Page 41 of Glasshouses

“Damien would’ve given me a lift. He’s the client.” Her head was turned to look out of the side window so I couldn’t see her expression.

“What is it you’ve been doing for him?” Small talk, sometimes it leads to the biggest ideas.

“I’ve been working on his garden for two years; I designed it and then I’ve maintained it while it matures. Damien’s a TV producer, and he has a photo shoot for an interiors magazine this weekend, which will feature the garden. It’s quite a big deal; the design’s up for an award as well, so this could be big for me.” She squeezed her hands together.

“You’ve done really well with your career.”

“Thank you. That’s why it’s really important no one finds out about who I used to be.”

“Why didn’t you change your first name as well? Lily’s not hugely common.” It was something I’d wondered earlier.

She rubbed at her jeans with her palms again. “I like my name and it goes with my business. It was a risk, I suppose. Lily’s Grow was such a good name for it though.”

“How did you get started? Did you do an apprenticeship?”

“I studied while I was still in hospital and I was allowed part of the garden to help start a portfolio. I did some work experience too and college courses; all risk assessed.” There was a tint of sarcasm to her last words.

“How did you build up your clients?”

“I targeted big houses with gardens that didn’t match the houses themselves with a flyer with photos of what I’d done, said I was moving into the area and offered lower introductory rates to build up my clientele. It worked. Word of mouth does the rest. I’m booked up for the next twelve months and I have a garden at the RHS Flower show next time it’s at Tatton.” There was an arrogance there that I’d missed previously, an anger too.

“Have you thought about your design for Tatton?” I diverted the possible topics to something that would flatter her ego.

“You have to keep it to yourself; the gardening world is really competitive.” She described her ideas in detail, killing the time it took to get us back into the city centre and into the car park that served the Fishbowl.

There were no cells at the Fishbowl; it was purely our offices, and a handful of interview rooms, plus the two large areas designed for press conferences. The interview rooms were ideal for people like Lily, who weren’t under caution, nervous and embarrassed.

“I can walk home from here,” she said as we headed inside, diverting through a busy reception to sign her in, going through security protocols that were quick and practiced.

“It’s really convenient.” It wasn’t, nothing in Manchester was convenient because of the traffic, but if you had the time to walk it could be okay. “We’ve got interview room three. DC Dixon’s going to join us.”

I led her to a room that was a white box with a high up window that let in a slither of natural light. The seats were padded and there was a small fridge that still worked and had bottled water in it. The comfort wouldn’t last.

Lachy appeared, his Australian surfer boy persona in as much bloom as it could be when wearing smart trousers and a shirt. His perma-tan was even deeper than normal after his holiday and he looked like he’d brushed his hair. I wondered what he was up to.

“Will this be recorded?” She looked around the room, presentation completely different to when she’d been talking about her business in the car.

“DS Dixon will transcribe a statement for you to sign. You’re being interviewed as a witness, not a suspect.” I tried for a smile and found it difficult. “This is all voluntary,” I reminded her. “You’re under no pressure, but you may know something that could help us find out who killed Amanda Goodhew.”

She nodded, saying nothing, pressing her lips together as if she was physically stopping the words from leaving her mouth and I wondered if she’d done the same when she was at school and later, when she was arrested. Anna’s description of her tallied more with a child who’d experienced or was experiencing trauma, and the accounts of situational mutism when she was arrested slotted with that. When talking about her business and gardens, Lily was animated, confident. With everything else she restricted her words.

Lachy appeared through with a laptop, introducing himself and giving Lily a grin that I’d seen before on nights out. I didn’t for one second think that Lachy had a thing for Lily; he was a good copper and a decent man, if a bit of a pillock occasionally.

We went through the formalities, Lily agreeing for the conversation to be transcribed and Lachy would use that for the statement.

“Let’s start with the brick through your window yesterday, Lily. Can you tell us what happened?” I eased her in with something we’d covered, and she went through the same details, in her bedroom after showering, with no discrepancies from yesterday.

“Who might want to send you what could be construed as a warning?” I asked her. “Is there anyone you’ve noticed acting oddly towards you, or has said or done something that’s unnerved you?”

She shook her head. “No. I keep myself to myself, apart from work.”

“What about a competitor? Could they be warning you off taking a job?” She’d referenced this in the car.

Lily briefly held her head in her hands, squeezing herself together so she looked small.

I thought about how we were similar; birth parents who weren’t conventional, both of us products of a system, only I’d been dealt a stronger hand with my foster parents.

Luck. Sometimes the only thing that divides you is luck.