Page 124 of Too Close To Home

Jake frowned. “What kind of banging?”

“Comes and goes. Bit of a thud, then nowt. Then again. Not constant.”

Jake wiped his hands on his work trousers. “Could be a few things. Roof’s been cold all day, then it warms up, cools down. You get expansion in the timbers. That can knock a bit.”

Ron didn’t look convinced. “Sounds heavier than that.”

Jake gave a small shrug. “Could be a loose tile shifting in the wind. Or summat got in. Pigeons, squirrels. They’ll make a right racket, especially at night when it’s quiet.” He reached for the van doors. “If it carries on, give me a shout. I’ll come back and have a proper look.”

“Aye, will do.”

“Course, could be your neighbour.” Jake gestured to next door, the other van gone now. “Looks like he’s doing a bit of refurb.”

“At two in the morning?”

Jake shrugged. Then he climbed into his van and drove to his mum’s after, same as most nights. Partly because it meant he didn’t have to think about cooking, and partly because Teddy was there, homework no doubt sprawled over the kitchen table and headphones in. But Jake liked a check in with the kid. Make sure he was actually doing the homework. Eating proper. But tonight he had another reason, too. He wanted to know if the police had been back.

They hadn’t.

His mum had said so between passing him a plate and complaining about the price of gas. No detectives. No uniforms. No questions. Jake nodded as if that didn’t bother him. But he kept checking his phone throughout dinner anyway. Nothing from Harrison. Instead, his screen lit up with a different name.

Brodie. Call. Text. Call again.

Fucking relentless tonight.

By seven, Teddy had retreated to the living room with his maths homework and a packet of biscuits, so Jake decided it was time to head home before his mum inevitably asked him to read through the latest comments on the Facebook page.

He hated that page.

At first, it had mattered. Every share, every appeal, every hopeful sighting had felt like another chance to bring her home. But thirteen years later, it’d become something else entirely. A place where strangers left anniversary messages to a woman they assumed was dead, where the same blurry photograph resurfaced every few months, and where his mum still clung to every comment that began, ‘I’m sure I saw someone who looked like her...’

Jake couldn’t bear it.

Not because he’d stopped looking.

Because it felt like the page had become a memorial before anyone had proved there was a body to mourn.

So he kissed his mum on the cheek, hugged his dad, and headed out.

The sky was fully dark by the time he pulled his van into the alley behind the parade of shops where his flat sat above the off license. He killed the engine and looked up the metal staircase climbing the back wall.

Someone stood at the top.

He squinted through the fading light. “Fuck.”

Then he climbed out of the van, locked it, and headed for the steps. The metal rang hollow under his boots as he climbed. Halfway up, the figure turned.

“Hey.” Brodie dumped a hand on his hip. “Been calling you.”

“Been working.” Jake stopped a step short of the landing, not reaching for the door yet. No point inviting the bloke in. “What you doing here?”

“Came to see if you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.”

“Not what I heard.” Brodie lifted an eyebrow. “Half the town’s talking about you storming your way through riot police.”

“Weren’t riot police. And I stormed nowt.” He folded his arms, the metal railing cool against his back. “Who told you anyway?”