Page 61 of Too Close To Home

“You knew she was angry.”

“Aye.”

“But when she didn’t come home, you went to bed.”

Glen stared at him for a moment. “I fell asleep.”

“Where?”

“Sofa.”

“What time?”

“I don’t know. Half eleven? Maybe earlier.”

“So after you text her?”

“Aye.”

Harrison waited.

Glen’s expression tightened. “I’d done a twelve-hour shift. Got home, had the row with Emily, she went to work and I had a couple of beers in front of the telly. I text her to ask if she were on her way then I fell asleep. I didn’t decide to go to fucking bed while my daughter was missing.”

That had been the first real flash of anger.

Glen seemed to realise how sharply he’d spoken and immediately looked away. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not.” He dragged both hands over his face. “Nowt about this is alright.”

Harrison continued with the questions.

And Glen’s answers aligned with what he’d already given Murray. If anything, they aligned a little too cleanly. No drift. No hesitation. No need to circle back and correct himself. Straight lines, laid carefully end to end.

But people mistook inconsistency for deception far too often. Some witnesses rambled. Some contradicted themselves. Others repeated the same account almost word for word because they’d already gone over it fifty times in their own heads.

Glen Fisher struck Harrison as the latter.

So he let the silence stretch once or twice, to see what the man filled it with.

Very little.

Then Harrison asked, “If Emily got stuck somewhere, who would she call for a lift?”

Glen darted his gaze towards the hallway. To the stairs. Then turned back to Harrison. “She had an arrangement with Claire’s mum.”

Not exactly the question he’d asked.

“If Claire’s mum wasn’t available?”

“She’d ring.”

“You?”

A beat. “Me. Aye.”

“Would she accept a lift from somebody else?”