The Whisper Man(58)

“Yesterday, you were worried about offending me when you said that.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t, did it?” She shrugged. “I slept on it and figured it was probably okay.”

“Then you slept a lot better than I did.”

“That I can see.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets. “What are you up to now? Fancy grabbing a coffee, or do you have to run off and be tired somewhere else?”

I hesitated. I had nothing to do. I’d told my father I needed my laptop for work, but the likelihood of me accomplishing anything in this state was pretty minimal. Today was likely to be a case of treading water and hoping some kind of land would eventually appear—killing time, basically—and looking at Karen now, I figured there were worse ways to do that.

“Sure,” I said. “That would be nice.”

We walked down to the main road, where she led me past the small corner shop and village post office to a delicatessen called the Happy Pig. There were meadow scenes painted on the windowed front, and the inside was rustic and crammed with wooden tables, like a farmhouse kitchen.

“Bit pretentious.” She pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. “But the coffee’s acceptable.”

“As long as it’s got caffeine in it.”

It certainly smelled good. We ordered at the counter, standing beside each other a little awkwardly while we waited and not speaking for the moment. Then we took our drinks over to a table and sat down.

Karen shrugged off her coat. She was wearing a white blouse and blue jeans underneath it, and I was surprised by how slim she looked without the armor on. Was it armor? I thought it might be. There was a scattering of wooden rings around her wrists, which rattled slightly as she reached up with both hands and gathered her hair back, tying it into a loose ponytail.

“So,” she said. “What is going on with you?”

“It’s a long story. How much do you want to know?”

“Oh, everything.”

I considered that. As a writer, one of the things I’d always believed was that you didn’t talk about your stories until they were finished. If you did, there was less of an urge to write them down—almost as though the story just needed to be told in some capacity, and the pressure reduced the more you did.

So with that in mind, I decided to tell Karen everything.

Almost everything, anyway. She already knew about the junk in my garage and my visit from the man who’d turned out to be Norman Collins, but Jake’s near abduction in the middle of the night made her raise her eyes. Then what I’d learned from Mrs. Shearing, and the events that had unfolded yesterday. The discovery of the body. The safe house.

And last of all, my father.

The impression I’d gained so far of Karen was that she was fairly frivolous: prone to playful sarcasm and jokey asides. But by the time I’d finished explaining, she looked horrified and deadly serious.

“Shit,” she said quietly. “They haven’t released any details to the media yet—just that remains had been found at a property. I had no idea it was yours.”

“I think they’re playing it close to their chests. From what I can make out, they think it’s the remains of a kid called Tony Smith. He was one of Frank Carter’s victims.”

“His poor parents.” Karen shook her head. “Twenty years. Although I guess they must have known after such a long time. Maybe it’ll even be a relief for them to finally have some closure.”

I remembered my father’s words.

“Everybody deserves to go home,” I said.

Karen looked off to one side. It seemed like she wanted to ask more, but wasn’t sure if she should for some reason.

“This man they’ve arrested,” she said.

“Norman Collins.”

“Norman Collins, right. How did he know about it?”

“I don’t know. Apparently he always had an interest in the case.” I sipped my coffee. “My father seems to think he might have been Carter’s accomplice all along.”

“And that he killed Neil Spencer too?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I hope so—well.” She corrected herself. “I mean, I know that’s an awful thing to say, but at least that way they’ve got the bastard. Christ, if you hadn’t woken up…”

“I know. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“It’s fucking terrifying.”

It was—and, of course, not wanting to think about it didn’t mean I could stop myself.

“I read up about him last night,” I said. “Carter, I mean. A bit morbid, but it seemed like I needed to know. The Whisper Man. Some of the details were just horrific.”

Karen nodded. “If you leave a door half open, soon you’ll hear the whispers spoken. I asked Adam about that, after you mentioned it. It’s a rhyme some of the kids say. He’d never even heard of Carter, of course, but I guess that must be where it originated. Passed down.”

“A warning against the bogeyman.”

“Yeah. Except this one was real.”

I thought about the rhyme. Adam had heard it without realizing what it meant, and maybe it extended beyond Featherbank. Things like that often spread among children, so perhaps one of the kids at Jake’s old school had repeated it and that was where he’d learned it.