Page 30 of Unalive On Air

Jazz continues to glance around and take notes. Stove reads them aloud as she writes.

“Chandelier . . . no forced entry . . . bleed out . . . no signs of struggle . . . sleep, question mark . . .”

“I mean,” she says, and Stove dramatically zips his mouth shut. “It looks like an accident. There’s no indication this guy put up any kind of fight.”

Dave Davies nods along like a teacher waiting for his pupil to arrive at the correct and inevitable conclusion.

“But okay, here’s what I find odd. The chandelier just fell and didn’t cause any damage to the ceiling. It’s made of metal. Brass? That thing must weigh at least thirty kilos. Maybe more. How does it simply drop from the ceiling without ripping out any wall plugs or breaking the . . . ceiling thingy?” Jazz points upwards and makes a swirly gesture with her finger.

“The ceiling rose?”

“Yeah, that. Surely it’s just plaster or whatever. It’s not actual stone?” she asks.

“Unlikely,” Davies responds. “So, what does that mean?”

Jazz glances back at her notepad and hums to herself. “That it was deliberate.” This time it’s not a question. She seems pretty certain. As do the rest of the ghosts, and me, as we’re all nodding along. “So . . . murder?”

“Ahh.” Davies raises a single finger. He’s not happy with Jazz’s summary, but really, it’s the only feasible conclusion. “You’ve already given me one piece of vital information.”

Jazz shakes her head, thinking, and Davies checks his watch and puffs out a long stream of air.

“Right, so we’re going to treat this death as non-suspicious circumstances. We need to bag up as much of the deceased’s belongings as possible, and get the body ready for whenever Angel’s guys arrive. I’ll let you find his ID and check him over for anything we might have overlooked.”

“How did he die, then, if it’s not suspicious? How did the chandelier drop from the ceiling and . . .” Jazz scribbles something else on her notepad.

“Not not-sus,” Stove reads out. “Whatever that means.”

“I have a theory,” Davies says.

“And?” Jeanie yells, hands on hips.

“Tell us, then, peabrain,” Pixie says, sizing Davies up like she’s about to fight him.

“What is it?” Jazz says.

Davies glances at his wristwatch again. “Shit. Okay, let’s just get to work and I’ll explain as we go.”

“Sunset tonight he says suicide,” Camille shouts.

Other ghosts groan.

“Aww, but you had sunset night before last,” Pixie whines.

“What does that mean?” I ask, turning to the ghost nearest to me. It’s Trystan, and I immediately regret speaking because now I have to look at him whilst he looks at me and answers my question and pretends he doesn’t see how pink my cheeks are growing.

“There’s a place, right on the tip of the headland, where you can watch the sun disappearing perfectly between the two little islands. Enys Marow and Mernan’s Peak. It’s . . . without doubt the most beautiful sight you’ll ever witness. In life and in death. Seriously, if it’s a clear day, the whole beach glows orange. But the catch is, the spot is really only wide enough to fit a single person . . . or entity.”

I feel like I need to shake my head like a dog after his speech. “But . . . sorry, I’ve only been dead a few hours, so I’m still fumbling my way through this. Can’t we . . . float or anything? In theory, couldn’t we all watch it from roughly the same angle?”

Trystan’s face slides into a subtle smile. Dangerous. “In theory, yes. But after a couple of decades with the same people and no new stories, it’s kinda nice to . . . be alone sometimes. Just you and the sea, and the sun, and the sky.”

As a big fan of my own company and avoiding people in general, I can only nod in agreement.

“So we take it in turns to go out and watch the sunset. For a moment or two, it almost feels as though . . . you’re alive again,” Trystan says.

His words hit me in the centre of my chest like a hatchet blow.

But Jeanie speaks before I get lost in my thoughts. “Gary should get the sunset tonight. It’s his first night as a ghost, it should be—” She cuts herself off when Jazz approaches the bed.