“No, sir.”

“What do you do for fun here?”

“There’s the Volcano Club on the base. That’s got cheap beer. There’s a gym, burger place.”

“Ever mix with the locals? Must be some nice young ladies around.”

He gave Kane a sidelong glance.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“What about the Brits? Get on with them?”

“Don’t see them that much. There’s a bit of tension right now.”

“Really?”

“Think so.”

“What’s that about?”

“Just the same old rivalries I guess.”

They passed one of the traps and the car filled briefly with the stink of rotten fish.

“Oh, man.”

“I heard that’s for the cats,” Kane said.

“Right. We’re down to the last few. That’s what they say.”

“Bet those last few are pretty canny.”

“Sure.”

“Imagine being the last one. Alone on a rock with no one but people trying to kill you.”

The airman nodded.

“Reckon a couple of us on the base could finish them in a night or two, but that’s not allowed. Which sucks. They used to hunt the goats here. That’s what I’ve heard from some of the old-timers. See any goats around?”

“Not so far.”

“Exactly.”

Kane dropped him at the gate to the US base. The man thanked him profusely, offered his cigarettes again, then a free meal at the Volcano Club anytime. Kane circled back to Georgetown. The place felt different when he arrived. The priest walked past with a bag of shopping. At the front of the vicarage he put his bags down to check the flowers he’d cultivated. Someone waved to him from outside the post office. There was a laugh from somewhere, a couple of men stopping to chat in front of the church. One passed over a newspaper. Kane thought he could hear the radar turning up on the hillside, a clicking sound. He mentally parsed his cohabitants into instigators, fellow travelers, those turning a blind eye, those helpless and scared.

He spent an hour or so lying on the bed in the bungalow feeling his sunburn throb, letting the island grow fully dark, then showered, typed up an update, and sent it through to Taylor. His thoughts turned to the name Jack Moretti for the first time since he’d read Taylor’s report. No more on this odd thread. He searched online, saw the obituary, wondered what on earth a psychologist in LA should have to do with Rory Bannatyne, aside from their chosen means of suicide. Again, he felt that frustration at having been delivered nothing but more puzzlement. Not what he needed on this island. He boiled pasta and ate some of the provisions he’d bought, sitting in the Wades’ small kitchen, feeling insensitive. Four weeks of this, he thought.