The Whisper Man(23)

“Frank,” Pete said. “You’re looking well.”

“Living well.” Carter patted his stomach, the chains that bound his wrists rattling softly. “Living very well indeed.”

Pete nodded. Whenever he visited, it always surprised him how Carter seemed to be not only surviving his incarceration but thriving on it. Much of his time appeared to have been spent in the prison gym, and yet, while he remained as physically formidable as he had been at the time of his arrest, there was also no denying that the years in prison had softened him in some way. He looked comfortable. Sitting here now, with his legs splayed and one beefy arm resting on the chair arm, he might have been a king lounging on a throne, surveying a courtier. It was as though, outside these walls, Carter had been a dangerous animal, angry and at war with the world, but caged in here with his celebrity status and coterie of fawning fans, he’d finally found a niche in which he could relax.

“You’re looking well too, Peter,” Carter said. “Eating well. Keeping in good shape, I see. How’s the family?”

“I don’t know,” Pete said. “How’s yours?”

The sparkle went out of Carter’s eyes at that. It was always a mistake to needle the man, but it was sometimes hard to resist, and Carter’s wife and son provided an easy target. Pete still remembered the look on Carter’s face as he’d listened to Jane Carter’s testimony playing in the court via video link. The man must have imagined she was too scared and broken to turn against him, but in the end she had, letting Pete into the extension and retracting the alibis she’d given her husband in the months before. His expression that day was similar to the one he wore now. However comfortable Carter might be in here, the hate he felt for his family had never waned.

He leaned forward suddenly.

“Do you know,” he said, “I had the most extraordinary dream last night.”

Pete forced a smile.

“Did you? Jesus, Frank. I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Oh, no, you do.” Carter settled back, then laughed to himself. “You really do. Because the boy was there, you see? The Smith boy. At first, as I’m dreaming, I’m not sure it’s him, because all those little bastards are the same, aren’t they? Any one of them will do. Plus his top is all pulled up over his face so I can’t see it properly, which is the way I like it. But it’s him. Because, you see, I remember what he was wearing, right?”

Blue jogging pants. Little black polo shirt.

Pete didn’t say anything.

“And someone’s crying,” Carter said. “But it isn’t him. For one thing, he’s long past the crying stage by now; that’s all done with. And the sound’s coming from off to one side anyway. So I turn my head, and I spot them both there—the mother and father. They’ve seen what I’ve done to their boy and they’re sobbing—all their hopes and dreams, and look what I’ve gone and done.” He frowned. “What are their names?”

Again, Pete didn’t reply.

“Miranda and Alan.” Carter nodded to himself. “I remember now. They were in court that time, weren’t they? You sat with them.”

“Yes.”

“Right. So, Miranda and Alan are crying these big fat tears, and they’re looking at me. Tell us where he is. They’re begging me, you see? It’s a bit pathetic, but all that does is remind me of you, and I think to myself, Peter wants to know that too, and he might come visit me again soon.” Carter smiled across the table. “He’s my friend, right? I should try and help him out. And so I look around more carefully, trying to work out where I am and where the boy is. Because I’ve never been able to remember that one, have I?”

“No.”

“And then the most amazing thing happens.”

“Does it?”

“Really amazing. Do you know what it is?”

“You wake up,” Pete said.

Carter tipped his head back and laughed, then clapped his hands together as best he could. The chains rattled as he applauded. When he finished and spoke again, his voice was back to its normal volume, and his eyes had regained that familiar sparkle.

“You know me too well, Peter. Yeah, I wake up. A shame, though, isn’t it? Guess Miranda and Alan and you will have to keep crying for a while longer.”

Pete wasn’t going to take the bait.

“Did you see anyone else in your dream?” he said.

“Anyone else? Like who?”

“I don’t know. Anyone else there with you? Helping you, maybe.”

It was too blunt an approach for his purpose, but as always, he watched Carter’s reaction to the question carefully. On the matter of a potential accomplice, Carter had generally played it well, sometimes amused, sometimes bored, but never confirming or denying a second individual having been involved in the murders. This time, he smiled to himself, but the reaction was different from normal. Today, there was an extra edge to it.

He knows why I’m here.

“I wondered how long it would take you to come to see me,” Carter said. “With that little boy going missing and all. I’m surprised it’s taken you this long.”

“I asked before now. You said no.”

“What? Refuse to see my good friend Peter?” Carter feigned outrage. “As if I’d do that. I’m guessing that maybe the requests didn’t filter through to me. An administrative error. They’re next to useless in here.”