Page 63 of Too Close To Home

The search boundary stopped cleanly at the edge of the private estate land.

Public woodland: thoroughly searched.

Beyond the estate boundary: no search activity recorded.

He’d pulled up the modern digital map beside it and laid them side by side, tracing the same boundary with his finger. He wasn’t criticising the original team. Search perimeters always had to start somewhere. But they also had to justify where they stopped.

Thirteen years apart.

Exactly the same line.

By two he’d made notes in the margin of Emily’s action log: Reassess perimeter at first light. Confirm access permissions to adjacent land. Then he’d re-briefed the night DS before she took over operational coordination. Emphasised preservation. No contamination of potential secondary scenes. Log every movement in and out of the woodland. Keep visibility high.

He should’ve gone home then.

Instead, he’d made several phone calls after three in the morning. One to confirm overnight forensic availability if needed, one to push for priority processing on any digital returns, and one to check the availability of additional search resources if daylight expansion became necessary. Then, somewhere between reviewing Robyn’s post-disappearance media strategy and comparing it to the draft he’d approved tonight, he might have closed his eyes.

Pollard jerked his chin towards the door. “You’ve been here long enough.”

“We’re within the first twenty-four hours, sir.” Harrison stroked down his tie as if ready to continue where he’d left off.

“And you’re no good to anyone running on empty. You have the night team. Go home and get some shuteye. Come back refreshed.”

“But you’re still here?”

“I’ve been home. Had dinner with the wife, even had sex, then came back because she kicked me out of the room for snoring. Figured I’d be useful instead of in the spare room.”

Harrison snorted. Then he looked at the boards again. Nothing had changed in the fifteen minutes he’d been still. No sudden breakthrough. No flashing revelation. All he had were the names of two young women last seen in the same woodland.

Pollard gave him a look. “If this is you trying to impress me on your first day, consider it done. Now go.”

Harrison gathered Emily’s file first and, after a moment’s hesitation, slid Robyn Whitton’s back into its box. “I want perimeter reassessment at first light.”

“It’s logged.” Pollard sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Go home, Harrison.”

Home.

He wasn’t sure he had one. What he had was a new cottage with a leaking roof and boxes to unpack. A place to go, sure, but home…? He’d left that a long time ago. But he switched off the incident room lights anyway, the whiteboard falling into shadow, timelines and names dissolving into grey.

When he stepped outside, it was gone five. First light bled through the drizzle, the sky the colour of old tin and the air felt damp and metallic, rain-soaked and cold against his skin. Maybe he’d get used to the air in Yorkshire. The drizzle. The cold. He drove on autopilot. Mind still in the woodland. On grid references, search perimeters. The hard line where public land stopped and private began. He replayed it again and again, tracing the edge in his thoughts as if it might change if he pressed hard enough.

But when he turned onto Larkspur Lane, more intrusive thoughts crept in.

The reality of where he was heading. Home.

Unlike Pollard, and unlike the life Harrison had lived three years ago when a long shift on a live case meant returning to warm kitchen light spilling through the curtains, there wouldn’t be any glow waiting for him. No plate left on the counter with a note telling him to eat. No quiet voice asking how the case was going. No arms pulling him close when he finally crawled into bed and needed something solid to hold on to.

And certainly, no sex.

No. All he had was a damp front room, probably ruined boxes, and rainwater soaking through a roof he hadn’t yet had time to fix properly. The downpour hadn’t eased all night, and the bowl he’d left beneath the leak would no doubt have filled up around midday. He almost turned around to go back to the station. There wasn’t anything here for him.

Nothing at all.

But as he got closer to his cottage, cutting his headlights through the drizzle, he caught the shape of a white Transit van parked outside his house and realised something was there waiting for him. Or rather, someone. His pulse gave a small, involuntary kick. Utterly ridiculous. Then he pulled in, killed the engine, and stepped out into the rain to look up.

His breath left him.

There, silhouetted against the thinning grey of dawn, kneeling on the slick incline of his roof, was Jake Whitton. Dark hair, unruly and defiant, hung heavy and saturated around his face and collar. Rain sheeted over him in silver lines, and he had one knee braced against the slates, boots planted wide for balance, body angled low against the pitch as if he were part of the roof itself, fixing his bloody roof.