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.