Page 89 of Glasshouses

“No chance.”

“He won’t have any milk alternatives, will he?” she asked, wistfully

“I don’t think Colin knows what that is.”

“I’ll have a tea then please. I think this coffee should be declared a health hazard. It isn’t even a latte.”

“The hardship. I’ll get you a tea.” I headed over to the counter where Colin was surveying his kingdom, ordering for Darcy and opting for health hazard coffee. I added a sandwich, my usual choice to the extent where Colin didn’t ask for any details.

“He’s bringing them over.” I sat down facing Darcy. “Next time we’ll meet somewhere trendy.”

“It’s okay. I feel like I’m in a spy movie in here.” Wide eyes scanned the room. “A nineteen-forties New York detective movie, maybe.”

“Maybe you should go into screenwriting.”

“Trust me, the truth is far more fascinating than fiction. Anyway, thank you.” She gave me a beam that should’ve been on morning TV.

“What for?”

“You’ve given me a lead that’s been picked up by one of the broadsheets as a freelancer.” Her previously buried enthusiasm started to reverberate.

“What do mean?”

“I’ve found a whistleblower. I started asking a few questions about The Holding; unsurprisingly, it was the pub landlord in Wethersett who had a lot to say, and he mentioned Graham Mercer being part of it. Told me a few rumours about Andrew Smith and how he skimmed off the accounts – turns out there were a couple of Holding members who weren’t so keen on him and one of them was Peter Goodhew. They spoke to Mercer about it to take some advice on what to do. The rumour then went that Mercer basically started to blackmail Andrew Smith and told Peter that he’d sorted it.” She sat back as Colin put our drinks on the table, followed by my sandwich which was a visual interpretation of a heart attack, complete with extra cheese and crispy salted bacon.

Darcy’s nose really wrinkled when she saw it.

“You’ve got evidence that Mercer’s corrupt?”

“Yes, and more by the day. I’m working with one of the senior investigative reporters, which is amazing, and she thinks we’ve almost got enough to take it to the police and then publish.” She added a little milk to her tea and stirred, ignoring the sugar. “It’ll really get my name out there, even with my podcast.”

I just loved journalists.

“What else did you find out about Andrew Smith?”

She was eyeing my food like it was about to jump up and grab hold of her face, which would certainly not be pleasant experience.

“He wasn’t as clean as his image made him out to be. He used The Holding’s money like it was his personal bank account, and there are rumours that he strongarmed people into naming The Holding in their wills or signing the houses over to The Holding and then were allowed to live in them rent-free.” She tapped a long nail on the Formica table which looked like it should’ve been a piece of art in the Louvre. “I spoke to a woman called Janette Fields who knew Andrew Smith fairly well and for a long time. She wasn’t a member of The Holding because she found it a bit – in her words – weird. She said that Andrew’s son, Stefan, was a handful. He was always in trouble and had been with the local police when he’d been staying with his father.” She eyed my food again. “Are you really going to eat that?”

“Yep. What else did she say about Stefan Smith?”

“Oh, his surname wasn’t Smith. He had his mum’s surname.”

My heart skipped a couple of beats. “And what was that?”

“Taylor. Stefan Taylor. He was a pupil at Calderwick Manor, but he was permanently excluded when he was seventeen, and she wasn’t sure what happened to him after that. He was suspected by the locals of a few crimes and they provided evidence to the police – minor things like keying cars, graffiti – things like that, but they said the police always turned a blind eye, or they were told to.” She gave a little shrug. “I couldn’t eat that.”

“No one’s asking you to.” I sunk my teeth into it and gave her room to talk some more while I chewed.

“I think Mercer was being paid by Andrew Smith to look the other way. No one has any evidence or anything concrete – yet; but if I keep digging, I think I’m going to find more.”

I put the sandwich down, enjoying it far too much, and dabbed at the corners of my mouth. “What do you think you’ll find?”

“Local corruption, mainly historic. There was talk of local garage dealing in stolen cars, but the police turning a blind eye to it. That’s been linked to Mercer anecdotally, but I think that’s where I’ll find some hard evidence. Ella, that’s the senior reporter, has contacts in the police that she’s spoken to and she’s had some off the record statements that corroborate the local intelligence we’re getting.” She tasted her tea and didn’t look like she was about to vomit.

“Any more about Andrew Smith?”

She didn’t miss the meaning behind the question. “Why are you so interested in him?” Her eyes narrowed, a hawk spotting a tasty morsel. “Is his death a suicide?”