Page 48 of Unalive On Air

“Nah, it’s Kelsey Cobbledick.”

I snort. “Wow, yeah, I can see why he goes by Angel. I wonder how he got that moniker. What have you heard about him, then?”

“Oh, not too much, really. Mostly that he’s a crabby old bastard who hates emmets and—”

I interrupt with a raised eyebrow.

“Means holiday maker. The type who flock to the county in the summer. Angel’s particularly grumpy about the lack of parking and the InnBreezes. Whatever those are . . .”

“InnBreeze is a holiday broker company where ordinary folk put their properties up for rent. It started as a way for people to make extra money by letting out their homes while they were away, but over time it’s basically morphed into second, third, fourth, et cetera, property owners snatching up affordable housing and turning them into holiday lets. It’s been quite controversial because . . .” I’ve slipped into presenter mode again. I suddenly realise how much I’m boring Trystan, how I’m talking into the void, and close my mouth.

He stares at me, a half smile on his face, like he’s working something out. “Because . . .”

Is he taking the piss? All my life I’ve only ever heard, “Jesus, you talk a lot.” Or “Gary, perhaps we should give others the opportunity to speak.” Or “Shut up for five fucking seconds, Gaz. You’re sending everyone to sleep.” That last one came from Mum. I’m not used to people actually listening to me.

“Why’s it controversial?” Trystan says.

I shake the nagging negative thoughts. “Uh . . . because it means that locals and families who’ve lived in these small villages and towns for generations can’t afford to stay local. Because it hikes up property prices, and folk are essentially driven out of their homes by rich Londoners who’ll rarely visit.” I puff out a big stream of air as though I have functioning lungs.

“Yeah . . .” Trystan says, running a hand through his sun-bleached curls. “Kinda with Angel on this one.”

“Same.”

“So, do you think Angel could have played a part in our murders?” Trystan asks. “Maybe he kills people because he’s bored at work all day and it gives him something to do the next morning?” Damn, he’s very cute. “Oooooor, maybe . . . he does it because we’re all emmets and . . . I dunno.”

“Well . . .” I’m not outright dismissing it. I’ve learned enough in my few years of sleuthing to know that no reason is too petty for some people. “Pixie’s American, was here for a gig. Stove is, I think Scottish, but again, here for work. I’m from Wiltshire. Camille is French?”

“Belgian.”

“Peter is Cornish, though?” I ask.

“No, Plymouth. He’s a Janner, and his wife is Swedish.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Where’s Josh from?”

“Surrey. On holiday with his family.”

Okay, okay. Maybe Trystan’s onto something here.

“But you’re local, no? And so is Jeanie.” Or at least that’s what I read.

“I am. I grew up just down the road. This was my beach. My first jobs were at this hotel. Lifeguard and surf instructor . . .” He half smiles, but it drops quickly.

The chasm creaks open again. This had always been his hut.

“Jeanie?” I ask, in an effort to redirect the convo.

“Auntie Jeanie,” he says. “Is from east London. That drama school accent of hers is one hundred per cent put on. Her real voice is more ‘apples and pears’ and ‘Berkshire hunt’ than the ‘dahling’ you actually hear.”

“Interesting.” I’m starting to realise there’s a lot more to Jeanie than she—and the news articles, the glossy write‑ups, the glamourous shoots, and the charity fundraisers—would have me believe. “So, Peggy in the Middle is—”

“Her real voice? Yeah.”

“You’re the anomaly here. The only true local. If what you’re saying is correct and Angel was motivated by some sort of ‘us versus them’ grudge, why you?”

Trystan shrugs. “Maybe he killed everyone but me. Maybe someone else killed me. There could be more than one killer?”

“Could be. I’ve seen Hot Fuzz, I know that’s a possibility.”