Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The day Phil remembers where he put his camera will be a day of celebration. It’s always the same: he puts it down, swearing it’s a logical, obvious place to put it, and spends a couple of minutes the next morning stumbling around his flat looking for it. He needs a permanent solution, probably, but that requires a degree of thought and consistency he doesn’t possess. It’s on his to-do list, he promises.

After a blind minute of searching, Phil finds his camera under his portfolio, both left on his sofa - where he put them last night. He pushes the portfolio aside, cups his camera in his hand, and continues searching for its case.

The portfolio is an old one that he can’t stop looking back through. Its contents are mostly pictures of his ex-boyfriend, Ronan, in all of the poses and filters his infatuation could think of. An art student, Ronan was the enigmatic, cold-hearted sort who kept Phil falling in love with him again and again; never quite seeming to care as much as Phil did, but simultaneously being the most loving, lovable person he’d ever met. He was the perfect subject for Phil’s photos. That was the first thought Phil had upon meeting him. And it’s the last recurring thought he has now Ronan’s gone. He might be heartbroken, maybe.

(“Oh, Phil, when are you going to get rid of these?” his mother asked, pouting, when she visited last weekend. Her voice carried the same sympathy it used to when he was a child curled into the recesses of his bedroom, crying over smashed LEGO.

“Maybe never. Maybe I’ll never get rid of them,” Phil replied, blankly, with enough jest to shield his stubbornness.)

Since then, his time has been filled by his work, both paid and unpaid. At work, he does the tasks given, trying to get assigned more than the inconsequential columns he’s left with. His job at the newspaper firm is substantial enough and pays well, and he did fight to get a role there after quitting his last job, but he doesn’t want his words to be what he’s known for. He wants to take pictures; to take them all the time, to show them to people, to have people study them and see what he feels. That’s his dream. (Dream is far flung, sugar caught in his teeth and scratching his gums. Never mind.) In the time out of work, he’s taking pictures, or editing them, or deciding where to go next. The camera sits comfortably in the slump of his palm. Spare surfaces, nooks, and crannies are covered with his photos. Spare time is compressed into the bare minutes before sleep and after waking; before, with Ronan, he had all the free time in the world. Now it’s gone, somehow - his fault.

Finding his case, he shoves his camera into it, heaves his bag off the kitchen table, and hurries out of the door into the morning mist.

The June rain makes the air thick and humid, and moving through it is like syrup running through wood. Clouds sulk in the sky: gloomy, dark, heavy from heaven itself pushing at its seams. Hazy, the London skyline rears its head, teeth reflecting the light of a low-lying sun. Heat hangs like a lace curtain in the air; wafting and billowing into his face with every breeze and passing car. A taxi rushes past and splashes water onto the curb. Two buses speed past the end of his road and continue into the centre, bleeding a startling red into the lines of buildings. Phil addresses the view once, when he tilts his head up and squints into the light drizzle, before pulling up his hood and ducking into the nearby tube station.

-

He sits up on the second floor of a coffee shop, wishing he wasn’t wearing a jacket. Despite the deluge filling London’s streets, it’s reaching twenty five degrees celsius and it’s barely seven am.

He’s so tired. With his camera poised in his hand, covering the right half of his face. With the busy sketches of his mind prominent in his peripheral despite his attempts to execute all thought. With his worn, black jeans and his yellow jumper with the cream patches where the colour’s died. He’s pressed almost into the window; every minute or so his spare hand comes up to wipe away the condensation his breath has left. He’s sat with a T-junction opposite him on the other side of the street, where a small, gloomy lane snakes away from the main road and disappears behind stores and blank buildings.

The morning rush is the perfect source for subjects. To have them all in the same photo, all coordinating and communicating with each other - even if they are unaware of the hows and whens - is the perfect capture of life. The woman with her dragging ponytail and knee-length coat, the hand holding her coffee pointlessly elevated above her head; the father with the rain-speckled glasses and two toddlers hanging off each hand, their fingers ribbons knotting them together; the queue of taxis lining up behind the red light on the opposite side of the road. It’s not the very centre of London, but it will do. It does.

Phil takes a few photos, using the fog coating the windows as an artistic device in lieu of a cause for frustration. He’s too tired for that - but declines the waitress’ offer of a drink the first time she comes up to him. He does so politely, with a smile and a shake of his head that sends his hair into his eyes again (it’s long enough now to get caught behind his glasses). She’s just doing her job, and he respects that.

Upon a second offer for some beverage, he complies and orders something caffeinated, he doesn’t mind what.

“Tired?” she says. Her hair sits in tight corkscrew curls on the top of her head. “Work keep you late?”

“Yeah,” Phil agrees. It did, and then he uploaded some photos, and then waited for the insomnia to slip off him. Still, he doesn’t expect much of a boost from any beverage, and turns back to the bustling street.

The cafe is a common haunting spot for him. It gets busy during the day, too busy, but in these early hours, only him, a few others, and the staff occupy the space. The silence is fragmented by the rumbles of traffic outside, the occupants split between the two floors. Most days, he’s alone up here, with the full street laid out before his camera lens.

The chair digs into his waist as he twists in his chair, following a flicker of movement across the street.

A few photos later, she comes back with a drink, and Phil accepts it with a thankful smile.

In the minutes before he has to leave, the rain grows heavier; bashing out a drumroll on the drains and guttering, knocking down octaves on window panes, and flooding the street with writhing water. The condensation on the glass is more insistent, and, beyond it, the outside world is clouded by streams of rainfall; the camera can barely pick out detail in the smog, except for the odd stain of a person. Phil watches a twenty-something straggler duck into a taxi, but loses the vehicle in the sludge of sights the street has transformed into - it’s as if the world is draining away down a sink. He’s forced to give up, and as he stands, manages to spill the remains of his coffee on his trousers. He curses under his breath, but his attempts to wipe it away only cause burns on his fingers as well as his thigh, and the whole ordeal leaves him scowling and on edge.

Dropping his paper cup in the bin, he tugs up his hood and shoves open the door. He steps into the storm.

-

Except for those who make eye contact with him, Phil says nothing to any of his coworkers as he works his way up the floors to his desk. His clothes are more or less sopping, and he can’t remember if the spare set of clothes he keeps in his drawer are still there.

“Morning,” he calls out to Mark and Lucy, pushing open the door to their joint office, and heading straight for the spare clothes drawer. Mark is in the adjoined kitchen, harmonising with a humming coffee maker; Lucy is already at work on her computer.

“Morning,” Lucy replies. She presses the enter key, next looks up. “Shit, did you forget your brolly again?”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” he says. The clothes are there, thank fuck, and he grabs the shirt and trousers. He slams the drawer shut with his leg.

“Fair.”

“Unlike the weather,” Phil responds, scowling out the window. Lucy hums in acknowledgement, turning back to her work. Bunching the clothes in his hand, he makes his way to the bathroom.

He passes the kitchen on the way, and Mark, with a hand clinging to the door frame, leans out to talk to him, “Alright, Phil?”

“Could be drier,” Phil says, and tugs at a dripping corner of his shirt.

Mark’s expression falls into one of pity. “Call me if you ever need a lift.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that.” Mark’s number is saved in his phone somewhere. He thinks. He doesn’t have much faith in the accessibility of any of his photography spots, though.

“Anytime, mate.” He cracks a grin.

“You?”

Mark starts swinging around on one leg, anchored by his hand gripping the frame. “Ah, y’know, I’m fine. What’s new, really.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Did you see the match last night?”

Rolling his eyes, “you know I didn’t,” Phil pulls open the door leading to the bathroom.

“Ha! It’s not even football season!” Mark displays a boisterous glee, overplayed for Phil’s embarrassment.

Phil flips him the finger and exclaims, “for fuck’s sake,” as he disappears into the bathroom.

“Language!” Lucy chides, loud enough for him to hear.

Phil yanks open the door to reply, “Tell Mark to stop bullying me!”

“You make it so easy, though.” That was Mark. Phil doesn’t grace him with an answer, just kicks his chair later on the way back to his desk.

-

Phil works on his columns all day - the small articles, the ones that fill the back pages. It’s banal and irritating work. He needs stories with more substance, more interest - and, preferably, he wants to be using his own photos. But his firm have nothing for him - he never stops asking - so he has to make do.

Noon finally comes. Sometimes he goes out for lunch, taking his camera with him, but today he has his lunch packed, and spends his break editing and printing photos he took the other day.

“Very artsy,” Mark comments, striding past. With a flick of his finger, he switches the coffee maker on; crossing his arms, he settles back to wait.

“That’s a long word,” Phil replies, after a moment.

“I’ve got more where that came from, too,” Mark says, and does a dramatic wink.

Phil utters a disgusted noise. “Ugh, gross. Go away.”

“Coffee?” Mark tilts his head to one side, looking at him. It’s a harmless gesture, made to tease rather than to understand. Harmless, thoughtless.

“...Fine. Please,” Phil relents.

“Good man.” Mark claps his hands together, and disappears into the kitchen.

The photos finish printing, and he scoops them up in one hand. Carefully, he slots them into the gaps in his plastic folder. At the end of the day, he takes these photos through to his boss, Zoe.

“I’m really trying, Phil,” she tells him as he lays them on her desk with the comment, some of my work to look at and use, if they want . “But there’s no gaps for you to fill.”

“I can replace,” Phil says, holding eye contact with her.

She breaks it. “I know, but you know what my managers are like. It’s too much paperwork, bad treatment, etc. etc. Not their style.” Her eyebrows raised, she takes Phil’s photographs and places them on top of the pile. Zoe has the decency not to bin them. At least she believes in Phil - or pities him. Maybe it’s all pity, maybe he carries the pathos of a discarded sentiment in the way his shoulders slump.

“I know. Thank you for trying, Zoe.”

“It’s all selfish, Phil, honestly, I just enjoy looking at your stuff too much.” She grins at him, her pen pressed to her bottom lip.

“I’m still thankful.”

“Then I’ll say it’s no problem. Have a good evening. University Challenge is on tonight, isn’t it?”

“As if I watch that,” Phil lies.

“Yeah, as if.” She gives him a knowing look. “Have a good evening.”

Phil cuts off any complaints he has towards the executive and his decision not to hire his photography skills, and turns to go. He wipes a hand down his trouser leg. His eyes rest on the tv screen Zoe has in her office; it’s on mute, but subtitles indite the headlines of the 6 o’clock news.

A camera pans down a street. A pack of police cars line a road, where one road meets another, the intersection stuck in webs of crime scene tape.

“A murder,” Phil reads aloud, scratching the line between silence and noise, as the news anchor appears back on screen and the live feed continues in the background.

“Not far from here too,” Zoe comments, looking up from her work.

Not far from that cafe, either. He nods. “Yeah.” In fact, practically opposite.

There’s a catch of silence as Phil stares at the screen, watching the news unroll. Lights flash, blues scintillating and whorling; people swarm, passing in and out of one of the houses; he watches a detective step under the tape and then a police officer shooing crowds away and then the writhing mass of London’s streets.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Evening, Zoe.” Phil waves behind him, and leaves.

-

When he gets home, he goes straight to his laptop, and opens the BBC home page. He finds the news story in the local news station.

The prime suspect is an unknown male, approximately 25 years of age, Caucasian, missing. Was seen entering the residence by an eyewitness between 3 and 7AM, hours before the emergency call that alerted police of the crime at 7:37. Not seen since. The eyewitness was letting in their pet cat, and does not know the exact time. Police urge anyone to come forward with any information they may have regarding this man and his whereabouts.

(A photo is attached: an artist’s sketch, based off the witness’ questionable account. The man is average: brown hair pin straight and shadowing his jawline, brown eyes wide and defined, mouth large. Nothing of interest. There is a jolt of recognition, perhaps, but nothing more than his weary brain working. Phil studies his face for a few seconds before scrolling on.)

No access to the crime scene has been given to the press, for obvious reasons, but certain details are known. There are no signs of a struggle, nor of a break in. The victim was positioned at their computer, their credit card held in their hand. Police are unsure if this statement is linked to the killer themselves, a motive, or if it is a statement at all. With a bit of searching, Phil finds out how they were killed: a laceration to the jugular, the action described as “clinical and expertly executed”. The crime scene was cleaned thoroughly after the killing, and the cut stitched up - so, at first, it was hard to tell they were dead at all, or what the cause had been.

Phil checks back at the BBC. The victim’s name has been published. Toby Stanford.

Phil closes the page and pushes his chair away from his desk. Unnerving though it all is, he’s hungry and has some more photos to edit.

-

The photos he took this morning are printed out on glossy paper, and he studies them now, the TV murmuring away in the background. It’s the same story: Unknown Killer, Unknown Killer, Unknown Killer. The tale has, somehow, shaken the country horribly; a gruesome murder that looked seamless in execution, done by a man in his twenties, in the capital city; a murderer whose DNA was found at the scene, but whose way of retreat is a mystery. The DNA has not shown up as a match on PD records. No footage shows the killer on the street. No one saw him leave. No one knows how long he was there for.

For the most part, he isn’t invested in the tale. It doesn’t concern him; it’s just another tragedy taking over the screen. He listens to it the same way he listens to most news: with transient empathy and curiosity. There’s nothing more to the story than what he’s given from news reporters, so what’s the point of wishing for more?

“The police can now confirm that they believe the killer did know the victim, Toby Stanford.” The reporter has a tight lipped way of speaking, but the news makes Phil’s stomach turn. How horrible it is to be able to kill someone so close to you, he thinks.

The heat is slowly dissipating with the sunlight, but his hands are still slick with sweat as he flicks through his photos. Shadows are starting to hang low, sweeping over the floor before his eyes as the day crawls along, draped off the window sill; he looks out the window as his eyes wander, and sees the scorching red of the sunset.

Returning to his photos, Phil studies the throng of people with distracted interest, before recognising the taxi he had watched from the second floor of the cafe. Parked on the curb, it’s squashed up against the rush. It’s a licensed one, he can see now. He flips to the next photo, sees that a passenger door is open, and grabs his magnifying glass to closer study the tiny outline of its passenger. Their clothes are protecting their face from the storm; Phil can’t quite make it out, so he flips to the next one, his pulse throbbing in his fingertips. The next one, and the next...

Phil almost drops the photo.

With his face turned directly to the camera as he casts his gaze around - to check no one is watching him, or following him, Phil will suppose later - and his expression contorted by shock and fright, the killer stands in the London deluge, and is suddenly less of a lost man than Phil thought.

Phil does drop the photo. And his magnifying glass. And rushes to find his camera. Urgently, he throws away the case, and goes through the gallery until he finds these photos. Muttering, “fuck, shit, please, please, please say it is,” his voice scraped and broken apart by his breathing, he checks the timestamp. 6:59am, 25/06/16 . It fits the timeline, if he entered the house between 3 and 7AM.

He’s a murderer.

This man is a murderer, and Phil is holding the last proof of his existence, the last sighting of him, in his hands.

What is he supposed to do with this? The breath builds in his lungs just from the thought of this - this secret with bared teeth behind his closed doors. From luck alone, he’s slashed this mystery open, and doesn’t know what to do with the mess.

Phil looks at the next photo, and the next. He steps into the taxi and it drives away. The last thing Phil can see him do is pull his hood down and his scarf up, so his face is almost completely hidden. It’s no wonder the taxi driver hasn’t come forward: in these photos, the killer doesn’t look like the killer at all, not when the only pictures the public have of him show him looking completely different.

Phil sets the cards down.

He switches off the TV. He refuses to call the police. This is his chance to cover something important, something big, and the longer he gives himself to get a head start, the better. It’s not normal for journalists to evade the police and pursue a probable murder, probably, but he’s given up on normalities.

(Is this impatience? Is this bad morality? Or is this just what’s left from a life of being let down?)

In the photos, the taxi sits still for bare seconds before driving off, its back to Phil’s camera; it disappears into the throng, but Phil had, by some token of luck, decided to zoom in, and the number plate, company and car number are laid out in fine quality before his eyes.

Phil grapples for his phone - drops it - scrapes it off the ground. A quick search shows the taxi’s location - and the cafe - is only a few blocks away from the murder site. Down the road opposite, turn left, and you’re there.

This is it. Phil’s breath catches, excitedly, in his throat, and the possible consequences of this set a grenade off in his stomach. The dangers descend over his mind. He could be arrested, or made redundant, or in danger.

But it’s not enough to put him off.

Phil checks the timestamp again. And again. After he’s certain he’s not delusional, he shoves the photos off his lap, stands, and goes to his laptop.

It only takes a few seconds to find the company’s phone number, a few more to still his shaking fingers, and then the number is dialling on the screen. He starts pacing up and down the room, falling into shadow and out again, stepping over the various wires and notebooks scattered over the floor. The tone sounds, over and over, mismatching with his footfalls.

Phil squeezes his eyes shut and wills his voice to stop quaking; his spine becomes a lightning rod.

“Hello, ABC Taxis?”

“Hello, I took a cab with your service earlier today, and I think I might have left my keys in the back seat?”

“Okay, sir, do you know the car number?”

“Yeah, it was 335,” Phil reads from the photo he snatches off the table. Proceeding to clutch it to his chest, he falls back onto his chair.

“Name was Dan Howell?”

“Yeah, Howell.” Exhilaration fires through him, the name sweet and venomous on his tongue. I can’t believe I’m doing this. The number is staring back at him - he knows it’s right. There’s only one name they could be giving him.

The phone operator is quiet a moment, and then checks the location his car was taking him to. Phil bites his tongue and notes the address down, the letters jumbling and finishing with long tails.

“Yes, that’s the place,” he says.

“Okay, we’ll check the car for you as soon as possible. Should we contact you on this number?”

“Yes, please. Thank you for your help.”

Phil hangs up. He blocks the number.

Easy.

Phil tears off the piece of paper showing the address, gathers the photos together. Turning to a fresh page in his portfolio, he places them on it and slams it shut. He goes to bed.

-

By noon, Phil has finished two of his assigned stories. The sky writhes in masses of grey through the ceiling to floor windows. His leg bounces against the side of his desk, and it won’t stop.

“You’re doing well, Phil,” Zoe says from over his shoulder, after dropping off a mass of prototype papers for Lucy to edit.

“Thank you.” Phil shrugs off the compliment and doesn’t watch as Zoe exchanges a few words with Lucy and proceeds to leave.

The other story he finishes by two o’clock in the afternoon. He doesn’t stop for lunch; he grabs a sandwich from his bag and eats it as he works. Crumbs congregate in his lap and he doesn’t brush them off. His work is hurried, his jaw taut; he’s agitated, but focused, eager to finish, and to finish fast . When he groans in frustration and stands up to head to the loo - wasting time - Mark raises an eyebrow at him, tilts his head, you alright, mate? Phil grimaces, yes, fine, and it must be convincing, because Mark turns back to his desk.

Sending off his work, Phil opens up a search engine and heads to the major news websites. The - his - story has reached the front pages, now, as everyone scrambles to solve the mystery: of the body’s odd positioning, of what it all means, of the world’s disappearing killer.

Phil is, in that respect, one step ahead. He is the last person to have seen the killer as the killer, he is the only person who knows where he went, he is the only one who knows his name. He has proof of it all.

Dan Howell.

Phil doesn’t dare look him up at work. If anyone were to see him, or track his search history (Phil lets himself be paranoid, giving himself the taste of the action movie life), it would only attract suspicion.

He finds news articles written in desperate verbatim. Only a few facts are known: between 3AM and 7AM, Toby Stanford, the address, the positioning, severed jugular. The killer: brown hair, wide eyes, fringe, askew mouth. Murderous tendencies.

On the loose.

A few things have been guessed by experts: no sign of a struggle or break in, so the killer was known to the victim. The killer was an expert, perhaps a serial killer, or a doctor. It was not a crime of passion. He may strike again, but if he does, it will be on a friend or relation, they believe.

He also scrolls through the transcripts of inconsequential interviews. Programs are eager for a story, digging their claws on any shred of meat they can find; however, the story is still fresh, and little can be determined. Phil finds a video without a transcript, and hastily plugs in his headphones.

“We are still searching the crime scene as we speak,” says a local constable. She’s red in the face. Vibrant tape struggles in the wind behind her: warning, no entry . “A fingertip search.”

“Who do you have on the case?” The reporter’s pony tail blows in the wind, the skin on her neck is pale.

“On the scene, we’ve got DIs and Chief Inspectors, CSIs, experts from Scotland Yard, and forensics. The body has been sent off for an extensive post-mortem.”

“And what are you looking for, exactly?”

“DNA, mostly. Until we find that, we’re very much lost. The only genetic information we’ve found so far is partial, so we’re hoping to find something more substantial. The killer did a diligent job of clearing his mark from the scene.

“We’ve also got a team looking into the victim, their personal life, close friends, coworkers, anything that may point us towards the identity of the killer.”

“Should members of the public be worried?”

“We believe that the killer is thorough in both the preparation and the actual murder. We think only close friends and people known to the killer are at risk, and we are working hard to work out who that may be. If members of the public see or hear about anything to do with this man,” the artist’s sketch appears on screen, “we urge them to come forward and speak to our staff at the station.”

“What’re you looking at?”

Phil jumps, the rise in his shoulders sharp. He looks behind him to find Lucy peering over his shoulder, and he sighs in relief. “Don’t do that.” He yanks out his headphones, and scrolls the page up so she can see the title.

Squinting to read it, she asks, “They found anything new, then?”

“No, no.”

“Think you could make a story out of it?” She offers him a gently teasing smile.

“Not at the moment, I couldn’t.”

“It’s interesting stuff.” She thinks for a moment. “Anthony down in Crime and Local Affairs got hold of some crime pictures. Not to publish, of course, but he has contacts. Email him, ask for them.”

“What?”

“He was bragging about it at lunch - well, no bragging is the wrong word, I suppose. He was very excited about it.”

“Why are you telling me to ask for them, though?” She can’t know anything. Don’t be ridiculous.

“Other than the obvious, we’ve barely covered this. Look into possible political views the killer may have. Talk to Zoe, see if you can interview some police, some family and friends of the victim.”

“You’d think she’d let me do that?”

Lucy shrugs. “I can’t be sure, but if you’re well read on the matter, why not? CALA is quite busy at the moment, considering it’s only Anthony.”

An inquisitive look passes across his face. “Since when?”

“Since Tom went on paternity leave.”

“Oh, right.”

“I’m sure Anthony would love some extra help. But only ask for the photos for now. Build your case, and we’ll go to Zoe tomorrow.”

Slowly, Phil nods, swivelling acute angles in his chair. “But tomorrow’s Friday.”

“Yes.”

“Zoe’s hardly in on Fridays.”

“Well, you’ll have to be quick, then.” Lucy smiles at him. Phil grins back.

He sets about writing the email straight away, concocting it in such a way that it is made clear Phil wants to help with the story. Anthony is enthusiastic and lacking scruple: by adding in that Lucy told him to ask, Phil is confident he’ll get the photos.

Sure enough, minutes later a notification appears at the bottom of his screen, and Phil clicks on it before it can disappear.

“Hi, Phil! If Zoe says yes, then I’d love some help from you. I hear it can be very boring on the back pages - it would be a win win, no?

“Here are the photos. I would warn for gore, but they’re really not that shocking at all. No blood, no obvious wound. It’s all quite creepy, but interesting - take a look.”

Giving the text a cursory glance, Phil opens the files.

The room is not what Phil expected. Where he’d expected it to be modern and swish, it is homey and old fashioned; the desk is not plastic or glass, but made of a polished, dark wood. The chair is a basic swivel one, and behind it are two shelves, shoulder to shoulder, grimly bearing tonnes of dog eared books. Some are of classic literature, others on art movements, but mostly he sees books on sociology. A rug is splayed on the floor, a mountainous wrinkle in the material from the wheels of the swivel chair.

In terms of the corpse, it is just as Anthony said. With his open, staring eyes, legs crossed, and his elbows rested on the desk - credit card casually clasped between thumb and finger - Toby Stanford looks alive. Hours before this was taken, he was alive. The black screen of his computer can just be seen in the reflection of his eyes.

Like Howell, Stanford was young. His clothes are simple - a pale blue t-shirt, cargo shorts; his blond hair is naturally tousled, but shines with grease: the sign of a man too caught up in his work. In the news, Toby Stanford has been described by loved ones as loving, dedicated, passionate, we will miss him endlessly.

The collection of photos ends with zoomed in shots of the severed jugular. The two edges of skin are sewn together with invisible thread, its thickness unbelievably slim. Pale and clear of any blood, the wound must have been cleaned thoroughly before being sewn back up; the needle was left at the scene, broken in two, sterilised. It was a basic sewing needle. Another photo, and the thread is cut to be salvaged and analysed later; the skin curls apart. Toby Stanford’s skin was dead, and couldn’t heal itself.

The very last photo is an image of the credit card - the setup was carefully dismantled by forensics. The card is Stanford’s own, nothing obscure or unexpected. Fingerprints can’t have been found on it, or the public would know. The killer did a meticulous job of ensuring Toby Stanford would appear alone in his death.

No. Not the killer. Not The Killer. Dan Howell.

“Anything interesting?” Lucy calls over.

“What?” Mark asks.

“Phil’s looking into the Credit Card Killer,” Lucy explains, standing and walking over. The phrase was coined by a news outlet overnight, and for now it is the only way to name the murderer.

“Oooh, daring.”

“Hardly,” Phil tells him. He looks up at Lucy, minimising the photos for her benefit. “Nothing we don’t already know, really, just in visual form. Can I print these off?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you.”

Waiting until Lucy is back at her desk, Phil opens the files, prints them off, and makes a beeline for the printer. He hops from one foot to the other as the ten photos print. Warm on his fingers as he picks them up, Phil folds them in half and tucks them in his bag. He glances up at the clock.

“It’s five o’clock, I’m gonna go.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.” Lucy waves a hand at him, flicking her hair back over her shoulder. “Good luck with that case.”

“Yeah, see you tomorrow, mate. Don’t go near any serial killers.” Mark winks at him.

“Appreciated,” Phil deadpans, and hurries out of the door.

-

Although he considered waiting until nightfall before heading to Howell’s place, several things stop him from making that decision. Firstly, if Howell is indeed still there, the time of day won’t change that - if anything, he may still be at work now, making it safer for Phil to visit. Secondly, a stranger breaking into someone’s apartment in the middle of the night would cause much suspicion. Lastly, and most simply, he is too impatient to wait any time at all.

He types the address into maps, and is relieved to find it is only a ten minute walk from his workplace. Unlike Howell, Phil cannot afford taxis, and the traffic is heaving. Catching a bus at this time would be almost impossible.

The pavement is bone dry, displaying no signs of yesterday’s onslaught of water. The sun catches in his eyes, and he squints into it until it dips behind a skyscraper. Phil listens to the local radio as he walks; they’re interviewing someone else, someone from Scotland Yard. Most of it is stuff Phil has heard before, so he tunes out. As he comes to the entrance of the building, though, one sentence captures his interest.

“We are taking this man’s disappearance as an admission of guilt. Do not approach him. He is dangerous, and may be armed.”

Howell’s apartment must be empty. No one would stick around and wait for the hounds to find them. Surely?

The apartment block is typical of London: balanced on the edge of a square, with no garden or decoration to it’s name. With a towering five stories of beige brick and glaring windows, it is not run down or particularly unkind, but Phil is still uneasy as he trips up the steps to the lobby. The stone is abraded by pebbles, the edges fraught with tough moss.

Beside the number 20, written in black marker and re-taped to the surface several times, is the surname Howell . The letter boxes for each are arranged in the rows below.

He does not have to buzz for entrance, to his relief, and Phil pushes open the door. Once inside, he sets off up an echoing stair case, the cream paint of the space shining with the wall lights. The air smells stale, but not pungently so. It must be the heat - it makes anything smell like rotting meat.

At the third floor, Phil turns right along the corridor. It’s a long walk down the corridor, and he stopped running a while back, but despite this the roar of his blood persists in his ears, a brittle ache in the back of his legs. He comes to a stop outside door 20.

It looks innocent enough. The spy hole is at his eyesight, and Phil shivers.

He keeps walking until he reaches door 21. He takes a deep breath, musters a smile, and knocks.

After a few moments, an elderly lady opens the door to him, and he makes his smile sweeter. “Hi, sorry to bother you, but I’m a friend of Dan’s, and he asked me to get something from his flat.” He jabs a thumb back down the corridor.

“And you don’t have a key, eh?” He estimates she must be in her late fifties. Her hair is dyed brunette, and is pulled into a bun at the back of her head. Her voice carries a jovial hum to it, like it’s clipped by the edges of her welcoming smile.

“Exactly.” Phil nods sheepishly.

She clicks her tongue. “Typical Dan. He’s all over the place, that lad. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning, though.”

“He’s staying at mine.”

“And he made you get something from his apartment? You poor boy.”

“It was a deal. He’d go and buy dinner, I’d get the laptop from his place.” The lie comes from nowhere, but he’s grateful for it all the same. He shuffles his feet on the linoleum floor, hands deep in his pockets.

“Hmm, I’ll let him off the hook this time. I’ll just go and get that spare key for you, love.”

“Thank you very much.”

Pulling them out of his pockets, Phil stands with his hands clasped in front of him while he waits. When she emerges again, keys jangling and hanging from her hand, he takes them from her, saying again, “Thank you, sorry for the disruption.”

“It’s no bother, m’love. Have a good evening.”

“And you.”

The door shuts, and Phil weaves the keys through his fingers as he makes his way back down to Dan’s place. On the keyring are three keys, one for 20, one for 22, and one for 23.

He manages to get the key in the lock first time, and it turns easily. The door swings open. He doesn’t want to cross the boundary, but he does.

Inside, the flat is filled with a darkness like sewage, with stitches of light wriggling through the curtains. It smells of absence. Heat, clumsy and weary, lingers in the air; it’s been trapped in here for a day or two. Phil’s hand scrabbles across the wall until he finds a light switch. He flicks it on.

He stands in a living room. Going off from it are three doors. A number of prints are hanging from the walls; the carpet is a beige-green, worn and scratched and stained in numerous places; a sofa is backed up against the wall, with an arm chair at an angle to it. The fabric is old, but not in disrepair. The coffee table beside them is empty. There is a small TV, but the screen is dusty, and Phil can’t see a remote anywhere. The paint on the walls is bleached, but not peeling. A shelf is propped up against the wall, and it slumps under the weight of two scented candles and a pile of books. Walking over, his footsteps are too loud, ricocheting off every surface as there is no other noise to contend with; he presses a finger to the shelf, and it comes away pasted with a pall of dust. Hurried, he wipes it off on his jeans, feeling uncomfortable for rummaging through someone else’s belongings, and decides not to touch anything else. He scrubs at his fingerprint in the dust until it disappears.

Heading into the first intersecting room, Phil comes across a kitchen. The room is minute, with space enough for a small, square table, two chairs, and one row of worktop. As he walks, the plastic of his soles makes a peeling noise on the tiles. Dirty mugs, cups, and plates are stacked in and around the sink. Phil wrinkles his nose, and shuts the door behind him.

The next door leads into a bathroom, and Phil finds nothing of note, except there’s no shampoo or shower gel, in spite of the tacky rings of soap he finds on the shelf in the shower.

The last room is the bedroom. It is the busiest room in the flat: drawers yanked out and hanging, barely, from their fastenings; the wardrobe is half empty, the gaps where piles of clothes should be are teeth missing from a skull; the covers are bunched up at the base of the bed. It is so messy, and yet the air is painfully still. Phil stands in the doorway, hand still on the door handle, and breathes in the beginnings of dust.

A computer sits on a desk in the darkest corner. Phil shakes the mouse to wake it up, but a lock screen comes up. Beside it is a notebook, two thirds of the pages ripped out, and a credit card with Howell’s name on it. Brow furrowing, Phil acts on a whim and stashes the credit card in his pocket.

A mobile number is written on a piece of paper. Phil rings it, but it goes to voicemail.

Of course.

Phil walks back to the corner of the room, and stares. And stares.

This is his next lead. This is the address given to him by the taxi company. It has to lead him somewhere, or his excursion will have been pointless. Already, he can feel the sacrifices he’s going to make for this - for now, they are faint ghosts on the horizon, but if he pursues it, they will approach, and they will encroach, and they will multiply. He needs to stay in control. He needs to think. He needs to find a damn thing to help him along.

The impatience hits him, then, and he dives back into the room. He pulls back the covers of the bed - nothing - falls to his knees and rummages under the bed - nothing - jumps up and pulls out the remaining clothes - nothing. Under the desk is a pile of papers, and Phil disrupts it, sending the papers out in a fan across the carpet. Half way through searching, he pulls out a leaflet for a B&B approximately thirty minutes outside the city. Folding this into quarters, Phil tucks it away in his pocket. The key presses into his thigh through the pocket of his jeans. Another search offers a spare key to the flat, and he pockets this, also.

There’s the slam of a door.

Phil could have sworn it came from the room next door. The living room. But he looked, and it was empty. Wasn’t it?

Panic swarms in his throat, and he rises to his feet. The papers go flying in the sudden breeze. The mess is lost to the chaos of the room. Running back into the lounge, he finds there is no sign of a disturbance, but the terror has him surrounded now, and he has to get out.

Phil pulls the door shut. At the far end of the corridor, a shadow flits out of view, but he is sure it’s just one of the residents.

Maybe the action movie life isn’t for me, he thinks to himself, and his laugh is shaky. Shoving the keys through flat 21’s letter box, he hastens down the length of the corridor; with two hundred metres between him and the apartment, with the sun glaring down at him, he relaxes.

-

He forgets about the credit card and key until late evening, when he starts getting undressed for bed. He goes to place them with the rest in his portfolio, before deciding against it. Following a few minutes of searching, he uncovers a packet of A3 plastic wallets, and slips the photos, leaflet, and key inside. Placing this in the back of his portfolio, he leaves it by the bedroom door and continues getting changed. He thinks he should feel satisfied at his work, but instead he is topping up his Oyster card and paying all his bills earlier than he normally would.

-

“Phil, I’m really sorry,” Zoe begins, and Phil already knows what’s coming. He sits still on a chair in Zoe’s office, Lucy beside him, with his portfolio caught between his legs. “I just can’t let you move departments like that, especially at such short notice, and without a good enough cause!”

“Anthony said he’d appreciate the help,” Phil offers, subdued.

“I know.” Zoe sighs. “But we need you where you are, Phil. We aren’t here to exercise personal interest. This is your job. You work under me, and I work under my bosses.”

“I know.”

“I suggested Phil pursue this, Zoe,” Lucy admits. She twists her hair up into a ponytail before continuing, “He had a real interest in the case, and he’d completed all his work already.”

Neck prickling and teeth grinding, Phil stares at his tangling fingers.

“That may be true,” Zoe allows, “but I just can’t let you do that. You have no expertise in the field. And I trust you, you’re a great writer and an aspiring photographer - I do hope one day we can offer a job that’s right for you.” Her wheedling does nothing to quell Phil’s anger. “But this is a case with no substance. Everything’s already been said. Even if I could let you, I wouldn’t, because it would result in wasted words, wasted work.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm and dedication, but there’s really nothing I can do.” Zoe settles back in her chair and offers him a consolatory smile.

“Okay. Thank you anyway.” Phil grimaces at her and stands up, hands clutching his back, his head spinning a little. As he turns, he can see her TV again; it’s on, and he watches the subtitles scuttle across the screen.

“No new information has been found concerning the murder of Toby Stanford. Police urge the public to -”

“It’s basically five o’clock, Phil, go home. There’s nothing you can get done with only twenty minutes left.”

“Yeah, thank you.” Phil’s voice is bland; he stares ahead of him as he walks out, and when Lucy calls after him, it takes a few seconds for him to register her. He eventually turns.

“I’m really sorry,” she says. “I thought it would help.”

“It’s okay.” Phil places a hand on her shoulder. “You did your best.”

Nodding, she smiles, as if consoled, and sets off for her office. Phil sets off home.

He feels like he’s in a trance. Stupefied. Not from disappointment, exactly, more the opportunities now he’s been turned down. No matter the circumstances, he’s not letting this case go. He’ll leave town tomorrow. He will. He’ll hunt Howell down on his own, he’ll write the story down, he’ll take photos, and he’ll get the break he needs. The whole experience should be cathartic for him, too.

Shoving open the door to his house, he tumbles in and slams the door behind him. He’s met with the same, wafting sense of abandonment. He’s used to it. Except, now, it kills him. He desires noise, sound, the scream of disturbance that accompanies life.

His blood is pounding in his head as he packs. He’s not sure what to include, so throws in what he finds. His camera goes in the rucksack last, perched on the top of his clothes and book. Phil hesitates before fastening the bag shut, but he shakes it off and ties it tight.

That night, he barely sleeps, but he’s too invigorated to feel exhausted.

-

He gets a tube out to Cockfosters, then walks to the bus station; the B&B is in a small village in Greater London, and, following the instructions he finds on Google Maps, he manages to get the bus to take him almost to its doorstep.

It’s a small, neat place, with a painted sign and lace curtains in the windows. In the garden are lines of fruit and vegetable plants; a hanging basket strains in the wind beside the front door. Phil catches sight of a cat slinking around the corner. Some sort of climbing plant, perhaps ivy, has started to grow in the guttering, but the house is in such good keep otherwise - fresh paint, tiled garden path, no weeds, mown lawn - that Phil decides it must be deliberate.

The door is propped open with a doorstop, a cartoon-like dog filled with beans, so Phil pushes it open and composes a look of politeness as he enters.

Inside, the lobby is spacious, the towering ceiling cut into sections by the inclining stair cases. Photos hang on the walls. Under a line of hooks and keys, a wooden desk fills the space, and a woman Phil estimates to be in her late forties busies herself with the newspaper and a pile of folders. At the sound of the door opening, she looks up; she smiles, welcoming him, and beckons him over to her.

“Hi, what can I do for you?”

“Um,” Phil begins. Shit . He hadn’t planned out at all what he would say, and he can hardly come in here, pry about Howell’s whereabouts and leave, can he? Shifting his shoulders and twisting his back, he rearranges the hefty bag on his back. An idea hits him, and he rushes to say, “I’m looking for someone, a Dan Howell? He dropped his card, I found it on the pavement just outside.” He rummages in his pocket - and yes, thank fuck, he finds the credit card and pulls it out, showing it to her.

“I see. Young man, brown hair, fringe?” she checks. Phil shrugs.

“I didn’t see him.”

“The name rings a bell,” she thinks aloud, and shuffles over to the log book. She flicks back a page, “ah, yes, he checked out a few hours ago, sorry.”

Disappointment slumps in his chest, but he tries to ignore it. “Did he leave any contact details?” Phil tries again.

“Yes, a phone number. I’ll write it down for you now.”

“Thank you so much. Do you know roughly which way he was heading? I may be able to catch up with him.”

“Not really, no. He only stayed a night. Asked about buses and coaches to Reading, I think.”

“There’s a coach station?” Phil asks, pricked by surprise. It’s still possible to find him.

“Yeah, about five miles down the road. It’s very handy. They go as far as Oxford, I think.” Sliding a scrap of paper with the phone number on it, she says, “There you go.”

“Thank you again.”

“No problem. Anything else I can do for you? Do you need a room?” She looks to the bag on his back.

Phil smiles. “Ah, no, I’m fine for now. Thank you again for your help.”

The excitement he feels is alien, but he feasts on it. He’s at the start of this. His perseverance has paid off.

Dodging the cat on his way out, he rushes to the bus station, and hops on the one going to the coach station. He sits at the back, staring out the window, slicing harmlessly at his palm with the credit card. His impatience is notable, but with it he has purpose, certainty, so he can withstand it; his expectations hum in the back of his head.

The coach station is quiet when he arrives, caught in the lull of midmorning. Litter trails along the pavement, shadow bounces under the metal shelters.

Walking up to the front desk, Phil catches the attendee’s attention by saying, “Excuse me.”

The man looks up from his computer, eyebrows raised. Phil shrinks a little. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, sorry, have you seen this guy around at all today?” Phil gets up a picture of Howell on his phone and offers it to him. He leans forward to study it, then shakes his head.

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“Ah, good,” Phil acts a sigh of relief, even as his stomach sinks: here ends his luck. “We’re meant to be meeting here, but I suddenly realised he might have got the wrong coach time. He’s not very organised, see. But, if you haven’t seen him, that’s probably a good sign.”

“I’ve only been on duty a couple of hours.”

“I doubt he’ll have arrived more than a couple of hours early, he’s not that bad,” Phil jokes. “Thank you for your help, have a good day.”

“No worries,” he says, and sinks back down in his chair.

When Phil is far enough away, he draws all the air out of his cheeks in one long exhale. His back aches. Clouds are rolling in, dark and heavy.

“Shit,” says he, and he sits down to wait for the next bus. He tries the number the woman left him: it’s fake, of course.

-

Facebook has never appealed to Phil, he uses it intermittently, but now he’s elbow deep in posts dating back to 2010. He has Howell’s face at ages 22, 23, 24 and 25 memorised now, after scrolling past years’ worth of posts, photos and statuses. Dan got a job working as an over-the-phone salesman for a company in 2014, fired from it a few months back; he dropped out of university in 2012; he celebrated his 21st birthday during a family trip to Las Vegas. Judging from recent photos - there aren’t many, as Howell’s social life seems to diminish in recent months - the artist’s sketch isn’t far off, save a few missed details: his mouth is askew when he smiles, his eyelashes are thick and his eyes are hooded, and his hair is naturally wavy.

Phil has a post open in another tab: it shows Howell at a club with friends, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. His hair is longer, twisting around the middle of his neck. He is almost certainly drunk. And beside him stands Toby Stanford.

They were most definitely friends, the investigators got that right. Phil’s head is still buzzing from the discovery. He managed what no one else could, and he’s still reaping the benefits from it. The possibilities for the motive are still endless, but Phil believes he knows Howell better now. Perhaps they fought over someone, perhaps one stole money from the other - that would explain the credit card. It doesn’t matter.

When Phil finds him, he’ll find out.

(And what will I do when I find him? Confront him? Risk my life? Stay at a distance and call the police? I don’t know.)

By the second hour, Phil is bored. He finds Howell’s Tumblr, but other than random GIFs, there’s nothing of interest. His Facebook is merely a log of his good relations with friends, cordial acquaintances with family, and the struggles he has with employment. Phil thinks money could be a suitable motive, but he’s no expert.

He scours the news again, but nothing else is known. It’s only a matter of time until they find out Howell’s identity though, surely. Phil needs to maintain his headstart.

Clicking on Local News, he goes to Reading’s site, figuring he may be able to track Howell down that way. During his Facebook session, he learnt that Howell was born in Reading; if he’s targetting close friends or family, there may be another murder - an extreme possibility, but it’s still possible. His home ties also explain why he would want to return there.

Sure enough, Phil soon finds the headline BANKER KILLED IN OWN HOME. It’s a new story and isn’t on the front page. Phil eagerly clicks on it, and absorbs every word it has to offer.

“Police are left puzzled after the body of one of Reading’s most successful young bankers is found in her home, with no signs of a break in. Family and friends are heartbroken.

Cadence Collins, 26, was found dead in her bedroom at 9 o’clock this morning by her cleaner. It has since been confirmed that Collins died by asphyxiation in her sleep; however, no obvious signs of a break in have been found, leaving police baffled as to how the killer got in or out.

For two years, Collins worked for the national bank HSBC, and her expertise with computers and mathematics made her career incredibly successful. Her work place has issued a statement of grievance and condolences to her family. Collins lived alone with her two dogs, both of which were found sleeping, undisturbed, in their kennels outside. When they couldn’t be woken, blood tests were conducted; it was found they had been sedated. This poses a solution to how the killer got in and out without raising alarm.

“We are working hard to find the killer. As of yet, we have not found a weapon, motive, or means of entry and escape. It’s a slow process,” says local constable Andy Thompson, “but we believe we will find the answers to these questions, and when we do, the killer will quickly become known to us.

“At this moment in time, we have no reason to believe this death is linked to the Stanford case in London. The MO is different; if it were a serial killer, we would expect to see a recurring method for murder. Serial killers often have a signature ‘move’, if you like, used to instill fear and create the illusion of omnipresence and power. The sedation of the dogs also suggests the killer was unknown to the victim. We hope to reassure the public with the knowledge that we do not believe this is a case of serial killings.””

Phil stops reading. He leans back in his chair, biting his lip and tapping his desk repeatedly. Next, he re-opens Facebook, finds Howell’s page, and scrolls down the page at a ferocious speed; he gives each post a cursory look before moving on.

There.

There it is. “Dan Howell, with Toby Stanford, Cadence Collins, and 3 others.”

He knew her.

Phil can’t ignore the similarities. First, Toby. With his long friendship with Howell. The credit card positioned in his dead hands. And now, Cadence. A banker. Another friend of Howell’s. No known way of entering for either murders, no DNA or evidence left at the scene. Fuck what the police think, Phil knows this is Howell’s work.

If he’s pursuing this case - and he is - then he has to pursue this, too. He can’t just sit here, when he knows where his killer is and what he’s been doing. While he never imagined he would do this, while he never imagined that he would risk his everything, drop everything for this coincidence, he can’t imagine stopping .

Reading is only an hour away. If he leaves now, he could make it by 4PM.

Throwing his laptop aside, Phil rushes to his bedroom and repacks his rucksack; he runs to the kitchen, emptying the cupboards of biscuits and cereal bars. Back in the living room, he hooks his camera over his neck. He opens his portfolio and flicks to the back page, figuring it would be useful to have all his evidence and photos with him, as he thinks it’s unlikely he’ll be returning any time soon. If he has these, then his whole story will be prepared by the time this ends. Except -

Except.

Phil stops dead in his tracks. The sudden stop throws his heart up into his mouth. Blood rushes past his ears like a whirlwind.

The photos are gone.

Phil definitely printed them, and they were definitely in this wallet, but he shakes everything out of it and he can’t find them. When he shakes his whole portfolio, nothing is dislodged.

Fingers shaking, he takes his camera out of its case and clicks through to the gallery. The photos are still there, he discovers, but the relief comes with a bitter edge. He left the portfolio behind, but took the camera with him. He can’t have lost the photos, so where did they go?

Except.

By this point, his paranoia has allowed him to become familiar with the possible risks of this task he’s undertaken. He knows it’s possible that someone knows what he’s doing - he worries about it with every step he takes. He knows it’s possible he never put the photos anywhere different.

A new thrill overtakes him. A new fear. A new dread. He is aware of himself in a completely different way, his every boundary hardwired to discharge a spark.

If someone stole them - and someone must have stolen them - why? Who? It doesn’t make sense: Howell was halfway to Reading when he last saw them.

Maybe he got a friend to break in and take them. Maybe he’s part of a gang. But, say he did, how did he know when Phil would be out? And why didn’t he want to delete the photos from his camera? There were numerous times when the camera was left unattended in his flat while he went to work.

More importantly, how did he know the photos existed at all? The thought makes Phil sick.

He can’t stop, though. There’s no point searching the flat, because he knows exactly where he left them. He can’t report it to the police, or let the fear faze him. Time is draining away, blood from a wound, and if he leaves it any longer, the case will dry up.

Shoving what’s left of his evidence in his backpack, Phil ties a jacket around his waist - just in case - and checks the door is locked twice before he leaves for the train station.

-

It only takes a bit of searching on social media to work out roughly where Cadence Collins lived. When he steps off the train - relatively empty, and quiet enough that he managed to catch a few moment’s sleep, too - he approaches a member of staff and gets directions to the street. Determined and steady, he sets off; a book digs into his back.

It takes him thirty minutes. His footsteps are fast and frantic, and with every wrong turn he takes, his pace increases. Against his back, his bag thuds and judders. The sky is a swirling mass above his head, full of light and cloud and searing blue; he turns his head away from it. Instead, he fidgets with his camera, flicking through his gallery; more than once, he lingers on the ones of that writhing crowd, that clogged vein of a street...

Howell was there - Howell was here.

He knows he needs to search the area - for possible places Howell could have haunted, possible lodgings he might have stayed in. After that, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, what he’ll find, how he’ll find it. He’s trying not to think about it.

The house is easy to spot. A large, modern building, webbed in warning tape and guarded by police cars, a stream of people in uniform coming in and out; the rest of the street is desolate, in mourning. The asphalt is burning under the summer sun, black as anthracite, the rest of the concrete hoary and wrinkled. Around him, the area is silent, and he swears the wind carries the scent of anesthetic and dust. It’s humid. A storm cloud is working its way along the horizon. Phil takes off his jacket and stuffs it in his bag.

Of course, the house is off limits. Amongst his fervent wonderings, he’d managed to anticipate that, at least. He won’t find anything more here. As he knows the killer was here, this is a dead end. It’s the next part of the trail that he needs to find. He needs to carry on.

But for a moment, he stands, watching the flow of people; for a moment, he imagines what it would be like. To die. To kill.

(A coarse shiver mangles his spine.)

The people are silent as they walk, like an army of ants trailing in and out of the building. Around them, the street is still stunned into silence. It’s like a funeral procession. Phil grinds a heel into the pavement, and pivots.

Cadence lived roughly in the middle of town, so Phil gives himself the task of finding all the nearby hotels. It’s exhausting, exhaustive work. He feels eyes on him at every turn; part of him wants Howell to still be here, part of him wants Howell to be miles away.

The first hotel is a private organisation, too expensive for someone on the run, so he discounts it. The next, however, is cheap but tidy; a grand affair, with red carpets and saffron lighting. Phil walks towards the counter just as the staff switch over. The new secretary, a thirty-something year old woman with brown hair pulled into a bun, greets him with a sticky smile.

“Hello,” she says. Her voice possesses an odd, soft cadence. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, yeah,” he exhales, taking a step forward and smoothing down his shirt. “Oh, this is so embarrassing, but I think I left a memory stick in my hotel room. I checked out a few hours ago,” he explains, the lie a thorn growing out of his front teeth. He guesses that Howell must have moved on by now, what with another body in his closet. “Oh, I do hope it hasn’t been cleaned yet…”

“Nothing has been handed into lost property.” She purses her lips - not unkindly, but as if she doesn’t know how to approach the problem.

“Could I search my room? Would that be possible?” Phil offers. “It’s just, that memory stick is really important to me and my work, and it’s quite vital I find it.” His hand goes to the back of his neck. “Oh, this is all my fault, I shouldn’t have been so careless in the first place. I’m such an idiot, I’m so sorry.”

“Not to worry, sir, I’m sure you can go and check. If you checked out this morning, there won’t be another resident in it just yet. What was your room number?”

“Ah, well, that’s another embarrassing thing. I’ve tried, but I can’t for the life of me remember,” he admits, pulling his mouth into an ashamed line.

She smiles at him. “I’ll check our register for you. How long did you stay for?”

“Only one night.”

While she clicks keys on the computer keyboard, Phil twists his foot around and chews the inside of his cheek; the last thing he wants her to do is ask for his name. Howell might have used his real name, for this place isn’t a part of a chain and would be hard to track down, but Phil can’t be sure, and doubts he would dare to.

“I’m guessing this is you, Finley Waller, room 11? That’s the only one who fits the description.”

“Yes, that’s me.” Phil pulls his bag closer to his back. “You could have asked me my name,” he jokes.

“I could have, but I like working it out myself.” She laughs, and Phil joins in. Handing him the key card, she says, “I can give you ten minutes.”

“That’s plenty, thank you.” Phil takes it, bows his head to her, and walks up the staircase. Underneath the thinning carpet, he can feel the hard press of wooden floorboards. The banister twists up into the wall, which is pasted with a deep red wallpaper. Howell’s room, room 11, is on the first floor; Phil slots the card in the door, hardly waits until it flashes green before he puts his shoulder to the varnished wood. And pushes.

Inside, it barely looks inhabited. The room is banal and typical, despite it’s almost byronic decor; the main colour is red - it’s on the pillows, the duvet, and the curtains. A door is in the far corner, where the ensuite must be. In the other corner, beside the window, is a wide, long shelf, to be used as a desk. Under it is a bin made of metal mesh.

First, Phil checks the bathroom. The shower is empty, and the sink and surface wiped clean and dry. It smells of the hotel’s air freshener. He flings open the cupboard doors and takes the room apart, blowing every crack and crevice open to the size of a small universe. He finds nothing. Just a putrid petal of rust growing in one corner of the radiator. Back in the bedroom, the cramped wardrobe is bare of everything but dust and a screw that has fallen from its place; the sheets on the bed have been pulled taut, and the pillow is plump, as if shaken wildly. Phil falls onto his knees and runs his hand over the carpet and the wooden slats of the frame, but finds nothing.

Not that he expected to find something. Not necessarily. A flame of hope flickers in him, but it’s turning sour with each passing second. He can’t divine how much optimism is appropriate for this; can’t decide how conducive his situation is for success.

He stands up, brushing his knees down, and approaches the bin with a certain level of hesitance. Still, he tips it upside down and rummages through the rubbish.

Phil furrows his brow. The only thing in it is plain paper: no food wrappers, no water bottles, no scrap paper with doodles or words. Just plain paper.

Of course he wouldn’t find anything. Howell is a killer, a killer who leaves the body behind and yet, somehow, leaves no trace of himself. The police don’t even know his name. Except for that one betraying photo, there is no scent trail to follow. The last thing he would do is leave something so incriminating behind - he’s meticulous, diligent, and cunning.

He sighs, and sets about scrunching it up. Spurting in from the window, the sunlight butters his fingers as he lifts up his hands. But, as he scrunches up the third piece, something catches his eye, and he stops. He smooths the paper out, and holds it to the light. He squints, and twists the paper more, and finally can make out what it is.

Faint and spidery, two words are impressed on the paper.

“finwal12@

rwdafy0609”

It’s a username and password. It must be.

Howell was careful; he kept the paper with the login on, and disposed of all paper that might show he was here or record what he did. And Phil got here quick enough to find it. Howell’s memory let him down on that front - if he could remember it, then he wouldn’t have to write it down. (Why couldn’t he remember it? It was only two words.) He took the risk, took the precautions, but Phil beat him. The thought sends a light red shiver down his spine. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end.

Remembering himself and where he is, he stuffs the paper in his pocket and hurries out of the room. At the bottom of the stairs, he throws the woman at the desk a smile, slides the key card onto the desk, and hustles towards the door, pulling his shoulders in.

“Finley?” she calls after him. He stops short. Slowly turns. Again, she smiles, sickly, her lipstick feathering, “any luck?”

“Ah, yes.” He reaches behind him and pats his rucksack. “It was in the bin, who’d’ve thought!” He chuckles to himself.

“I’m glad.”

“Thank you.” Phil turns again, the smile folding away into a fine line, before he remembers something. “Does there happen to be an Internet cafe nearby?” he asks her.

“Yeah, there is. Turn right out of here, then turn right again at the first road you come to. It’s just round the corner.”

He logs the information in his head, and dips his head. “Thank you again, you’ve been very useful.”

Phil leaves before she can stall him any longer.

-

The streets in this area of the city are old and empty. With shops chock-a-block, shoulder to shoulder, with their signs stuttered up and down the wall so they don’t overlap; the boards stretched across their area of the brick are clear and well kept, but the various repairs show in their paint. It’s the type of area that makes Phil a little ill (alongside seaside towns, with the open, vulnerable sky and ghost houses). The shop owners who sit at their tills are rarely visited, their homes squeezed into the flats stashed above. The pavements aren’t cracked, but peppered with gum and litter. The perfect limbo between population and desertion.

Phil follows the lady’s instructions, and only sees one person on his way - an old man, hunched into his jacket and scarf despite the clement weather, his face whiskery and disgruntled. Phil doesn’t smile at him as he passes. After a five minute walk, another road intersects the one he walks along, making a crossroad, and Phil turns right. Sure enough, sandwiched between a butcher’s and a salon, a little white sign with “Internet Café” peaks out. As he approaches, the sign turns into a shop front. Phil looks both ways before crossing, but there’s no point: no cars are to be seen.

The door shakes when he opens it.

There are three other people in the café: a young teenaged boy, with unruly ginger hair; a sixty-something man, who looks incredibly bored and pissed off; and the owner, a cordial woman in her fifties who wears a blouse and keeps glancing at her watch. Computers sit on rows of slouching tables. Phil counts about four rows in all, with five computers on each. They’re not disgracefully old, but the keyboards stick and when Phil selects one and shakes the mouse, it takes a while for the screen to load up.

The computer has Chrome, thank fuck, and Phil double clicks, closing the second tab when it appears. It takes a good five minutes to open the browser, click the “sign in” button, and for the login screen to come up. Finally, it does, and Phil is left staring at the “ remember me” tab.

Using two fingers, Phil extracts the piece of paper from his back pocket, looking around him before doing so. No one is paying attention to him, so he lays it in front, against the screen, and types in the letters. He barely looks at it once, though: he had been reciting it to himself over and over on the way, timing each letter with each fervent step.

Phil holds his breath when he forces down the enter key. It’s just the damn computer, he assures himself, as the loading symbol whirls round and round, it’s just being fucking slow.

Finally the home screen flashes up, flickering before settling. Phil sighs in relief - too loudly, and he glances around again. No one has noticed his outburst. He turns back to the computer and stuffs the paper back into his pocket.

Howell didn’t save any bookmarks or change the avatar or anything, obviously, so what Phil is now looking at is barely apart from the one he looked at before. But the implications are so much broader, and they rattle his heart against his rib cage.

Phil hovers the cursor over several buttons, deliberating what the hell to do, before finally he removes his fingers from the mouse and holds down ctrl + h.

The site loads, and loads, and loads, and he breathes in, and out. And breathes in.

Dan Howell’s web history is laid out before him.

All of the searches date back to yesterday. They were made minutes apart, at most.

Meaning: nothing has been deleted.

But that doesn’t make sense . If Howell is a skilled, precise murderer, whose tracks are untraceable and whose methods are perfectly calculated, why would he neglect such a glaring giveaway?

Phil doesn’t have time to worry about that, or about what it implies. (That Howell isn’t as well practiced online as he is in death? That he’s not as invincible as the police say he is? That everyone fears he is?) Howell’s search history is right there in front of him, and that means answers are, too.

A lot of the words are random, it seems to him, with motives Phil doesn’t understand the meaning of. Artificial Intelligence, Hyperinflation online, Digital money making. Along with those terms, Phil finds a forum - some conspiracy site - titled Government money making scheme? but all messages on it have been deleted.

The top of the list is most interesting to him. A web search, and a transport site, and the words train ticket to Rochdale.

That has to be where Howell’s gone. It has to be. Not just because it’s obvious, or the most plausible conclusion based off the information - but because if it’s not, Phil will have reached a dead end that will cut his career in half.

He scratches the back of his neck, foot attacking a botched rhythm on the floor. Something isn’t quite adding up to him. This new information, the presence of it, isn’t easily slotting into the image already constructed in his head. It can’t be this easy, can it? The doubt gnaws away at his thought process, turning his brain to dust. Phil chalks it up to adrenaline.

Deleting the search history so no one else can find it - which is maybe illegal, but as if Phil gives a shit at this point - Phil pushes his chair back. The legs grind on the concrete floor. He grabs his bag, and sets off for the door.

On his way out, he sees two men looking at him oddly. The fact they are watching him at all is peculiar, but Phil is sure of it. Wherever he steps, their eyes follow; intermittently, though, darting to him and away again, sweeping their paths away off the floor. Their beards are trimmed and uniform, their hair cuts close shaven, their eyes masked by hats. They are so indistinctive that Phil can determine nothing about them.

He tears his eyes away, and continues out of the door. He can feel eyes on him again - which is ridiculous, because he can’t think why anyone should be watching him. No one but Howell would know what is on that computer -

But what if they want to mug him? Oh, God, that would be…

His heart works itself up into a frenzy - and shatters in his chest. The sting of boiling blood can be felt in his fingers and in the base of his spine. He walks a little while down the road. He looks both ways before crossing, ostensibly to check for traffic, but he knows nothing is coming.

The two men have left the shop, and are traipsing in the other direction.

Balancing on shaking knees, Phil pulls himself into a stop. He forces the air out of his lungs, as he forces the worries to leave his head. He needs to stop panicking like this - it’s time to act logically, and sensibly, and with control.

Those two men left awfully quickly. It doesn’t seem like they were there that long at all, but perhaps Phil just missed them entering. He was caught up in his computer. Even so, he is suspicious. He shivers. For the rest of the walk, he can’t help but wonder if any of the people he passes know who he is - how far can he wander before getting trapped?

-

It takes him twenty minutes to walk to the train station. He can’t afford a cab, but with maps and some signposts, he finds his way easily. By the time he takes the final turning, his feet are tied down by a dull ache. The station stands stark against the sky, which is withering into black as evening closes its jaw. It’s busier now, with the end of rush hour, and to buy his ticket Phil has to queue behind three others at the ticket machines. Soon after he arrives, two more people join the queue, hovering a little way behind him - Phil can’t complain, he’ll take any space he can get. The station is bustling with noise, and Phil is surrounded by more people than he has been for a while. With all these people around him, the secret is pushing at his seams, yearning for attention, threatening to spill its poison. They could all turn on him in a split second, and ensnare him in a net of pointed glares and questions jostling his ribs.

He won’t tell anyone. He’s not that easily swayed. But his feet tap frantically at the tiled floor, and he keeps twisting his neck to look around - side to side, down, up to the web of roof above him - as his hands push deep into his jean pockets. It’s driving him insane. Slightly.

(Can you be slightly insane? Because he’s not mad. He just thinks he might be.)

The queue moves quickly, and soon enough Phil finds himself standing in front of the machine. He taps swiftly through the options. The route will be complicated: a train back to London, then the Tube across to another train station, and finally a train up to Rochdale. After deliberating a second, Phil decides to settle only for a ticket back to London. The trip will take him over three hours, and it’s getting late; it will be better to go back home, and leave early in the morning. He’s itching to keep moving, but he knows it will have to do. His fingers rub together until they go red, and he selects finish. Whirring, the machine prints off his ticket. He snaps it off, grabs his change, and walks away to find his platform.

He heads right, but his platform isn’t on that side of the station, so he turns back around; he sees the two people who were behind him in the queue walk up to the machine, look at each other, shake their heads, and walk away.

Again, he feels watched. The secret prickles, sharpens its claws. He aches to run away, but he must get home, he must continue like everything is normal. He’s sure it must just be paranoia. He’s been standing up for a large majority of the day, and the edges of his brain are pieces of alcohol-soaked cotton wool - sore and putrid and sopping. His body is riddled with niggling pains.

He heads straight for his train, grabbing a coffee from the store on his way. Finding a lonely seat in the most neglected carriage, he nestles into his jumper; he falls asleep before the train leaves the station, and he only wakes again when a mother of one shakes his shoulder, excuse me, but we’re in London now . Phil pushes himself up with his elbows, nods, and thanks her. His camera is still enmeshed in his fingers.

-

His flat feels eerily cold and isolated when he returns, despite him only being gone a day. He left the curtains open, so the night leaks in; a fine gossamer thread of silence is woven through the air, so he can feel a twang of resistance with his every step. His bag still on his back, he goes into every room in the place. All his possessions appear to be in order, but still he ensures he locks the door fully. Considering whether he should call in sick now, in preparation for Monday, he pulls the curtains tightly shut. He decides against it. He doesn’t know how long he will be gone, and he wants to avoid lies he will later have to back up. If he loses his job, so be it.

He goes back to the front door and checks the lock.

As he checks the front room again, he slumps into his steps. He’s been out for many long hours. Fatigue is washing at the coast of his brain, but he can evade that for now; his hunger, however, he can’t waylay. Taking one last look around the living room, he goes through to the kitchen. Yanking the strap off his shoulder, he drops his bag at his feet. He pours a handful of pasta into a saucepan and puts it on to simmer. As he waits, he checks the news on his phone, one ankle crossed over the other.

His saliva turns to black oil. His head spins. His edges and dimensions fold away into nothing, he is grounded only by the news in front of him, his entire being anchored by the shock wave emanating from the phone screen.

“ANONYMOUS TIP LEADS TO POLICE BREAKTHROUGH IN ‘CREDIT CARD KILLER’ CASE

An anonymous tip gives police the DNA match needed to identify the killer of Toby Stanford, three days after the case began.

Police have announced that DNA fragments, found at the crime scene in south east London on Wednesday, belong to 25 year old Dan Howell, after an anonymous tip lead them to the culprit.

The package was left outside Scotland Yard, and was found by DI Holdings, one of the head detectives of this case, this morning. The exact contents of the package have not been disclosed to the public, but it is known to have had a typed note attached, claiming, “This is the man you’re looking for.” Police confirmed the note’s statement to be true after noon today, and were also able to match Howell’s appearance with the eye witness account from the night of the murder.

The police force and Scotland Yard have released information on Howell for the public’s use, and urge the public to be vigilant. If seen, Howell is not to be approached by members of the public.

Howell is 25 years old, recently unemployed, and was a close friend of Stanford’s. He has no police record, but it is believed he may have been involved in Credit Card theft and amateur hacking. At this moment, Howell’s whereabouts are unknown.”

An image is attached to the article - a photo Phil saw while browsing Howell’s Facebook.

The pot boils over, and Phil walks over and removes the lid in a daze. He tries to be rational about this, but it’s not exactly easy. As he grapples with recovery, a pipe - buried deep in the building - clangs, and hesitant fear trundles through his veins.

Fingers gripping the work surface, he breaths out and eases his weight forwards. This news is not devastating, but it is not ideal. No longer is he the only one looking for Dan Howell; the revelation is not just his any more, and he will have to look harder for a good story. He has a head start on the police, at least, but he is just one man. The police have officers and the public looking for Howell. They have their experts and their resources and their technology. It is not a fair fight.

But then, perhaps Phil has the advantage. He is only one man: he is inconspicuous, not suspicious, he can move without being spotted. Also. Also. Howell is just one man. They match. Maybe it takes a lone man to find another lone man. If they both fall under the radar, then they both sit on the same underground level. As long as Phil stays here, beyond all attention, and thinks like Howell - easier, now he’s on the run, too, sort of - then it must lead him to what he seeks.

Phil throws the pasta into a bowl, sits with his back coiled tight into an arch as he pours over the rest of the article. One hand guides miscalculated forkfuls of pasta to his mouth, the other scrolls down the page. The rest is boring, a number of quotes from police officers and Scotland Yard, more warnings to the public and ways to contact authorities if Howell is seen. Nothing suggests they have any leads yet about where he is, but surely it is only a matter of time before the B&B is found and searched, or the link between Stanford, Howell and Collins is spotted, and when that happens, Phil’s journey will be at risk of being cut short. And then there’s the issue of the anonymous tip…

Who would know that it was Howell? Who would want to remain anonymous through it all? Who would want to flush Howell out, but protect their identity at the same time? It’s a whole new part of the equation, of the mystery surrounding Howell, and it doesn’t make sense.

Phil hardly knows Howell. He’s searching for this target, but it matters little what it turns out to be: glittering treasure, a threat, a corpse. The larger picture is building up, though. Howell’s form is expanding - growing, from a single silhouette of a man, to a silhouette swamped by fuzzy patches that reach the vaults of the stormy sky.

Credit card theft, bank accounts . Some sites say Howell is definitely a thief, others keep it in the reportedly, possibly column. This piece of news, at least, is new and helpful. It half explains the arrangement of Toby Stanford’s demise, and Collins’ involvement, and the search history he found in the internet cafe.

Phil can’t help but theorise. Stanford and Collins were close friends of Howell’s, but then they found out about the credit card theft, and had to be silenced. Another friend - maybe Stanford or Collins’ significant other, maybe even Howell’s - knew what happened, and felt obligated to help the search. Maybe Howell is hounded by guilt, and wants to be found, but his pride is too great for him to just come back with his tail between his legs and his wrists held out, ready to be cuffed.

Howell didn’t delete his search history, but it was on an account not associated with him at all; Phil only found it by accident, after he was able - somehow - to follow his movements. If Howell had wanted to silence his friends, he would have succeeded: if not for that anonymous tip, his identity would still be unknown. His criminal secret would still be secret.

Comforted by the knowledge that nothing more is known about Howell, he drops the bowl into the sink with a clarion clink, runs water over it, and takes himself and his backpack through to his bedroom. Tired out of his mind, he tries to look for the missing photos again. All he succeeds in doing is making his home even messier. Giving up, he kicks off his shoes and goes to bed fully dressed.