Chapter One Loose Slates #2
Not reckless-young. Not careless. But not the thick-necked, sunburnt, beer-bellied stereotype Harrison’s mind had lazily conjured when he’d read Cash preferred on an unbranded business card.
This voice carried shape. Intelligence. A man comfortable in his own space.
And it gave Harrison’s chest an unexpected flutter that had nothing whatsoever to do with roofing.
Unwelcome.
Deeply inconvenient.
He wasn’t ready for any kind of reaction to any kind of man. Not yet. Not when grief still sat in the marrow of him, quieter now but not gone. Not when he’d relocated counties to put distance between himself and a life stripped back to bone.
Certainly not over a voice.
Someone he knew only as a name printed in plain black ink on a card that didn’t even boast a registered trade number or a five-star review.
Ridiculous.
“I’ve moved into a cottage on Larkspur Lane and—”
“Number five?”
Harrison blinked. “Yes. How did you—”
“Deacon said you might call.”
Deacon? Ah. Deacon Froggatt. The estate agent who’d shaken his hand and assured him everything was ‘sound as a pound’. Harrison rolled his eyes and remembered why Chris used to do this stuff. He’d have checked that survey over with a fine-tooth comb and understood the wording better than he had.
There was a brief rustle on the other end of the line. Fabric against plastic, as if Jake Whitton, Roofing and Repairs, had wedged his phone between his shoulder and jaw. Harrison clenched both of his instinctively. He knew how quickly a moment’s distraction could turn into a sheet over a body.
So it came out automatically. “Are you driving? Should I call back?”
“No, no. Hands free, mate.”
Harrison wasn’t sure he believed him.
“So the roof still a state, then?”
“That’s a rather tragic understatement.”
“I’ll bet.”
“The survey mentioned it…”
There was a pause. Then a chuckle. Low and unrestrained. Rolling through the speaker, deep enough to feel physical. And Christ. It hit a part of Harrison that had lain dormant far longer than he cared to examine.
“Assessed, were it?” Amusement threaded every syllable of Jake’s reply. “More like they stood on the pavement, squinted at it, and reckoned it’d stay up long enough for you to sign the deeds.”
Harrison rubbed his forehead. “That could be an accurate summary.” He should’ve known better than to trust a surveyor recommended by an estate agent.
The sound of the engine on the other end of the phone changed, perhaps as the bloke slowed for a turn. “Alright, I can come take a look now—”
The words blurred mid-sentence as Harrison’s phone vibrated against his palm. Another incoming call. He pulled it away from his ear to glance at the screen.
DCI Pollard.
The warmth from the man on the end of the phone evaporated, and a subtle but complete pivot moved through Harrison as he went instinctively into work mode.
“Sorry, Mr Whitton—”
“Call me Jake, mate.”
Harrison swallowed that easy familiarity down. “Jake. I have another call. Urgent. I’ll ring back.”
“Sure. Long as you’re not taking quotes from TrustATra—”
Harrison cut the line before the name fully formed and answered the incoming call. “Sir.”
“Black. Sorry to cut into your moving-in time, but we might need you earlier than planned.”
He braced himself. “Right. Understood. There a problem?”
“We’ve got a live one.”
The words sank colder than the dripping ceiling.
Christ. Already?
He’d expected a buffer. A gentle start. Low-level CID work until he’d learned the map of this place.
Its habits, rhythms, who drank where, and who shouted loudest at closing time.
Burglaries, common assaults, the weekend drunk who fell through someone else’s window.
Mundane policing. Predictable policing. A deliberate retreat from the relentless, jagged tempo of London.
But the Moors didn’t care about his intentions.
“What are we looking at?” He reached for a plastic microwavable bowl from a half-open box and slid it under the persistent leak. The plaster sagged a fraction more, as if listening. Testing him. Reminding him how he was now alone to deal with all this.
“Missing teenager. Female. Seventeen years old. Didn’t make it home from her shift at the pub last night. No history of absconding. Parents extremely worried.”
Harrison frowned. “How long unaccounted for?”
“We’re marking the clock from twenty-three twenty last night.”
Harrison checked his watch. Almost twelve hours. Long enough for panic to set in. For stories to form in people’s heads. For a trail to cool. Not catastrophic. But not kind. Especially for a young woman alone at night.
“Regrade it now. High risk.”
“Aye, thought you’d say that.” Pollard inhaled sharply. “I’m putting you down as SIO on this, Black. Reckon it fits your incoming skill set. Your Met training. First live job in the district. Fortunate timing.”
Fortunate wasn’t the word he would have chosen.
Unfortunate felt closer. For everyone involved.
He’d worked enough missing-person cases to know how sometimes they ended anticlimactically.
A teenager found in a mate’s spare room.
A woman who’d booked herself into a B the air felt thicker, and he braced for what came next.
Then he nudged the bowl further under the leak.
Containment, however temporary. A reminder that some things had to wait.
Jake Whitton, Roofing and Repairs, would have to wait.