Chapter Eighteen Soft Collapse
Soft Collapse
Jake went back to finish the loft job.
He drove straight there from the station, buzzing from the argument with the police.
He hadn’t cooled down. If anything, the silence of the van and the steady drone of the road had only given the thoughts more space to grow teeth.
But he couldn’t leave the job hanging. Not when it was Ron and Eileen.
Not only did they pay in actual money, but they were a good sort.
They needed their home warm. And as the band had played on Saturday for free to help the Emily Fisher search and most of last week he’d disappeared into walking woods and knocking on doors instead of earning money, he could use the cash.
Especially as he’d forked over a ton on materials.
So had next door, by the looks of things.
That van was back. Parked on the drive, back doors open with a ton of crap in the back. Jake tried to check if it was another roofer. Another rival tradesman he had to compete against, or simply a DIY enthusiast. But there were no markings on the van that he could see. Probably hired.
So he climbed back into the loft and worked.
Dust clung thick in the rafters, catching in his throat every time he breathed too deeply.
Insulation scraped his forearms beneath his sleeves, itching like hell.
And sweat dripped down his spine despite the cold pressing in through the roof tiles above.
Below him, the radio crackled through the ceiling hatch, some tinny chart show drifting in and out, but Jake blocked it out.
That wasn’t music. Not to him. He needed something that hit.
Not that synthetic crap with its hollow hi-hats and overproduced vocals pretending to feel something. So he made his own.
Thud. Breath. Shift.
Thud. Breath. Shift.
The rhythm built under his hand with the dull knock of the hammer, the scrape of wood, the creak of joists beneath his weight.
It all folded together until it almost sounded like a track in his head.
Heavy. Real. And he got the boards cut clean.
The screws driven in hard. Insulation shoved tight between the beams.
Work. Repeat. Work. Repeat.
Thud. Breath. Shift.
Because if he kept moving, it made less room for other things.
Andy. The girl. The police.
Harrison Black.
Jake exhaled sharply, driving in another screw hard, and the drill whined, wood splintering under the pressure. “Fuck’s sake.”
Harrison didn’t belong in Jake’s head.
Didn’t belong anywhere near it.
Because he was a copper.
And aye, Jake had stood outside the station and told Harrison he’d trust him.
He’d meant it too. In that moment, looking into those sincere, sad eyes, he’d wanted to believe Harrison when he said he was different.
That he was a good detective. That Jake could hand him Robyn and trust him to do what nobody else had managed in thirteen years.
But wanting to trust a copper and actually trusting one were two very different fucking things.
One kiss didn’t erase thirteen years.
Neither did a pair of sad eyes and a promise.
Even if those eyes belonged to a man Jake was rapidly discovering he wanted to believe more than was probably sensible.
By the time he dropped the final board into place, the light coming through the loft hatch had turned the dull grey of early evening. Six p.m. Later than he’d promised. So Jake climbed down stiffly, wiped the sweat and insulation dust from his arms, and packed away his tools.
Ron came out to him at the van and handed him a couple of hundred quid in folded notes. “Ere y’are. Extra few quid in there, cause you got me out the doghouse with the missus.”
Jake pocketed the cash. Least that was the lecky bill covered. “Tell Eileen cheers for the brew. She makes a good one.”
“Aye, she does.” Ron went to hobble back to the door, then stopped. “Reckon that’ll stop it, then?”
Jake glanced over. “Stop what?”
“That banging.” Ron pointed to his roof. “Up there. Wakes her sometimes.”
Jake frowned. “What kind of banging?”
“Comes and goes. Bit of a thud, then nowt. Then again. Not constant.”
Jake wiped his hands on his work trousers. “Could be a few things. Roof’s been cold all day, then it warms up, cools down. You get expansion in the timbers. That can knock a bit.”
Ron didn’t look convinced. “Sounds heavier than that.”
Jake gave a small shrug. “Could be a loose tile shifting in the wind. Or summat got in. Pigeons, squirrels. They’ll make a right racket, especially at night when it’s quiet.” He reached for the van doors. “If it carries on, give me a shout. I’ll come back and have a proper look.”
“Aye, will do.”
“Course, could be your neighbour.” Jake gestured to next door, the other van gone now. “Looks like he’s doing a bit of refurb.”
“At two in the morning?”
Jake shrugged. Then he climbed into his van and drove to his mum’s after, same as most nights.
Partly because it meant he didn’t have to think about cooking, and partly because Teddy was there, homework no doubt sprawled over the kitchen table and headphones in.
But Jake liked a check in with the kid. Make sure he was actually doing the homework.
Eating proper. But tonight he had another reason, too.
He wanted to know if the police had been back.
They hadn’t.
His mum had said so between passing him a plate and complaining about the price of gas.
No detectives. No uniforms. No questions.
Jake nodded as if that didn’t bother him.
But he kept checking his phone throughout dinner anyway.
Nothing from Harrison. Instead, his screen lit up with a different name.
Brodie. Call. Text. Call again.
Fucking relentless tonight.
By seven, Teddy had retreated to the living room with his maths homework and a packet of biscuits, so Jake decided it was time to head home before his mum inevitably asked him to read through the latest comments on the Facebook page.
He hated that page.
At first, it had mattered. Every share, every appeal, every hopeful sighting had felt like another chance to bring her home.
But thirteen years later, it’d become something else entirely.
A place where strangers left anniversary messages to a woman they assumed was dead, where the same blurry photograph resurfaced every few months, and where his mum still clung to every comment that began, ‘I’m sure I saw someone who looked like her... ’
Jake couldn’t bear it.
Not because he’d stopped looking.
Because it felt like the page had become a memorial before anyone had proved there was a body to mourn.
So he kissed his mum on the cheek, hugged his dad, and headed out.
The sky was fully dark by the time he pulled his van into the alley behind the parade of shops where his flat sat above the off license. He killed the engine and looked up the metal staircase climbing the back wall.
Someone stood at the top.
He squinted through the fading light. “Fuck.”
Then he climbed out of the van, locked it, and headed for the steps. The metal rang hollow under his boots as he climbed. Halfway up, the figure turned.
“Hey.” Brodie dumped a hand on his hip. “Been calling you.”
“Been working.” Jake stopped a step short of the landing, not reaching for the door yet. No point inviting the bloke in. “What you doing here?”
“Came to see if you’re alright.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not what I heard.” Brodie lifted an eyebrow. “Half the town’s talking about you storming your way through riot police.”
“Weren’t riot police. And I stormed nowt.” He folded his arms, the metal railing cool against his back. “Who told you anyway?”
Brodie tipped his head to one side, faintly amused. “You know half the town’s police drink in the King’s Arms.”
Jake rolled his eyes, turning his keys over in his palm.
“Gonna invite me in?” Brodie angled his head at the battered door behind him.
“Brode—”
“I know how hard this is for you.” Brodie stepped closer, as if the conversation belonged to the two of them alone. “I wanna make sure you’re alright.” He lifted his hand, settling it against Jake’s cheek. “I care about you, Jake.”
The touch should’ve meant something. It had before.
Brodie had always been easy. Warm. Uncomplicated.
Someone who knew exactly what Jake needed when the world got too loud.
But the hand on his face wasn’t half as soothing as the one that had been there earlier that day.
And that annoyed him more than it should have.
Because fuck, he needed something.
To smash a drum kit.
Punch a wall.
Bury himself in someone long enough for his head to go quiet.
And Brodie was right there. Willing. Familiar. It would take ten minutes, maybe less, then he could send him on his way. Simple. No effort required.
Except Jake didn’t move.
Cause he didn’t want him.
The sound of shoes on the metal staircase echoed up from the alley below, acting as the saviour to it all anyway. Jake turned instinctively, watching the tall shape climbing towards him through the darkness.
Fuck.
Jake’s stomach did a proper, stupid little flip.
And as he locked eyes with DI Harrison Black across the narrow balcony, Jake stepped away from Brodie, putting space between them as if it might undo whatever Harrison had already seen. Couldn’t though, could it? The bloke was a detective. His job was noticing things.
And he’d noticed alright.
Every bit of it.
Harrison reached the top step and stopped, taking them in with that same tight, unreadable look Jake had learned all CID had.
Beat coppers too. Nowt gets in, nowt gets out.
Must be proper trained into him, that. Probably day one at detective school—how to look at someone as if he already know what they’d done.
Even when they hadn’t done it.
“Mr Whitton.” Harrison gave a small, professional nod.
“Detective.” Jake cleared his throat. “What are you—?”
“I got your address from the system.” Harrison turned his gaze on Brodie before returning back to Jake. “Could I have a few words in private?”