Page 38 of Too Close To Home

Harrison wasn’t interested in whether Jake Whitton might find him attractive. He wasn’t looking for anyone. Hadn’t been since Chris. And Jake was tangled up in an active investigation, had a criminal record, an obvious problem with authority and, from what Harrison had seen so far, enough anger simmering beneath the surface to keep half of Hartswick warm through winter.

He wasn’t Harrison’s type.

Except...

His mind supplied broad shoulders beneath a hoodie. Dark curls down to those shoulders, damp from the mist. That rough Yorkshire accent. The easy confidence. The fact he played drums. Was in a band.

Harrison almost closed his eyes.

Christ.

He was exactly Harrison’s type.

That was unfortunate.

Entirely irrelevant.

And Harrison intended to forget it the moment he walked out of the King’s Arms.

“Do you have an address for this Deacon?” Harrison asked, getting back to the job at hand.

Pete dragged the notepad closer, worrying a blunt pencil between his fingers before pressing it to paper. “Heron Drive. Number twelve. But he probably won’t be there this time of day. He’ll be at work. Froggatt Estate Agents. Works alongside his dad.” He ripped the sheet free and held it out.

Harrison took it, taking in the cramped handwriting. “Froggatt?” The name nudged at his memory. The estate agent who’d assured him his roof was salvageable.

“Aye. Estate agent.”

“And Deacon Froggat is Jake Whitton’s friend?”

“Aye. Since school. Bandmate. His frontman. Thick as thieves, those two.”

Harrison offered a courteous smile, though his mind had already scurried ahead. Small town. The same surnames cropping up in different contexts. Business, family, friendship. They were all braided together until it was difficult to see where one strand ended and another began. On paper, a place like this should be impossible to disappear from. One high street. A handful of estates. Generations layered on top of each other. Everyone knowing everyone’s business before breakfast.

Girls didn’t just vanish in towns like Hartswick.

Which meant if one had…

Someone knew something.

He should send Calder to check out Deacon as the main person of interest. Or task one of the DCs. Routine enquiry. Standard procedure. His role was to maintain oversight. But he’d seen the way Jake Whitton bristled around uniforms. Around anyone wearing a warrant card who’d grown up here. If Harrison was going to put them in close proximity again, he wasn’t about to inflame things further by dispatching the wrong face.

This was procedural.

Sensitive.

Best handled personally.

“I’ll send a PC to collect the CCTV.” He folded the slip of paper and tucked it into his pocket, then retrieved one of his own cards and passed it across the bar. “If anything else comes back to you, anything at all, call me immediately.”

“Will do.” Pete glanced down at the card. “She’s a good kid. Can’t see her shacked up in Deacon’s bed.”

“In a way,” Harrison lifted up his coat collar, “let’s hope she is.” He then headed for the door but paused and turned back to the lad behind the bar. “Your name for the record?”

He straightened, settling one hand on his hip. “Brodie Mount.”

Harrison gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and stepped out onto the high street pavement. Cold air hit him first. Quieter than London. Wider sky. He glanced left, then right along the stretch of shops and stone-fronted buildings, committing the layout to memory.

In Hartswick, everything seemed closer than it first appeared.