Sam took one sniff of Malcolm's coffee plunger and tipped its contents down the sink. She could hear him in the other room, rustling about with newspapers like a crazy brush turkey scratching up a nest and adorning it with whatever biscuits had survived the initial fray. While the kettle boiled, she moved to lounge room to watch him fuss about, lingering with a barely-visible smirk on her lips.

"Where the bloody well is it?" he muttered madly at the coffee table, hands out in amazement. "How can something be lost in one square metre? How?! There's just this fucking square patch of carpet and table to search." Malcolm's eyes were darting about a thousand times a second as though he was possessed – well, more so than usual. There was always a demonic shadow over his soul. "Sam – Sam?!"

Malcolm looked to her with those saucer-eyes of his, as if she'd instinctively know exactly what he was looking for and where it was. She didn't have all the answers – just most of them. Sam blinked at him patiently. "Do I get a clue?"

"Button-thingy..." He mimed using a remote controller and violently waved his empty hand in the general direction of the television.

"Frankly, it would be astonishing if I did." He was still looking at her as though his entire world hinged on her response. "On the speaker..." she finally breathed. Sure enough, he'd left it there, probably while pacing anxiously considering it was bookended by two empty cups off coffee.

He sneered when he saw the ring marks on the wood. "Ah – yes – right – excellent." Malcolm darted over and started frantically flicking through channels.

"Could you either press mute or decide on a channel?" Sam flinched at the sharp static hiss every time he switched. He did neither and Sam was sure it was to vex her. "Are you going to tell me what this emergency meeting on a Saturday morning in your living room is actually about? If it's about coffee, biscuits and a missing remote control – I'm leaving."

What was the use?

Sam knelt down, picking a few stray pillows off the floor. She puffed the poor things back to life and set them on a nearby couch where she round remnants of a mandarin.

"I had to catch the bus to get here, Malcolm because someone's borrowed my car, Malcolm." That second 'Malcolm' was a touch sharper than the first. Something silver slipped off the sofa and bounced across the floor, catching her attention. Miller's phone. Sam reached it but Malcolm was on her in a flash, snatching it away.

"No – don't touch that."

"Malcolm, it's a phone not Gandhi's arse. Not your phone though," she observed, leaning in to catch a better look at it. Malcolm's phone was adorned with a scratches from battle but this one was pristine. "Whose phone is that?"

"Dan Miller's..." he replied, with an unusual amount of concern in his voice.

"I told you not to play swapsies at gay bars. Awe come on," Sam lightened her tone when he didn't so much as nibble at her challenge. "What's wrong with you today? It's not like you were dragged out of bed and trudged half way across the city in the snow."

"I apologised for that."

"No – you didn't."

Malcolm was holding the phone as though it were some kind of dragon egg – both fragile and ready to hatch a nasty fuck-off monster at any moment. "He's missing. Not the kind of missing that we have a laugh about when his life explodes in an entertaining news feature – 'missing' in that he's fallen off the face of the fucking planet like some cosmic-dish-elephant-world-thing – and someone's dropped the fucking dish."

"Jesus, Malcolm, are you actually worried?"

"Do I look like a vision of calm?"

"Honestly it's hard to tell, you only have one setting. Resting carnage."

Malcolm took a moment to narrow his gaze at his P.A. "Careful."

"Coffee?"

The kettle started screaming for attention at exactly the right moment.

"I feel like we should be calling the police – or something."

"Oh yes," Terry scorned Ollie. They'd been forced to call her when it turned out she had custody of the company car for the weekend, which apparently Terry took very seriously and flat refused to let them borrow it. The unpleasant middle ground was her behind the wheel and Glen in the back, shuffling about like an only child on a road trip – he'd even brought snacks. "And how would that conversation go, Ollie? Hello, yes – I'd like to report a politician missing. How long you say? Two hours. Sod off back to Coventry and see if he washes up in a canal.' They'd probably be pleased."

"His polling with the constituency wasn't that bad," Ollie defended.

"Oh yes it fucking was," Glen insisted. "He'd be beaten by a wood roach if one cleaned its feelers off and decided to run. Is there any chance he's actually in jail? Should we check there first?"

Ollie bashed his head against the headrest making the car skid a little on the ice. "And how's that going to look? Us – searching for an MP down the lockup. That's a story all on its own – Glen! Malcolm'll kill us if we show up on his Twitter feed."

"I hear he's got a new app that can make phones grow fangs." Terry turned off the main road. Her driving was right on that irritating speed – too fast to grate but too slow to enjoy. It was like being ferried about by a civil servant – oh wait.

"We've got to start searching somewhere. Where are we going anyway. Terry?"

"Miller's house. Obviously."

"Why would he be at his house?"

"Most people are at their house, Ollie."

"Is that actually a house?" Glen asked, when they parked in Miller's driveway. "Because it looks like it came out of a cereal box." It was overly cheerful and disconcertingly neat with all the hedges perfectly tripped and a lone tree too frightened to so much as sway with the snow. "There's a light on."

"This is the kind of thing you get arrested for – pretty sure," Ollie whispered, as they entered the house. They'd tried knocking but the door fell open on its own. Either Miller was a trusting droid or – or they'd have to think about calling Tucker. Ollie tilted his head, peering at the lock. Yeah, someone had shoved something sharp into that.

"Don't touch anything, Glen!" Terry batted his hands away from the door as he came up behind Ollie.

Glen bounced away from all the surfaces in response. "Sorry – I forgot to bring my burglar gloves!" he growled sarcastically. "He's clearly not here – so by definition we shouldn't be here!"

"Oh Glen – Glen look." Ollie wasn't taking things quite as seriously. He'd found a rather awkward photo of Miller sitting on the hallway table. It was a hideous photo – presumably from his school days as it was two-thirds teeth. "How sweet."

Weirdly, there weren't any other photos. Nothing at all. Most people had something of their family or beloved pets but Miller's house felt false, just like his fucking beaver-teeth.

"Creepy. Knew he was a weird one. You can always pick them, you know. It's the way they look. In the eyes... Crazy eyes. Like Glen's."

"Terry – that's really not helpful," Glen glared, with slightly crazy eyes.

"Take away his biscuits and his eleven cups of tea and wait for the complete and total system breakdown to occur." Ollie was grinning.

"Don't you think it odd," Glen ignored the two children he'd been saddled with, "that his car keys are still here. Look..." They were sitting on the table next to the grinning photo. "And his wallet. This – doesn't feel right. Terry – you can't go upstairs!"

"Why not?"

"What if – what if someone finds us in his house?"

"Why would anyone but us be looking for him on a weekend? You've got that crazy paranoia..."

"I am not crazy," Glen insisted, though he added, "not that anyone could blame me, working at DoSAC with you lot of..." once they'd started up the stairs.

Malcolm had no idea why but the coffee Sam made tasted better than his attempt earlier – which was utterly fucking perplexing because she'd made it with the same plunger and crushed up shit that he used. It wasn't even bloody possible. It was – it wasn't fair for a start. If he broke it down, the only rational explanation was that his inanimate plunger favoured his P.A. over him – its fucking owner! Who did it think saved it from the reject shelf, tucked it up in a bag and brought it home? Lovingly cared for it? Washed it by hand so that it didn't get cracked or tossed about with the general carnage of the dishwasher? Who?

"Who!"

Sam looked up from her fresh coffee. "Who what?" It was snowing again and the coffee was providing more warmth than the brooding scot in the other chair.

Panic. Had he started talking to himself – outloud... Holy fucking Christ with a rosary! Act calm. "Who... is going to tell 'Breakfast with Bertie' that Miller's taking a pass?" He covered, cleverly gesturing to the TV.

"You sent Jamie in."

"Oh – yeah. Course."

"Malcolm?"

"What?"

"Do you always talk to your coffee when I'm not around?"

There was no recovering from that so Tucker just drank the fucking thing.

"He's dead to me, the fucking bringer of the most boring apocalypse ever."

Honestly, the poor aid that Jamie had found to deliver the sad news was terrified, pinned up against a wall with their folder clutched across their chest like some kind of shield. Jamie's hand was on it, pressing the plastic rectangle into the minion's chest. He wasn't even trying to be scary but it came off as 'murderous'.

"Uh – okay," the aid chirped, not quite sure what was going on. Normally cancellations were called in, not delivered by swearing-scottish-howler.

"Fucking 'flu' my ass," Jamie took another breath and continued. "If he doesn't have H2N-cunt now he'll have the nova of all infections come Monday – my cosmic-cock down his neck until he has real problems – like breathing. Poncy little – that's the problem these days. There's no stamina left in the world. You think Vikings woke up on the eve of battle, sat up in their splintered floating toothpicks with their axes and horned fucking accessories (that are frankly far too fucking loud for the eleventh century); saw the cliffs of Dover rise out of the waves and thought, 'no – not today – I've got a bit of a tickle...'? No! Of course they fucking didn't. They wrapped horse intestines round their head and fucked off up the beach to kill some monks."

"I'm -"

"If you want the treasure – fuck your way up the beach. That's how it works. Sand in your arse crack – crabs hanging off your balls. Little bit of kelp, you know, braided out of the nose hair. Miller – he's on a lilo in The Channel. He's not fucking any pilgrims."

"Dan Miller isn't coming to the show?"

Jamie paused and took half a step back when he realised that the aid was plastered against the hallway like really panicked, sweaty wallpaper. "Nah, he can't make it. Sorry luv."

Jamie evacuated the building and thrashed out Tucker's number on his phone. "Fucker didn' fuckin' show! You were right about that stupid cunt. Where the fuck is he then? He loves this kind of shit. Never seen him miss one boring pre-dawn love-up."

'Calm down. You sound like a squirrel trapped in a pop-corn machine.'

"I am calm. This is calm."

'Did anyone question Miller's absence?'

"Nah – at least I don' think so. Wasn' listening. Christ is that Sam?"

Tucker was fighting to keep Sam away from the phone. She kept reaching over his shoulder, attempting to pry it out of his claws. She wasn't getting anywhere. "Would you please stop doin' that?" Tucker asked, almost too politely.

"Tell him!"

'Tell me what...? Oy! Tell me wha? Yer can' ignore me jus' cause I'm a phone.'

"Sorry Jamie – I've got another call."

'But-'

That wasn't actually a lie. "Ollie?"

'Terry.'

"The fuck you doing with Ollie's phone? Yer not – you know – 'cause I'd need a few days alone with tha' information to process it."

'Miller's not in his house – all his stuff is here though. Wallet. Keys. Laptop. His phone's missing but I hear you've got that.'

Malcolm hit himself on the forehead with his phone. Ollie and Glen were officially the worst secret agents from the very beginning of time. "Any sign of a struggle?"

'This isn' Prime Suspect.'

"Is there?"

'No. It's all a bit OCD really.'

"Keep looking."

Malcolm hung up the phone and stared at it – deep in thought. He didn't realise that he was rocking back and forth on the couch very slightly – the closest he could get to pacing while sitting down. Part of him had been hoping to find a very fucked up Miller, sprawled on the floor, snoring and dressed to the hilt in drag. At least he could cover that kind of shit up and add it to his collection of blackmail. Missing. Missing was – well it wasn't helpful, for a start.

"What are you thinking?" Sam shifted closer to him.

"That maybe Miller really is missing," he admitted. "Can't think bloody why though. He's got no reason to do it on his own and no one in their right mind would benefit from taking him. It doesn't make any sense."

"His family has a lot of bad luck. Maybe he's not immune."

"Bad luck... Bad luck..." Tucker mulled that over. "There's no such thing as luck, good or otherwise." He got up – paced – strutting in front of the fire. "I've got a file on Miller, yeah?"

"Of course but it's mostly filled with rubbish. As Ollie keeps saying -"

"A boring fuck, yeah I know. Is anyone really that boring though?"

"I don't understand – what are you suggesting? Malcolm? Don't go all silent on me. Malcolm!"

Sam followed him through the snow. It was heavy now, spiralling out of control, melting against her skin and re-freezing like a delicate glaze that she wiped away with her gloves. Tucker was a few steps in front, striding over the icy paths like a bloody snow-wolf. He looked sinister too, draped in an oversized, black trench coat that fanned out behind him. The grey scarf wrapped three times round his neck nearly covered his head. It wasn't so much that they couldn't catch a cab – there were plenty stalking them, slowing for a moment to see if they were interested before cruising by like sharks; Tucker liked to walk. By the time they arrived at his office, Sam knew that he'd have a plan.

Plan or not, the first thing Sam did was get the fire in his office going so that she could defrost.

Her lip curled in a smile. He looked utterly ridiculous. Though he'd successfully ditched his jacket, Malcolm had forgotten about the twelve feet of scarf around his neck. It dragged on the floor as he knelt in front of his 'Black Archives' and started digging around for Miller's file.

"It's my paranoia." Malcolm started, arms deep in the cupboard. His claws latched onto something. He canted backwards, dragging out the hefty file. It landed in his lap. "I know a problem when I see one. I can feel my heart detaching from the aorta before contorting through my rib cage on the way out." He licked his frozen fingers and started flicking through the binder. "It's this overpowering dread – like I'm the only one that can see the huge, fucking tidal wave arching up and we're all in its shadow. The whole stage has gone dark but it's fucking night outside and no one's noticed." Flicking. Licking. Flicking again. "And everything's silent. It's just – calm. Soon it'll be noise and carnage but for a moment or two I get to experience pure terror." There, his index finger slid down a page. "I'm a medium for disaster."