Chapter Six Static in the Walls #3
Jake leaned his hip against the desk for balance, pretending the shift was casual. “Aye. Well. I might’ve stalled on my investigation. You’ll overtake me, now.”
“Oh?” Harrison tilted his neck. “How come?”
“Turns out I don’t know what she looks like.”
“Ah.” Harrison pressed his lips together.
And for one dangerous second, Jake thought he might laugh.
And if it had been mocking, he wasn’t sure he’d have handled it well.
But it wasn’t. It was a sort of controlled.
Warm at the edges, too. As if he respected the admission and understood what it had taken for Jake to realise he was out of his depth.
Harrison flipped open his notebook. “I did warn you, Mr Whitton, that people who insert themselves into my investigations have a tendency to draw my attention.”
Jake held his gaze. “And am I?”
Harrison raised an eyebrow.
Jake chewed on his lips to hide a really inappropriate smile. “Drawing your attention?”
A beat passed.
“Hm.” Harrison looked down at his notebook. “Inconveniently so. And you seem remarkably determined to keep doing it.”
Jake opened his mouth, the comeback already there.
Then it wasn’t.
Because there were at least two ways to take that and judging by the brief flash in Harrison’s eyes before he looked away, Jake wasn’t entirely convinced the detective hadn’t heard the second one too.
Thankfully, Deacon chose that moment to drop an elbow onto the desk and waggled a finger between them.
“You two know each other?”
“We crossed paths this morning.” Harrison peered up at Jake. “Several times.”
Deacon snorted. Then arched one slow, knowing eyebrow at Jake.
Jake didn’t react to it.
“Mr Froggatt.” Harrison turned back to Deacon. “I’m following up on information regarding Emily Fisher. I understand you were performing at The King’s Arms last night?”
“That’s right.” Deacon jerked his chin towards Jake. “With this one.” He mimed drumming in mid-air. “Awesome drummer. You a live music fan, Detective?”
Jake shot him a sharp warning look.
Deacon pressed his tongue into his cheek, entirely unrepentant.
Harrison wasn’t derailed, though. “Used to be. Though it’s been a while since I made it to a gig.”
“Oh, aye. So was it Blur or Oasis for you?”
“Neither.”
Deacon snorted. “Then get some real music in you and grab yourself one of our listings.” He pointed at the small table by the door, cluttered with property flyers, but nestled between glossy brochures for detached farmhouses sat their own professionally printed leaflets—Static Youth emblazoned across the top, pub dates scattered around North Yorkshire beneath it.
“Thank you.” Harrison’s tone suggested courtesy rather than commitment.
Clearly, DI Harrison Black wasn’t one for sticky bars and drums loud enough to drown out polite conversation then. He looked as though he preferred a mug of tea and a crime novel to pick apart.
Odd then, that Jake was having a reaction to him.
Harrison flipped open his notebook. “A witness states you spoke to Emily Fisher, who was collecting glasses at the King’s Arms last night at approximately eleven p.m. Can you confirm that?”
Jake drifted sideways, putting space between himself and the desk. He didn’t leave, though. Instead, he pretended to study a property listing on the wall. Five-bedroom detached farmhouse. He nearly choked at the asking price.
“You got a picture of her?” Deacon asked. “Spoke to a lot of people last night. You know how it is…adoring fans. Jake gets a few as well.”
Jake rolled his eyes at the wall, refusing to rise to it.
Harrison stepped forward and handed over the printed photograph.
Deacon studied it. The performance dialled down a notch. “Aye. I remember her.” He handed the photo back. “Came up after our set while I was grabbing a drink. Said she’d seen us before. Liked the energy. The vibe.”
Harrison wrote that down. “Can you describe the conversation?”
“Nowt dramatic.” Deacon lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “She said we were tight. Asked if we were playing anywhere else soon. Normal stuff.” His mouth tilted faintly. “She seemed interested in me, though that might’ve been circumstance.”
“Circumstance?” Harrison’s tone remained neutral, pen hovering.
“Raff had his wife parked at the bar all night.” Deacon jerked his chin at Jake and lowered his voice a fraction. “And our drummer’s gay. So I field most of the female attention. Public service, really.”
“A valuable one, no doubt,” Harrison replied smoothly.
Jake snorted.
Harrison didn’t break stride. “Did Miss Fisher appear intoxicated?”
“No.”
“Upset? Agitated? As though she were waiting for someone?”
“No.”
“Did you offer her a lift home?”
“No.”
“Did she ask?”
A flicker of irritation crept into Deacon’s answers. “No.”
“Did you see her leave the premises?”
“No.” The answer came sharper that time. “I spoke to her at the bar. Did the full flirt routine, aye. But I weren’t interested. She’s too young. I were boosting her confidence. Part of the job.”
“The job being?”
Deacon blinked. “Getting fans.”
Harrison considered that for a moment. “So the music doesn’t manage that on its own?”
Deacon’s smile slipped.
Jake dropped his head, letting his curls fall forward before the grin gave him away.
Oh, he liked that.
No aggression. No trying to out-Deacon Deacon. Harrison hadn’t even changed his tone. He’d just waited, listened, then slipped one quiet sentence into exactly the right place and let Deacon walk straight into it.
Most people either fell for Deacon’s charm or got pissed off enough to challenge him. Harrison did neither. He seemed perfectly happy to let Deacon perform until he’d heard what he needed, then puncture the ego without making a show of doing it.
And fuck, Jake enjoyed watching him do it.
Maybe a little too much.
That Harrison had technically just insulted Jake’s music too seemed strangely irrelevant.
Harrison closed his notebook. “We’ll need you to confirm an alibi for last night and this morning.”
“Was with my girlfriend. Ivy Mead.”
“Could you provide her number?”
Deacon scribbled it on a bit of torn notepad and handed it across. Harrison pocketed it, then produced his own card and gave it to Deacon. “If you remember anything else, however insignificant it might seem, I’d ask you to contact me directly.
Deacon read the card, clucking his tongue. “DI Harrison Black.” He peered up. “You bought the place on Larkspur Lane.”
“I did.”
“Move in alright?”
“Yes.” A fractional pause. “Shame about the roof.”
“Aye.” Deacon gave a wry grin. “Know a good roofer.”
“I’m sure you do.” Harrison dipped his head. “Thank you for your time, Mr Froggatt. If you hear anything…”
Deacon waggled the card. “I’ll call.”
Harrison nodded once and turned, meeting Jake’s gaze again. “You might want to consider moving the van.” He angled his head at the Transit blocking the path outside.
Jake worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “Aye, will do.”