Page 45 of Too Close To Home

“Mr Froggatt.” Harrison turned back to Deacon. “I’m following up on information regarding Emily Fisher. I understand you were performing at The King’s Arms last night?”

“That’s right.” Deacon jerked his chin towards Jake. “With this one.” He mimed drumming in mid-air. “Awesome drummer. You a live music fan, Detective?”

Jake shot him a sharp warning look.

Deacon pressed his tongue into his cheek, entirely unrepentant.

Harrison wasn’t derailed, though. “Used to be. Though it’s been a while since I made it to a gig.”

“Oh, aye. So was it Blur or Oasis for you?”

“Neither.”

Deacon snorted. “Then get some real music in you and grab yourself one of our listings.” He pointed at the small table by the door, cluttered with property flyers, but nestled between glossy brochures for detached farmhouses sat their own professionally printed leaflets—Static Youth emblazoned across the top, pub dates scattered around North Yorkshire beneath it.

“Thank you.” Harrison’s tone suggested courtesy rather than commitment.

Clearly, DI Harrison Black wasn’t one for sticky bars and drums loud enough to drown out polite conversation then. He looked as though he preferred a mug of tea and a crime novel to pick apart.

Odd then, that Jake was having a reaction to him.

Harrison flipped open his notebook. “A witness states you spoke to Emily Fisher, who was collecting glasses at the King’s Arms last night at approximately eleven p.m. Can you confirm that?”

Jake drifted sideways, putting space between himself and the desk. He didn’t leave, though. Instead, he pretended to study a property listing on the wall. Five-bedroom detached farmhouse. He nearly choked at the asking price.

“You got a picture of her?” Deacon asked. “Spoke to a lot of people last night. You know how it is…adoring fans. Jake gets a few as well.”

Jake rolled his eyes at the wall, refusing to rise to it.

Harrison stepped forward and handed over the printed photograph.

Deacon studied it. The performance dialled down a notch. “Aye. I remember her.” He handed the photo back. “Came up after our set while I was grabbing a drink. Said she’d seen us before. Liked the energy. The vibe.”

Harrison wrote that down. “Can you describe the conversation?”

“Nowt dramatic.” Deacon lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “She said we were tight. Asked if we were playing anywhere else soon. Normal stuff.” His mouth tilted faintly. “She seemed interested in me, though that might’ve been circumstance.”

“Circumstance?” Harrison’s tone remained neutral, pen hovering.

“Raff had his wife parked at the bar all night.” Deacon jerked his chin at Jake and lowered his voice a fraction. “And our drummer’s gay. So I field most of the female attention. Public service, really.”

“A valuable one, no doubt,” Harrison replied smoothly.

Jake snorted.

Harrison didn’t break stride. “Did Miss Fisher appear intoxicated?”

“No.”

“Upset? Agitated? As though she were waiting for someone?”

“No.”

“Did you offer her a lift home?”

“No.”

“Did she ask?”