Page 94 of Too Close To Home

chapter fourteen

In the Pines

Jake watched Harrison leave, and his gut sank.

The door opened, letting a thin blade of chilly night air slice into the pub before it swung shut behind him again. Jake had to force himself to move. Back to the stage. To the kit. And he crouched behind the drums to loosen the wingnuts on the cymbals, focusing on the small, familiar motions instead of the thoughts pushing at the back of his mind.

It was stupid to worry about a grown man. One at least a decade older than him. And a copper at that. Maybe CID. More desk than pavement. But Jake reckoned he’d come up through the ranks like the rest of them. Didn’t they all? Which meant Harrison Black had spent years walking streets that were probably a hell of a lot rougher than Hartswick. London streets.

Still, Jake couldn’t quite shake the sinking feeling.

Though if he was honest, it probably had less to do with Harrison meeting trouble in the dark and more to do with the fact he’d turned down the lift. Which had to be because of the other day.

The blanket.

Jake winced.

That had been a weird move. Coming into the house and draping it over him while he slept on the sofa. Harrison probably thought he was some kind of soft bastard. Then tonight—Still gonna make me worry about you.

Christ.

Jake scrubbed a hand down his face.

Fuck it.

He lifted the first cymbal free from its stand and focused on the job instead of the mess in his head. Crash. Ride. Hi-hats. Each one carrying the faint vibration of the last song as he slid them into the padded sleeves of his cymbal bag. Next came the snare. He popped the throw-off, loosened the stand and lifted the drum carefully into its case.

It was easier to take apart a drum kit than it was to figure out why a man like Harrison Black suddenly occupied so much space in his head. He wasn’t used to it. He was used to quick and easy. A brief fumble. An aye, you’ll do. Not thinking about someone who was way out of his league. Someone older, more experienced, and not someone who gave blowies in the backs of vans.

Around him the pub carried on its usual Saturday night. Chairs scraping. Glasses clinking. Someone feeding coins into the fruit machine to fill the silence the band had left behind.

Deacon clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Good set tonight, mate.”

Jake grunted something that might have been agreement. Instead of answering properly, he drifted his attention to the front door. Half expecting it to open again. Half expecting Harrison Black to step back through it. Which was stupid. The man had left. Still, the image lingered. The way Harrison had stood at the bar watching him. The quiet steadiness of his gaze. The way he’d said goodnight as if it meant more than politeness.

“Was that the detective earlier?” Deacon crouched beside him to help lift the floor tom into its case.

“Aye.”

“Any news?”

Jake tightened the clasps on the drum case. “Andy was in here Wednesday.”

Deacon widened his eyes. “Pete wouldn’t have allowed that.”

“No.” Jake glanced across the pub to where Brodie moved between tables collecting empty glasses. “But he might.”

Deacon followed his line of sight. “Said you should’ve left that one alone, didn’t I?” He mimicked a psycho stabbing, adding the eek eek eek. “Lad’s trouble, mate.”

“Aye.” He was starting to see that himself.

After several trips back and forth to the van, he hauled the last of the kit over one shoulder, grabbing the snare case in the other hand, and headed out through the side exit.

Cold air hit him.

The car park behind the pub had been half swallowed by mist rolling down from the moor. The sodium lights above cast dull halos through it, turning everything the colour of a weak brew. Deacon and Raff loaded their cars, waved him off, and drove out of the car park one after the other.

Jake dumped the cymbals into the back of his van and leaned against the open door for a moment. He told himself he was cooling down. Not thinking about Harrison Black walking home alone through the village.