Taylor read it twice, to be sure she hadn’t imagined it. There’d been no reference to Quadrant in any of the Ascension Island documents she’d seen. And there was no mention of Ascension Island on the Quadrant website when she checked. She searched through all her files on Ascension until she saw one entry in the archive of subcontractors, coinciding with the relevant period. March 10, 2018: Ten-year lease on research facilities attached to Ascension Island auxiliary airfield, including the former European Space Agency observatory, granted to QAR Services Ltd. QAR had taken over management of the facilities, which included the contract for overseeing their modernization and expansion. When she looked up QAR Services on a business database it came up in full as Quadrant Astrophysical Research Services, a subsidiary of Quadrant Space Technologies.
Taylor brought up her map of the island and found the relevant facilities. Did this explain the hostility to her project from Gabriel Skinner—if, as seemed to be the case, he was close to Payne, and therefore close to Quadrant? Either way, it didn’t explain what Quadrant was up to.
Intelligence work revealed the world as layers of knowledge. MI6 divided responsibility geographically, but you never had full oversight of a territory, just projects, and projects sometimes collided. The airfield lease had been signed off by her predecessor. Possibly they had seen no cause for concern: The island was full of contract-run facilities. Taylor must have seen reference to QAR Services in the handover notes without it meaning anything to her, either. She would never have had cause to look into them if GCHQ hadn’t decided to expand their involvement on the island.
She brought out the surveillance photo of Kane on Ascension. Fed through to a facial recognition company via Quadrant. Did that mean they had their own security on the island, checking out newcomers? She read through the various lists of staff and personnel who’d gone over since the lease was signed, but those employed directly by QAR Services would be exempt from a visa, so not necessarily show up on records. She didn’t see anything that looked like private intelligence officers. Finally, Taylor ran Quadrant through the MI6 database and got a result that made her stop. On February 1 last year, someone in the building had input an agent report that contained a reference to both “Quadrant” and “Ascension Island.” These were the keywords listed in the directory, from staff officer DX/3372. It had never surfaced in her own files.
The report was classified as a top security document, which meant it was accessible only via the Cleared Access Archive. This itself signaled its importance. The archive was used for the most sensitive casework, known as “YZ” cases: information too confidential to put on the shared data system. Access was through nominated terminals in a secure room, and required clearance from at least regional controller level. Which meant she was senior enough to take a look.
Taylor headed down to the terminals, two floors underground. One night guard on the door watched Taylor sign in. The room was small and bare, but large enough that none of the four monitors was visible to anyone but the individual seated there. As it was, she had the place to herself. She typed in her own password, then input the code for the file on Ascension and Quadrant. She got a message saying Item not found. Taylor tried again, with the same result. It wasn’t there.
But it had been at one point. Uploaded by an officer assigned the staff identification: DX/3372.
DX was an odd designation. Usually this would tell you the department number: D7, D9, and so on. Taylor had never seen DX before. She checked this ID on the personnel directory, and it came up canceled.
As a last resort, before packing up, she emailed a request for further info to a friend in Personnel, with instructions to contact Taylor directly if they knew anything about this officer. She was watchful as she began to drive home. Canceled was an odd designation too. It suggested they’d either left the service suddenly or were dead.
22
Home, since the divorce, was a flat in Angel. For the ridiculous money Taylor spent on rent, she could have been closer to Vauxhall, but she didn’t want to be. Something felt right about having the river between her and work. And something felt right about renting; she didn’t have the will to pretend she was settling this time.
A lot of dark thoughts clattered on the journey home. Was she now spying for the BND? How predictable it would look when she was caught: breakdown, divorce, impending suspension. Into the arms of another lover and all their subterfuge. But her cause wasn’t entirely self-serving.
Taylor grabbed some food from the kebab shop at the end of her road. If she was ever found murdered in mysterious circumstances, these would be the neighbors saying how normal she had seemed. Normal but distracted, they might say: anxious, kept strange hours. At home she ate, showered, then tried to imagine how she might achieve some sleep. She was too agitated. Alcohol would have been one solution, screaming itself in the empty house. But she was going to have to get through the night without it. She turned the TV on and then off again, sat on the sofa, thinking of the various people who had once been part of her life and wondered what their Friday nights looked like. Her home was very quiet. How did its quietness compare to Ascension Island? Only one voice remained in the room with her: that of Dr. Glenning. I don’t think he killed himself.
Taylor picked up her laptop, hesitated, then put it on encrypted mode. She typed in “Jack Moretti” and got the same results she’d seen before. She went into her personal emails and downloaded the zip file of Perryman’s investigation.
The work was organized into three folders: “Documents,” “Interviews,” “Drafts.” She went into documents. First up were the police reports, then Moretti’s research papers. The ones in the public domain, which Perryman had accessed, covered performance under stress, visual perception in high-stimuli environments, decision-making, and memory. These finished the year he began at Lake Ravenna. There was a file of Perryman’s correspondence: a lot of polite refusals, a legal threat. Interviews were mostly old friends who hadn’t seen Jack Moretti for years, who said he’d become distant or his work had forced him into distance. One interview was with the police officer who initially dealt with the hanging, who said the area was out of the way, “bums sometimes hung around” but there was nothing to suggest anyone had interfered with the body.
There were self-styled experts among the general public: Lake Ravenna is the site of a lot of experimental work. It’s split between three or four private companies. I had a friend who worked there who says they have their own pilots, runways, factories. Bigger than anywhere else he’s seen. This interviewee provided an old photograph of the site with the windowless blue hangar roughly a square kilometer in size and the height of a tall office block. I know for a fact one company alone has around two thousand people on their books. They control five hundred acres: three separate plants, two hangars, three runways.
Taylor looked for Lake Ravenna employees. Only two had agreed to speak to Perryman. One was a hematologist who said little other than that Moretti was a good man who may or may not have been feeling suicidal. Then Anonymous, who had a different angle entirely:
Someone said his wife was having an affair. She worked there too. Jack found out a few days before he killed himself. I think she married the other guy a few months later. Lake Ravenna’s full of black tech, but I’m not sure there’s anything mysterious about Jack Moretti’s suicide.
That was pretty much where Perryman’s investigation ended. It appeared more conclusive than perhaps it deserved to be.
Was that it, Taylor wondered? Had she woven a grander conspiracy out of some infidelity? A conspiracy of governmental schemes rather than the more personal and mundane story of emotional betrayal? It made sense. It just didn’t explain why Rory Bannatyne started wondering about it on an island in the Atlantic eleven years later.
Taylor checked her doors and windows before going to bed, studying the vehicles parked outside for any unfamiliar ones. It was a few hours before her phone rang. Her body was just releasing itself into sleep and
the ringtone dragged her against the weight of dreams.
Her overnight manager, Owen Hayes, sounded anxious.
“You asked to be notified of any events on Ascension Island.”
“Yes.”
“A man’s been arrested. Apparently, another girl’s gone missing and it looks like he might be involved.”
“Who is he?”
“His name’s Edward Pearce. It’s flagged on the system to notify you immediately if anything happens. So I thought I should call.”
23
The police station felt like an oven. Kane had sat there for half an hour already when Morrogh closed the back door out to the parking area. There was no lock on this door but he secured it with a heavy wooden plank. It took Kane a second to realize he was protecting him from the crowd outside. Even as they’d walked over, Kane felt the atmosphere turning nasty, heady with fear and anger, ready to explode. And he’d been thinking: Where is Lauren? Where would you take her to kill her? And why had someone put him in the frame? Framing him for convenience was one thing. Someone doing it because they thought he was a spy and wanted to stop him was quite another. Had he been too obviously sticking his nose in? Kane ran through the various conversations he’d had. People knew about last night’s skirmish, of course. Maybe that was enough. But where was she?
Morrogh stared at Kane with an expression equal parts fear and puzzlement.
“When were you last at your accommodation?”
“About eight p.m.”
“And you’ve just been at the Klinka Klub.”
“Yes.”
“People will have seen you there.”
“Yes. I was there when you spoke.”
“So you knew Lauren Carter was missing.”
“Of course. I was helping look for her.”
Morrogh’s unease—at Kane’s involvement, at the scale of his responsibilities—made him appear less directly threatening but also less competent, which didn’t necessarily help. Kane needed him to find the actual culprit. Someone was trying to set Kane up as a murderer—maybe someone who knew he’d been talking to Thomas, and that he was interested in a ring of abusers. Whoever it was, he didn’t necessarily believe they’d taken Lauren Carter for the sake of framing him, but he could believe they took the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. A police service out of its depth was to their advantage.
“What explanation do you have for the girl’s clothes being in your accommodation?” Morrogh asked.
“I have no idea. Clearly someone put them there. The question is why.”
The other officer—Sean Reid—came in, accompanied by the corporal Kane had assaulted. The corporal stared at Kane. The three of them spoke quietly together, and then Reid turned to Kane with renewed ferocity.
“What have you done with her?” he said.
“I haven’t done anything. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Where were you this afternoon?”
He talked them through his day again.
“I came back to Georgetown around seven p.m. On the way I gave a lift to a cook from the US base.”
“Did you get his name?”
“No. He was young. His bike was having issues. He had boxes of mushrooms. After that I came home, rested, showered.”
“Changed clothes?”
“Yes.”
“What were you wearing before?”
Kane told them what he’d been wearing, and Morrogh instructed the corporal to go and communicate this information to the individuals searching Kane’s bungalow.
“You hadn’t been at the house in question since seven or eight p.m.,” he asked.
“No.”
“And you believe you locked it.”
“Yes, but the lock’s not very secure.”
“But Craig Riley had given you the key last night.”
“That’s right.”
In front of Morrogh was a notebook in which he’d carefully written timings for Kane. He occasionally glanced at the page as if it might guide him.
“Had you seen anyone acting suspiciously around the house before?”
“No. But I thought maybe someone had been in last night, while I was looking around Georgetown.”
Kane could feel the pressure of the people outside. He’d seen places turn riotous before. It happened in the blink of an eye. A car pulled up and there was a rapid knock. Morrogh opened the door and Kane saw the maroon shine of the Administrator’s Land Rover. Beyond it, a crowd of forty or fifty people watched the police station.
The Administrator walked in. Kane recognized him from pictures in the briefing file. Nigel Horsley was trim and tanned. He retained thick silvering hair with a slight wave to it that made it look artificial. He was the only man on the island Kane had seen wearing a suit.
“This is the suspect?” he said to Morrogh.
“Yes. He arrived yesterday.”
“Do you have your passport and visa on you?” Horsley asked.
Kane handed them over. Horsley flicked through the passport, checked the visa.
“Lauren’s father says he saw you trying to speak to her earlier,” the Administrator said. “At their home in Two Boats.”
“I was just passing. I asked for directions.”
“It’s a bit out of the way to be just passing.”
“I was lost.”
“And that’s all your interaction with her involved?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know anyone on this island before coming over?”
“No.”
The Administrator beckoned Morrogh to the side, where they spoke in low voices. From what Kane could hear, the Saint Helena chief was flying over with more police, one of whom had training in forensics. Some officers were on their way from the UK, but that would take forty-eight hours. A new military figure came in, this one in US-style camo fatigues. He shook the Administrator’s hand, leveled a gaze at Kane, took Kane’s passport, and left, returning after a minute, giving the passport to Morrogh and consulting with the Administrator. He exited with Horsley a moment later, leaving Morrogh and Reid guarding Kane.
“We need as much information from you as possible,” Morrogh said. “Obviously we’re going to have to check to see if you have any criminal record, and that means five years’ worth of addresses.”
This wasn’t going to go well. It was time to cautiously turn the light in their faces. “Lauren knew Petra Wade, didn’t she?”
There was a pause as the officers studied Kane, finding themselves off-balance.
“And?”
“At Two Boats people were saying Lauren knew what happened to Petra. She was going to give a report. Maybe she tried.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Look, I’m new here. But one obvious theory is that whatever’s happened to Lauren Carter it’s because she knows what happened to Petra Wade. Clearly, I wasn’t involved in Petra Wade’s disappearance. Which means someone’s out there right now, responsible for both. Do you have any idea who? Because I think they set me up.”
Just as Kane was feeling the tables turn there was another knock. An RAF crewman appeared. Kane saw what he was carrying and got a sickening feeling.
“I found this where he was staying,” the crewman said. He set Rory’s box file down on the table. “It was hidden in a wardrobe.” He opened it and removed the Polaroids of the children. Morrogh looked through, handling each photograph with horror before turning to the exercise book.
“Are these yours?”
“No,” Kane said.
“Going to say someone left these as well?”
“I found them in a hut at English Bay this morning.”
“Where in the hut?”
“It had fallen down the back of the dresser there. It was partly hidden.”
“Why were you in there?”
“I was curious. I’d gone to take a look at the beach and I saw the hut. It looked abandoned, the door was open. But obviously someone had been living t
here recently.”
“Did you ever know a man called Rory Bannatyne?” Morrogh asked.
“No.”
The three men conversed. There were mutterings about procedure. Then someone shouted outside: “Let me speak to them!”
It was Thomas. Morrogh opened the door as Thomas pushed his way past the guards.
“Where’s Connor?” He was wild-eyed with anxiety.
“Please, Thomas.” Morrogh tried to stop him entering. Thomas cast his gaze around the station, pointed at Kane.
“He hasn’t done anything. You know that, you bastards.”
“Calm down, Thomas.”
“Has Connor been here?”
“No.”
“Has anyone seen him?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Thomas turned to Kane. “Have you seen my son?”
“Not tonight. What’s happened?”
“He’s gone. What happened to Lauren Carter?” Thomas said. “She’s missing, my son’s missing. What the hell are you doing sitting here interrogating a fucking professor who’s been on the island twenty-four hours?”
“Get out.” Reid moved toward him. Thomas stepped backwards into the Administrator, turned.
“And you,” he said, up close to the Administrator’s face. “You know. You know.”
“Everyone’s anxious,” the Administrator said. “Calm down.”
“Tom, come on. Let’s go home.” An American officer tried to grab Thomas’s arm, but Thomas shook him off. It wasn’t clear what happened next, but it seemed Thomas had taken ahold of the Administrator. They both staggered unsteadily toward the crowd. The police dived out. Thomas took a swing at Morrogh, who backed away from the blow. Reid got his arms around Thomas’s neck and wrestled him to the ground. Morrogh had the presence of mind to shut the police station door.
Kane heard the shouts continue: “Help me hold him down.”
“Get his arms.”
“They’re out there,” Thomas screamed. “And you’re fucking around here.”
Kane sat in front of Rory’s box file. He looked at the Polaroids, picked the exercise book up from the desk where it had been left. Secret. He turned through, gazing at the troubled drawings, until he came across a building. He’d seen it last time he’d looked, but it hadn’t meant anything then. Low and square, it had been drawn hurriedly in pencil but was immediately familiar now as the ruins he’d seen up at Devil’s Ashpit. There were even the concrete stumps on either side. On the facing page was a list: People who saw it. In childish scrawl: Petra, Lauren, Connor. There were spaces for more, but it seemed no one joined them.
Ascension Page 21
