Chapter Four Hidden Foundations
Hidden Foundations
Jake stayed on the verge, chewing the inside of his cheek.
He wasn’t sure what to make of all that. Especially this DI Harrison Black. New. Not local. Walking straight onto ground that had already taken enough from this town without even knowing where he was putting his feet.
Yet, somehow, he’d cooled Jake down quicker than anyone had managed in years. Quicker than his mum when she still tried. Quicker than the screws inside who’d learned the hard way that pushing him only made him push back harder.
How’d that happen?
He shifted his weight, boots grinding damp grit into the verge, and drifted his gaze back towards the treeline where Black was speaking with Calder.
Even at a distance, the bloke stood out.
Partly because of the height. Partly because of the posture.
Mostly because he carried himself as if the world expected him to be there.
Straight-backed and composed, coat collar turned up against the wind, every line of him neat and deliberate.
Nothing wasted. Nothing careless. A man people instinctively listened to.
The sort of man Jake generally avoided.
Which might’ve been easier if he wasn’t so bloody attractive.
Black wasn’t his usual type. Not that Jake really had a type anymore. More a selection. Whatever willing bloke crossed his path after a gig or too many pints. Sharp tongues, quick smiles, no expectations. Easy. Temporary.
DI Harrison Black was none of those things.
For a start, he was older.
And that did something to Jake he’d rather not examine too closely.
But he looked again. The man had one of those faces that was unfairly put together.
Sharp cheekbones beneath windswept light hair, longer on top than regulations probably preferred.
A neatly trimmed beard softened the edges enough to stop him looking severe, though not enough to make him approachable.
His eyes were dark from this distance, but Jake had seen them up close to know they were brown.
Warm. Calm. And he was lean rather than bulky, carrying himself with a quiet sort of strength.
Not the obvious kind built in gyms or shouted about in pubs.
More controlled. As if he were permanently holding himself back.
Authority without needing to raise his voice.
Confidence without the arrogance.
Most coppers Jake knew came at him all sharp corners and suspicion. Either spoiling for a fight or waiting for him to give them an excuse to start one. Inside had been worse. Hard eyes. Harder hands. A constant push to see if he’d crack first.
Black hadn’t pushed.
He’d stepped in. Slowed it. Taken the heat out of Jake’s chest without making him feel small. That alone was enough to put him on edge.
He scrubbed a hand through his curls, pacing a few steps along the verge, and caught Black glancing over, then turning back to Calder. Listening. Being filled in. Probably hearing all the headlines of Jake laid out in bullet points.
Whitton.
GBH.
Temper.
Three years inside.
The paperwork always spoke louder than anything else.
But it didn’t say what it felt like to watch a search team comb this same path thirteen years ago and come up empty.
Didn’t say what it did to a family when the wrong man got questioned, then released, and the real one walked free under everyone’s noses.
Didn’t say how anger seeped into his flesh and stayed there because it had nowhere else to go.
Anyone would be like him after that.
Anyone who’d stood in these trees shouting their big sister’s name into the mist until their throat bled would’ve done worse than he had.
Jake exhaled hard, nostrils flaring as he dragged his gaze away from Black before it lingered too long.
Cause it didn’t matter how composed the bloke looked, or that he spoke differently, moved differently.
Eventually, he’d be the same as the rest of them.
Procedure over people. Caution over urgency. Too late over never again.
Fuck.
He raked a hand through his hair, scraping his nails into his scalp as if he could dig the noise out of his head. Restless energy skittered under his skin, sharp and electric. Standing here, staring at trees and trampled grass, wouldn’t conjure a miracle.
It hadn’t brought Robyn back.
He spat into the grass, jaw tight enough to ache.
If this was happening again…
He turned and yanked open the van door. The white Transit sat crooked on the verge, as rough and stubborn as he was.
He climbed in and slammed the door, then grabbed his phone from the seat and scrolled.
Nothing online yet. No headlines. No breathless speculation.
No blurry school photo doing the rounds on social media and splashed under the word MISSING in block capitals.
Good.
Because if the press got hold of it, they’d start digging.
They always did. Small town. Old wounds.
They’d connect the dots. Whitton. Disappearance.
Sister. They’d be back on his mum’s doorstep before lunchtime, ripping open a grief she’d barely learned to carry.
Please let this be nothing. He gripped the steering wheel.
Let her be at a mate’s house. Hungover. Embarrassed. Safe.
That’s what they’d said about Robyn, though.
She’ll turn up.
She hadn’t.
The memory moved through him as if it had teeth.
He started the engine, and it roared to life beneath him as he pulled off the verge and onto the high street.
Hartswick was still rubbing sleep from its eyes.
Shop shutters were half-up. The bakery door was propped open, drifting warmth and yeast into the cold air.
And the market square was empty except for a lone delivery lorry reversing with slow, patient beeps.
Everything looked normal.
As it always did. Even when rot lurked beneath it.
The King’s Arms sat on the corner of the main square, red-brick and stubborn, windows still dark at this hour.
He knew the place better than he knew most people.
Knew the sticky varnish on the stage boards.
The hum of anticipation before a Saturday night set.
And he knew the exact spot near the bar where Robyn had stood, arms folded, pretending she wasn’t proud of him. Pretending she wasn’t dancing along.
He’d been in here last night.
The irony made his gut twist.
He might’ve crossed paths with this Emily Fisher.
Might’ve taken a pint from her hand. But he didn’t linger at the bar.
Never had. Not with girls that age. Girls at all, really.
He stayed behind the kit, or outside with the others, smoke in his lungs and noise in his head.
And whoever she’d been, she’d been part of the background to him.
He hated that now.
Someone might have thought the same about Robyn.
He swung the van around the back, taking the narrow lane leading to the gravel car park.
A marked police car sat beside the bins.
The blue and yellow battenburg looked almost surreal against the familiar backdrop of beer barrels and overflowing recycling crates.
But if they had uniforms stationed here, then this was where she’d last been seen.
He climbed out and slammed the van door hard enough to send a gull shrieking off the chimney stack, then headed for the rear delivery door, gouged and scarred from decades of beer barrels and hurried load-ins.
He’d hauled half his life through these doors.
Drum kits. Amps. Cables. Sweat and ambition.
Hope.
Today he brought something else entirely.
He strode across the yard and hammered his fist on the wood. “Oi! Pete. Open up!”
There was a clatter inside. A muttered curse.
Bolts scraping back. Then the door cracked open, and Pete Hargreaves filled the frame.
Thick grey hair mashed flat on one side, yesterday’s band tee stretched over a softening belly, reading glasses hooked in the collar.
Late fifties, broad through the shoulders from a youth spent hauling kegs himself before he could afford staff.
Beard shot through with silver, unruly like the rest of him.
He was Hartswick born and bred. Knew everyone’s dad, everyone’s secrets, and exactly when to cut someone off.
“Jesus, Jake,” Pete rasped, voice gravelly with exhaustion. Or maybe exasperation. “What you doing here?”
“You heard?” Jake ducked under Pete’s arm and shouldered past him into the corridor smelling of bleach and stale hops.
“Morning to you too,” Pete called as he followed him to the bar.
It looked wrong without bodies in it. Chairs still upside down on a few tables. Floor tacky from last night’s spilt lager. The low stage at the far end sat in shadow, drum riser pushed back against the wall. Fairy lights dead and colourless in daylight.
Jake stilled.
He’d grown up here. First snuck in at fifteen.
First gig at sixteen with Static Youth, hands shaking so hard he nearly dropped a stick.
Pete had given him a chance when most pubs wouldn’t risk underage bands.
It was here a manager from Leeds had watched Jake play, then cornered him after and told him he had timing most drummers would kill for.
Asked if he’d ever thought about getting out of Hartswick.
Two months later, Jake had walked into an audition he never expected to pass.
And for a while, everything had happened exactly as promised.
He was in. Rehearsal rooms. Recording sessions.
Gigs with Neon Arcade, the next big thing to come out of Yorkshire since the Arctic Monkeys.
The ticket out had been real. He’d actually held it.
Then Robyn hadn’t come home.
“You look like you need something stronger than a lecture.” Pete moved behind the bar to switch on the coffee machine.
After a moment, he set a small espresso in front of Jake.