Page 123 of Too Close To Home

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Jake went back to finish the loft job.

He drove straight there from the station, buzzing from the argument with the police. He hadn’t cooled down. If anything, the silence of the van and the steady drone of the road had only given the thoughts more space to grow teeth. But he couldn’t leave the job hanging. Not when it was Ron and Eileen. Not only did they pay in actual money, but they were a good sort. They needed their home warm. And as the band had played on Saturday for free to help the Emily Fisher search and most of last week he’d disappeared into walking woods and knocking on doors instead of earning money, he could use the cash. Especially as he’d forked over a ton on materials.

So had next door, by the looks of things.

That van was back. Parked on the drive, back doors open with a ton of crap in the back. Jake tried to check if it was another roofer. Another rival tradesman he had to compete against, or simply a DIY enthusiast. But there were no markings on the van that he could see. Probably hired.

So he climbed back into the loft and worked.

Dust clung thick in the rafters, catching in his throat every time he breathed too deeply. Insulation scraped his forearms beneath his sleeves, itching like hell. And sweat dripped down his spine despite the cold pressing in through the roof tiles above. Below him, the radio crackled through the ceiling hatch, some tinny chart show drifting in and out, but Jake blocked it out. That wasn’t music. Not to him. He needed something that hit. Not that synthetic crap with its hollow hi-hats and overproduced vocals pretending to feel something. So he made his own.

Thud. Breath. Shift.

Thud. Breath. Shift.

The rhythm built under his hand with the dull knock of the hammer, the scrape of wood, the creak of joists beneath his weight. It all folded together until it almost sounded like a track in his head. Heavy. Real. And he got the boards cut clean. The screws driven in hard. Insulation shoved tight between the beams.

Work. Repeat. Work. Repeat.

Thud. Breath. Shift.

Because if he kept moving, it made less room for other things.

Andy. The girl. The police.

Harrison Black.

Jake exhaled sharply, driving in another screw hard, and the drill whined, wood splintering under the pressure. “Fuck’s sake.”

Harrison didn’t belong in Jake’s head.

Didn’t belong anywhere near it.

Because he was a copper.

And aye, Jake had stood outside the station and told Harrison he’d trust him. He’d meant it too. In that moment, looking into those sincere, sad eyes, he’d wanted to believe Harrison when he said he was different. That he was a good detective. That Jake could hand him Robyn and trust him to do what nobody else had managed in thirteen years.

But wanting to trust a copper and actually trusting one were two very different fucking things.

One kiss didn’t erase thirteen years.

Neither did a pair of sad eyes and a promise.

Even if those eyes belonged to a man Jake was rapidly discovering he wanted to believe more than was probably sensible.

By the time he dropped the final board into place, the light coming through the loft hatch had turned the dull grey of early evening. Six p.m. Later than he’d promised. So Jake climbed down stiffly, wiped the sweat and insulation dust from his arms, and packed away his tools.

Ron came out to him at the van and handed him a couple of hundred quid in folded notes. “Ere y’are. Extra few quid in there, cause you got me out the doghouse with the missus.”

Jake pocketed the cash. Least that was the lecky bill covered. “Tell Eileen cheers for the brew. She makes a good one.”

“Aye, she does.” Ron went to hobble back to the door, then stopped. “Reckon that’ll stop it, then?”

Jake glanced over. “Stop what?”

“That banging.” Ron pointed to his roof. “Up there. Wakes her sometimes.”