Montrose’s glasses flashed. ‘I’m the deputy head of station.’
‘Nevertheless.’ Medievsky spoke quietly. ‘I cannot make any assumptions.’
‘You think I might be the saboteur,’ Montrose said flatly.
‘No assumptions.’ Medievsky nodded at Haglund. ‘You first, Gunnar.’
After the door closed behind them, the room let out its collective sigh almost audibly. People began to glance at each other again, though their gazes slipped away as quickly.
Purkiss got up off the arm of the chair on which he’d been perched and headed over to the kitchenette. He lit the gas stove and put the old iron kettle on the burner, opened the cupboards in search of coffee.
From the sofa, Avner laughed sourly, the first time Purkiss had heard him do so since the discovery of Keys’s body. ‘Hey, Ryan. Don’t take it personally. For all we know, Oleg’s the killer.’
‘Shut up,’ Montrose snarled. ‘It’s nothing to joke about. In fact, Efraim, I’ve had it with your jokey, phony crap. Really had it.’ He stood near the door, his fists clenched, his arms quivering.
Wyatt intervened: ‘Seriously, though, Ryan, he’s right. It could be Oleg. It could be any of us.’ He stared across at Purkiss.
Purkiss held his gaze. Was this it? The first direct, mocking acknowledgement Wyatt was giving him that he knew exactly why Purkiss was there at the station, and knew that Purkiss knew it?
Avner sprang up, spread his arms expansively. ‘Hey. If we’re going to be stuck here together, why leave Oleg to do all of the work? Why not conduct our own investigation? Sam Spade, man. Hercule god damn Poirot.’ He hunched over, shuffled past Patricia Clement, wagging his finger, and muttered in a passable approximation of Columbo: ‘Just one more thing, ma’am. Where were you between the hours of one and six o’clock this morning?’
Clement, who had been sitting upright and elegant all through Medievsky’s address to them and beyond, her hands clasped over one crossed knee, watched Avner, a half-smile at her lips. ‘I was in my bed, detective. Asleep. I didn’t hear a thing.’
She’s playing along with the hysteria, Purkiss thought. He’d seen reactions like Avner’s many times before, even in people without his personality type. Most often he’d seen them in doctors, who could display the most appallingly flippant callousness after an intense and gruelling struggle to save a patient’s life. Humour was a natural mechanism for coping with occurrences beyond the usual range of human experience. It helped to normalise them.
From behind the kitchen counter, Purkiss said, ‘Again, Efraim, you might be on to something, as Frank said. Why couldn’t the killer be Dr Clement?’
It wasn’t a gratuitously provocative comment. Purkiss found something odd, eerie even, about Clement’s behaviour through all this. She’d maintained her unfazed, scholar’s fascination with the people around her even in the face of the murder of a colleague and the revelation that their contact with the world outside had been cut off, with all that implied. He wanted to rattle her, to shake loose some of the confidence. It was difficult, in Purkiss’s experience, to get inside the head of a calm person. It was far easier to understand what made people tick when they were destabilised by strong emotion.
Clement turned her head to look at him. The smile was still there. She said, in her soft Alabama voice, ‘John’s quite right. It could be me.’
‘Could be you too, man.’ Avner had stopped in mid-pace. He said it amiably enough, but it was like a signal. As before, every head turned towards Purkiss. Even Budian, who’d stayed silent and was sitting on one of the sofas with her back to the kitchenette, raised her head and peered round.
Purkiss sensed a primitive, pack mentality taking hold in the room, subtle but palpable. He was the outsider. The intruder. And since his arrival less than forty-eight hours earlier, calamity had fallen on them.
He surveyed them, one by one.
Montrose was the first to move. He stepped forward, positioning himself close to the kitchenette but to the side, so that the others could still hold Purkiss in their lines of sight. The jury, and Montrose was the counsel for the prosecution.
‘You know a lot about dead bodies, and forensic science,’ said Montrose levelly. ‘And computers. And how to ride a snowmobile. And detective work.’ He allowed a pregnant pause. ‘You’re no journalist.’ Another step forward. ‘So just who, exactly, are you?’
Purkiss took down six mugs, lined them up. He began to pour coffee from the pot, carefully and methodically, into each one.
When he’d finished, he looked up at Montrose.
‘I’m the man who blew up his own snowmobile in order to divert attention from himself. The man who was the first to point out that Keys didn’t commit suicide, but was murdered. The man who’s helped to pinpoint the most likely time interval within which the sabotage of the satellite dish took place. So yes, I suppose I am a suspect. But in the pecking order, I’m not even out of the cage yet.’
The silence lasted six seconds. Avner broke it with a whoop.
‘Hell, Ryan. He got you there.’ He trotted over to the counter, raised his hand in a high-five gesture. Purkiss waved a careless palm in response.
The mood was broken. But Montrose glared at Purkiss, his mouth tight.
The door opened and Medievsky put his head in and said: ‘John. You next, please.’
Fifteen
Purkiss let Medievsky run through his questions — did you get up at all during the night, who was the last person you saw — before holding up a hand.
‘It isn’t going to work, Oleg.’
‘What?’
‘This kind of questioning. It was the middle of the night. Everyone was in bed, apart from one person, obviously. Everyone’s going to give you the same answer. Nobody heard or saw anything.’
Medievsky considered him. They were both seated in Medievsky’s office, the scientist on the other side of the desk. Purkiss was relieved he’d been called in before Wyatt. He wanted to get back to his room before Wyatt went to his own.
‘Do you have a better suggestion?’ Medievsky didn’t sound irritated, but genuinely curious.
‘There are other priorities,’ said Purkiss.
‘Such as?’
‘You need to secure the safety of the generators.’
Medievsky frowned. ‘Explain.’
‘I’m assuming Keys’s killer sabotaged our communications to stop us summoning help. But that’ll work only in the short term. Before long, they’ll be sending out search parties. So, something else is going to happen very soon. Which means the killer might take other short-term measures. Such as destroying our power supply.’
Medievsky narrowed his eyes, pressed his fingertips against his lips. ‘But there is little that can be done to protect the generators. The outbuilding housing them is locked, but that won’t keep a determined person out.’
‘Then you need someone in there, armed, standing guard.’
Medievsky shook his head. ‘You see, of course, the immediate problem with your suggestion.’
‘Yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘The problem is knowing whom to trust to do it.’
‘You’re suggesting you do it?’ Medievsky’s tone was incredulous.
‘Of course not. And you can’t do it yourself. You’re in charge, and needed. No. I suggest you pick someone who can handle a gun, and about whom you feel the most confident.’
‘Haglund.’
‘Again, no.’ When Medievsky opened his mouth to protest, Purkiss went on: ‘I’m not doubting that you trust him. But he’s the engineer. He’s crucial to the running of this place. He can’t be tied down.’
‘Then who?’
‘Who else do you feel comfortable with? Montrose?’