Page 74 of Unalive On Air

“He’s not representative of us as a group.”

“Sometimes I wish he’d just keep his trap shut.”

“This is part of the reason I want off this ride.”

“Save me.”

And “We’ll talk about him later.”

Pixie has already un-minimised my recording app, yanked Stove’s mic out of his hands, and plugged it into the DJ controller.

“Okay, when I say go, can you press the record button? It’s that one there,” I say, pointing to the controller. I turn to the rest of the group. “I’ll need everyone to be quiet while the red light is on, because the ghost mic will pick up your voices as well.”

They nod.

“Also,” I add, because it’s been playing on my mind and I think in good conscience I need to give them a heads‑up each time. “I don’t think I’ve uncovered enough information to solve the murders or give any of you closure and finish your unfinished business today, but now is your final opportunity to duck out in case that happens.”

“Yeah, I’m not ready to go yet,” Josh squeaks from the corner. “Someone come find me later.” He places his phone on a nearby display cabinet. “In case you need it.” And he leaves by zooming through the nearest wall.

“Camille?” I ask, because I know they’re enjoying being a ghost.

They shake their head. “Not scared. We’re all aware of my thoughts on unfinished business.”

“Anyone else?”

Nobody says anything. Jeanie and Pixie link hands, and a weird, random lump appears in my throat.

I step up to the mic.

Take one steadying breath.

“Do you need me to piss you off again?” Stove asks Pixie.

She scrutinises him, eyes narrowed, lip curled. “You’re good. Think I’ve got enough rage to last me at least a year.”

I hold three fingers up, silently count out a beat, and put one down. Two. Do it again. One, and thumbs-up to Pixie.

She closes her eyes. Without sound, her lips move over the words, “Fucking Stove,” and she presses the record button. A red light appears on the controller.

We’re live on air.

Unalive on air.

“Hello sleuthers, detectives, and those who have recently crossed the rainbow bridge. My name is Gary Runcorn. For anyone who’s new to my radio show—uh, I mean podcast—welcome, and for those who’ve listened before, welcome back. This will be the new permanent home of Unalive on Air, and in theory, you’ll find me on all the regular streaming services.

“If you’re a long‑time listener, you’ll know I used to have a slot every Monday night on Swindon Sounds radio station, but since then the station bosses have decided they’re not firing me per se, but moving in another direction. You can’t see this, but I’m doing air quotes right now.

“I’m not supposed to talk about any of this. I’m also not supposed to use the name Unalive on Air any longer either, but you know what . . . fuck you, Barry Prestwich. I never liked you. You’re a pretentious buffoon, and your office smells like someone’s been tumble drying trainers.

“So I’m keeping the damn name, and if you don’t like it, you can prise it from my cold dead fingers. Lol.

“For the newbies listening in, let me just explain what it is I do on Unalive on Air. I take cold cases—usually murders, but I’ve done all sorts—and examine evidence that may have been overlooked at the time to see if we can’t figure out more of the untold stories.

“Last week we were looking into the disappearance of beloved British actress, Jean—uh, Imogen Savona. I mentioned that I’d received a letter with a tip-off about Imogen’s murder from a mysterious group of people. Well, I got to meet those people. A first for me in many ways. But let’s just say the evidence is irrefutable. Believe me when I say it shocked even me, and I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve seen and uncovered some pretty shocking things, and this is definitely up there, and if you’re a detective working with the Cornish police, you’ll want to pay attention to this part.

“Imogen Savona was murdered in August nineteen ninety-five and was buried in the old pet cemetery on the south‑western border of The Paragon Hotel, Helzephron. PC Zhou, if you’re listening right now, you’ll find what’s left of Imogen’s remains under a small headstone marked with the name BONES . . .”

nineteen