The Whisper Man(67)

“No.” He looked away. “I’d certainly argue the case, though, especially with Jake living here. Neil Spencer’s abduction was opportunistic; he was out walking alone. This isn’t a man who wants attention. You should obviously keep an eye on Jake, but there’s no reason to think either of you are in any danger.”

Did he sound convinced? I wasn’t sure, but it was difficult to read him today. He looked exhausted. When I’d first seen him it had been obvious he was in good physical shape, but today he really looked his age.

“You look tired,” I said.

He nodded.

“I am tired. And I have to do something that I’m not looking forward to.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said simply. “What matters is that it has to be done.”

This whole case must have taken a toll on him, I realized, and that was apparent in his whole demeanor right now. What matters is that it has to be done. Before me now, I saw a man weighed down by so much, struggling to cope with the load. He looked like I often felt.

“My mother,” I said suddenly.

He looked back at me and waited, not asking the question.

“She died,” I said.

“You told me that.”

“You said you wanted to know what happened. She had a difficult life, but she was a good person. I couldn’t have asked for a better parent. It was cancer. She didn’t deserve what happened to her, but she didn’t suffer for long either. It happened very quickly.”

That was a lie—my mother’s death had been prolonged and painful—and I had no idea why I was telling it this way. There was no duty incumbent on me to make Pete feel better, or to ease any pain or guilt he felt. And yet a part of me was still pleased to see the weight on him lift a little.

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

“So she got to meet Jake?”

“Yes. He doesn’t remember her. But yes.”

“Well. I’m glad about that, at least.”

There was a moment of silence. And then Jake came downstairs, and we both turned slightly away from each other at the same time, as though some tension between us had snapped.

“It’s exactly the same, Daddy.”

Jake sounded almost suspicious.

“We do a good job of searching through things carefully,” Pete said. “And cleaning up after ourselves afterward.”

“Admirable,” Jake said. He turned and walked back into the living room.

Pete shook his head. “He’s a character, that one.”

“Yes. He is that.”

“I’ll be in touch about any developments.” He handed me a card. “But in the meantime, if you need anything—and I mean anything at all—my details are there.”

“Thank you.”

I watched my father walk off down the driveway, head bowed slightly, and turned the card around in my hand. As he got into his car, I looked past him at the reporters gathered beyond it. Most of them had left now. I scanned the faces that remained, looking for Karen.

But she was gone.





Forty-two


This is the last time, Pete told himself. Remember that.

The thought was something to cling to while he sat in the bright white interview room at the prison, waiting for the monster to arrive. He had been here so many times over the years, and each occasion had left him shaken. But after today, there would be no reason for him ever to return. Tony Smith—always the focus of these visits in the past—had been found, and if Frank Carter refused to talk about the man they were looking for now, Pete had already made the decision that he would walk out of this room and not look back. And he’d never have to suffer the crawling aftermath of being in Carter’s presence again.

This is the last time.

The thought helped, but only a little. The air in the silent room felt full of anticipation and threat, the locked door on the far side throbbing with menace. Because Carter must also know this was likely to be their last meeting, and Pete was sure he would be determined to make it count. Until now the fear of these encounters had always been mental and emotional. He had never been physically afraid before. But right now he was glad for the width of the desk dividing the room and the strength of the shackles the man would be wearing. He even wondered if, subconsciously, all those hours in the gym had been spent preparing himself in case a moment like that ever happened.

His heart leaped as he heard the door being unlocked.

Keep calm.

The familiar routine unfolded: the guards entering first; Carter taking his time. Pete steadied himself by concentrating on the envelope he’d brought, which was on the desk in front of him now. He stared at that and waited, ignoring the bulk of the man who finally approached, then sat down heavily across from him. Let the tables be turned, for once—Carter could wait. Pete remained silent until the guards had retreated and he heard the door closing. Only then did he look up.

Carter was staring at the envelope too, a curious expression on his face.

“Have you written me a letter, Peter?”

Pete didn’t reply.

“I’ve often thought I might write one to you.” Carter looked up and smiled. “Would you like that?”

Pete suppressed the shudder he felt. There was little chance of Carter discovering his home address directly, but the idea of receiving even forwarded correspondence was intolerable.