Page 170 of Too Close To Home

Jake gave him the finger.

Then they played.

Jake behind the drums. Deacon on guitar. Raff beside Teddy, helping him fumble his way through the bass line until the kid finally caught it and lit up as if he’d just headlined Wembley.

For a while, it felt like old times.

Better times, maybe.

But after then, when things quieted, Jake’s mind went straight back to it.

To her.

To that loft. Emily Fisher and the reasons someone abducted her from a woodland path so close to her home and confined her in a roof space.

So he was more than a little on edge, whether it was nerves or something sharper, he couldn’t quite tell, as he rolled his van towards his bedsit a couple of weeks later on a Friday night, fresh off his last job. Because a car waited there, engine running, the interior light casting a low glow over a face he hadn’t known a few weeks ago yet couldn’t seem to shake from his thoughts now. Day or night.

Harrison.

Jake slowed the van, but his attention turned to across the road, to the dark shape parked half up on the kerb. Where someone else sat inside, phone lifted. They didn’t even pretend anymore. Didn’t try to hide. He rolled his eyes. Parked anyway. Then climbed out, shutting the door, feeling eyes on him. But he didn’t look back at that car. Didn’t give the media hounds or the true crime bloody podcasters the satisfaction.

His gaze went straight to Harrison instead.

And Christ.

His heart kicked hard as Harrison’s eyes found his through the windscreen. Then the car door opened and Harrison stepped out, all sharp lines and dark suit, as if he’d come straight from the station.

Or maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was official.

Didn’t stop it doing things to Jake he wasn’t ready to name.

“Detective.” Jake gave a curt nod as he approached.

“Mr Whitton.”

“You been waiting long?”

“Probably not as long as you have.”

Jake snorted. “Playing aloof, were ya?”

“On the contrary.” Harrison stepped closer, stopping shy of him, his aftershave the only thing bridging the space between them. “I’d have been here days ago if I could.”

Jake inhaled, sharp. “This business, or…?”

Harrison held his gaze. Didn’t look away. “Bit of both, perhaps.”

Jake jerked his chin at the car across the road. “Take note, then.”

Harrison followed the gesture. “Press?”

“Or someone who fancies themselves as it.” Jake ruffled his hair. “Hard to tell these days. They’ve been sniffing round since I pulled her out.”

Harrison nodded, then reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his warrant card, holding it up in plain sight. Playing the role. “Might I have a word with you in private?”

Jake snorted. “You better come up, then, DI Harrison Black.”