Chapter Eighteen

The arrest came four days later, and it came from a direction Callum had not anticipated, on a morning that had started, up to that point, like any other morning of the last five weeks — coffee he barely tasted, the notebooks still spread across the kitchen table where they had lived, more or less permanently now, since the night of the break-in, and a half-formed plan to spend the day chasing down the beneficial ownership of the Guernsey company Deborah Muir had declined to name to him directly. He had spent the previous evening building a list of Companies House filings and offshore registry cross-references, the specific patient, unglamorous groundwork that made up the vast majority of investigative work nobody ever saw in the finished story, and had gone to bed with a plan for the morning that had nothing whatsoever to do with Fraser Bell, a name he had, at that point, never once heard.