Page 30 of Too Close To Home

Harrison paused. “Sorry?”

“Band merch. Weren’t proper.” Jake shoved his hands into his pockets, wondering whether he actually had to explain this. “Shitty retailer one. Print were wrong. And he couldn’t even tell me who drummed on Nevermind.”

Harrison stared at him for a second.

And Jake had no fucking idea why he was clarifying this. The lad’s name? Not a clue. Phone number? Nope. Where he lived? Not a chance. But apparently Jake could assist a major police investigation by confirming the authenticity of some random bloke’s Nirvana T-shirt and quizzing him on the fucking drummer.

Brilliant.

“Right,” Harrison said, and Jake could’ve sworn there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That should narrow it down considerably.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “You taking piss?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Harrison stepped further into the bar. “Thank you. We’ll find him.”

And suddenly he was close.

Close enough that Jake caught the faint trace of aftershave beneath the stale beer and burnt coffee. Clean. Subtle. Probably expensive. Nothing like the shit most blokes drowned themselves in before a night out.

Jake breathed it in before he realised he was doing it.

Christ.

First he cared what the detective thought about who he fucked. Now he was standing there smelling him.

Get a fucking grip.

Except Harrison was right there, close enough for Jake to see the faint lines around those deep brown eyes, and that strange pull beneath his ribs only tightened.

He frowned.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He hated coppers. Always had. Detectives especially. He knew their type. The looks lasting a second too long while they decided what sort of man he was. The questions that weren’t really questions because they’d already decided on his answer. Build a story first, then bend everything else until it fitted.

At least, that was what every detective Jake had ever dealt with had done.

“I appreciate you speaking to my officers earlier.” Harrison looked past him to Pete, and Jake immediately wanted him to look back at him. The realisation hit with enough force, it pissed him off. Christ. He’d known the bloke all of five fucking minutes. “I’d like to firm up a few details.”

“Oh, aye. We’re all concerned.” Pete gestured to the bar. “You want a coffee?”

Harrison’s expression changed just enough to make him look suddenly less like a detective inspector and more like a tired bloke who desperately needed caffeine. “Yes, thank you. Black. One sugar. To take away, if you have it.”

Pete set about murdering the coffee machine.

“I know you’ve already provided initial statements.” Harrison perched onto a stool and opened his notebook. “Those were necessary for the initial risk assessment. What I need now is a precise timeline of Miss Fisher’s last known movements, particularly during the final hour of her shift. Who she spoke to. Who she left with. Anything unusual you noticed, however insignificant it might have seemed at the time.”

Jake watched him.

Couldn’t seem to stop watching him, actually.

There was nothing showy about the way Harrison took control of the conversation. He didn’t raise his voice or throw his rank around. He simply expected people to listen, and they did. Calm. Certain. Completely at ease with being the person everyone else looked to for answers.

It should have got on Jake’s tits.

Instead, apparently, he found it attractive.

Brilliant.