The Whisper Man(55)

“It’s fine,” I said.

“I know it’s small. We use it for witnesses sometimes, but it’s mostly women and children.” He seemed about to say something, but then shook his head. “They usually want to be in the same room.”

“Domestic violence, I guess.”

My father didn’t answer, but the atmosphere between us heated up a notch, and I knew the hit had landed. What was between us remained unspoken but was growing louder, in the way that silence sometimes can.

“It’s fine,” I said again. “How long will we be here?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a day or two. Maybe not even that. It’s potentially a big case, though. We need to make sure we don’t miss anything.”

“You think the man you’ve arrested killed Neil Spencer?”

“Possibly. Like I said, I think the remains we’ve found in your house are from a similar crime. There was always speculation that Frank Carter—the killer back then—had an accomplice of some kind. Norman Collins was never officially a suspect, but he was too interested in the case. I never thought he was directly involved, but…”

“But?”

“Maybe I got that wrong.”

“Yeah, I guess maybe you did.”

My father said nothing. The knowledge that I might have hurt him again brought a kind of thrill, but it was a small, disappointing one. He seemed so beaten down and uncomfortable. In his own way, perhaps he felt as powerless right now as I did.

“Okay.”

We moved back through to the sitting room, where Jake was kneeling down and drawing. There was a couch and a chair, a small table on wheels, and an old television balanced on a wooden chest of drawers with a mess of old cables behind it. The whole place felt cold and bleak. I tried not to think about what was happening in our house—our real home—right now. Whatever problems it had thrown up, it felt like paradise compared to this.

But you’ll deal with it. And this will be over soon.

And Pete Willis would be out of my life again.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Good to meet you, Jake.”

“Good to meet you too, Pete,” Jake said, not looking up from his picture. “Thank you for this delightful apartment.”

He hesitated. “You’re welcome.”

Out on the landing, I closed the door to the sitting room. There was a window here, but it was early evening now and the light coming in was dim. Willis seemed reluctant to leave, and so we stood in the gloom for a moment, his face full of shadow.

“You have everything you need?” he said finally.

“I think so.”

“Jake seems like a good kid.”

“Yes,” I said. “He is.”

“He’s creative. Just like you.”

I didn’t reply. The silence between us was tingling now. As much as it was possible to tell in this half-light, Willis looked as though he wished he hadn’t spoken. But then he explained himself.

“I saw your books in the house.”

“You didn’t know before?”

He shook his head.

“I’d have thought you might have been interested,” I said. “Maybe looked me up or something.”

“Did you look me up?”

“No, but that’s different.”

As soon as I said it, I hated myself for it, because it acknowledged that power balance again—the idea that it was his job to look for me, to be concerned about me, to care about me, rather than the other way around. I didn’t want him to imagine that was true. It wasn’t. He was nothing to me.

“A long time ago,” he said, “I decided it would be best for me to keep out of your life. Your mother and I decided between us.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“I suppose so. It’s my way of putting it. And I’ve honored that. It’s not always been easy. I’ve often wondered. But it’s been for the best…”

He trailed off, suddenly looking weaker than ever.

Spare me the self-pity.

But I didn’t say it. Whatever my father had done in the past, he’d obviously moved on since. He didn’t look or smell like an alcoholic now. He was in good shape. And despite the weariness, there was an air of calm to him. I reminded myself again that this man and I were strangers to each other. We weren’t father and son. We weren’t enemies.

We were nothing.

He was looking off toward the window, toward the day slowly dying outside.

“Sally—your mother, I mean. What happened to her?”

Glass smashing.

My mother screaming.

I thought of everything that had followed. The way she did her best for me in spite of all the difficulties she faced as a single mother. The pain and ignominy of her death. Like Rebecca, taken far too young, long before either she or I deserved such a loss.

“She’s dead,” I told him.

He was silent. For a moment he even seemed broken. But then he gathered himself.

“When?”

“That’s none of your business.”

The anger in my voice surprised me—but apparently not my father. He stood there, absorbing the force of the blow.

“No,” he said quietly. “I suppose not.”