Page 86 of Too Close To Home

Harrison crossed that theory off the board.

Then came the media.

With Grace now in town, the press circled like vultures. Harrison arranged a short, televised appeal with both parents standing side by side outside the station. Tearful, raw, exactly what might shake something loose from the public. The phones rang constantly afterwards. Tips. Sightings. The usual flood of speculation. Most of it went nowhere. They also released an appeal for the owners of three unidentified vehicles seen on CCTV near the woodland road that night. Two drivers came forward within hours and were quickly eliminated.

The third hadn’t.

Officers were still trying to track the vehicle down. A van. No plates. White.

Search teams combed the woodland again. Dogs. Volunteers. Officers working in slow, methodical grid patterns across every inch of accessible ground.

Nothing.

Not so much as a dropped scarf or a shoe.

The woodland itself stretched for only a few miles before reaching the old estate boundary, the River Hart cutting through its lower edge before bending away towards the industrial estate. The water had been treated as part of the search area from the beginning. Uniformed officers had walked both banks as far downstream as access allowed, and a specialist team had checked the deeper sections where the current gathered beneath steep banks. Nothing had been found.

Beyond the river and woodland, the public footpaths ended and private land began. Acres of mixed woodland, rough pasture and neglected parkland stretched towards Blackridge Hall, broken occasionally by derelict outbuildings, old service tracks and lengths of crumbling stone wall hinting at how much larger the estate had once been. On paper, it all belonged to Lancaster Group. In reality, as Harrison had discovered, everyone in Hartswick knew it was Walter Blackridge’s land.

Search teams had reached the boundary on the first day. Beyond it was another matter.

Without the landowner’s consent, officers would need a warrant before they could begin searching private property. Harrison doubted Emily had forced her way through the wall of nettles and rusted fencing in the dark only to wander onto one of the largest private estates in the county, but investigations had a habit of unravelling the moment detectives began deciding what victims wouldn’t have done.

He’d submitted the application anyway.

If it was authorised, they’d put boots on the ground within forty-eight hours. Until then, the estate remained one more unanswered question sitting at the edge of the map.

Then by Saturday morning, Harrison had authorised the woodland walkway to reopen after complaints from half the town about the closure. Dog walkers, runners, parents cutting through on the school run. But he issued uniformed patrols moving through the area for the next couple of days, in case someone revisited the scene.

By Saturday afternoon, the investigation had moved firmly into the long grind. Reviewing tip-offs from the public, rechecking CCTV, chasing loose ends looking promising for five minutes before collapsing under basic scrutiny. The longest part of any case. And the most exhausting.

By the evening, Harrison had consumed more cups of coffee than hours of sleep. Technically, he was off duty. The night shift had taken over; the investigation board handed across with the usual briefings and unfinished threads. But Harrison lingered, hovering near the desks, scanning reports no longer requiring his attention. Eventually, the looks started. The subtle ones turning less so. Officers paused mid-conversation, glancing over as if wondering why he was still there. Taking up space.

To avoid more looks, Harrison gathered his coat, slipped his notebook into the inside pocket, and stepped out into the cooling evening air.

He’d walked in that morning. Dual reasons. Learning the rhythms of a place was never wasted time in policing, but partly it had been personal. Since arriving in Hartswick he’d barely taken a moment to look at the town as anything other than a crime scene. He hadn’t even worked out where the decent chippy was yet. Or which takeaway stayed open past ten. He hadn’t found a route for a morning run. Because one question had consumed every waking hour.

Where was Emily Fisher?

The soft glow of shopfronts and the distant hum of weekend voices drifted through the air as he began walking home and he turned onto the High Street to get a feel of his new hometown on a Saturday night. Harrison felt that fragile attempt at normality again. Then there, halfway down the street, he caught sight of the corner pub, and that loose thread he still hadn’t tied off niggled at him.

Andy Mitchell.

The Kings Arms.

Andy claimed he’d stopped in for one pint before heading home. They’d reviewed the pub’s CCTV for the timeframe surrounding Emily leaving that night, but timelines rarely stayed neat. People moved through places more than once. Witnesses remembered things differently when the room was crowded. When alcohol blurred the edges of the night.

When the music was loud.

So Harrison changed direction and headed towards the warm yellow light spilling across the pavement instead. Music thumped out of the walls in a steady rhythm, vibrating the glass and Harrison’s chest, and when he glanced at the chalk poster board outside, it hit him.

Tonight, in honour of Emily Fisher, Static Youth. 8pm.

The local appeal.

Curiosity tugged at him, and he peered in through the front window. The pub was packed. Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder around small tables, pints lifted, heads nodding to the music. And there, behind the drum kit on the low stage at the far end, was Jake Whitton.

Harrison drew a breath.