Page 46 of In Too Deep

Twenty-four hours since they’d dragged her from the river, and it was already out there. Half-truths. Wrong details. Speculation spreading faster than the investigation itself. Passed through radios and phone calls, and local Facebook groups. Through bored civilians and loud-mouthed officers and whichever idiot had decided having information made them important.

And Harrison had just stood outside and fed it.

Given it words. Shape. Authority.

Because he’d had to.

Because senior command had decided it was better to get ahead of the story than let it run unchecked, even though it was already running unchecked.

He scrubbed both hands over his face, exhaustion pulling hard behind his eyes, then snatched up his phone and stepped to the glass wall overlooking the incident room. People moved constantly beyond it. Phones ringing. Whiteboards filling. Officers talking over one another. The investigation hadn’t paused for him to breathe.

He hit Jake’s contact again.

Straight to voicemail.

Harrison closed his eyes as the automated message kicked in, Jake’s rough Yorkshire voice crackling tinny through the speaker.

“Jake Whitton Roofing. If it’s urgent, text me. If it’s not, I’ll get back t’you when I can.”

Beep.

Harrison rubbed at his mouth, exhaustion dragging at every word before he finally spoke. “Jake, I need to talk to you. Call me back.”

A sick weight sank low in his stomach.

Because Jake would have heard by now. Of course he would have. The whole bloody town probably had. So he dropped the phone onto the table and, before he could stop himself, drove his foot into the chair beside him. It screeched violently across the floor to slam into the wall.

Did he feel better? No. He didn’t.

“Sir?”

Harrison turned sharply.

PC Murray stood in the doorway, closing it gently behind her as if she hadn’t just witnessed the entire thing through the glass.

Which she definitely had.

She crossed the room without comment and set a takeaway coffee beside him. “You might need that.” She tapped his shoulder with a soft smile. “It’ll help.”

Murray had a steadiness about her that put people at ease. Late twenties, blonde hair scraped into a regulation bun, she was neither tall nor particularly imposing. Easy to underestimate, until you watched a frightened victim tell her something they wouldn’t tell anyone else—or saw her put a six-foot drunk on the pavement outside the King’s Arms.

Harrison stared at the coffee for a beat, nostrils flaring through his temper. “Doubt it.”

“Still worth a go.”

He dragged the chair back into place, dropping into it heavily, then took a sip of the sweetened coffee. Exactly how he had it. “Thank you,” he muttered into the lid.

Murray nodded, opening her notebook and slipping a pen from her top pocket. “Small town.” She wrote something on her pad. “Things get around.”

“I’m well aware.” Harrison rubbed a hand over his face. “What I’m less clear on is how the press have landed on female.”

She peered up at him.

“There are very few people who knew that. Fewer still who should’ve been talking.” He glanced through the glass doors into the corridor, where the team were gathering—CID, uniforms, CSI—mugs in hand, conversation low but constant. Watching. Waiting. “Luckily, I shut that down out there. They didn’t get it from me. But they shouldn’t have anything. Not yet.”

Murray tilted her head. “Could it help, sir? If it’s out there? Might bring someone forward?”

“Not before identification. All it does is invite speculation. People filling in the gaps themselves. You get ten names before you’ve got one fact.”