Chapter Twenty Structural Weakness
Structural Weakness
Jake didn’t get a call from Harrison that night.
Not that he’d been waiting for it.
Except, of course, he had.
He’d kept his phone within reach. On the side. In his hand. Face down, then flipped back again as if that might make it light up faster.
It didn’t.
And all his fussing wasn’t only about Andy Mitchell.
Which was odd. For thirteen years, Jake had carried that man like a splinter under his skin.
The way he’d hovered around Robyn. The way he’d made her smaller, quieter.
Afraid. The rumours he’d spread after she turned him down—about Teddy, her, things that had no right being said out loud.
And Jake had dealt with it.
Done three years’ worth of dealing with it.
Now there was this new girl case, and if Andy was finally caught, finally put away properly, then he might have some sort of closure.
His family might be able to grieve properly.
Move on. And he could…start his life again.
Or something close enough to it. And yeah, that was definitely making him cling to the hope his phone would ring.
But mostly…he wanted to hear Harrison’s voice.
To know he hadn’t completely fucked it.
That he hadn’t crossed a line he couldn’t come back from by being…himself. Impulsive. Reckless. And really fucking stupid.
By morning, he’d had enough of lying there staring at the ceiling.
He got dressed, grabbed his keys, and headed out for work. As he opened the door, he nearly walked straight into Brodie on the doorstep. Coffee in one hand, Greggs bag in the other.
“Hey.” Brodie gave his barman smile. The one where his teeth sparkled.
Jake stepped out onto the balcony, pulling the door shut behind him. “What you doing here?”
He should’ve listened to Deacon.
This was edging into something else now.
Brodie held up the bag. “Brought you breakfast.”
Jake turned the key in the lock, checking the piece of shit door was shut enough that Brodie couldn’t worm his way in while sort of wishing he had a lock on himself. On his dick, at least. It kept getting him into trouble. “Why?”
“Because you need to eat.” Brodie cocked his head. “And I’ll guess you haven’t. You can’t keep living off bacon butties from the van. You look good now, but it’ll creep up on you.”
He gave the bag a little shake; the smell hit instantly.
Warm. Sweet. Tempting. Jake could say no.
Should say no. Stop this turning into a thing.
But his stomach twisted, empty and loud, and the coffee smelled decent.
Better than anything he’d grab on the go.
So, like every other time he’d told himself not to, he reached out anyway.
“Cheers.” He pulled out a cinnamon whirl, still warm, and bit into it.
Fuck, it was good.
Brodie grinned. “What happened with the detective?”
Jake chewed, buying himself a second. Figuring out what to say and what definitely not to say. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What d’you mean?”
“Andy.” Brodie leaned his hip against the rail. “They arrested him, right? And he was in the pub that night. Same night Emily went missing.”
Jake took another bite, more to give himself something to do than because he wanted it. Because somehow, the taste had dulled after the first two bites. Story of my life. Case in point, standing right there on his balcony. “They’re questioning him.”
“Aye.” Brodie nodded, as if that confirmed something. “It’s got to add up, though, hasn’t it?”
Jake didn’t answer.
Brodie took a sip of his coffee. Let it linger.
Catching his tongue on the edge of the lid before lowering it again and holding it out.
Jake looked at it. He knew exactly what that was.
And it wasn’t just a drink. Or a peace offering for having allowed Andy into the pub, for serving him.
Nor was it even a friendly gesture. Not when he’d put his mouth and hand and tongue all over it.
No. This was him proving they’d been something once. That Brodie still wanted to be.
That coffee, it might as well be a kiss.
So Jake shook his head. Refused it. The taste for cheap and easy had dulled for complicated and unavailable. “What did he ask you?”
“Who?”
“Harrison.”
Brodie frowned. “Shouldn’t you call him Detective Black?”
Jake shrugged. “What did he ask?”
Brodie searched his face, then went all casual again. As if the act of being questioned for the second time wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. “About Andy. Same as before. I remembered we’d spoken. He was asking about the staff. Emily.” Brodie stepped closer. “I reckon you were right, y’know.”
It wasn’t any comfort. Not when two girls had endured…whatever it was Andy might have put them through. Knowing it didn’t erase it. Didn’t bring back the last thirteen years of his life. Of Robyn’s life. Teddy’s life.
Brodie smiled. “You should be pleased.”
“Pleased? About what? Doing three years inside for him? Him not getting caught the first time? Him maybe having done it again?”
“Exactly.” Brodie ran a hand down Jake’s chest. “You were right. That counts for something. Could probably even get compensation out of it. Get out of this shit hole.”
Jake scoffed, then shoved past him towards the stairs.
“Hey—wait.”
Jake turned at the bottom, irritation flaring. “Look, Brodie… I don’t know how much clearer I can be.” He gestured between them. “This? It’s getting out of hand, mate. We had a few good months, aye. It was… alright. But it’s done. Over.”
Brodie stilled on the step above him, fiddling with the lid of the coffee cup.
“I know you, Jake. You always come back. You like to play around. That’s fine.
I can deal with that.” He came down the last step, closing the space, reaching up to cup Jake’s jaw.
“But you and me? We’re good together. You know that.
Filthy and fun. That’s us. And once all this is sorted, once Andy’s dealt with, you won’t have anything hanging over you anymore.
” Hs stroked a thumb over Jake’s lips. “You’ll be free.
You can get out of here. Go on tour. Festival circuit.
Either with the band or find a new one. I’ll be your roadie. ”
Jake grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “No, Brode. I’m done.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Aye. I do.” Jake turned, heading for his van and unlocking it.
Had Deacon had this with Ivy? Had she worn him down with things like this, too?
Was it simply a case of being the bloke in the band?
Cause he sure as fuck knew he and Brodie had nothing in common to warrant this much attention from him.
And right then, he wondered if he’d stayed with Neon Arcade if this sort of thing would’ve been the regular?
Expected. Normal. Fans instead of one bloke.
People grabbing, taking, assuming. Maybe that was a lucky escape then.
One bloke, he could handle. A crowd of them vying for his attention? Maybe not.
Not when he currently only had one man on his mind.
“Is there someone else?” Brodie called after him, probably having read the room for once.
Jake paused his ascent into his driver’s seat, then glanced back. Maybe that would work? So he said, “Aye.”
Brodie frowned. “Who?”
“Not your business.”
“Is it the detective?” Brodie cocked his head. “The one who makes house calls?”
Jake’s face gave him away before he could stop it. “They all make house calls. It’s part of the job.”
“Not as thorough as yours though, aye?” Brodie scoffed, forceful and violent. “I didn’t do all this so you could start fucking a detective.”
Jake fell back down to the ground and slowly turned back. “What did you say?”
Brodie clenched his jaw, then waved a hand. “This. Bringing you breakfast. Looking out for you. I’m doing it because we belong together.”
“No, we don’t, Brode.” Jake then climbed into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and started the engine.
“Fuck sake!” Brodie shouted at him. “I can be owt you want!”
Jake met his gaze through the window, then drove off, tyres spitting gravel, with an uncomfortable knot in his chest.
* * * *
Harrison sat in the incident room, the exhibits spread across the table in front of him. Bagged, labelled, logged. The search team had done a thorough job of Andy Mitchell’s flat, his car, and a lock-up at the back of the building.
On paper, it looked promising.
In reality…
Harrison leaned back, tapping his pen on his notebook as he worked through it again.
There was enough here to justify the extension.
No question. The superintendent had signed it off with little pushback.
CPS would at least entertain it. But charging?
Not even close. Not for Emily. There was no property belonging to her.
No clothing. No phone. No forensic link tying her to Andy’s flat, his vehicle, or anywhere under his control.
No blood. No fibres. No trace of evidence. And no body.
What they had, though, was Robyn Whitton.
At least in pictures.
A scrapbook, if he wanted to be generous about it. A dossier, if he didn’t. Plastic wallets. Newspaper clippings. Printouts. Photographs. Some lifted straight from local press coverage at the time of her disappearance. School photos, family appeals, the usual. Others weren’t.
Those were the problems.
Long-lens shots. Grainy. Cropped. Taken from a distance. Robyn outside the pub. Pushing a pram. Laughing with someone half out of frame. Robyn alone. Unaware.
Harrison turned a page carefully with his gloved fingers.
Dates were scrawled in the margins. Times.
Locations. Patterns. He’d mapped her. Not just watched—tracked.
There were notes, too. Not a diary, not quite.
More like observations. Routines. Habits.
Who she spoke to. When she was alone. Speculation in places.
Assumptions dressed up as certainty. Nothing overtly violent.
Nothing crossing the line into a confession. But enough to paint a picture.
Harrison closed the folder, exhaling slowly.