need to check upstairs before the floor collapses.”

Nate was already halfway up, covered in his standard disposable overalls. “On my way.”

I covered up my own clothes, pulling on shoe covers. Getting any evidence from this area would be highly unlikely. The fire, followed by it being put out and the multitude of firefighters then entering the scene looking for anyone trapped would have gotten rid of anything useful. But still.

The fire damage grew worse further back into the house, smoke tide marks hinting that the fire had travelled quickly and extensively, the flames wrapping around timber and material, tearing it apart as they swept through the downstairs and up the staircase, giving a chimney effect.

The stairs probably weren’t entirely safe to use, but they were safe enough given that Paul guided us up anyway.

“It’s the first room you come to,” he said, pausing at the top. “We’re using boards to get over to the body and move it out.”

Nate moved to the door frame and stopped there, taking in the scene. “She didn’t die in bed.”

“No. The smoke would’ve been bad up here, so maybe she woke up with the fire and couldn’t get out.” Paul shifted out of the way so I could see into the room.

“But she’s on her back. If she’d have passed out because of carbon monoxide poisoning, wouldn’t she be on her front or side?” I squinted, trying to see better. The body was on the floor on what I guessed had been a rug, fully dressed or so it seemed, the head near the foot of the bed. Fire damage was obvious and distorted the view; the clothes were partially melted or charred, some of the skin had been affected and I definitely knew the answer to the question we’d asked as kids – would you rather drown or die in a fire.

I’d take the water every time.

“We’ll know more when we get her to the morgue.” Nate stepped away. “Have photos been taken?”

Jenna nodded. “I flew the drone in as well so we could have a decent set. I’ll send them to you both. We’re going to remove the body now. Paul’s worried how long this floor will hold up. The damage from below is worse than it looks.” She gestured for us to go back down the stairs.

I lingered at the back, taking in what I could of the house. It had clearly been one of those houses that was breathtaking, ceiling roses and cornices that looked like the original, the landing big enough to have a few pieces of furniture dotted around it, a cabinet adorned with photos and pottery and a lamp, a rocking chair with a worn cushion on the seat.

“We don’t know for sure they died in the fire.” The words were obvious ones.

Nate turned around, pausing on the stairs. “We don’t, and it’s quite possible they didn’t. And we don’t know for sure that it isn’t the owner of the house.”

“It looks like a woman.”

“It probably is, but I’ve learned to never assume.” His answer was textbook, arrogant as well, and I didn’t let the tone irritate me. As a pathologist, Nate was young but brilliant, utterly dedicated to his work, and when he wasn’t working, he was reading and writing about his specialisms. As a half-brother, he was an enigma. Brought up by his maternal grandmother, we’d met as young adults, piecing together the life of our biological father. We were two of several half-siblings; Stan Garrity, not known for his faithfulness in relationships. Lots of things about Stan weren’t known, including his current whereabouts, which was a problem for his prison officers.

“Sometimes I have to assume; that’s until you can give me something to go off.” I stayed still on the stairs while he carried down, a team at the bottom getting ready to bring up the equipment to move the body.

Nate kept walking, ignoring me for now. I carried on looking around the first floor, wallpaper old enough to be fashionable again, some parts faded where they faced the light from the rooms that fed off the landing, or the stained glass window that was at the front of the house, a colourful beam hitting the worn carpet.

It would be a shame if the house didn’t survive. I’d just moved into what would kindly be described as a fixer-upper, a three storey Victorian villa with cellars that had been lived in by the same woman for fifty-seven years. It was likely to be longer than that since it’d had any work done, so I was currently living in a building site with no kitchen, not that would make much difference.

This house was unlikely to be restored, especially not now it was a house of horrors.

I headed downstairs, taking in as much as I could about the building, trying to pick up on details stored in the décor and detail that the fire had left to build up a picture of the man whose name was on the deeds.

Back outside, I trailed the perimeter, taking a few photos with my phone. The garden was neat and well-looked after, oodles of flowering shrubs and bedding plants, a few brave bees and butterflies fluttering around in areas where the crime scene officers weren’t now the smoke was under control. I walked to the end of the garden and the place that I thought was a likely entrance point for someone to access the property without being seen. If they’d carried petrol through the gap in the hedge and down the lawn, the sniffer dog would pick it up and we might be able to chase a trail to where they’d had a car or something. Katie’s team were making their way down to area, mapping where they were finding anything that could’ve been of interest but probably wouldn’t be when it came down to it.

Some murders were quick to solve; the victim identified, a motive clear, a perpetrator standing there with their hands out, full of remorse or guilt or fear. Others started like this; an unknown person in a place they weren’t obviously associated with and no clear leads.

The stuff of my DI’s nightmares. I took in the view over the fields from the gap in the hedge, noting the grass that looked flattened and a few branches that had come away from the hedge. This was, more than likely, how our fire starter had entered the grounds. They would’ve been unseen, or if anyone had been around, it would’ve been the time of night when no one wanted to be noticed.

From the gap in the hedge I could see the trainline across the fields, maybe a seven-minute walk away. It was a large area, one that had been considered by developers more than once for a new estate, only local opposition had killed the plans so far. The fields had once been a golf course belonging to a local engineering company which had long since moved. They were mowed a couple of times a year, but otherwise were left wild, paths worn in by dogwalkers and bird watchers. There was a good chance a dog would pick up the scent of the accelerant, and we’d be able to trace it to somewhere there were cameras.

“Mia McAllister, how’ve you been?” Paul, fire investigator extraordinaire, approached me with the same caution one would use for a rattle snake. We’d clashed a couple of times in the past, mainly because he’d treated me like I was made of spun glass, and that was a serious trigger.

“Good.” I tipped my chin up. He was around six-four on a bad day, and I was at least a foot shorter on a good day. “What can you tell me.”

He repeated what I’d already heard from Jenna and Katie, adding in more details that could be useful going forward. He was experienced and an expert witness when it came to prosecuting cases.