Page 40 of Too Close To Home

Because decent or not, loyal or not, Deacon still might have fucked a seventeen-year-old girl and left her in his bed.

Jake squared his shoulders and reached for the door.

“This your van?”

He turned to the traffic warden nudging his thumb at the lettering splayed across his transit. J Whitton Roofing and Repairs.

Couldn’t quite deny it, could he?

So he said, “Aye.”

“You can’t park there.”

“Delivering.”

“You can’t deliver there either. You’re blocking the whole pavement.”

Jake glanced at the van as if seeing it for the first time. “I’ll be five minutes.”

“I’ll ticket you if you don’t shift it now.”

Jake shrugged. “If that’s what gets you through the day, mate. Fill your boots.” He then shoved through the estate agent’s door before the man could answer.

Deacon peered up, offered a wave, but didn’t break rhythm.

“No, Ms Lacey, listen to me. If I thought for one second it wouldn’t go for asking price, I’d tell you. You know I would.” He dumped his elbow on the desk, lowering his voice, all warm and conspiratorial. “Three viewings booked already. One’s a cash buyer. Lovely couple from Ilkley. Very solid.”

Jake strode up to the desk and mouthed, Need to talk to you. Now.

Deacon lifted a finger to him, the way he did in rehearsal when Jake overplayed a fill. The silent signal to strip it back. Find the pocket. But Jake wasn’t in the mood to be stilled mid-tempo.

“No, no, absolutely no pressure, Ms Lacey. You know I don’t do pressure.” He dropped his voice into pure velvet. “I prefer to call it… guidance.” He laughed. “I facilitate dreams. That’s what I do.” He winked at Jake, then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together for the universal sign for money, widening his grin to the point it could be audible down the line. “Let me handle the negotiation. You start thinking about which prosecco you’re cracking open when we exchange.” He then swivelled in his chair, laughing at whatever Ms Lacey had said down the line, as if Jake standing there wound tight was nothing more than a part of the office décor. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a little—”

Jake reached across and slammed his fingers down on the hang-up button.

Deacon pulled the receiver from his ear and stared up at him. “What the fuck, Jake?” Back out came his usual voice, not the smarmy one he used when selling houses to the middle classes. “What’s crawled up your arse?”

“Need to talk to you.”

“Tough.” Deacon snapped his chair forward, tapping at his keyboard. “I gotta ring her back now.”

“Don’t.”

“Jesus. Fuck.” He shuffled the scatter of papers on his desk, searching for the number. “Shouldn’t you be fixing that roof on Larkspur Lane? Left your bloody card there, made sure it was leaking enough he’d call first light.”

Jake inhaled sharply. A flash of guilt hit, brief and sharp; now he knew exactly whose roof that had been. Wrong time for that.

“Did you go home with Emily Fisher last night?”

Deacon held the phone receiver between his chin and shoulder, stabbing his pen into the number pad, following a number scribbled on a pad. “Who the fuck is Emily Fisher?”

Jake slapped the hang-up button again.

“Oi!” Deacon grabbed the receiver and pointed it at him. “What the fuck?”

“She were working at the King’s Arms last night. Apparently, you were talking to her while we were packing down.”

Deacon arched a brow. “We were packing down? Far as I remember, you’d already disappeared, getting a blowie off that lad in the Nirvana t-shirt. Raff had to stand out back guarding the amps like a roadie orphan.”