The Whisper Man(73)

“What?” She asked it more teasingly this time.

“Just someone asking if I’m free for something this evening.” He put the phone on the table, the smile disappearing. “Which obviously I’m not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Pete looked at her.

“I’m serious,” she told him. “Technically speaking, this is my case, not yours. I’ll stay as long as I have to, but listen, you are going home at the end of the day.”

“No.”

“Yes. And you can do whatever you want when you get there. I’ll keep you up to date with any developments.”

“It should be me.”

“It absolutely should not. Even if we find the right David Parker, we have no idea how or even if he’s involved. It’s just a conversation. And I think it would be better for him and for you if someone else handles that. I know how much this case means to you, but you can’t live in the past, Pete. Other things matter too.” She nodded at his phone. “Sometimes you’ve got to leave it at the door at the end of the day. Do you know what I mean?”

He was silent for a moment, and she thought he was about to protest again. But then he nodded.

“You can’t live in the past,” he repeated. “You’re right about that. More right than you know.”

“Oh, I know how right I am. Believe me.”

He smiled. “All right, then.”

Then he picked up his phone again, and began tapping a reply a little awkwardly, as though he didn’t get many texts and wasn’t used to sending ones in return. Or maybe he was just nervous about this one in particular. Regardless, she was pleased for him. There was that slight smile on his face again, and it was good to see. To know it was possible.

Alive, she realized, watching him. That was what it was.

After everything he’d been through, he seemed like a man who was finally looking forward to something.





Forty-five


I’d arranged with my father for him to arrive at seven o’clock that evening, and he was so prompt in his timing that I wondered whether he’d arrived early and been sitting outside until the designated time. Perhaps out of respect for me—the idea that if he was being allowed into my and Jake’s life then it had to be precisely on my terms—but actually, I thought he was most likely the same with everyone. A man for whom discipline was important.

He was dressed neatly in suit trousers and shirt, as though he’d come straight from work, but he looked fresh and his hair was damp, so it was obvious he’d showered and changed first. He smelled clean too. As he followed me inside, I realized I’d checked that subconsciously. If he still drank, he would have started by now, and it wasn’t too late for me to pull this whole event.

Jake was kneeling on the floor of the living room, hunched over a drawing.

“Pete’s here,” I told him.

“Hi, Pete.”

“Could you at least pretend to look up?”

Jake sighed to himself, but put down the colored pencil he’d been using.

“Hi, Pete,” he said again.

My father smiled.

“Good evening, Jake. Thank you for allowing me to look after you for a bit tonight.”

“You’re welcome.”

“We both appreciate it,” I said. “It should only be a couple of hours at most.”

“However long you need. I brought a book.”

I glanced at the thick paperback he was holding. I couldn’t see enough of the cover to read the title, but there was a black-and-white photograph of Winston Churchill on the front. It was exactly the kind of worthy, weighty tome that I’d have struggled to force myself through, and it made me feel self-conscious. My father had transformed himself, physically and mentally, into this quietly impressive man. I couldn’t help but feel slightly inadequate in comparison.

Stupid, though.

You’re too hard on yourself.

My father put his book down on the couch.

“Can you show me around?”

“You’ve been here before.”

“In a different capacity,” he said. “This is your home. I’d prefer to hear it from you.”

“Okay. We’re just going upstairs, Jake.”

“Yes, I know.”

He was already drawing again. I led the way upstairs, pointing my father to the bathroom and then Jake’s bedroom.

“He’d normally have a bath, but just skip that tonight,” I said. “Half an hour or so, he comes up for bed. Pajamas are there on the duvet. His book’s down there. We normally read a chapter together before lights out, and we’re about halfway through that one.”

My father looked down at it quizzically.

“Power of Three?”

“Yeah, Diana Wynne Jones. It’s probably a bit old for him, but he likes it.”

“That’s fine.”

“And like I said, I won’t be out for long.”

“Are you doing anything nice?”

I hesitated.

“Just grabbing a drink with a friend.”

I didn’t want to go into any more detail than that. For one thing, it made me feel curiously teenage to admit I was going on something that might be considered a date. Of course, my father and I had skipped that whole awkward period of my growing up, so perhaps it was natural to feel it a little now. We’d never had the chance to develop the language to talk about it, or not to.