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.”