Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
I dreamed of houses and plasterboard and fires in sheds, open windows that wouldn’t shut and rain that came through them, drenching everything. I woke to a thunderstorm and a sash window that was rattling with the wind; something else I’d need to fix.
I’d been asleep four hours, the sort of sleep that was the opposite of refreshing but I no longer felt as if I was going to keel over. I needed fresh air and coffee and a shower, and an evening spent looking at files on a pen drive.
Maybe not the latter.
Taz was still in the bathroom, which now looked completely different than it had done before. Everything was gone; the sink, bath, toilet, the bidet that I’d avoided touching – it was a blank canvas. The carpet that had made me need to shower every time I’d seen it had been ripped out.
“Oh.” It was the only sound I could make.
“You’ll need to use the bathroom on the top floor. I made an executive decision and took everything out.” He eyed me as if I was about to turn feral.
“That’s fine. Do you think I could get a fancy chandelier over the bath?”
“I think you can have whatever’s in your budget, sweet cheeks.”
I found the energy to glare. “Never call me that again.”
His grin told me I had no chance.
“What do I need to choose first? Tiles?”
We went through ideas for the room; a freestanding bath, two sinks in case I ever lived here with someone and didn’t want my sink to be filled with stubble or someone else’s evacuated toothpaste. I liked the idea of an Edwardian unit against one of the walls and a walk in shower.
Taz negotiated with me, explaining where the plumbing was and what the limitations were, but after half an hour and a video call with yet another relation, we were heading down to a unit usually only open to trade, and this time I let Taz drive.
For the two hours it took to make decisions around colours, choose tiles, pick a cast iron bath and work out what style sinks I could live with, I didn’t think about fires or damaged children who grew up into damaged adults, or what was on that pen drive.
It was a brain break, an exercise in thinking about something else, and I felt more alive than I had just through sleep.
“Is this why you renovate properties?” I asked my very patient companion on the way back to my house.
“Yep. It’s a hobby. I get to use my hands as well as my brain and see things come together.” He drove smoothly, fully aware of other cars on the road, anticipating other motorists way in advance.
I was a nervous passenger, even with cops who’d done the advanced driving courses, hyper aware of what risks they might be taking and itching to be the one in control, because it was always about control. Taz drove like me, planned, smooth and for a moment or two, I actually relaxed.
“How many houses have you flipped?”
“Ten. Not on my own. Matty, one of my brothers, has a property company. He flips houses and either sells them on or rents them.”
“Do you make money out of it?”
“I wouldn’t do it for free. I invest a share in each property.”
“So the company is also yours.”
“Kind of. I don’t make any business decisions. And in the past, Matty and my brothers have had to do without me.”
“Because of this mysterious career you haven’t told me about.”
He grinned, as if he was really enjoying himself, but didn’t answer.
“How did you get the files on the pen drive?” Now seemed as good a time as any to question my suspect as he had no way to escape.
“I have talents that my mother doesn’t.”
Another cryptic answer. “You mean you hacked into things you shouldn’t.”
“Not quite. Are you going to look through them when we get back?”
“Absolutely.” I checked my phone for any updates from Lachy who was on shift for the rest of the day. Nothing.
“Let me know what you think.”
“You could just tell me now.”
He shrugged and turned up the radio, house music from the turn of the century now blasting like he was a teenager who’d just passed his driving test. “Matty’s going to come round at six to look at the plumbing. He’ll get everything in tomorrow, and I’ll start the tiling on Monday.”
“What are you getting out of this?” My scepticism hadn’t gone away. “I’m sure you’ve got lots to do.”
“Making sure Manchester’s star detective has a comfortable place to rest so the city can be more effectively policed.”
“That is such a bullshit answer.”
More laughter. He was enjoying himself. “Can I crash on your sofa tonight?”
“Why? Has your mum kicked you out?”
“Not since last week. No, one of my brothers is staying with his two kids, so they want the room I’m in. I could sleep on her sofa, but the kids will think it’s a sleepover and they’ll do anything but sleep.” His jaw tightened. “I’d rather pass on that.”
“Fine with me.”
“I’m not planning on ransacking your house. Most of the contents are now in the skip.” He glanced at me while we were stopped at lights. “I don’t understand how you have such little stuff.”
“I’m a hobo. Or I have been. I decided it was time to hang up my knapsack and plant roots.” It would be helpful if I knew how to dig.
He pulled up on my drive, parking the car behind mine. “Matty’s bringing food for us. He’s coming from mum’s and she’s sending supplies. I told her about your kitchen.”
“Oh, that’s nice of her.”
“She was concerned for my health.”
“Good job someone is.”
Another chuckle.
I left him to whatever he was doing, itching to crack open my own laptop and see what was on the pen drive.
It was where I’d left it, still full of secrets.
My own laptop was rarely used. I made a point of turning it on every couple of weeks and checking for updates, occasionally using it for work if I was doing something that wasn’t advised, like this.
Even looking at these files would get me into no end of trouble with professional standards.
How had Taz gotten them? I knew he was a skilled hacker, but these opened like they would’ve if I was in Holmes and had the right permissions. I paused that thought. It could wait.
I plugged it into the port and opened up the drive. There was only one folder.
Goodhew.
Well, that was obvious. I opened it up, revealing several other folders, each one containing files with names that looked like evidence numbers.
The first one I opened told me that was exactly what it was. Evidence. These were the files I couldn’t open, even with a password, they’d been redacted.
And here they were, accessible and enticing. If you liked that sort of thing.
I rearranged my pillows on my bed, settling into them while I started to go through each document, scanned in accountancy ledgers for The Holding in writing I knew to be Amanda’s.
It was old fashioned bookkeeping, done manually, even showing the workings out. Page after page of income and outgoings. I saw house sales, the profit being added to the running totals for one account; outgoings for gardening equipment, and then a regular amount to Calderwick Manor.
A quick internet search told me this had been a non-selective boarding school for boys which had closed just over a decade ago.
Why was The Holding paying around ten grand a term?
Thankful that Amanda had been so meticulous, I scanned through the files, counting what I figured to be five years’ worth of payments.
Lily had said that her parents hadn’t valued education, that they were trying to force her to belong to a world that shunned technology and modern ways.
Paying a boarding school contradicted that, so who was being sent there?
I opened another folder, one helpfully labelled case notes, and found a file note added by DC Stephen O’Brien.
“Got it.” I could’ve jumped up and punched the air, but I was too comfy.
The Holding’s leader was Andrew Smith, and I had an address.
I rummaged around next to me for my work laptop, going through the various levels of security to get access to a browser, then I searched for Andrew Smith and The Holding, eventually, deep in a very old chat room, found a reference.
Andrew Smith who runs the Holding would be able to advise you on where to get seedlings locally. I think he can supply them to you.
That was it, but it would do. I didn’t have to reveal the pen drive. Another search and I discovered that Andrew Smith was still living at the same address, although it wasn’t the address held by Companies House for The Holding.
I went back to the case note, carrying on through O’Brien’s bullet points, all brief, nothing explanatory.
Unusual cash withdrawals – partly to avoid a penalty charge accrd to A.G.
TH paying tax?
A.S. connected to D.Sup C.M. D.Sup instructed us to -
It was blacked out. I took a big breath, closed the file down, and opened the next folder.
More accounts, all in Amanda’s handwriting.
The final folder contained the information I’d been seeking since the start; the notes from when the police had spoken to the doctor who’d treated Lily that morning, after she’d been found in the cemetery.
They were brief.
Tested negative for alcohol, not intoxicated. Presented as mute. No signs of assault. Hands were positive for traces of petrol. No physical injs. Slight hyptherm. No breathing iss.
It didn’t marry with Lily having run through the woods between Roselea and the church. Maybe she’d had shoes on – she’d been found barefoot but that didn’t mean she hadn’t left the house without something on her feet. But if she had, she hadn’t left in as much of a panic.
None of it contradicted what Terry Jones had told me. If anything, what I’d just read was more suggestive of Lily being guilty. She wasn’t drunk, she possibly wasn’t barefoot and if she was, she hadn’t run from her house to the graveyard. Things still didn’t add up.
My phone buzzed with a text from Lachy.
Cade breathing on his own. Stats good. Managed to get in his laptop. Videos of inside Roselea. Nothing obvious.
I responded back.
Perp must’ve been worried him seeing something. Or going in the shed.