Page 111 of Too Close To Home

The man shook his head. “This morning. Police showed up at his place around five a.m. Had him hauled in.”

Jake heaved a breath. Andy. Arrested. Fuck. They must have something on him.

Lance printed the receipt and slid it across the counter. “I’ll pull his order out the back in a minute.” He then glanced back at Jake. “That’s you sorted, Jake lad. Hundred and eighteen.”

Jake paid without really registering the amount, then shoved the receipt into his pocket and wheeled the trolley back out into the yard. The wind had picked up while he’d been inside, whipping through the loading bays, carrying the metallic tang of cut steel and damp timber and making Jake’s hair fly out of control. He got to work, lifting the materials into the van—timber lengths first, then the insulation rolls, then the boxes of screws—movements automatic, disconnected from the thoughts roaring through his head.

Andy Mitchell.

Arrested.

There was only one reason the police would pick Andy up right now. Emily. Which meant the investigation had moved forward. Which meant Harrison had moved it forward. He had new information. New evidence.

Jake slammed the van door hard, and one of the forklift drivers glanced over. Jake ignored him and climbed into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead through the windscreen.

His thoughts spiralled fast.

If Andy Mitchell had anything to do with Emily Fisher disappearing…Then Jake had been right. All those years ago. The idea landed like a punch to the chest. Because if Andy had done something to Emily, then what had he done to Robyn?

Jake’s breath came shorter, sharper.

Three years.

Three fucking years Jake had spent behind bars for nearly killing the man. Three years of courtrooms and cells. Three years of his mum crying behind thick glass while barristers and judges told him violence wasn’t the answer. All the while Andy Mitchell had walked free. And if Andy had known something back then—if he’d known where Robyn was, what had happened to her, where she’d been left—

Jake tightened his grip on the steering wheel until the leather creaked beneath his grip.

If Andy Mitchell had known all along…

Jake had spent thirteen years living with the wrong guilt.

The engine roared to life beneath him.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t plan. Never did, did he?

He pulled out of the yard and drove.

* * * *

Harrison watched Andy Mitchell sitting in Interview Room Two for nearly ten minutes through the observation glass.

The room itself was exactly like every other police interrogation room Harrison had been in. Neutral walls, a fixed table, two plastic chairs opposite one another, a small digital clock mounted high in the corner so there could be no argument later about timing.

Andy didn’t look frightened.

That was the first thing Harrison noticed.

He looked irritated. Slightly red in the face from the early-morning arrest, jaw working occasionally as if he were chewing over some private grievance. The duty solicitor sat beside him, scrolling through his phone, open laptop waiting for the formal interview to begin.

Harrison turned away from the glass and moved back to the desk in the adjoining office. Calder had already laid out the interview folder: arrest report, custody record, CCTV stills from the pub, the timeline they’d built over the weekend, and the early communications data request Harrison had pushed through during the night.

He picked up the file and flipped through it again, tapping the pen against the margin as he read. Arrest: 06:12 hours. Mitchell, Andy. Address. Grounds: suspicion of involvement in the disappearance of Emily Fisher. Uniform had lifted him quietly. No scene. No fuss. Exactly how Harrison had wanted it done. And while custody had booked him in, the officers searched his premises. So far, they’d not found anything. Though Harrison had them seize his electronic devices and anything else that could hide a multitude of sins and motives.

Like an obsession with young women.

Harrison closed the file and set it back on the desk, then wiped a hand across the back of his neck. The familiar tension was there again. That tight, coiled feeling always coming before a case moved from quiet theory into confrontation.