Page 91 of Unalive On Air

In the video viewing room, Jeanie puts her arm over his shoulder, and I swear it actually makes contact. “We’ll be together again for real one day,” she whispers.

Angel silently wipes his eyes.

“Thank you for showing me that. I’m sorry I ever entertained the idea that you killed me,” I say. “But I do need to ask one more thing. Do you have an alibi for all the others? Especially Jeanie.”

“Gary—” Jeanie begins, but Angel cuts her off.

“No, it’s fine. I’d expect nothing less. He needs to be thorough. Just because I didn’t kill him, doesn’t mean I didn’t kill her, right?” Angel asks, looking directly at me.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“When Imogen went missing, I was in Glasgow for a conference.”

“A conference?” I ask.

“Yes. A funeral directors’ conference.”

“That sounds . . . awful.”

Death is fascinating, but grief? Grief is horrible, just the worst. It’s also really boring.

Angel barks out a laugh and shrugs. “It is what it is, I suppose.”

“What about the others? Josh and Trystan and Pixie and Stove and Camille . . . and Peter?” I only tack Peter’s name onto the end because I feel like I ought to be thorough, though I’m certain Peter is the anomaly here. And not just because the rest were killed after Peggy in the Middle became popular.

“I’m sure I can check back through my diary and let you know if you give me the dates for each one.” He’s confident in his answer. So confident that my brain’s already searching for other suspects. “For now, can we keep this video to ourselves? I know it’s a big ask, but I could lose my job for this. To an outsider, all this footage looks like is that I’m having a big ol’ jolly at my place of work . . .”

“I . . . won’t say anything unless I have to,” I tell him. “But I have one more question?”

“’Course, fire away.”

“How long have you been able to see and speak with ghosts?”

Jeanie laughs. She must have heard this story a few times before.

“Right . . .” Angel slaps his legs, turns off the monitor, and gets to his feet. “Let me take you back to the day nine-year-old Kelsey Cobbledick went on a fishing trip with his father. We were always out on the waters. Loved it out there. Just him and me and the fish. Out by Enys Marow, there’s a beauty of a spot for catching mackerel. Anyway, that day was just like any other out fishing, only suddenly, the waters became very choppy and the boat just . . .” He whistles. “Flipped over. Next thing I know, I’m being dragged out of the sea and dumped back onto the boat. By what, I had no idea. But father was still in the water, see. And then I saw this huge guy, naked as the day he was born, pulling father out and dropping him next to me. I asked the man, ‘What’s your name?’ and he said, ‘Don’t you worry about that, son.’ And then I asked him if I was dead, and he said—and I’ll never forget this—‘We can’t all be.’ Then he dove back in and I never saw him again. But after that, I saw ghosts all the time.

“Reckon I must’ve died or summat for a few minutes. Some people believed me. Most didn’t. Most just thought I’d lost the plot. Started calling me the angel of death until it stuck as a nickname. As I got older, folk stopped believing I could really speak to the dead. But there were some who were perhaps a little afraid of what comes next, and they would seek me out. I promised I’d look after them till the very end and beyond, and here I am. Fifty years in the funeral care business.”

I’m momentarily dumbstruck by his speech. My emometer fills up again. “That’s a really noble, caring thing to do. I’m glad you were the one to take care of me. Even if it wasn’t long term.”

“Well, you’re very welcome,” he says, and I totally see why Jeanie fell for him. I wonder if they fell in love before or after her death. “Now, I have a question for you, Gary Runcorn.”

I side-eye Jeanie. “Okay?”

“Did you have any motive for me killing everyone, including my beloved?”

I laugh nervously. “Well, I only really had one, and it was a very . . . wishy washy . . . motive. Basically, someone told me you’re . . . uh, tourismophobic.”

Angel nods, digests my words, then shrugs. “Honestly, Gary, you’d be hard pushed to find a local here who doesn’t despair at the incoming swarms every summer. But I’m not daft. I know there are only really three industries in this county. Fishing, agriculture, and tourism. Like ’em or loathe ’em, there’s not much you can do about the emmets. They bring a lot of money to the area, especially with that hotel up the hill. Imogen’s done a fantastic job with it all, and it pains me to see it suffering because of bad publicity.”

A thought occurs to me. Another of those absurd thoughts I should immediately dismiss, but I don’t.

What if Jeanie called me out here simply as a marketing ploy? Just to get me chatting about her and the hotel? She said she never intended for me to snuff it, but maybe there was an ulterior motive for sending that letter.

“Why do you call her Imogen and not Jeanie?” I ask instead.

“She likes it,” is Angel’s simple answer.