Page 34 of Glasshouses

“‘Watch out.’ Handwritten, black marker pen. No name, so it could have been the wrong house. I’m going to get around the back and see what’s been left.” She started to put tools away in her bag that was outside.

“‘Watch out’; that’s a threat. Or is it someone trying to warn her? How was it attached to the brick?” This was adding another layer that hadn’t been on my bingo card and made me even more sure that the two cases were connected. All the facts felt like pieces from different jigsaws right now, and somehow I was meant to fit them together. Someone knew who Lily really was, potentially anyway. I needed to dig deeper into the professionals that had worked with her, whether there were any deeper connections, somewhere.

“Elastic bands. Nothing fancy, and the paper is standard notepad, at a guess. I’ll test it for fingerprints back at the lab.” She was looking to the spot where the brick had probably come over. “Luckily nothing’s damaged the garden; that would’ve been a travesty.”

“It’s pretty good, isn’t it?” I looked around again, thinking of my garden that looked like an overgrown forest. “To have the imagination to do this.”

Jenna followed me back inside, gathering the rest of her things. I put the kettle on, opening cupboards to find where the mugs were kept, even though it was perfectly obvious. I also closed the door to the kitchen to stop our voices from carrying through to Lily.

“You know, the two fires could be completely unrelated.” She kept her voice low, although the slow hum of the kettle started to pick up volume.

“They could be. But it’s an awful lot of coincidences.” I didn’t believe in coincidences. I believed in connections and pathways interconnecting, but there was always an explanation. “And now this brick with a message.”

Jenna checked her phone, stuffing it back in her pocket. “True. Does she know yet that her mother didn’t die because of the fire?”

“No.” The kettle clicked off. “Not yet.” I picked out two cups and found the usual teabags. Then I opened the fridge, pausing while I looked at its contents.

You could tell a lot about a person from what was in their fridge.

Preserves, homemade chutneys, some store bought produces, but this was the fridge of a health-conscious person. I wondered whether that was from her childhood or a take-back-control behaviour from the time she’d spent in hospital where the food would’ve been bland and processed. A little like my own diet.

The milk was shop-bought, but a nearby dairy and I wondered if she made an effort to buy local.

I carried the tea through, Jenna following me with her bags.

“Thanks, Lily. It’s all done now so you can go in there as you please. Someone’s on their way to board up the window so it’s secure.” Jenna stopped near the door to the hall. “I’ve tidied up as well. Your kitchen was otherwise spotless.”

“Thanks. I like things to be tidy.” She took the cup off me. “Did you check the cameras?”

Jenna nodded. “The one at the front is working fine. The back one is just dead. I’ve taken it with me – there’s a list of what I’ve taken on the kitchen worktop.”

“Okay. Thank you.” It was a dismissal and Jenna took it as such. “I’ve messaged someone I know who does windows – I know him through things to do with greenhouses – and he’s on his way round. It is okay, isn’t it, if I get it mended as soon as possible?”

“That’s fine. This doesn’t need to be treated as a crime scene.” I sipped at my tea even though it was too hot. “Have you had any other communication that could be considered a threat?”

“No. Nothing at all, but this has scared me. What if someone has found out who I was? It would ruin everything.” She held her gaze on me for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“Would that be the worst case scenario for you?”

“Yes. Yes, it would. I’ve worked so hard to manage this life and I don’t want anything to upset it, Mia.”

The use of my name startled me. It shouldn’t have done; when I was a beat cop, or I’d been doing FLO work, use of first names was standard to build a relationship with a victim, or sometimes even a suspect you were hoping would be comfortable enough to let something slip.

“Is it possible you know someone who knew your mother? Maybe through your gardening? I’m wondering if you have an allotment?”

She looked ahead of her, not really seeing anything. “I have a small holding in Withymoor. A farmer turned one of his fields into allotments and I hire four of the spaces so I can have a polytunnel and raised beds.”

“What do you grow? I couldn’t help but notice all the fresh veg in your fridge. Is that what you’ve grown?”

“Yes. You know my parents,” she forced the word, “grew most of their own food. They didn’t believe in a commercial way of life. I was taught how to grow from seed since I was little, how to harvest and store crops. It’s the one part of my childhood I remember well.”

“Did that mean you had a very different childhood to your friends?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Even the kids of the parents who were in the group were different to me. Their parents were involved but they still let them have normal stuff, you know like computers and TVs. My parents wouldn’t have anything like that.” There was hatred in her voice now and I wondered how often this was a topic in her therapy.

“So what did you do?”

Her expression was icy. “You’re allegedly a good detective, Mia, so I suspect you’ve already done your homework. I stayed away from home wherever I could.”