Chapter Thirteen Off The Record #2
Heat hit him first. Then the noise. The pub was louder than it had looked through the window; the band midway through another song as the crowd cheered along.
Harrison edged his way towards the bar, weaving through people until he found a small patch of space at the end, where he could see the stage clearly.
Jake caught the light each time he leaned over the kit, the steady strength in his arms driving the rhythm through the room.
Every strike of the snare rippled through the floorboards and into the crowd.
It was impossible not to watch him. Impossible not to picture the version of Jake Whitton who should’ve been playing arenas instead of on a low stage in a village pub.
And impossible for Harrison to ignore the quiet pull in his chest.
“You like him, Harry. You can admit it to me, at least.”
“Hey. What can I get you?” The barman leaned across the counter, having to raise his voice above the music.
It didn’t take long for Harrison to place him. The same young man he’d met here, the morning of Emily’s disappearance. Brodie. Or, as Andy Mitchell had so generously described him, the fairy.
Harrison ignored the memory of the slur along with the ghost talking to him from beyond the grave and glanced to the row of taps. “What’s your local ale?”
Brodie tapped one of the handles. “We’ve got Black Fell Bitter. Brewed just outside town.”
Harrison nodded. “Pint of that, then.”
Brodie pulled the tap and amber ale rushed into the glass, a creamy head settling at the rim before he slid it across the bar. “Cheers.”
Harrison paid with his phone, then turned back to the stage, hovering the pint to his lips.
The beat thundered through the room, fast and relentless, the crowd clapping along as Deacon belted the last line into the microphone.
Then the song crashed to a finish, the pub erupting into cheers, and Harrison watched the three of them on stage exchange quick, breathless glances.
Jake pushed the damp curls back from his face before reaching for the pint beside his drum kit. Deacon grabbed his own from beside the mic stand, and the bassist also had one handed to him from the front row, and they all drank while the crowd shouted over the gap between songs.
Harrison was staring.
He knew he was.
But apparently, knowing wasn’t enough to make him stop.
Fortunately, every other pair of eyes in the pub was fixed on the stage too. Harrison could look as long as he liked, and nobody would have any reason to notice exactly where his attention kept settling.
“You’re that detective, right?”
Harrison dragged his gaze away.
Brodie wiped down the bar in front of him, taking advantage of the lull between songs to speak.
“Yeah.” Harrison tore his attention away from the stage, though he was certain Brodie had caught him watching, so he lifted the glass to take a drink and focused on that instead.
It was good. Malty. Needed.
Brodie nodded at the stage. “You here because of him?”
Harrison blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“Jake’s appeal?” Brodie tilted his head as Deacon stepped back up to the microphone.
“Alright, listen up for a minute.” The frontman raised a hand to quiet the room. The chatter faded. “Big thanks to all of you for coming out tonight. We weren’t meant to be playing, as pretty sure half the town’s supposed to be in Manchester watching Neon Arcade.”
A few whistles and cheers broke out from the crowd.
At the back of the stage, Jake dropped his gaze, hair falling forward as if he suddenly found the drum kit very interesting.
Harrison felt that small twist in his chest again.
Deacon’s expression sobered. “But the real reason we asked to play tonight is the hope of jogging some memories.” The pub quieted.
“You’ve all probably heard already that Emily Fisher, one of the bar staff here at the Kings Arms, went missing Wednesday night.
” A ripple of murmurs spread across the room.
Deacon gestured towards the tables. “There should be flyers on your tables with her photo and the number for the local police. If you saw owt that night, owt at all, please call it in. Even if it seems small. You never know what might matter.”
Harrison glanced around the room.
People were picking up the flyers. Studying the photograph.
Behind the drum kit, Jake lifted his head, and Deacon turned towards him, reaching across the kit to cup his chin.
Harrison couldn’t hear what he said over the noise of the room, but the intent was clear enough.
It was a quiet moment of grounding before the music started again.
Deacon held Jake steady. Jake nodded once.
Firm. And Deacon tapped his cheek in a brief gesture of reassurance before turning back to the microphone.
While he adjusted the strap of his guitar and nudged a pedal with his foot among the tangle of cables, Jake looked out across the crowd, drifting his gaze over the room.
Then it landed on Harrison. And the sudden recognition sent an unexpected jolt through Harrison’s chest. He swallowed it down and offered a small nod back.
Jake stared, as if surprised to see him there. As if…
Then Deacon spun around and shouted something at him.
Jake blinked out of whatever moment they’d been sharing, snapped his attention back to the kit, and rapped his sticks together in the air. “One, two, three, four—”
The band crashed into the next track. And Harrison was suddenly aware of Brodie watching him, of Jake’s eyes on him. So he lifted his glass and took a sip before turning back to face the bar.
“Actually,” he called to Brodie over the music, “I was hoping to speak to you.”
Brodie folded his arms. “Oh, aye? What about?”
“Did you serve someone called Andy Mitchell in here on Wednesday evening?”
Brodie leaned over the bar, tilting his ear towards Harrison as if he hadn’t heard him. “Who?”
Harrison didn’t expect everyone in town to know every name, but given Jake’s history with the man, he’d assumed the name might ring a bell to the man who claimed to be friends with him.
But he set the pint down and pulled his phone from his inside pocket.
After a quick scroll, he turned the screen around.
Like most people, Andy Mitchell had an online presence.
And a staff shot from the Lancaster Industrial Estate website.
Brodie leaned across the bar to look. For a moment his face remained blank. Then he straightened. “Don’t recognise him.”
“Andy Mitchell says he came in here around six on Wednesday, had a pint before heading home. He believes you served him.”
Brodie shrugged. “I serve a lot of people.”
“I’m sure you do.” Harrison kept his voice neutral. “But I understand he and Jake have… history. I thought you might remember him because of that.”
“Jake’s got a history with a lot of men.” Brodie glanced at the stage, narrowing his eyes. “Just because we sleep together don’t mean I know every bloke he’s got a problem with.”
The hostility in the remark cut cleanly through the music.
And, annoyingly, so did the implication.
Harrison hadn’t expected the comment to land anywhere personal. It shouldn’t have. Jake Whitton’s reputation, or however many men he’d slept with, or was currently sleeping with, had absolutely nothing to do with him.
It certainly wasn’t his place to judge.
Or feel anything about it at all.
He let it pass.
“We’ll need to review the pub’s CCTV again. Is the owner around?”
Brodie jerked his head towards the back corridor. “Out the back somewhere.”
“Could you ask him?”
Brodie rolled his eyes, then crossed to the other barman, muttered something, grabbed a ring of keys from beneath the counter and disappeared through the door at the end of the bar. Harrison claimed the empty stool beside the counter as the pub slowly settled again.
The band pushed into what was clearly their last song; the crowd pressing closer to the stage as Deacon leaned into the microphone.
Jake drove the rhythm as if it were second nature.
Head down, curls falling forward as his arms worked the kit with an effortless power filling the room.
It was impossible not to watch him. Especially when he kept glancing over at Harrison.
Then the song ended in a burst of noise and applause.
Jake stood almost immediately, scrambling out from behind the kit before the crowd could properly descend on him.
A few people reached for him, men and women both, but he slipped past them and headed straight for Harrison.
By the time he reached the bar, he’d worked up a sweat, dampening the collar of his black T-shirt. Up close, the effect was… distracting.
Harrison had to remind himself to breathe.
“Hey.” Jake leaned his forearm on the bar beside him and ruffled his hair back, the movement carrying the faint scent of spicy aftershave and warm skin, another unwanted distraction. “You here because of the call-out?”
Harrison lifted his pint with a wince. “Unofficially.”
Jake snorted.
The woman on the stool beside him slid away, so Jake pulled it closer, dropping onto it so he faced Harrison fully. Long legs stretched out in tight denim, T-shirt riding up his stomach, boots braced against the floor.
Harrison cleared his throat into his fist and looked back at his drink.
“So you weren’t here to check me out?” Jake cocked his head, then suddenly snapped it back. “Meaning the band.”
“Let’s call it two birds, one stone.” Harrison smiled, taking a drink. “You were good, though.”
Jake huffed a small laugh. “Aye. Cheers.” He drummed his fingers idly on the bar. “What’s the latest?”
“Nothing new.” Harrison took another drink. “We’re approaching the seventy-two-hour mark.”
“When it changes, right?” Jake chewed his lip. “When you stop looking for someone alive and start looking for a body.”
Harrison exhaled. Jake clearly knew that line of thinking too well.
“We keep every line of inquiry open.”