“Mrs. Browne, is this how you found Mr. Finch? No one has moved anything, as far as you know?”
“No, Constable. It was just like this. Do you think he was murdered?”
“One thing at a time.” She knelt to look at his right hand. “Blood spatter. Possible gunpowder residue. It's consistent with a suicide, but we'll need to send the body and the weapon to the mainland to be sure. You wouldn't happen to know when the next boat is scheduled to arrive, would you?”
“Well normally we'd have to wait for Beatrice, but there's a charter coming tomorrow, I think. Zoe's supposed to be on it.”
“Let's hope they have an extra refrigerator.”
“Yes, Constable?”
“What?”
“You said something about a refrigerator.”
“It's nothing. Why isn't the Governor General here?”
“Yes, Constable.”
Emma stared at the woman's blank half-smile.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Browne?”
“Yes, considering. It's been a long night.”
Night. Last night.
“I was told Mr. Browne might have paid a visit to the station last night. I'll need to talk to him immediately.”
“You're welcome to, if you know where he is.”
“You're kidding.”
“Didn't come home last night. I came up here, thinking the two of them would be passed out in front of our good telly. You can imagine my surprise when I get here and find it's not even warm.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Browne. You can go now but be ready to talk to me again soon.”
Once the station was emptied of voyeurs and she was convinced the evidence had only been mostly destroyed, Emma took a deep breath. It was impossible to think with so many eyes watching and hands scuttling over everything. Now that she was alone, she could turn her mind to the task at hand. She looked into Evan’s half-closed eyes. Basically alone, anyway.
She gave the room a careful sweep. Along one wall banks of antique communications equipment beeped and blinked. On another wall the station's one window had been shoved into a square hole cut in the metal shell. You could feel the draft slipping between the window and the frame from clear across the room. A counter held the necessities of thankless late-night shifts: an electric kettle, a microwave, a small refrigerator underneath, and a liquor cabinet. The cabinet was locked, its contents of half a bottle of Irish whiskey secure behind glass. The fridge was not so lucky. It hung open, mostly empty. Having watched Darren walk out the door with an armful of Australian beer moments before, Emma did not consider this much of a mystery. Everything was in its place, and nothing had been moved since she visited the station the day before.
One difference stood out to her. On the counter there were three glasses, in a row. Two were empty, with a thin smell of whiskey and a slight brown ring on the counter to show that they were used recently. The third glass was full and undisturbed. Holding them up to the light with the end of her sleeve, she could not see any evidence of fingerprints, but she made a note to submit them to a lab on the mainland as soon as possible. Emma paced the room until she had lost track of time but could find nothing else that stood out. There was no sign of struggle. If there had been foul play, there would be a motive. There would be a mistake. Somewhere, in this room, there would be a mistake.
But there was nothing.
Emma turned her eyes back to Evan. She followed the line of blood down his face, where it dripped onto his lap, and from there onto his shoes. She made a mental note to stop at the Post to pick up a few pairs of men's socks. She pulled out her phone, now no more than a camera and a note pad, and started taking pictures of the body.
She couldn't count on David, the station was empty, and the one legal authority on the island was nowhere to be found. There would be no backup.
She could radio the Royal Navy at Diego Garcia, for all the good it would do. She could contact the Met. Even worse. The last thing she needed was attention from London.
There was no evidence of a killer on the loose on South Alderney, but something had to be behind Ned and Evan. Reason told her that suicides don't need to be connected. There were eighteen suicides a day in Britain, many of them young men like Evan. So why did she feel like she was walking through a murder scene when she took photographs of the station? She briefly considered Gregory as a culprit, but it didn't add up. Staged suicides are usually obvious, and no one on this island struck her as a criminal mastermind. Still, he may have been the last person to see Evan alive, and now he was gone. If she could find him, she had to believe there would be answers.
It took several attempts to secure a large enough cooler until Lisa from the Post reluctantly admitted she had an Esky that might fit a person and had three working wheels. She arrived dragging the large plastic box behind her with a face like Abraham bringing Isaac to the mountain.
“It’s done good by me for a lot of years. We used this old thing when we went deep water fishing and couldn’t get back for a day because of the weather.”
“Yes, it’s lovely. Can you put it here?”
“What, next to the… remains?”
“That’s the idea.”
Lisa dragged the cooler as slowly as humanly possible.
“It’s got a valve, you know. Keeps the beer cool longer.”
Emma scowled. “My favorite part is that it will hold a dead body.
The hurt on Lisa’s face drained the fight out of her.
“I’m sorry. It’s very good of you
