Page 106 of Too Close To Home

Thirty.

Closer to a minute.

“That’s a fairly long conversation with someone he claims he barely remembers.” Harrison scribbled that down on his notepad.

Calder nodded. “Thought the same.”

Brodie eventually moved away to serve someone further down the bar. Andy stayed where he was. Harrison let the footage run. People drifted through the frame in the slow, familiar rhythm of an early evening in a village pub. Locals coming in off shift. Jackets shrugged off and folded over the backs of stools. Pints lifted. Laughter rising and fading beneath the low amber light. Andy Mitchell sat at the bar throughout it all. He spoke to no one. No one approached him either. Though at several points the camera’s view of him was blocked by customers edging towards the bar for their drinks. Brodie moved in and out of frame behind the counter, stacking empty glasses on the bar after clearing tables, occasionally pausing beside Andy long enough that Harrison couldn’t tell whether words had passed between them.

Andy kept his back to the room.

Watching the bar mirror.

Drinking.

At 18:48 the pint glass in front of him was empty.

Harrison leaned forward as Andy lifted a hand, tapping two fingers on the bar in a silent request for another. Brodie returned a moment later. There was a brief exchange. Then Brodie pulled the pump handle and poured another pint. Andy Mitchell sat back on his stool as if he had nowhere else in the world to be.

“Right.” Harrison rubbed his chin. “So the one-pint story’s already gone.”

“Aye.” Calder tapped the screen. “But watch this.”

A second drink was placed in front of him. Andy took it, then immediately began patting his pockets. Keys? Phone? Wallet? His brow creased. He glanced down, then bent, checking the floor beneath the bar. After a moment he pushed the stool back with his foot and leaned over to look underneath it, as if searching for something he might have dropped. He lifted a hand, flagging Brodie back over. Brodie returned, leaning across the counter while Andy spoke quickly. Harrison couldn’t hear the words, but the exchange was brief. Brodie shook his head.

Andy sat back, scanning the room again.

Then a girl stepped into frame, passing behind him on her way towards the bar. Andy looked up. She smiled at him in that polite, automatic way people did in small villages when they recognised a face.

The girl was Emily Fisher.

Andy said something to her as she moved past. Emily paused long enough to answer, giving a small shrug suggesting she didn’t know whatever he’d asked. Then she waved at someone else across the room and carried on towards the bar, already turning her attention elsewhere. Andy watched her for a moment before looking across the room at whoever she’d waved at. Whoever it was sat in a blind spot. The footage then shifted as the back door opened and several figures entered together. Instrument cases. Guitars. the band arriving to set up.

Harrison’s stomach twisted as he recognised the silhouette at the centre. The unmistakable mass of long dark curls.

Jake Whitton.

Even in blurry CCTV, he was impossible not to notice.

Harrison forgot what he was supposed to be looking at. Forgot the case. Where he was. Because his mind jumped straight back to mist drifting through trees. To Jake’s mouth on his. To the quiet heat of that moment, and the way he’d simply walked away afterwards, leaving the whole thing suspended somewhere unresolved between them.

Harrison forced his attention back to the screen.

Andy was moving. But not towards the exit. He headed down the narrow corridor towards the toilets at the rear of the pub.

Calder paused the video. “That’s the last clear shot of him.”

Harrison frowned. “No camera covering the hallway?”

“No. Landlord says they’ve only got bar and front entrance.”

“So we don’t actually see him leave.”

“No.”

Harrison studied the frozen frame.

Andy halfway down the corridor.