Page 153 of Too Close To Home

“And I want another media appeal drafted. Fresh push. Today.”

Calder frowned. “Sir?”

“Include a reward.”

That made him pause. “A reward?”

“A substantial one.” Harrison rubbed his brow. “Make it clear it’s for information leading to Emily Fisher’s location or the identification of anyone involved.”

Calder spun fully in his chair. “Has that been signed off, sir?”

“It will be.” Harrison widened his eyes. “Run it through the DCI and comms. Liaise with Crimestoppers. We’ll structure it properly. Anonymous route, ring-fenced tip line, the lot.”

Calder nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“We’re not dangling it for show,” Harrison made to walk off, then called back, “we’re using it.”

“To flush someone out?”

“Someone always knows something. And more often than not, they need a reason to talk.”

Calder gave a curt nod. “Understood.”

Harrison strode back into the incident room, straight to the desk, to the files that were no longer lining up the way they should.

Andy Mitchell was still in custody, and he had a house full of evidence pointing one way but a gut instinct pulling hard in another. He’d seen it before. Cases that looked solved before they were. That made sense too early. They were the dangerous ones. But now he had two new lines of inquiry. Emily’s father’s nonchalance about a man in custody. And the barman. Neither proven. Neither clean.

And somehow…more convincing than the evidence he already had.

Harrison exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the board, to Emily’s timeline.

And, unhelpfully, to the echo of Jake Whitton’s honesty in his head, telling him he felt something.

Harrison reached for Robyn’s file.

Because if this was connected…then the truth wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

chapter twenty-one

Pending Identification

Jake, once again, ditched his jobs.

He was going to be skint this month. Properly. Rent-dodging, petrol-counting, living-on-beans, skint. He’d have to go to Deacon, swallow whatever pride he had left, and ask for an advance on the next gig.

But this mattered more.

Sitting half a street down from the King’s Arms. Watching Brodie.

He was on the lunch shift. Moving in and out, trays in hand, chatting to punters. His usual charming self. And Jake was sitting here, burning through fuel and patience to keep eyes on him. He scrubbed a hand over his face. This was stupid. A waste of time. He could go in. Confront him. Grab him by the collar and shake whatever he knew out of him. But he’d done that before.

Got three years for it.

Lesson learned. Supposedly.

Instead, he’d told Harrison. Put it in his hands. Trusted him with it. And hoped, for once, that someone might actually listen. So now he waited. Because any minute the police would turn up and start asking questions. And he wanted to be there when they did.

His phone rang.