Chapter Eleven Cross-Contamination #2
“In mine?” Calder shrugged. “Andy’s an easy target. A loner, aye. But we found nowt in the allegations. We had no reason to go further with the inquiry. Jake Whitton needed someone to blame for cutting short his shot at superstardom, and Andy was there.”
Harrison quirked an eyebrow. Superstardom?
Calder said it as if it was a joke. As if it meant nothing.
But Harrison filed it away. It was another piece he didn’t have time to place.
Not yet. He hadn’t asked Calder along for a character assessment of Jake Whitton.
He was here to get him up to speed on Andy Mitchell.
The houses thinned and they left the town behind them, terraces giving way to older stone cottages and patches of scrubland where the fields began. Harrison followed the bend of the road past the petrol station where the CCTV camera had captured the vehicles on his list.
He tapped the folded sheet resting on the dashboard. “Now Andy’s car shows up near the woodland path around the time of a new disappearance.”
“Aye.” Calder notably shifted in his seat. “Course, it’s a small town.”
They passed the narrow lane leading towards the trees, the police tape visible in the distance where the path entrance sat between the hedgerows.
“Does he know Emily Fisher?” Harrison asked.
Calder shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. Different circles. Different ages.”
Harrison nodded as the road widened ahead of them. “But he works at the steel works with her father.”
“Like I say, big employer. They might never meet.”
“Hm.”
The landscape altered quickly after that.
The last row of houses gave way to open ground, then the industrial estate appeared ahead.
Low warehouses first, squat and functional, then the taller skeletons of older structures rising behind them.
Cranes stood idle in places, frozen mid-reach, while further in, newer units hummed with activity.
The old steelworks still dominated the horizon, but not the way it once had.
Rusted frameworks cut against the dull grey sky, smokestacks long since quiet standing beside newer vents that breathed out thin, controlled plumes.
Pipes and gantries stretched between buildings, some maintained, others left to weather.
“Lancaster Group on paper.” Calder gave the sort of smile reserved for locals explaining how Hartswick really worked. “Walter Blackridge’s money, though. Always has been. Round here, if you follow the ownership of owt far enough, sooner or later you end up at him.”
At the security barrier, Calder flashed his badge through the window, and the guard lifted the gate with a nod, opening the yard out in front of them like a small industrial city, yet uneven.
Active loading bays sat beside shuttered units.
Freshly painted safety lines cut across cracked concrete.
Forklifts weaved between stacked pallets of steel plate and prefabricated sections, cut beams, welded frames ready for transport, while lorries reversed into loading bays with the slow beep of warning alarms.
Harrison parked near the administration block and stepped out.
Noise hit him immediately. The deep thump of a press from somewhere inside. The rattle of chains. A forklift whining past with a load of coiled sheet metal. Then, just as quickly, pockets of silence beyond it.
Parts of the place still worked.
Parts of it didn’t.
Calder nodded towards the yard. “He’ll be out there somewhere.”
They crossed the concrete yard, weaving between workers in hard hats and orange jackets. A supervisor glanced over but didn’t challenge them once Calder flashed his badge.
Then he lifted his chin. “There.”
Harrison followed his gaze. A yellow forklift rolled slowly between two rows of pallet racks. The driver leaned over the controls, concentrating on the load balanced in front of him.
“Mitchell,” Calder called out.
The forklift stopped beside a stack of steel sheets and lowered its forks with a metallic clatter.
Harrison watched Andy climb down. He looked older than the photograph in the Robyn Whitton file.
Thinning hair. Grease worked into the sleeves of his overalls.
The slow, slightly careful movements of a man who’d spent years doing the same physical job and had begun to feel every one of them.
And Christ, he was thin.
Not lean. Not wiry. Thin. Narrow shoulders, spindly arms, wrists Harrison could probably have closed one hand around.
And looking at him then, Harrison could suddenly understand the damage Jake Whitton might have done thirteen years ago.
A man Jake’s size, that angry, laying into someone built like Andy Mitchell?
It probably hadn’t taken much.
Perhaps nowhere near as much as Jake had intended.
Harrison lifted his warrant card.
“Well, that’s nowt good.”
Calder folded his arms. “Y’alright, Andy?”
Andy gave a tight smile. “Aye.”
Harrison stepped forward. “I’m Detective Inspector Harrison Black.”
Andy looked between him and Calder. “What’s this about?”
Harrison pocketed his ID. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” Andy wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his pocket.
“Emily Fisher.”
Andy frowned. “Don’t know her.”
“She went missing Wednesday evening,” Harrison said. “Near the woodland path outside town.”
Andy blinked. “Oh.” He glanced at the stacks of steel behind him. “That’s… not good. Kept saying they should install lights on that path.”
“When did you finish work on Wednesday?” Harrison asked.
“Six.”
“And after that?”
“Went home.” He rubbed a hand over his head, thinking. “Actually, I might have had a pint. Then I picked up me tea at the petrol garage.”
“Where did you have a pint?”
“Uh….” He glanced at Calder. “Kings Arms.”
Calder pinched the bridge of his nose. “Andy…you’ve been told.”
“It was a pint, then I went home. And I don’t see why I have to change my local cause he plays there.”
Harrison looked at both of them. “So you were at the Kings Arms on Wednesday?”
“For one pint. I were gone before the band set up.”
Harrison stepped forward. “Are you aware that Emily Fisher works at the Kings Arms?”
“I don’t know Emily Fisher.”
“Do you know her father?” Harrison took out a notebook. “Glen Fisher?”
Andy froze. Swallowed. Rubbed his head again. “Oh, aye. Maintenance.”
“His daughter is missing.”
“Oh.”
Harrison took out his notebook. “Do you drive a blue Ford Focus, Andy?”
“Aye.”
“Registration ending in KJX?”
“Aye.”
“Your car was recorded on CCTV near the woodland road at around ten thirty on the night of Emily’s disappearance.”
Andy nodded. “Like I says, I stopped at the garage to get some tea.”
“That garage is quite far from your house, Andy,” Calder said. “In the other direction.”
“So?”
Calder sighed. “So why wouldn’t you go to a closer one?”
“I like the sausage rolls they do better.”
“And why then, drive the opposite way home, past the woodland.”
“I like driving around. Go that route most nights.”
Calder scoffed.
Harrison stepped in before Calder could push it further. “Did anyone see you that evening?”
Andy shrugged. “Weren’t the only one in the pub.”
“Who served you at the Kings Arms?”
Andy squinted, thinking. “Dunno. Usual bar staff. Young bloke. Fairy.”
Harrison ignored the slur. “And what time were you there?”
“Half six, maybe. Left around half seven.” Andy scratched the back of his head. “Soon as I heard the bloody band were setting up.”
Harrison made a note. “I’ll need to check the pub’s CCTV.”
Andy lifted a shoulder. “Go ahead.”
“We may also need to check your phone location for that evening.”
“Didn’t have my phone.”
Harrison looked up. “Why not?”
“Smashed it.” Andy gestured vaguely at the yard. “With the forklift. Ask anyone.”
Harrison noted that too, along with the need to request the phone records through the SPOC to confirm whether the device had been active that evening. He then fished in his inside jacket pocket and produced the photo of Emily. He showed it to Andy.
“Did you see this girl while you were out driving?”
He barely looked. “No.”
“Anyone walking?”
Andy thought. “No.”
“Did you stop the car?”
“No.”
“Leave the road?”
“No.”
Harrison observed him. Andy wasn’t calm. He kept moving his hands, tapping the forklift’s frame. Pulling at the rag in his pocket.
But nerves didn’t equal guilt.
“Andy,” Harrison said, “you were interviewed thirteen years ago when Robyn Whitton disappeared.”
Andy’s jaw tightened immediately. “I had nowt to do with that either.”
“You used to follow her home.”
“I didn’t follow her,” Andy snapped. “I walked the same route she did.”
“Jake Whitton believed otherwise.”
Andy laughed. “Aye. Well. Jake Whitton also broke into my house and nearly killed me.”
Calder looked faintly pleased by the memory.
Andy didn’t.
“I had nowt to do with Robyn,” he said. “I told the police that then.” His voice hardened. “And I’m telling you now.”
Harrison watched him for a moment. Then nodded. “For now we’re speaking to everyone who passed that road that night. But if you remember anything, anything at all, you call us.”
Andy nodded. “Aye.”
Harrison turned to leave.
But as he stepped away, he glanced back at the forklift. “Andy?”
Andy looked up.
“You said you drive that road most nights.”
“Aye, that’s right.”
“Why?”
Andy shrugged. “Habit.”
Harrison held his gaze to see if there was anything else buried in the answer. Nothing came forward. So he turned and crossed the yard to the pool car. When he slid into the driver’s seat, he let out a breath and rubbed the back of his head, the conversation seeping into his bones.
But it wasn’t Andy Mitchell he kept circling back to.
It was Jake Whitton.
The passenger door opened, and Calder climbed in beside him, so Harrison straightened, forcing his thoughts back onto the job.
He fastened his seatbelt. “I think it’s time I spoke to the Whitton family.”