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Harrison met Jake’s gaze, reluctance and regret right there in those eyes. “On my way now, sir.”

Chapter two

Something in the Water

Harrison left the B-road, cutting between Hartswick and the steelworks, and turned onto the narrow farm track DCI Pollard had given him. The sun had climbed high enough to burn the last of the early mist from the moors and what remained clung low along the River Hart, a thin ribbon of haze caught in the reeds and the dips in the land.

He eased his car forward over rutted ground and loose gravel where the track dipped, narrowed, then curved toward a break in the trees. To his right, fields opened out in long, uneven stretches of scrub and pasture. And to his left, a line of alder and willow marked the course of the water, branches trailing low, half-hiding the bank.

Even before he reached the cordon, he could see the blue strobes flashing through the greenery in sharp, artificial bursts, reflecting off the slow-moving surface of the river. They caught in the leaves, completely at odds with the stillness of the place, along with the patrol car sitting angled across the access point, another further down, and beyond them, figures moving in measured, purposeful lines along the bank.

Any other time, this would be an idyllic spot. Somewhere to stop and be still. Picnic, even. Or a scenic route. Somewhere to walk dogs or cut through on the way into town.

This morning, it was something else.

A crime scene.

Harrison pulled in behind the first response vehicle, and remained where he was, fixing his gaze ahead as the scene became defined and real. It should’ve been enough to pull him fully into the job. Usually, it would’ve been. Whenever he crossed into a scene, everything else fell away. Neatly compartmentalised, locked down, controlled.

This morning, it didn’t.

Why?

Because Jake Whitton lingered on his skin.

It was both unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t expected to see him today. Certainly not on his roof, half-undressed, as if he belonged there. As if the space between them hadn’t been left undefined after that awkward attempt at a not-a-date last week when he’d given him a small window of his time in a pub the other side of town. They hadn’t arranged a second try. Not because Harrison hadn’t wanted one. Far from it. It was simply due to time. He hadn’t enough of it. Despite the obvious complication of his busy work schedule, Harrison’s weekend had been taken up by Nigella—plans made before Jake had ever entered the picture, commitments he couldn’t reasonably refuse. He hadn’t expected Jake to appear out of nowhere, unannounced, right in the middle of it. He certainly hadn’t expected Nigella to see him, not after a weekend spent circling the subject of Harrison’s reluctance to throw himself into anything new.

It had been a surprise.

A welcome one, if he were honest.

Still, a surprise.

And he certainly hadn’t expected the kiss.

Harrison could still feel it. On his lips. In his chest. Disconcertingly vivid, the echo lingered at the edge of his senses as though it had followed him to this scene of crime. But he’d reluctantly had to leave him. To, once again, not finish what they’d started.

That had become the norm of late.

He knew it wasn’t only the external keeping them apart.

The internal was also very, very present.

He dragged a hand across his mouth before leaning over into the passenger seat to reach for his battered Harington jacket, half-buried beneath a file and an empty coffee cup. It wasn’t a suit jacket, but it’d do to throw over the thin white T-shirt, the worn jeans and trainers he hadn’t expected to be seen in today.

Not even by Jake.

But at least here, this, was what he knew.

What he could control.

He shrugged the jacket on as he stepped out of the car; the air hitting him with the sharp, damp bite of river water and churned earth. It rose immediately, cold and insistent, carrying with it the unmistakable weight of death lingering beneath the surface and catching at the back of his throat.

A uniformed constable stepped forward as Harrison approached the cordon, notebook in hand. “Sir.”

Harrison held up his warrant card, and the constable took the details—name, rank, time of entry—scribbling it down before passing it over for Harrison to sign. Then he lifted the tape for him, but not before another officer stepped in, holding out a pair of overshoes and gloves.