Medievsky said, ‘Yes. A proper forensic scrutiny will determine the facts. But our memories will fail us in time. I need to hear your individual accounts while they are fresh.’
‘What about the body?’
It was Montrose. He’d filled his coffee mug from the pot someone had got going, and he came over and stood beside Medievsky. ‘Keys. We can’t just leave him there in the infirmary.’
Medievsky rubbed his palms together, the fingers extended. ‘First, we try to establish contact with Yakutsk. The infirmary is a crime scene and we should not disturb it any further. We see if we can get help. If we fail… we move Keys to a more suitable location.’ He clapped his hands once, decisively. ‘Three of us will go and inspect the satellite dish. Myself, Gunnar and Frank. The rest of you go about your work as best you can. There will be no field excursions today. And stay out of the infirmary.’
Purkiss said: ‘I’m coming with you.’
Medievsky shook his head curtly. ‘No. The three of us. Gunnar is the engineer. Frank too has some experience with satellite systems. And I am going as leader.’
‘There’s little for me to do here now,’ said Purkiss. ‘I’m coming along.’
‘I said no. If the dish has been damaged by adverse weather, the journey may be hazardous. You are a visitor to the station. I cannot risk your safety in such a way.’
‘There’s a murderer at this station,’ said Purkiss. ‘We’re all at risk.’
‘We do not know this.’ Irritation flared in Medievsky’s voice. ‘I will not discuss the matter further.’
Purkiss thought about saying it. Saying that Medievsky and Haglund would be venturing out with the man who’d butchered Keys, and who had tried to kill Purkiss himself. He held his tongue.
‘We will take one of the phone handsets,’ Medievsky said, turning towards the door. ‘If we succeed in repairing the dish, I’ll call here immediately.’
The three men, Medievsky, Haglund and Wyatt, left the room.
Purkiss wandered the corridors, watching the others as they dispersed throughout the complex. He gave the impression of purposefulness, but really he was coordinating his movements so that he encountered each researcher one at a time and had a sense of where they were heading.
Clement and Budian went straight to the laboratory wing, where Purkiss understood Clement had an office of her own. The two women walked side by side, talking in low murmurs. Montrose followed suit a short while afterwards. Avner was the last to leave, emerging from the mess a full fifteen minutes after the others. As he passed Purkiss he stared up at him, as if he couldn’t quite place his face.
‘You all right?’ said Purkiss.
The younger man said nothing, walked straight on.
Purkiss turned and went after him. ‘Efraim. Are you okay?’
Avner stopped. His back to Purkiss, he said: ‘No, man. I am very far from okay.’
Avner seemed to be heading for the sleeping quarters in the east wing. Purkiss had an idea.
He caught up again with Avner and said, quietly, ‘Being alone now probably isn’t the best idea.’
This time Avner turned his face. Purkiss was struck by the bitterness in the drawn features. ‘Hey, man. We’re all alone. Doug Keys sure as shit was. And still is.’
Purkiss waited a beat. Then: ‘Look, Efraim. I’ve no particular expertise in this area. I’ve seen a lot of people traumatised by death, and I still don’t know what the best thing to do is in order to cope. There may not be anything you can do. But if you want to offload, to talk for a few minutes or however long it takes… well, I’ll listen.’
He expected a sarcastic dismissal, and was surprised when Avner launched in, as though the words had been held back by the weakest of threads. ‘None of us liked him. And that makes it worse. You understand? He died knowing he didn’t have a friend here. Probably not a friend in the world. It’s too late to make amends. Ah, shit. Listen to me. I sound like a fuckin’ daytime soap opera.’ He choked angrily on the last words, and stormed off.
Purkiss followed, keeping his distance. When Avner reached one of the doors — room 12 — and opened it, Purkiss called: ‘Can I ask a favour?’
Avner paused.
‘I wanted to ask Frank Wyatt something but he’s gone now. Can you tell me which is his room, so I can slip a note under his door? I might forget later.’
‘First one round the corner on the left,’ Avner said dully, and closed the door.
Purkiss remained in the corridor. He knew what he had to do, but a nagging voice in his head told him to knock on Avner’s door, insist that he be let in. He wasn’t sure what Avner was going to do, or was capable of doing, and he wondered about the risk. About whether a second body might be discovered today.
He decided he couldn’t push it.
Purkiss walked round the corner and came to the door Avner had specified. Number eight.
He tried the handle carefully. As he’d expected, it was locked.
Purkiss had already examined the lock on his own door. It was a basic mortice, an easy one to crack, and the one on the door to number eight looked the same. But Wyatt would have laid traps, just as Purkiss had in his own room, and Purkiss was respectful enough of Wyatt’s professional capabilities that he knew he wouldn’t be able to spot all of them.
He took a notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket, scribbled: I know it’s not a good time, but could I ask you a quick question about that SODAR system when you get back? Thanks — John.
The words were entirely for show.
Purkiss folded the note and slipped it under the door as far as it would go.
He stepped back, looked left and right down the corridor, getting a feel for the layout, the dimensions. Then he walked on and took another turn and reached his own room, number five.
He locked his door behind him before laying his briefcase onto the small work table and opening it. On top was a laptop computer, which he set aside. Beneath, the dictaphone he’d used to interview Keys and Budian the night before sat in its foam nest, together with a mains cable, a microphone and a stack of spare batteries.
Purkiss lifted the equipment out and felt along the edges of the exposed base of the briefcase until he located the tiny clasps, accessible only with the tips of his fingernails. He unclipped the base and raised it. Beneath, in the false bottom, were the leads and transmitters and receivers of a different set of apparatus. He slipped a couple of components into the pocket of his jacket.
As he’d done the day before, Purkiss moved one of the chairs into the middle of the room and, standing on it, reached up and pushed away one of the ceiling panels. Once again he hauled himself up, this time pulling himself fully into the crawlspace above the ceiling.
He peered about, trying to estimate the distance and direction of Wyatt’s room. It was difficult in the darkness. He began clambering awkwardly across the metal lattice that constituted the framework of the ceiling, taking care not to lean his weight on any of the ceiling panels, which wouldn’t bear it.
Had he gone too far? Purkiss had no way of knowing. When he gripped the edge of one of the panels below him and prised it aside, the room below was in semidarkness, illuminated faintly by the morning glare off the snow beyond the unseen window. The room itself, or what he could see of it, appeared similar to his own. There were no features to distinguish it even as being occupied by a man or a woman.
But there, near the door, was a folded slip of paper. The note Purkiss had pushed through. He had the right room.
For a moment, he considered climbing down into the room. Once again, he thought of the traps Wyatt would have set.