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What the hell are you doing here?

“Van’s fine.” Jake dragged his arm across his forehead, smearing sweat and dust together. The dark fabric beneath his arms was soaked through from the heat.

Harrison tried very hard not to notice that too.

“Raff works here.” Jake jerked his chin towards one of the open sheds, where mechanics moved around the stripped shell of a hatchback. “Left his gear in my van after rehearsal last night. Brought it back for him.”

Harrison followed the gesture. The red-haired man was bent over an engine bay, overalls tied around his waist and a grease-stained vest exposing tattooed arms. One of the band members. Harrison recognised him from the pub and from various photographs Jake had shown him. They’d never actually met. He and Jake weren’t at that stage.

No, they were are this awful, awkward stage where everything was uncertain and really bloody complicated.

Davo looked between them, mirrored sunglasses hiding whatever calculation sat behind them. “Some of us’ve got actual work t’do.”

“As do I, Mr Garfield.” Harrison wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow with the side of his thumb. “A murder investigation, actually. So if you wouldn’t mind giving me a few minutes of your time.”

Davo let out a long, irritated sigh, as if someone being beaten to death and dumped in a river were merely an inconvenience to his morning schedule.

To be fair, it had rather ruined Harrison’s week too.

Considering it had started with far better potential.

Jake pushed away from the doorway. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He then rounded Davo and brushed past Harrison close enough for heat and sweat and the familiar scent of him to linger in the air afterwards. And before Harrison could stop himself, he heard his own voice call after him.

“Take care up on the roofs in this heat, Mr Whitton.”

Jake stopped.

Turned.

Met Harrison’s gaze.

And there was something searching in his expression then. Caution beneath the humour, as if trying to work out whether Harrison meant it as polite throwaway concern or something real.

Jake inhaled, chest rising. “Take care where you’re going, too, detective. Your job’s far more hazardous than mine.”

Their eyes held for a beat too long. Too aware. Then Jake shoved a hand through his curls and walked off across the yard. Harrison watched him go, the ache low in his chest tightening unpleasantly. When he finally turned back, Davo peered at him while polishing his sunglasses on a dirty rag, one eyebrow raised high enough to make Harrison immediately aware of exactly how that exchange might have sounded.

Harrison cleared his throat. “Office?”

Davo shrugged. “If y’have to.”

The office was nothng more than a hut. A fan whined uselessly from the corner, pushing thick warm air around alongside the smells of oil, cigarettes and stale sweat. Harrison remained standing while Davo dropped heavily into the chair behind the desk and pushed his mirrored sunglasses back on, effectively putting a barrier between them.

Harrison loosened his cuffs. “You spoke to my officers regarding a vehicle belonging to Lauren Pike.”

“Aye.”

“You told them you’d never seen it.”

“Correct.”

“And that remains your position?”

“Aye.”

Harrison let the silence stretch for a moment. “How many vehicles do you process here in an average week?”