Chapter Twenty Structural Weakness #2
Andy Mitchell wasn’t nothing. Far from it. He was exactly what the town had always said he was: fixated, inappropriate, too interested in a young woman who’d wanted nothing to do with him. A predator, in behaviour if not yet in law.
But that didn’t make him a killer. Or even a kidnapper.
And it didn’t put Emily Fisher in his flat.
He lifted his gaze to the whiteboard, tracking Emily’s last known movements, the gaps that still hadn’t been filled. Then back to Robyn. Two timelines. Running too close together.
Murray knocked on the doorframe. “Sir?”
Harrison looked up. “Go on.”
“I’ve spoken to Emily’s father. Ran Andy Mitchell past him.”
“And?”
Murray chewed on her lip. “He… didn’t seem convinced. Said it must be a mistake. That we should keep looking.”
Harrison stilled. “Really.”
He’d expected something else. Relief, maybe. Anger. Even vindication. Andy was known to them. He worked at the industrial estate he managed, drank in the same places. A man like that in custody should have raised something in him.
“And what’s your read on that?”
“Honestly, sir? He didn’t strike me as focused on Andy at all. More… on his ex-wife being back at the house.”
Harrison said nothing, waiting for her to add anything else.
“Kept checking his phone. Asked twice if we’d be needing the house again. Asked when we were going to put up a reward.”
Harrison narrowed his eyes. “A reward, hm.”
He rubbed his forehead, thinking it through.
A father with a viable suspect in custody…
and no real reaction. Could be denial. Shock.
People did strange things when they were clinging to hope.
Or…something else. And what bothered him more was how quickly he’d moved past the family.
Normally, he’d have them under a microscope from the outset.
Background, relationships, pressure points.
Instead, he’d let the Robyn Whitton case pull focus.
Let it drag the centre of gravity somewhere else.
Or maybe—
Maybe it wasn’t just the cold case.
Maybe it was Jake Whitton.
“Keep eyes on them.” Harrison exhaled, pushing the thought of his distraction with Jake aside before it could take hold. “Discreet. I want a clearer picture of what’s going on in that house.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And get me the background you collected on the father. His finances, work, and any recent changes. I need to reread that.”
Murray nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Harrison watched her go, then turned back to the desk.
Putting his mind back to the man he had in custody.
Andy. They had material. Enough to apply pressure.
But not enough to hang a charge for Emily on.
Which meant the next interview had to be different.
Take a different focus. No more general questions.
No more letting him sit comfortably in denial.
He’d go in with Robyn. The obsession. The timeline.
The photographs. Build the pressure. Make him talk.
And if Andy cracked, even slightly, it might lead them to something they could use to find Emily.
Whether she was dead or, unlikely but hopefully, alive.
A knock at the doorframe cut through his thoughts again. Calder. “Sir?”
Harrison didn’t look up this time. “What is it?”
“Jake Whitton, sir.”
That made him pause. He lifted his gaze, catching the look on Calder’s face. The faint edge of it. Interest. Curiosity. Bordering on amusement. Not entirely undeserved. And, if anything, it gave credence to Calder’s initial assessment of Jake being Hartswick Police’s resident pain in the arse.
Jake Whitton was fast becoming a problem for him, too.
For an entirely different reason.
“What does he want?” Harrison kept his tone level, even as his stomach coiled tighter underneath.
He swallowed it down.
This had to be work.
Had to be.
Better be.
“You.” Calder sniffed. “Apparently.”
Harrison had no response to that. Luckily, Calder continued.
“Says it’s about the case. Claims he’s got information.” He rolled his eyes. “Also says he, and a direct quote, ‘won’t speak to me, or anyone else who’s been here for more than a week’.”
Harrison let out a quiet breath through his nose.
Jesus Christ.
He was walking a line so thin it barely existed anymore.
“Right.” He stood, ripping off his evidence gloves. “I’ll go speak to him then.”
His pulse didn’t just kick up as he headed down to reception, it hammered, sharp and relentless, as if it already knew what waited for him.
Then it hit him full force the second he saw him.
Maybe it was the hair. That thick fall of unruly curls brushing the collar of Jake’s neck, untamed and begging for fingers to catch, grip, and hold.
Or the work gear. Fitted just right, marked with grime and grit, steel-toe boots planted solid.
Or maybe it was simply him.
Jake Whitton, in every rough-edged detail.
There was something about the whole of him. His raw, unpolished masculinity slid straight under Harrison’s skin and stayed there. The look. The scent. The presence. Jake Whitton was exactly the sort of man Harrison had always had a weakness for.
Exactly what he’d loved about Chris.
Though Jake was there. Right there. Eyes locked onto him, holding him there, and dragging him under, inch by inch, into something he wasn’t ready to feel.
Christ.
The man was striking.
Chris would’ve fancied the pants off him.
“So do you—”
Shut up.
You’re dead. You left me. You don’t get a say in this.
“Mr Whitton.” Harrison stepped forward. “I understand you have some information?”
God, he hated the formality. Hated it because it felt like a lie.
Because he was certain—absolutely certain—the desk officer would see straight through it.
Would see exactly what had happened between them.
That this man had had his mouth on him, his hand on him, and dragged the stalemate out of him he’d kept locked down since Chris.
And now here he was, standing across from him as if none of it had happened, looking like a man half the town probably turned their heads for.
And if he’d stayed with Neon Arcade?
Yeah.
The whole country would’ve.
Jake glanced around. “I don’t know if it’s relevant or…well, when Robyn…the detective back then said everything were relevant. Even when it isn’t.”
“Good detective.”
“Not likely. He was shite. My sister is still missing.” Jake ruffled his hair back. “But maybe Emily doesn’t have to be.”
Harrison had no choice at that. He gestured with his head. “Then come through.”
Harrison led him down the corridor and into one of the spare interview rooms, where everything was stripped back to function.
Table, chairs, nothing else to hide behind.
He shut the door behind them and felt the looks from the team outside.
He didn’t need to see them to know they were watching his every move.
New detective, and twice now he’d shoved their biggest annoyance into a private talk.
So he cleared his throat, smoothing his tie out of habit, and gestured to the chair opposite. “Take a seat.”
Jake dropped into it, eyes snapping around the room before settling back on Harrison. “You recording this?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I dunno.” Jake gave a small shudder. “Hate these fucking rooms.”
Harrison pulled out his chair and sat, sliding in under the table, keeping the space between them measured. Controlled. “Why’s that?”
Jake tilted his head. “Because you lot are trained to make us lot, this side of the table, feel like we’re lying. Even when we’re not.”
Harrison held his gaze. “You’ve been interviewed under caution.”
“Aye.”
“This is different. It’s just a quiet room. A space to talk. Privately. No record.”
Jake didn’t look convinced.
So Harrison leaned back, keeping his tone even. “You said you have information? So—”
“Do you still have Andy in custody?”
“Yes.”
Jake chewed the inside of his cheek, restless. Harrison felt the clock tick louder in his head.
“Jake.” He closed his eyes in frustration, at himself more than anything. He’d welcomed this, hadn’t he? He’d been warned. Yet he’d given Jake an inch—more than an inch—and now Jake was here. “I’m working against time here. If you’ve got something—”
“Brodie.”
Harrison stilled.
Two things hit at once.
First—that sharp, unwelcome flutter in his gut. Brodie. “Jake’s my boyfriend.” That still sat wrong, grinding against what Harrison knew had happened the night before. The way Jake had looked at him. Touched him.
He shut it down. Hard.
Not his business. Not relevant. Not now. What they’d done was…A mistake. Complication. Nothing more.
The second thought cut cleaner.
Brodie’s inconsistencies. The way his story had changed under pressure.
So he straightened. “Go on.”
“This might be nowt.”
Harrison looked down at his notebook. “How about you let me decide that?”
Jake nodded. “Right. It’s just…this morning he said summat.”
“You were with him this morning?” The question came out before Harrison could stop it. Too quick. Too pointed.
“Aye. Well, no—” Jake cut himself off as if realising what Harrison was thinking. That after Brodie had finished at the bar, he’d gone round to Jake’s and given him what Harrison hadn’t been able to. “He turned up. Uninvited.”
“I see.”
“Look…him and me. It’s nowt. Was nowt.”
“He said you were his boyfriend.”
“What?” Jake frowned. “When?”
“When I spoke to him last night. When I went to the King’s Arms.”
“Fucker.”
“Is he?”
“No.”
Harrison waited.
Jake scrubbed a hand down his face. “Aye, we messed about a bit. That’s it. It weren’t owt serious. Not for me. He wanted more. But he knows I’m not really one for…” He stopped. Abruptly.
Harrison arched an eyebrow. “Relationships?”
Jake took a moment. Then, almost inaudibly, said, “But that’s…I dunno, circumstance.”
Harrison felt his own reaction to that worm its way somewhere he didn’t want to examine too closely. Wriggling under the surface, quiet but insistent. He ignored it. Like everything else.