The Bones of Summer (11 page)

Craig couldn't help his laughter. “Are you asking with your PI hat on, or are you just being nice?”

“Cheeky bugger, I'm always nice. I don't have to
be
it. Look, I'll show you. I can take your mind off it.”

“Mind?” Craig murmured as Paul's fingers touched his prick, which was already stiff. “What mind?”

Later, they slept again. And this time, the nightmares didn't come back. Not that night anyway.

They found Michael one frosty afternoon toward the end of that January week. Or rather they didn't find him. Maddy and Julie were both at work, and he and Paul were busy on their laptops in the kitchen. It was the only room with a decent enough table. Craig had been trawling through the various London council records Paul had managed to get into. He had no idea how—and he didn't ask. He was simply grateful. And, over the top of the screen, he could see a frown of concentration wrinkling Paul's forehead. He was about to take a break, ask Paul if he wanted a drink, when his boyfriend suddenly sighed, sat back, and cocked his head at the screen.

“What've you found?” Craig asked. “Anything worth a look?”

He waited for the answer. He'd discovered, since starting this mission, that if Paul found something, he liked to think—find his words, maybe—before Craig got involved. On the other hand, the moment Craig thought he'd hit on something, he'd want Paul to see at once. The difference between men and men, he supposed. Though sometimes he wondered if setting his mind on finding out about someone he hadn't seen for seven years—and even then only for a few days—was doing nothing else but covering up the parts of himself he wasn't sharing with Paul. This wasn't something he wanted to think about in any depth; it wasn't anything he could handle.

“I'm not sure,” Paul said, jolting Craig out of his train of thought. “Come and see.”

Leaning over him, Craig stared at the screen he was looking at. It wasn't what he expected at all.

“Missing persons?” he queried. “I thought you were looking at Hackney Council records.”

“I was. But I thought I'd go off on a tangent. It sometimes works in this game, and God knows we need all the help we can get. So what do you think of it?”

Hunkering down, Craig ran his eye over the screen. Then he read it again. He felt himself grow hot, then cold. Then hot again. This was no longer a stupid fantasy.

It was Michael. Describing him perfectly. Medium build, brown hair, brown eyes. An insurance consultant from London. In fact, all the very ordinariness of him that had first caught Craig, though it didn't mention his smile. And the grainy photo they'd added to his description didn't show him smiling either. Still, the shock of seeing him after all this time, even just by means of a picture, and a bad one at that, made Craig shiver. But what really gripped him were the facts of his disappearance and those who'd wanted him found:
Last known whereabouts: probable holiday to Devon, August/September 1998. Any news please contact Mrs. E. Langley (sister).
It gave a number too, which Craig imagined wasn't the sister's but the contact for the people running the Web site.

“Is that him?” Paul asked and Craig realized for the first time that Paul was now standing and that his boyfriend's hand was resting on his shoulder.

He swallowed. “Yes. Yes it is. He never told me he had a sister. But what does it mean
missing
? Devon, 1998: that was when we met. He was with me. But he went back to London afterwards. I ... I know he did.”

“Know...? Are you sure? You said you never contacted him when you arrived here.”

“No,” he said, slowly. “No, that's right. I didn't. But I don't understand why that should mean he's missing.”

“No. Me neither. That's something we'll have to find out for ourselves. If you're ready for it, Craig?”

“Yes. Of course I'm ready.” But he wasn't. Not by a long, long way. Not anymore. “How should we start?”

Paul smiled at him. “At last. Something I
can
answer. It's simple; we start with Mrs. E. Langley.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Ten

Gay Rule Number Eight:
Never assume that what you've been planning for will happen at once. Or if it does, don't trust it.
Or maybe that was just a rule for everyone. It was hard to tell. The fact remained that the moment Craig and Paul—or rather Paul—had found the address of Mrs. E. Langley, they had no time for anything much beyond work. Apart from breathing, eating, and having sex, that is.

Which explained why right now Craig was sitting in one of the south London studios he'd worked for a couple of years ago and halfway through a fashion shoot. At least he hoped it was halfway. He was hoping to be in bed, asleep, before the next day began. Though even that wasn't looking good.

“Come on, Trace, more pouting. Look to the left more. No, more. Yes, that's it, great. Hold it, hold it ... and done. Thank you.”

Trace
—or, to use her full name, Miss Tracey-Anne Wilkinson—was only just eighteen but had been picked up by Storm a couple of years ago and had done three quite well-known shoots last year. Craig had worked with her before; they were about the same height and frame and tended to look good together on assignments where the money was low mid-range. If the clients could afford more, they wouldn't have been picked, of course, but still the two of them did okay.

He liked her too. Maybe that was why the shots tended to come out well. It made a difference. Though he didn't think he'd be working with her for long; she was on the rise for sure. Whereas he ... well, he'd just about reached his peak. Unless he got
really
lucky.

“Craig? You ready to go?” The director waved him in just as one of the girls was altering the line of Trace's hair. In his mid-fifties, he was rock-solid and knew exactly what he was about. Gave clear instructions too, which was more than could be said about some of the people Craig had worked for. Not that there'd been that many.

“Sure,” he said, taking up his position next to Trace, and for the following half-hour or so they worked the scenarios the director wanted against the current backdrop he'd—or rather the client—had chosen. Which was basically hot young couple dressed up for the youth market with just a hint of danger. Hard to convey all that with a smile or a sultry look, but he and Trace did their best.

After that, another hour and three changes of clothes went by before they could grab a coffee, and that was only because the team were arguing about the lighting for the next stage of the assignment.

“Hey, Craig. How are you doing?” Trace plumped herself down next to him and gave him a big grin. “Getting any?”

“Always,” Craig shot back. “Why? You jealous?”

“Yeah, but only because you've got the time.”

He took Trace's coffee as the makeup bloke started touching up her face. “That's because I'm not doing my A levels. I have time for a life.”

“Ha ha. Mind you, you might be right. But, really, any action?”

To his surprise Craig felt his skin grow hot. “Yeah, some. Just started out really. Seeing how it goes.”

Paying no attention to the needs of the makeup man, Trace whistled and punched Craig on the arm. “A
boyfriend
. Fab! Tell all then.”

An impossible task when they were in the middle of a job that took every iota of concentration they had and some, but he did his best during the two-minute slots they were allocated for changing clothes once the lighting guy was happy.

Toward the end of the working day—which turned out to be 2:30 a.m. the following morning—Trace shrugged on a jacket and turned to wait for him to button his jeans.

“Come on,” she said. “Don't keep the boys waiting, Craig. Your new boyfriend must be slowing you down. Was that him I saw earlier on? Didn't recognize him anyway and he was certainly staring at you.”

Not being able to help it, he glanced around the barrier and scanned the area they were working in. No Paul. He hadn't expected it though; he was on an assignment of his own and, if it had finished by now, well, he'd be asleep.

“Doubt it,” Craig replied. “He's got a thousand better things to do than watch us at work for hours on end at this unearthly time. Anyway, he's not that type.”

“Not a romantic? Shame.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not that. Just not the pushy type.”

Trace sighed. “Lucky you. Still, come to think of it, I think the bloke I saw was older, though I only got a glance. Nice to have an admirer though.”

The final shoot of the night was done before they knew it, and everything began to be packed up. No matter how many times Craig worked as a model, it always seemed a shame that they couldn't keep at least some of the clothes. But that was real life—it was never like the films.

At the door to the outside world, Trace flipped open her mobile and punched her speed-dial.

“Hey, do you want to share a taxi?” she started to say and then giggled and nudged him. “Look; that's him. The guy giving you the onceover inside.”

Following her gaze down to the corner of the road, Craig could see a figure just crossing the arc of a streetlamp. Walking away. For a second or two, everything in his head was silent, and then he was off. The man vanished. He heard Trace shout after him, but he kept on running. Just as he got to the corner where the man had been only a moment ago, his foot caught on a broken slab on the pavement and he fell headlong to the ground.

By the time he'd got up and Trace had finished fussing, the man was nowhere to be seen. Disappeared down any of half a dozen side streets radiating outward from where they stood. There would have been no point in trying and, besides, Craig didn't want to leave Trace alone. Not in the middle of London at the end of a winter night. It would have been stupid.

But he wished he hadn't fallen. He wished he'd reached the end of the road and seen where the stranger had gone. He wished he could have been sure it had been his father.

* * * *

“Are you sure?” Paul asked him.

It was the next day. Not too damn early as, hell, he still had to sleep. No matter if missing, estranged members of his family were wandering around London staring at him. Or something.

“Yes. No. I don't know. I suppose if I was
sure
, then I'd be ringing the police. Or Andrea. Or both. But I'm not, am I?”

All this came out as rather more confrontational than he'd planned and Paul took a couple of paces away, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was only asking.”

“Yeah, I know,” he apologized. “I'm trying to get it straight in my own mind, that's all. I swear, for that one second I saw him under the light, I was
sure
. But now I think back, try to replay it, everything's much more hazy.”

“That's natural. My advice is don't try to pin things down. Sometimes first instincts are best, and you should go with them. It's one of my laws.”

Despite himself, Craig felt a flicker of interest in his head and looked up at Paul. “You have laws?”

“Yeah.” Paul blushed and thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. They weren't branded, Craig noticed. Not only that but the action had reminded him of someone else. That elusive person who came to mind when he thought of Paul. Now, who
was
it? As Paul continued speaking, he shook the thought away.

“Used to have laws anyway,” Paul said. “A stupid ongoing thing I used to do with ... a friend. Private Investigator Laws, I called them. Just a joke. It kept me going when work was tough, or there wasn't any.”

Craig nodded. “Makes sense to me. I have Gay Rules. Which I suppose are more wide-ranging than PI Laws, but probably amount to the same sort of thing.”

“Maybe.” His boyfriend grinned. “Nice to know there are two stressed-out lunatics in the world anyway.”

“And in the same room too.”

They smiled at each other. Then Craig remembered what had happened and sighed. Paul moved to sit next to him on the sofa. He put an arm around Craig's shoulders.

“About your father...” he said.

“Yes?”

“I've been having another think about those accounts you let me see, and I'd like to ask you if I can look online too. At anything that might be happening now. I think it might be helpful but I didn't want to forge ahead without asking. After all, he's your father, Craig.”

“Sure. Of course you can. Go for it. Let's see if we can track the bugger down, eh. Then I'll see if I was right about last night or not. At least if it is him, then he's not being held captive by the Fellowship somewhere and screaming for mercy after all.”

“You think that's still an option?” Paul smiled. “I'd best get on with it then. Mind you, I can't promise anything I can do online will actually track him down. I'm a PI, not a miracle worker, but I'll do my best. And, seeing as we're talking about work, sort of, why don't you tell me about the shoot last night? Give me a taste of glamour.”

Craig couldn't help but snort at his boyfriend's concept of what he did, but he was glad of the change of subject. He needed to let the thoughts in his head settle down before he could make any sense of them. So he began to tell Paul what the fashion industry was really like. The heat, the sweat, the exhaustion, the demands, the long nights and the terrible,
terrible
coffee. That and the camaraderie too. Not to mention the thrill of looking good. Who could resist that? And, best of all, the excitement of seeing a picture of himself in a magazine or in a newspaper supplement. That never changed. Oh, and the money too. He couldn't forget that. Yes, he'd always wanted to be an actor, but he knew he was never going to make it big. Bit-part Johnnie. That was Craig. But modeling was a nice second best. He wasn't complaining. As long as he got to do
some
acting, then life was cool. For now.

After he'd finished, Craig reached up to kiss Paul and said, “Okay then. Your turn. How was your stakeout?”

Paul laughed. “You've been watching too many American films. Really, it's not that dramatic. In fact, the bloke I was supposed to be watching for never turned up, so I gave up just after three. Came back and got some well-deserved sleep. There's no point pushing it. There'll be other nights.”