“Of course.”
“Follow me then.”
Georgetown had woken up by the time they got back. It meant there were plenty of Kane’s new neighbors to watch him tailing the police car to the station. People nodded at Sergeant John Morrogh as he drove past, nodded at Kane, sometimes with a polite but curious smile, squinting to see who he was. They looked up from gardens and magazines.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
Morrogh unlocked the building and set about switching on a variety of fans. Kane followed him in, resisting the temptation to turn around and see the eyes on him. The station was a single room, crowded with piles of paperwork, kitchen equipment, and island memorabilia. It was sweltering. The sergeant opened a back door to try to get a breeze through, and Kane saw a tarmacked area with a second police car and a blue Fiat 500, the one that had belonged to Rory Bannatyne. The rock of the hill rose up behind it.
“Take a seat.”
Morrogh angled a rotating desk fan so that it covered both of them, took a plastic bottle from the fridge, and poured glasses of water. The fan was vigorous, but all paperwork had been weighed down with lumps of obsidian, volcanic glass, glinting with dark interiority. Papers on the wall riffled: rotas, tidal maps, road safety posters; there were children’s paintings showing Morrogh and his car, and a Charlton Athletic fixtures list. Kane tried to remember the sergeant’s background. According to his research, before coming to the South Atlantic, John Morrogh had served as a police officer in the Royal Borough of Greenwich for twenty-five years. He had been on Ascension for three years now, extending his contract when the initial two-year fixed term expired. No accompanying family.
Kane looked across the files and the name Petra Wade jumped out. It had been handwritten on the top gray cardboard wallet file of three, all bound by a rubber band. They were on top of loose paperwork, as if used that morning.
Morrogh fussed with various old forms and pens, eventually finding what he needed.
“How long are you staying here?”
“A month.”
“Staying in Georgetown.”
“If you have any alternative suggestions, I’d appreciate them.”
He nodded. Then he put the pen down, sat back, studied Kane like a problem. He knew about the fight, Kane saw.
“Has anyone told you what’s been going on here the last few weeks?”
“You mean the missing girl?”
“Yes. Petra.”
“I saw it in the papers in the UK.”
“You’re here at a strange time.”
“Are you still investigating?”
He sighed. “Of course. As much as we can.”
“I’m in her home, aren’t I.”
“Yes. But that shouldn’t cause you any problems. So long as you don’t go seeking out any trouble. Emotions are running high.”
“I’m certainly not intending to seek out trouble.”
Morrogh turned his attention back to the form. The pen didn’t work. He smacked it against the desk a few times then gave up.
“Wait there.”
Morrogh headed off toward the shop. Kane stared at the Petra Wade file. Alone in the police station. He had two minutes by his estimation. One of the big lessons in fieldwork was to seize your chances. Always act cautious, but sometimes something can land in your lap, and the difference between the good spies and the mediocre was being prepared to take a risk. That meant not wasting too much time thinking. Kane moved the lump of volcanic rock from the Petra Wade file and opened it.
A photograph of Connor stared up.
It looked like it had been enlarged from a school photo, low res, with other pupils’ shoulders cropped either side. On a sheet of paper beneath it was a list of timings—Connor seen leaving base, 1715 7/11: suspect wearing blue jeans, gray t-shirt, white tennis shoes; 1745 Connor and Petra seen cycling together by Jenny Wightman, direction south east on New Mountain Road . . . Then, clipped to this, a letter from US officials, beneath the crest of the US Air Force Detachment:
We fully appreciate your concern and it goes without saying that a matter like this needs to receive a stringent investigation. However, you do not have jurisdiction over members of the US base or their offspring. I understand Anne and Thomas Lindgren have made it clear that they do not consent to the interviewing of their son . . .
Kane heard Morrogh’s footsteps return and placed it back. The officer stepped in, set a box of twenty black ballpoint pens down in the center of the desk.
“People steal them,” he said. “That’s half the problem.”
He filled out the form.
“Terry tell you the regulations?”
“Most of them,” Kane said. But his mind was tracking back fast—to the smiling family among the fever graves. The Lindgrens. To the boy snotty and helpless on the ground. Kane tried to see him as a killer; imagine him with his hands around a girl’s neck.
“Speed limit’s thirty,” Morrogh said. “Twenty in residential areas. And we mean it. We enforce that. Alcohol limit’s the same as back home, no matter how hot and thirsty you get. I’m sorry I can’t help you with the history of this place,” Morrogh said, handing Kane his driving permit and capping his new pen. “I’m told there’s plenty of it, though. Enough to keep you occupied.”
Kane stepped out, squinting against the light. Connor, he thought. Was it conceivable? Kane had been looking for an alternative explanation, something to exculpate Rory. This wasn’t what he had in mind. Even allowing for the possibility that the boy he’d saved last night was somehow responsible for Petra Wade’s disappearance, it still left the mystery of Rory’s suicide unresolved. One thing was clear: People on this island knew a lot more than he did.
He walked through Georgetown and watched a group of ten young children with satchels climb into a minibus. A small crowd occupied the jetty where a fisherman was hosing a bin of tuna and marlin, passing them out to his colleague to fillet at a stone-topped table. The fish flapped and the silver knife came down. Blood trickled to the ground, which was stained with layers of it. Some of the crowd clutched money in their hands as if they’d placed bets on the outcome. They turned to stare briefly at Kane, then returned their attention to the slaughter. He walked past to the edge of the quay and looked across the boats until he saw the one belonging to Thomas Lindgren, the newest of the lot, painted with the words Ascension Maritime Conservation. A trip out would have been nice, but it had just become more complicated.
The gift shop in the arched shadows of the old barracks was now open, as was the beauty parlor beside it, two women standing between the doorways, smoking and talking. One of them was the woman who’d answered his knock the previous night: Linda, as he’d learned. She appeared to run the beauty parlor. He nodded and she nodded back, but her smile seemed uncertain. He decided against conversation.
Alongside the old barracks, a young man was opening umbrellas over two plastic tables.
“Is this a café?”
“Café, bar,” he said, smiling. “What would you like?”
“Breakfast.”
“Only food we do is toasted sandwiches. But I can do you one with bacon.”
“That sounds fine.”
Kane took a seat and watched the boy disappear into the doorway of what looked like a bar inside the building. He tried to relax, to let himself be Edward Pearce on his first morning on an exciting research trip. Donkeys sheltered from the sun beneath the arches of the Exiles Building. A middle-aged man in Birkenstocks passed, walking a dog, and the dog sniffed at the animals. How strange that the owner would leave the island and the dog would remain. Like island lore, passed down. Like its secrets, perhaps.
A young-looking priest in a short-sleeved black shirt and collar crossed to the church and fixed a notice to its door. It was his lack of hair that originally attracted Kane’s attention: a smooth, pale scalp that was the brightest thing around. The priest stepped back, admired his handiwork. Then a second man approache
d. He wore the same blue uniform shirt as Morrogh, but was younger than his boss. The island’s other full-time police officer: Constable Sean Reid. Reid had conducted most of the interviews surrounding Petra’s disappearance. The officer wore wrap sunglasses, his fair hair cropped close to the skull. He leaned in and spoke to the priest, who smiled. Then Reid continued toward the police station and the priest disappeared into his church.
Kane’s food arrived. He ate it, thinking about Rory’s collection of Polaroids and Morrogh’s file on Petra Wade and wondering how they connected. Thinking of the fight last night and reframing it with Connor as a murderer with diplomatic immunity. What did Anne and Thomas Lindgren make of accusations being directed at their son? At the very least, it gave last night’s altercation some context, which gave Kane some idea of how to negotiate any repercussions. The food was more needed than he’d realized, and made him feel, for the first time since landing, as if he might survive this experience somehow. He had transport and some sense of the island’s main geography; he’d endured his first encounter with the police, had come away with dramatic new information. The kind of disorientation he felt now was the productive sort. The jigsaw was out of the box.
When he’d finished and paid, Kane went over to read the notice on the church door. In addition to the normal 10.30 a.m. Mass this coming Sunday, 24 November, we will be having a memorial service at 5 p.m. in memory of Petra Wade. All are welcome. He pushed the door and walked inside. The interior was surprisingly homey, with low, sloping wooden beams and walls crowded with inlaid plaques. A war memorial stood beside the door. At the front was a simple altar under a white cloth and beside this was a separate table with a vase of flowers and a framed photograph of Petra Wade.
Kane didn’t want to make a beeline for the shrine. He moved toward it slowly, reading the wall plaques, aware of the priest semi-hidden in the corner, watching him. Kane found one plaque recording the generosity of a Mr. Gordon Croft, whose son was buried in Comfortless Cove. Kane imagined him in 1850 writing the check with thoughts of an island that held his son’s remains and about which he could imagine little other than that it had no church.
The largest plaque recorded the church’s own dedication. Dedicated as St. Mary’s on Ascension Day, 1861. Kane tried to remember his Bible. Jesus ascending back to heaven after having returned from the dead, that was the story. Returned from the dead for forty days, walking and preaching alongside his disciples, a ghost at their elbow. Then he bade his farewell again, rising up, abandoning them on earth. Kane wondered in what way the Portuguese sailors who named the island had been marking Ascension Day when the volcano came into view. He imagined a chaplain of some sort trying to stay upright as the boat rolled and the wine spilled from his communion cup. Or was it no more than an entry on the ship’s calendar, one way of dividing up the blank time through which they sailed?
“Can I help with anything? Just curious?”
The priest approached, hands joined in front of him, smiling. Hard to gauge his age without any hair, but no more than thirty-five. Long eyelashes, conspicuous in the absence of any other hair. Kane wondered how he kept so pale.
“Just curious. Just arrived.”
“Welcome. Feel free to look around, to pray. Ask me if you need anything. We do services twice a week, if you’re interested,” the priest said. “Open every day. We only keep the door closed to stop the donkeys wandering in.”
“Do you get many people attending?”
“A healthy number. Though some would say it’s down to a lack of alternative entertainment.” He smiled. “But perhaps that’s unfair. I hear you’re a historian.”
Kane shouldn’t have felt surprised. His reputation was evidently preceding him. So long as it was Edward Pearce’s reputation, he didn’t mind.
“How do you know?”
“It’s a small island. I’m an amateur historian myself. I wondered if you’d be interested in the church. It took two hundred years to finish. You wouldn’t think it, would you. The spire was initially clad with beaten biscuit tins. I’m actually writing a bit about it. Perhaps you could take a look at some of what I’ve written. It’s very much centered on the Anglican Church abroad. I don’t know if that’s within your field.”
“Of course. It sounds interesting.” Now Kane walked over to the shrine. The photo was the same one he’d seen in the Times. In front of it, people had placed friendship bracelets, lip-gloss, sweets, a condolence book with her name drawn on the front in italic script.
“What happened?”
“No one knows for sure.” The priest’s lips tightened, as if this was all a stranger needed to be told. “It’s a tragedy that has caused a great amount of anguish in this community.”
Kane opened the condolences book.
Petra, you lit this place up.
You had everything before you.
Where did you go?
More than forty pages of entries: hundreds of them. He looked for Connor, couldn’t see him. Most people on the island, though: airmen, technicians, contractors. Far more than could have possibly known her. Lining up with a formal correctness, an overeagerness, as if they were providing alibis.
Solomon’s Supermarket was identified by a rusted A-frame sign outside—YES, WE’RE OPEN . Inside it was larger than Kane expected, but the items on the shelves didn’t add up to much of a meal—cereal, ketchup, concentrated squash, and toothbrushes. A tall Saint Helenian man behind the counter nodded at him.
“Morning.”
“Morning. Are you Solomon?”
“No Solomon here for a while.” He smiled.
Kane smiled back. “I just got here.”
“I know.”
One empty shelf was dusted with bread crumbs. Kane had clearly missed the bread itself. He picked up crackers, dry pasta, tins of tomatoes and beans. A few vegetables wilted in plastic crates: stunted bell peppers and cucumbers with dusty soil clinging to them. He decided to skip the vegetables. A chest freezer contained some hand-labeled packages of meat. At the back was a section devoted to car maintenance: oil, hand tools, reconditioned taillights.
Kane took his groceries to the till. Yellowing copies of the Daily Mail and the Telegraph remained on the counter, ten days old. The man rang everything up and gave him his change, then watched him studying the unfamiliar coins in his hand.
“We get bread on Tuesdays and Thursdays, meat on Fridays. You’ll have to keep an eye out if you want fresh vegetables.”
“I will,” Kane said. “Thank you.”
Kane stepped into his bungalow, across the scattering of ash. Could he stay here? He didn’t want to waste time looking for other accommodation, which was likely to be a room in someone else’s house anyway, with all the insecurity that brought.
Connor. He thought of the boy here, injured, the previous night. Young, vulnerable. Tried to read beneath the injuries to the character, still couldn’t see it.
Kane checked that the door was shut, drew the blind, then arranged Rory’s hoard across the kitchen table. He looked at the Polaroids. Kids posing, laughing, sometimes oblivious to the camera, it seemed. There were nine different children in total, but three dominated: Connor, Petra, and another girl, blond, with braces on her teeth. Kane recognized the beach at English Bay behind them. Some, more worrying, were interior shots, a bedroom, Connor with his arm around Petra. There was information here, Kane felt. Rory had caught something. Kane sifted the pictures Rory had torn from the island’s local newspaper, then turned to the exercise book and its drawings of some imagined horror. Its expressions of a troubled mind. Then he hid them in a wardrobe in what had been the parental bedroom.
He spent some time grateful to be out of the sun, trying to assess the situation away from the glare of the midday and the curiosity of the islanders’ gazes. Had Rory been with Petra and Connor that night? What had he got involved in? Eventually, Kane gave up on rest and brought up the satellite map. Rory had last been seen passing the British base at around six thirty p.
m. on the night he died. That was strange. Kane couldn’t understand where you could go from there without being seen by someone else. The road west—the direction he’d been traveling in—would have taken him past the airfield and into Georgetown. Yet no one saw him again until his body turned up. Kane thought of the witness statement he’d glimpsed in Morrogh’s file—Connor and Petra seen cycling, direction south east on New Mountain Road. He located that on the map and it placed them nearby. The three of them were converging. But where? Kane studied the map and decided he needed to take a look at the area in person.
13
Vauxhall Cross at seven a.m. on a Friday morning was peaceful. A few keen analysts digested reports in time for morning briefings, security officers patrolled. The Thames slid murkily by outside. Taylor stood at her office window and watched the traffic junction below, around which the humans waiting to cross appeared small and defenseless.
After Kudus’s alert about someone probing Kane’s cover she’d done what she could, instructing their resident signals expert to look into it, then spent an anxious evening in awkward conversation with an old university friend, her lawyer husband, and the man they had hoped to set her up with, maintaining her side of a dinner party conversation about London property prices and governmental incompetence while thinking about Kane and the missing girl. She’d had awful nightmares all night, then come in to find yesterday’s headache in paper form on her desk.
Dominic Bower at GCHQ was keen to impress on her that work on the cable had begun. The black box processing center parts were ready for shipment, disguised as components for the cable station. Their optical splitter was to be housed in a secure building adjacent to the island’s telescope observatory. He needed an update from her end. The next message was from DCI Rehman, restating her demand for access to Rory Bannatyne’s former colleagues. Then Gabriel Skinner: “Could you confirm that you have suspended operations? Why am I under the impression that you haven’t?”
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