Page 131 of In Too Deep

Harrison had already had communications data pulled on it through the SPOC. The results weren’t encouraging. The number had last connected to the network in roughly the same area CCTV had placed Lauren before it went dead. Not lost signal. Not battery failure. Powered down. Deliberately. They’d managed to obtain call records and cell-site data, but there was very little to work with. Most of the contacts were other PAYG numbers that appeared briefly and vanished again. No subscriber details. No meaningful identifiers. Dead ends. Whoever Lauren had been speaking to had known how to stay difficult to trace.

More frustrating still, it was obvious she hadn’t been conducting most of her business through standard calls or texts. The pattern suggested encrypted messaging apps. WhatsApp. Signal. Telegram. Something similar. And without the handset itself, they were effectively blind. No message history. No encrypted chats. No photographs. No location data. Just fragments orbiting a hole where the real evidence should have been.

Her financials had generated movement, though. Cash deposits that didn’t fit the pattern of street work. Larger sums. Irregular payments. Men paying for discretion rather than convenience. The trouble was that none of it gave him anything solid enough to move on yet.

Then, at twenty-three minutes past eleven the previous night, an anonymous call had come through. Male voice. Local. Trying badly to flatten the accent.

“You want the Pike girl’s car, ask Davo Garfield at Blackridge Autos.”

Uniforms had attended earlier in the week once Lauren’s silver hatchback had been circulated. Mr David Garfield, the owner, known locally as Davo, claimed he’d never seen it. No CCTV worth a damn. No paperwork. Nothing suspicious. On paper, it should’ve ended there. But Harrison had spent too many years in CID not to recognise rehearsed indifference when he heard it. And Mr Garfield had apparently sounded far too relaxed for a man being questioned about a murdered woman.

So now, with that anonymous call, Harrison had reason to attend himself.

He parked opposite the scrap yard gates and killed the engine. Heat slammed into him the second he stepped out of the car. His shirt stuck instantly between his shoulder blades beneath the suit jacket, humidity wrapping around him alongside the smell of hot rubber, petrol, and scorched metal. He glanced up at the crooked Blackridge Autos and Scrap sign, then took in the stacked cars rising behind wire fencing in uneven towers. The burnt-out shells. Crushed roofs. Missing doors. The whole place fed on things people wanted erased.

He pushed through the open gate, sweeping his gaze across the yard. Workers moved slowly in the heat, stripped down to grease-stained vests and dungarees folded low on sweaty hips. Tattoos gleamed slick beneath the brutal sun. Somewhere deeper in the maze of scrap and stripped shells, tinny music blasted from a radio balanced inside an engine bay while grinders screamed intermittently against metal.

The office door suddenly banged open, pulling Harrison’s attention, and a thickset man in mirrored sunglasses stepped out, wiping blackened hands on a rag slung over his shoulder. Davo Garfield.

“Like I says,” he muttered to the person following out behind, “ain’t got nowt else t’say.”

He stopped as he caught sight of Harrison crossing the yard. There was no surprise in his expression. But there was recognition. And irritation. Harrison was used to that by now. Men with something to hide rarely enjoyed seeing police twice. Especially after convincing themselves they’d managed to fob them off with half-answers and bluster.

Harrison stepped forward, reaching into his blazer for his warrant card, preparing to introduce himself properly, then the man behind Davo drifted further into view.

“You know enough…” he called over at Davo, before the rest caught in his throat.

Heat punched through Harrison’s chest far harder than the midday sun ever could. Because there he was. Jake. Looking as ruined by the temperature as he was. Dark T-shirt damp over broad shoulders. Forearms streaked with dust and sweat. Curls pushed back badly from his face only for the humidity to drag them loose again around his neck.

God.

An immediate and awful pull of relief hit Harrison simply from seeing him.

“It’s alright, Harry, baby. You don’t need to keep proving yourself to me.”

“Hey.” Jake swallowed, subtle but visible, as if the sight of Harrison had hit somewhere deep in him too.

Harrison dragged his gaze away before it lingered somewhere profoundly stupid. Then he forced himself back into place and gave a short nod feeling wholly insufficient considering the violent pace of his heartbeat.

“Mr Whitton.” He fished his warrant card from inside his jacket and held it up to Garfield. “Mr Garfield, I was hoping to have a word?”

Davo tossed the rag over his shoulder. “Already spoke to your lot.”

“I appreciate that.” Harrison slipped the ID away again. “And we appreciate your continued cooperation with our enquiries. But I have a few follow-up questions.”

He tried very hard not to look at Jake again.

Failed.

He leaned against the office doorway, arms folded, watching the exchange with an expression that looked suspiciously like satisfaction. Not smugness exactly. More vindication. As if Harrison’s arrival had merely confirmed what Jake had known from the start. Which, if Harrison was honest, wasn’t entirely unreasonable. A missing car vanished somewhere near the industrial estate. A scrap yard capable of making vehicles disappear. Any competent investigator would have ended up here eventually.

The problem was that Jake had got here first.

That he was here at all.

So Harrison cocked his head. “Trouble with your van, Mr Whitton?”

Jake’s mouth curved upwards at that. Almost a smile. Not at the question itself, but at the one sitting underneath it.