Page 46 of Glasshouses

“Houses like this are a continuous project. It’ll never stop, so it has to be a hobby. I can teach you how to plaster and tile, which will save you some money,” he said from the master bathroom, if it could be called that, as he was getting changed. I was hovering on the landing, already in my running gear and looking at the maps app on my phone.

“I’d like to learn that actually.” I would save me some money. “Do you have the time to teach me?”

“Sporadically. I start in a new team in a few weeks so it’ll depend on how competent they are.” He emerged from the bathroom. “Who’s driving?”

“I am.” That was a non-negotiable. “You could drive me anywhere if I was in your car.”

“I could, but for many reasons I wouldn’t. For a start, I’m not that sort of person, unless I need to be. Secondly,” he lifted two fingers on his hand, “you’d make a lot of noise and I find that irritating.”

“Is there a third reason?”

“My car’s filthy and no one needs to sit in that passenger seat. Do you know where you’re going?”

“I think so.”

Growing up in north Wales meant I developed a good sense of direction. Mobile reception wasn’t always guaranteed in the middle of Eyri, and road signs couldn’t always be relied on. I was used to storms blowing down trees and blocking off routes, and I was used to getting lost up a mountain before finding myself again.

Driving to Thornley End was just like living in other rural communities; there was only one way in and one way out. Every road meandered off the main road that eventually wandered into moorland, the outskirts of Greater Manchester that became a different planet. Houses were dotted by the road like bungled afterthoughts, remote and lonely. The land grew wilder, dry scrubby soil that in a couple of months would be coloured with purple heather.

“It’s down here.” I indicated left and turned down a road that was more of a track, trees popping up on either side.

“Doesn’t look like this is used much,” the person formerly known as Atlas said.

“The house has been in a state of disrepair and unoccupied since the fire. Seventeen years.” I pulled over in a layby. “I want to run from here to the cemetery, and this path - ” I pointed to a stile in the fence that opened up onto what looked like it should’ve been a path. “It should take us to it.”

“You think that’s the way Lily Goodhew would’ve run.”

“Possibly. I think they’ll be another way from the house; she was going out all the time so she would’ve known all the routes.” I climbed out of the car and popped open my boot, changing into my trail shoes.

Taz followed, weighing the car down as he sat on the rim of the boot. “You’re dedicated to your job, aren’t you?”

“I really enjoy solving mysteries. I think that’s why I studied psychology at university, because people are the biggest mystery there is.” I fumbled with a lace, triple bowing it in the hope it wouldn’t come undone.

“That’s deep for a Thursday.”

“You should try me on a Friday. Why did you choose your line of work?” I stood up and stretched, a performative attempt at doing running properly.

“Nice try, Mia. Ready?”

We climbed over the style and started to run across a field, away from the main road and the track to Lily’s childhood home. The churchyard was in the centre of Thornley End, a place that was technically too small to be called a village and was more of a hamlet.

Neither of us were slow runners. I expected that Taz would beat me over five kilometres easily, but I was confident I’d beat him over a longer distance. My brain whirred between thoughts of doing just that and what living around here would’ve been like.

“Where did you grow up?” I asked him as we grew closer to another couple of houses.

“Manchester. Whalley Range. I don’t think I saw a tree until I was about ten.”

I laughed, appreciating the humour. “Even in Piccadilly Gardens?”

“Especially there. No, Whalley Range has got a bit of greenery here and there, not all of it legal. Is that the church I can see?” He pointed to a spire looming in the distance.

“I think that’s it. It’s not used anymore; the Church of England still upkeeps the building and the graveyard, but no services take place there.”

“You’ve done your research.”

“I like to know things. Like what you do for a living.”

“But you’re not subtle. How far have we run?” He checked his watch. “Two miles in sixteen and a half minutes. Not a bad pace.”