The Whisper Man(24)

Pete forced a shrug.

“That’s okay, Frank. You’re not actually a priority. You’ve been in prison awhile now, so it’s safe to say that you’re not a suspect with this one.”

The smile returned to the man’s face.

“Not me, no. But it always comes back to me for you, doesn’t it? It always ends where it starts.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means what it means. So what is it you want to ask me?”

“Your dream, Frank, like I said. Was there anyone else there?”

“Maybe. You know what dreams are like, though. They fade quickly. Shame, isn’t it?”

Pete stared at Carter for a moment, evaluating him. It would have been easy enough for him to have learned about Neil Spencer’s disappearance; it had been all over the news. Did Carter know anything else, though? He was clearly enjoying giving the impression that he did, but that didn’t mean anything in itself. It could easily be just another power play. Another way for him to make himself seem bigger and more important than he really was.

“Lots of things fade,” Pete said. “Notoriety, for one.”

“Not in here.”

“In the outside world, though. People have forgotten all about you.”

“Oh, I’m certain that’s not true.”

“You’ve not been in the papers for a while, you know. Yesterday’s man. Barely even that, actually—this little boy went missing a couple of months ago, like you say, and you know how many of the news reports mentioned you?”

“I don’t know, Peter. Why don’t you tell me?”

“None of them.”

“Huh. Maybe I should start granting the interviews all those academics and journalists keep asking for? I might do that.”

He smirked, and the futility of the situation hit Pete. He was putting himself through this for nothing; Carter didn’t know anything. And it would end the same as it always did. He knew full well how he would be afterward—the way that talking to Carter brought everything back. Later, the pull of the kitchen cabinet would be stronger than ever.

“Yes, maybe you should.” He stood up, turned his back on Carter, and walked away. “Goodbye, Frank.”

“They might be interested in the whispers.”

Pete stopped, one hand on the door. A shiver ran up his back, then spread down his arms.

The whispers.

Neil Spencer had told his mother about a monster whispering outside his window, but that aspect of the boy’s disappearance had never been made public or found its way into the news. It could still be fishing, of course. Except that Carter had played it more triumphantly than that, like a trump card.

Pete turned around slowly.

Carter was still reclining nonchalantly in his chair, but there was a smug look on his face now. Just enough bait added to the hook to keep his fish from swimming off. And Pete was suddenly sure that the reference to whispers hadn’t been guesswork at all.

Somehow, the bastard knew.

But how?

Right now, more than ever before, he had to remain calm. Carter would feed on any sense of need he detected in the man across from him, and he already had enough of that to play with.

They might be interested in the whispers.

“What do you mean by that, Frank?”

“Well—the little boy saw a monster at his window, didn’t he? One that was talking to him.” Carter leaned forward again. “Talking. Very. Quietly.”

Pete tried to fight down the frustration, but it was beginning to whirl inside him. Carter knew something, and a little boy was missing. They needed to find him.

“How do you know about the whispers?” he said.

“Ah! That would be telling.”

“So tell me.”

Carter smiled. The expression of a man who had nothing to lose or gain beyond the pain and frustration of others.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, “but first you have to give me something I want.”

“And what would that be?”

Carter leaned back, the amusement suddenly gone from his face now. For a moment his eyes were blank, but then the hate flared there, as visible as two pinpricks of fire.

“Bring my family to me,” he said.

“Your family?”

“That bitch and that little cunt. Bring them here and give me five minutes alone with them.”

Pete stared at him. For a second he was overwhelmed by the anger and madness blazing across the table from him. Then Carter threw back his head, rattled the chains at his wrists, and the silence in the room was broken as he laughed and laughed and laughed.





Sixteen


“Give him five minutes alone with his old family?” Amanda thought about it. ““Could we conceivably do that?”

But then she saw the look on Pete’s face.

“I’m joking, by the way.”

“I’m aware of that.”

He slumped down in the chair on the other side of her desk and closed his eyes.

Amanda watched him for a moment. He looked drained and diminished compared to their first meeting after Neil Spencer went missing. She didn’t know him well, of course, and their interactions over the past two months had hardly been extensive, but he’d struck her as … well, what? A man in control of his emotions. Excellent shape for a guy his age, obviously. Calm and capable. He’d barely wasted a word talking her through the old case, and had even been implacable and detached when he was showing her the photographs taken inside Frank Carter’s extension—scenes of horror that he’d witnessed firsthand. It had actually been quite intimidating. It had made her worry about how she was bearing up so far, never mind how she’d cope if it came to the worst.