Page 48 of Glasshouses

“You dodge my questions constantly, but I need you to answer one thing truthfully.”

“I might not be able to do that, Mia. As in not my decision.” His face was serious.

“Then tell me if that’s the case. Are you connected with my father – Stan Garrity? Yes, no or can’t answer.” The fourth option was that he lied.

“No. I’m nothing to do with him.” Something scuffled in the undergrowth near to us. A strong breeze whipped up a few of last autumn’s leaves.

I studied his face for the tells of someone lying, although I imagine that Taz knew what they were and how to hide them. For some reason I believed him.

“Your dad hasn’t instructed me to sort out your roof and check you’re not on your own if you twist an ankle running over this.” He pointed to the ground. “I think we should walk to the house. It’s getting too dark.”

“I would’ve thought you were more of a risk taker.” We started walking again.

“Do you believe me?”

“That you’re a risk taker?”

“That I’m nothing to do with Garrity.” He didn’t look at me, constantly looking around him, like a cop would.

“But you know who he is.”

“I’m from Whalley Range, of course I’ve heard of him, but not for a long time.” A glance in my direction.

“Okay. I believe you. I wouldn’t put it past him to hire someone to keep an eye on me.”

“He might have done, but that person’s not me. There’s the house.”

I looked ahead, just seeing it through the trees, a broken silhouette against a sky that was becoming full with yellows and reds.

“Jesus, it was a bit big.” I wondered how Amanda and Peter Goodhew had afforded it. It was probably Georgian, a straightforward detached villa, no fancy porch, just simplicity over three storeys. Much of the white stone was blackened with soot from the fire, two of the chimneys looked like they’d collapsed and part of the roof was damaged, but a lot of the building looked like it was standing fairly firmly.

“I wouldn’t want to tackle that roof,” Taz said, slowing the pace. “But what a building.”

I turned around, looking at the way we’d come. “That was a longer route.” I checked my watch. “Two and a half miles of awkward terrain.”

Taz stopped, looking all the way around. “I don’t think she did it. Fourteen, no shoes, in nightwear and drunk. She’d have gotten lost.”

“Maybe she wasn’t drunk.”

“Maybe she was put there. It would’ve taken her an hour, at least.” He shook his head. “One of my little sisters once took forty minutes to walk home when she was smashed. She had a conversation with every lamppost on the way.”

“How do you know that?”

“One of our brothers went out filming her. We played it at her wedding. She had no idea he’d saved it.” Taz took the lead in pushing through a gap in the hedge. “Watch yourself, it’s hawthorn and it’ll scratch you.” He moved branches out of the way with his hands, practically providing a shield.

I didn’t complain for once. “I feel sorry for your sister.”

“She got revenge so don’t.”

“How big’s your family?” I couldn’t take my eyes of the building.

“Five brothers and three sisters, plus a couple of cousins who lived with us on and off and a few more relations. It was chaotic; still is.” He carried on moving closer to the building, downwards through the edge of the wooded area, into the grounds of the house behind the fencing that gave it privacy.

It was overgrown and abandoned, an old car behind crumbling gates, the tyres completely flat and ivy creeping inside.

“We’re not going inside.”

“You might not be. In fact, you can’t. You’re a civilian. Technically you’re trespassing.”