The Bones of Summer by Anne Brooke Page B

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.”
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    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