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Chapter 45

TOM

Craig’s flat smells like garlic, rosemary and faintly antiseptic competence.

It’s how I imagine police stations would smell if more of them came with Le Creuset.

He opens the door before I knock—classic Craig, pre-emptively in charge—and scans the street behind me like I might be trailed by an entourage of poor decisions.

Which, to be fair, I am, but they’re all internal.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside. “Shoes off, please. We’re not animals.”

I toe off my trainers and try not to look like a man hiding several crimes in his backpack.

The guilt about the CCTV sticks to me like kitchen steam.

I won’t tell him. I can’t. If I say the words I broke into James’s house, Craig will hear the rest—and I’m about to do more stupid things—as loudly as a fire alarm.

But that’s only the mini-secret versus the fact that I saw James and Phil together earlier. I’ve still not planned how I’m going to bring that one up, but I know I’ll have to.

I’ve never kept secrets from Craig before. It’s impossible to do so. He’s like the FBI, MI5 and Mystic Meg’s long-lost son combined.

“How’s Phil?” I ask, sounding casual in the way a man sounds casual while hiding a live grenade under a tea towel.

“Good,” Craig says, stirring something ambitious on the hob. “He’s out tonight. He’s on a date with some guy from Bath who makes miniature copies of famous buildings out of cardboard and sells them on the internet for excessive amounts of cash.”

“Oh, well, there’s definitely an opening in that market,” I say.

Craig nods.

“And by date you mean..?”

“Probably getting railed by him right about now next to his guillotine.”

“Oh, well, lucky Phil,” I applaud. “So, you’ll be expecting a miniature Houses of Parliament on the kitchen table by the morning?”

“Which I will sell on eBay at the earliest opportunity,” Craig explains.

“Of course. And no railing to be had for yourself?” I ask.

“No, I’m far too busy to even flick on Grindr, let alone organise any form of railing.”

“So, everything’s… normal?” I test.

“Painfully so,” he says. “Wine?”

“Yes,” I say too quickly. Wine is honesty lube; I should say no. “A small one.”

He pours me a glass that would get you a VIP seat at the local AA meeting.

I perch on a stool at the breakfast bar and watch him move around the kitchen with the tidy grace of a man who labels his spice jars and his emotions.

I am briefly overwhelmed with love for him; then the love gets tangled up with the truth about Phil and James I have in my pocket.

“How are you?” he asks, cop-calm, like he’s reading me my feelings.

I shrug a shrug that wants to be a sob. “Brittle chic.”

He gives me the look he uses on witnesses who won’t be drawn. “We’ll circle back. Sit. Eat.”

Dinner is a tray of roasted vegetables, salmon with lemon, and a bowl of couscous so fluffy it could headline Glastonbury. I chew in a way that hopefully communicates appreciation and not panic.

“Right,” he says, finally, when our plates look lived-in. “Chris.”

The name hits the table like a coin. I grip my glass. “Go on.”

“I pulled what I could,” Craig says. “Spoke to a mate who owed me a favour. Unofficially.” His tone does that policeman thing where disclaimers sound like threats to the universe.

“Christopher Christianson. Thirty-two when he vanished. Born London. Clean record, mostly. A few parking fines, nothing juicy. Up until just before he disappeared.”

My stomach tightens. “The corporate financial crime stuff?”

“So, he was part of a corporate advisory team that handled high-value acquisitions. About eighteen months before he vanished, the firm he worked for became the focus of a quiet investigation. Nothing public. Serious Fraud Office stuff. There were… irregularities.” He taps the counter with two fingers, a metronome of bad news.

“False valuations. Inflated asset reports. A shell-company trail that didn’t add up. ”

I blink. “You mean he was committing fraud?”

Craig shakes his head. “Kind of. Someone in his department was laundering funds through a consultancy project Chris had signed off on. Whether he knew it or not… that’s murkier.

” He pauses before lowering his voice. “But what is clear is that when internal auditors started sniffing around, Chris suddenly became a liability. If he cooperated, a lot of very wealthy people would go down. If he didn’t… well, he’d go down with them.”

My blood runs cold. “So he panicked.”

“More like he bolted,” Craig says. “Transferred what assets he had into cash. Closed accounts. Booked meetings he never attended. He didn’t just ghost his sister and friends—he ghosted an entire investigation.

He vanished before anyone could question him.

Before anyone could clear him. Or charge him. Very tidy timing.”

I grip the edge of the table. “So, he disappeared to avoid being arrested?”

Craig looks at me gently. “Or to avoid being used as a scapegoat. The case becomes nothing more than a missing person with low suspicion.”

“But Emma kept pushing,” I say.

“She did,” Craig says. He sips wine, watching me over the rim. “And she didn’t help herself.”

I brace. “Meaning?”

“Emma Christianson is… energetic,” he says, choosing a word like he’s picking a scalpel. “She’s already got two years inside for fraud. Came out last year.”

My mouth drops open. “Fraud?”

“Fraud.”

“In a real prison?”

“Yes, a real prison.”

I think of Emma in the café, stirring sugar like she’s keeping time for her own orchestra. I think of Daniel’s warning—She’s a liar and a fraud—and hate that, for once, he might not be entirely wrong.

“And that’s not all,” Craig continues. “A handful of previous for things that suggest she’s more improvisational than truthful. Plus, she’s recently been charged with arson.”

“Arson?” I can’t believe this.

“Yeah, and she’s having her day in court over that soon.

On top of that, let’s just say she’s known for being very…

elastic with reality. And she antagonised the investigating team.

Turned up unannounced. Made allegations she couldn’t support.

The quickest way to make the police stop listening is to lie flamboyantly. ”

“She told me she thinks Chris found something out about James,” I say. “That he was scared.”

Craig’s mouth flattens. “Lots of people are scared of men like James.”

“I know,” I say, softer.

“I’m not dismissing your instincts, Tom. But Emma’s version can’t be our only map.”

I nod and swallow more wine, which is a terrible strategy because it greases my tongue. “I, um… ran into Daniel. He knew Emma. Or at least, he knew of her.”

Craig’s eyebrows do a small theatre. “And how would Daniel know Emma?”

“I don’t know,” I say, which is true and also feels like a lie because it implies I haven’t been building a conspiracy cork board in my mind. “He told me not to trust her. Called her a fraud. Literally.”

His eyes narrow. “So, Daniel followed you again?”

“Yes,” I admit. “Warned me off Emma, but then I ran.”

“I hope you put him in his place.”

“When he said Emma was trouble, I said, ‘No, you’re trouble.’”

“Jesus…” Craig puts his head in his hands.

“I can’t do unexpected conflict, you know this.” I push couscous around. “He’s definitely being persistent.”

“Stalkerish,” Craig translates.

“But that said, he was right. About Emma, I mean.”

Craig scoffs. “Maybe, but that doesn’t excuse him from being a monster. You know he’s just trying to manipulate you, use this to get to you.”

“I know, I know.” And I do.

Craig leans back, his voice edging from friend to officer.

“Tom, listen to me properly for a second. You need to start logging this stuff. Every time he shows up, every message, every weird call—write it down. Keep screenshots. It builds a pattern. If he turns up again, call it in. You don’t wait for him to escalate. ”

“Craig…”

“I’m serious. I could flag it quietly if you want. A harassment notice, informal—just a warning to back off. If he ignores that, it becomes official. You’d have grounds for a restraining order if it kept going.”

“I’m not ready to be someone with a restraining order mug,” I joke, weakly.

“Then start by being someone with a diary,” Craig shoots back. “You’ve got history with him. That matters legally. He’s already been violent with you once before.”

I nod.

Daniel had been violent once.

A punch to the face one evening after a heated row, which fast tracked the ending of our relationship.

I had never gone to the police about it. The guilt over the row that triggered it was too much.

The night Daniel found out about Guy.

Why am I thinking about this now?

Craig gives me a supportive smile and we hug.

He means well, but the conversation has opened something heavier in me. It’s the same look he gave me after Guy died—that quiet, anchored worry.

Back then, I remember sitting in this very flat, half-drunk, looking at a photo of me and Guy on my phone. Craig was the one who told me that grief isn’t something you heal from, it’s something that moves in.

He’d been right. Guy’s death had hollowed me out, made space for other people’s disasters to move in rent-free.

Maybe that’s why I keep trying to fix everyone else—Pete, Emma, even Daniel in some fucked-up way. I’m still trying to save the version of me who couldn’t save Guy.

And my dad, too, in a different timeline of helplessness—his heart, gone too early, leaving me with the belief that men I love tend to vanish.

“We need to think more seriously about Daniel,” Craig says, pulling me back.

But I can’t think about anything like that right now. Daniel is the least of my problems.

“Anyway, I saw Pete today—” I start.

“I thought I told you to stay away?”

“Yes, I know, but then he messaged, and I just wanted to check up on him.”

“Look, I know you want to save him, because that’s what you think you do. I know you have feelings for him. But you need to stay out of this. This is a messy situation. This James guy is dangerous. So, promise me you will stay away for now.”

I pause for a moment. “Yes, okay,” I lie.

“And this Emma as well. I looked into all this to help you to keep you informed about what you’re dealing with. And everything tells me to stay away. So, you need to stay away.”

“Fine, yes I will.” Double lie.

I know Craig has warned me previously about James’s history.

The two charges of assault that were dropped.

The charge of intimidation that also mysteriously went quiet.

And I’ve seen it myself in the videos from the house.

My rational brain tells me to give this thing a wide berth, but I just can’t.

There’s a pause for a moment and—

Tell him about Phil and James.

The thought has been whirling around my mind all evening.

If Phil is… what? Seeing James? Meeting him? There is an innocent explanation. There has to be. Except innocent explanations don’t usually come with thundercloud body language on cliff edges.

I decide to start with the bit that doesn’t make me sound crazy. “Craig… how’s Phil? I mean, really.”

Craig levels me with the detective gaze. “He’s fine.”

“Fine-fine or British-fine?”

“British-fine, obviously.”

We both laugh. It helps. “He’s just been… out a lot,” I say, careful. “A lot of dates.”

“That’s allowed,” Craig says. “We’re not a cautionary tale.”

“I know,” I say quickly. “Just checking in. Because I care. And because I’m nosy.”

Craig’s expression loosens; the lines around his eyes go kind. “He’s okay. We’re okay. Work is intense. He’s just getting out and about, enjoying himself. But I always know what he’s up to, who he’s with.”

“Do you?” I say, not meaning it to come out with so much judgement.

“Why do you say that?” he stares at me, brow furrowing.

“Oh, no… I just… I think…” I fumble, unable to formulate normal person sentences.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Craig asks, lightly, like a joke, but also not. I hate him a little for being so good at his job.

Tell him now.

I go to open my mouth.

“Hello?” Phil’s voice. Warm, normal, Phil. He strolls in, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped like a magazine advert.

“That was quick,” Craig says, kissing his cheek.

“Yeah, not quite what I thought it was going to be.” Phil grins at me.

“So, no railing tonight then?” I ask.

Phil whacks me playfully over the back of the head. “You wish, handsome. Where’s the wine?”

I clock a glint in Craig’s eye. Something’s on his mind.

The night continues. Craig pours another glass. Phil jokes about guillotines. It all sounds normal.

But under it — something hums.

A tension like static before a storm.

Three people, one table, and too many truths waiting for someone to break first.