Page 73 of Too Close To Home

Harrison examined the board for a moment, noting the search grids, the times logged beside each one. “CCTV?”

“We’ve started pulling what we can. Petrol station on the B-road. A couple of houses with door cams near the path entrance. Traffic cameras further out.”

Right. That was where patterns began.

People vanished on foot.

Vehicles told the story.

At the far end of the desk a young DC lifted a sheet of paper. “Sir, this is the preliminary vehicle log from the petrol station camera. Cars passing the woodland turnoff between nine and midnight.”

Harrison took the page.

It was exactly what he expected: registration numbers, vehicle descriptions, timestamps. A short list. Rural roads rarely saw much traffic after dark. He scanned it once. Then again. But none of it meant anything to him. He had no local context here. In his old patch, something might have stood out. A familiar name, a vehicle known to officers, one that had come up before. But these were just cars. Ordinary ones. The sort filling a Tesco car park on any weekday afternoon. No battered Transit. No cloned plates. No vehicle slipping through the system without registration or insurance.

Everything looked… normal.

And in Harrison’s experience, that was often the most frustrating part of the job. Because whatever had happened to Emily Fisher had almost certainly arrived on four wheels. If she hadn’t been found in the woodland yet, and no camera had picked her up leaving the other side on foot, then the most logical explanation was simple.

She hadn’t walked out.

She was still there. Or she was driven out.

“Anything stand out?” Pollard asked.

“Not to me,” Harrison said honestly. “Yet.”

The chair beside him rolled closer and DS Calder leaned over the desk to tap halfway down the page. “This one might be worth a look, sir.”

Harrison followed the finger to the registration number. “Why’s that?”

Calder glanced at the incident board where the Robyn Whitton file still sat among the documents Harrison had requested that morning. “Because that’s Andy Mitchell.”

The name stirred in Harrison’s memory. Then it hit.

“The Andy Mitchell Jake Whitton assaulted twelve years ago?”

“Aye.” Calder nodded. “The very same.”

Harrison looked back at the sheet. The timestamp placed the vehicle on the road near the woodland path after ten thirty.

“Was he interviewed when Robyn disappeared?” Harrison asked.

“Aye.” Calder leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach. “Whitton was convinced it was him.”

“And?”

“Solid alibi. Night shift at the steel works.” He stroked down his moustache. “Whitton weren’t having it though. Broke into Mitchell’s flat, turned the place over looking for… God knows what. Mitchell came home early and caught him. Whitton put him through a wall.”

Harrison said nothing.

“Assault, criminal damage, breaking and entering.” Calder tutted. “Three years inside.”

Harrison drew a breath.

The same Jake Whitton who’d quietly washed his mugs and laid a blanket over him only a few hours earlier.

“And you were the arresting officer?” Harrison asked.