Page 46 of Too Close To Home

A flicker of irritation crept into Deacon’s answers. “No.”

“Did you see her leave the premises?”

“No.” The answer came sharper that time. “I spoke to her at the bar. Did the full flirt routine, aye. But I weren’t interested. She’s too young. I were boosting her confidence. Part of the job.”

“The job being?”

Deacon blinked. “Getting fans.”

Harrison considered that for a moment. “So the music doesn’t manage that on its own?”

Deacon’s smile slipped.

Jake dropped his head, letting his curls fall forward before the grin gave him away.

Oh, he liked that.

No aggression. No trying to out-Deacon Deacon. Harrison hadn’t even changed his tone. He’d just waited, listened, then slipped one quiet sentence into exactly the right place and let Deacon walk straight into it.

Most people either fell for Deacon’s charm or got pissed off enough to challenge him. Harrison did neither. He seemed perfectly happy to let Deacon perform until he’d heard what he needed, then puncture the ego without making a show of doing it.

And fuck, Jake enjoyed watching him do it.

Maybe a little too much.

That Harrison had technically just insulted Jake’s music too seemed strangely irrelevant.

Harrison closed his notebook. “We’ll need you to confirm an alibi for last night and this morning.”

“Was with my girlfriend. Ivy Mead.”

“Could you provide her number?”

Deacon scribbled it on a bit of torn notepad and handed it across. Harrison pocketed it, then produced his own card and gave it to Deacon. “If you remember anything else, however insignificant it might seem, I’d ask you to contact me directly.

Deacon read the card, clucking his tongue. “DI Harrison Black.” He peered up. “You bought the place on Larkspur Lane.”

“I did.”

“Move in alright?”

“Yes.” A fractional pause. “Shame about the roof.”

“Aye.” Deacon gave a wry grin. “Know a good roofer.”

“I’m sure you do.” Harrison dipped his head. “Thank you for your time, Mr Froggatt. If you hear anything…”

Deacon waggled the card. “I’ll call.”

Harrison nodded once and turned, meeting Jake’s gaze again. “You might want to consider moving the van.” He angled his head at the Transit blocking the path outside.

Jake worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “Aye, will do.”

Then he watched Harrison leave, focusing on the line of his shoulders beneath the blazer. His steady, unhurried stride. And the way he paused outside the estate agent’s door, as if resetting something internal before stepping back into the noise of the high street. As if he carried his composure the way Jake carried drumsticks. Balanced. Intentional. Never dropped.

A pen hit his chest.

“Christ alive,” Deacon laughed. “You may as well hang a sign around your neck, mate.”