The Whisper Man (ARC)

by Alex North

  It had felt like things might be better then.

  And then Owen had done what he’d done, and so had Jake, and there had been Miss Wallace’s office to face as a result. That actually hadn’t been so bad in itself, except for two big reasons. One was that the Packet of Special Things was back in the classroom, which meant it may very well be at the mercy of the evil Owen, which was an unbearable thought. Can you look at me, please? Miss Wallace had needed to say it twice, because Jake couldn’t take his eyes off the closed office door. And reason number two: He knew Daddy was going to be disappointed and angry with him for getting in trouble again, which meant that things weren’t going to get better for a long time. Or maybe ever, at this rate.

  Perhaps Daddy might even write horrible words down about him too.

  Jake suspected that he wanted to.

  But then, when he got back to the classroom, the Packet appeared to have been left untouched, and the possibility had occurred to him that maybe he should hit people more often. And at pickup time, Daddy hadn’t seemed angry with him at all. He’d actually argued with Mrs. Shelley! Which was certainly brave, Jake thought. But! More importantly, Daddy had been on his side. Even if he hadn’t said it outright, Jake could tell that he was. Even though he hadn’t gotten a hug, that actually made things seem as good as if he had.

  And now they were in a police station.

  That had been fine at first because it was really quite interesting, especially as everybody had been very nice to him, but he quite wanted to leave now. And then the next thing had happened—the new policeman coming in—and everything was even more confusing now, because of how Daddy was behaving. He’d been fine with the other police people, but he looked pale and scared now, as though this were a classroom for him and the new policeman was someone like Mrs. Shelley.

  Come to think of it, the new policeman looked uncomfortable too. When the woman police officer left, carrying the statement Daddy had signed, the door closed, and then the air in the room had felt very strange indeed. It was like there was some kind of glue that was holding everybody in place.

  Then the new policeman walked slowly over and looked down at him.

  “You must be Jake?” he said.

  “Yes.” This was true. “I am Jake.”

  The man smiled, but it was an odd one. He had a face that looked like it could be very kind indeed, but the smile right now was troubled. A moment later, he reached out his hand, and so Jake shook it, which was the polite thing to do. The hand was big and warm, and the grip was very gentle.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Jake. You can call me Pete.”

  “Hello, Pete,” Jake said. “It’s nice to meet you too. Why can’t we go home? One of the other policemen told my daddy that we couldn’t.”

  Pete frowned and knelt down in front of him, then peered into his face as though there might be some kind of secret there. Jake stared back at him to let him know he wasn’t hiding anything. No secrets here, mister.

  “It’s very complicated,” Pete said. “We have to do some investigation work at your house.”

  “Because of the boy in the floor?”

  “Yes.”

  But then Pete looked across at Daddy, and Jake remembered that he wasn’t supposed to have mentioned that. But honestly, the atmosphere in the room was so funny that it was easy to forget things like that.

  “I told him what I found,” Daddy said.

  “How did you know that it’s a boy, though?”

  Daddy was just standing there, but he looked caught somehow, as though he wanted to move forward or backward but had forgotten how his body worked. Jake had the uncomfortable feeling that if Daddy did remember how to move properly, it would be forward—and quite aggressively too.

  “I didn’t,” Daddy said. “I said body. He must have misheard me.”

  “That’s true,” Jake added quickly. He didn’t want Daddy to hit anybody, especially a policeman, because right now it really looked like he might.

  Pete stood up slowly.

  “Okay. Well, let’s deal with some practicalities. Is it just the two of you?”

  “Yes,” Daddy said.

  “Jake’s mother . . . ?”

  Daddy still looked angry. “My wife died last year.”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been very hard for you.”

  “We’re fine.”

  “I can see that.”

  So confusing! Jake wanted to shake his head. Now Pete didn’t seem able to look at Daddy. But Pete was a policeman, and that meant he was in charge, didn’t it?

  “We can arrange accommodation for you, but you might not want that. Do you have any family you’d prefer to stay with?”

  “No,” Daddy said. “Both of my parents are dead.”

  Pete hesitated.

  “Right. I’m very sorry to hear that as well.”

  “It’s okay.”

  And then Daddy took a step forward. Jake held his breath, but now it only seemed like Daddy wanted to hit someone, rather than that he actually would.

  “It happened a very long time ago.”

  “Right.” Pete took a deep breath but still didn’t look at Daddy. He was just staring at the wall, and Jake thought he suddenly looked a lot older than he had when he’d first come into the room. “In that case, we can arrange somewhere for you to stay in the meantime.”

  “That would be good, yes.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll need some things. I can come back with you to your house if you like, and you can get some things you both might need. Spare clothes and things.”

  “You need to be there?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. It’s a crime scene. I need to make a note of anything that’s removed.”

  “Okay. That’s not ideal, is it?”

  “I know.” Pete finally looked back at Daddy. “I’m sorry.”

  Daddy shrugged, his eyes still glittering.

  “It is what it is. So let’s get it over with, shall we? Jake—you’ll need to have a think what toys you might want, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  But Jake looked from one of them to the other—Daddy and Pete—and still nobody was moving, or seeming like they knew what on earth to do next, and Jake decided that if he didn’t do something, then none of them would. So he put the empty juice box down on the table with a loud, decisive thud.

  “My drawing things, Daddy,” he said. “That’s all I want.”

  Thirty-three

  Small triumphs on terrible days. You had to cling to them, Amanda thought, as she sat back down in the interview room across from Norman Collins. After the horrors she had seen last night, and the failure she felt at not finding Neil Spencer in time, she was ready for a little blood. And often the small victories were as much as you ever got.

  “Sorry about the interruption, Norman,” she said. “Let’s continue.”

  “Indeed. Let’s bring this to a swift conclusion, shall we?”

  “Absolutely.” She smiled politely. “Let’s do just that.”

  Collins folded his arms, smirking a little. Which didn’t surprise her. She’d understood from the moment she set eyes on him exactly what Pete had meant about there being something off about the man. He was the sort of person you instinctively crossed the street to avoid. The exaggerated formality of his attire struck her as being a kind of disguise—an attempt at respectability that failed to hide the unpleasantness beneath. And it was clear from his manner that he felt removed from other people. Superior to them, even.

  Twenty minutes into the interview, with an answer to every question she had offered, he’d probably had every reason to feel superior to her. But then Steph had knocked and leaned into the room, and Amanda had signaled a break. Now she reached over, turned the recording equipment back on, and ran through the preliminaries.

  Across from her, Collins sighed theatrically to himself. She looked down now at the sheet of paper she’d brought back in with her. It was going to be a pleasure to wipe the smirk off the creepy
fucker’s face.

  First things first, though.

  “Mr. Collins,” she said. “For clarity, let’s quickly go back over some of the ground we’ve already covered. In July of this year, you visited Victor Tyler in Whitrow prison. What was the purpose of that visit?”

  “I have an interest in crime. In certain circles, I am considered an expert. I was interested in talking to Mr. Tyler about his actions. Much the same, I’m sure, as the police have talked to him over the years.”

  Probably not quite the same, Amanda thought.

  “Did your conversation touch on Frank Carter?”

  “It did not.”

  “Are you aware that Tyler is friends with Carter?”

  “I was not.”

  “That seems strange. What with you being such an expert, and all.”

  “One can’t be expected to know everything.”

  Collins smiled. Amanda was sure he was lying, but the conversation between Collins and Tyler had not been recorded, and she had no way to prove it.

  “All right,” she said. “Your whereabouts on the afternoon and evening of Sunday the thirtieth of July this year, the evening Neil Spencer was abducted?”

  “I’ve already told you. I was at home for much of the afternoon. Later on, I walked to Town Street and dined in the restaurant there.”

  “It’s good that you recall so clearly.”

  Collins shrugged. “I am a creature of habit. It was a Sunday. When my mother was alive, we went together. Now I eat alone.”

  Amanda nodded to herself. The owner of the restaurant had verified this, which meant that Collins appeared to have a solid alibi for the period of time in which Neil Spencer had been abducted. And, while the search of his house was ongoing, officers had so far found nothing to suggest Neil had ever been held there. Collins, she was sure, was neck-deep in whatever was going on here somehow, but right now he seemed to be in the clear for the actual abduction of Neil Spencer.

  “Thirteen Garholt Street,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “You attempted to purchase the property.”

  “Indeed. It was for sale. I have no idea why that’s considered a crime.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “The house was on the market. I’ve lived where I do for a long time now, and it felt like time to spread my wings a little. Branch out on my own, so to speak.”

  “And then, when your acquisition was refused, you stalked the property anyway.”

  Collins shook his head.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Mr. Kennedy claims you tried to break into his garage.”

  “He is simply incorrect.”

  “A garage where the remains of a child have been discovered.”

  And Amanda had to give Collins credit then. While she had no doubt he was well aware of what had been found, he remembered to at least feign surprise. It wasn’t remotely convincing, but it was there.

  “That’s . . . shocking,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I believe you, Norman.”

  “I knew nothing about that.” He frowned. “Have you spoken to the seller? Perhaps you should.”

  “Right now I’m more interested in why you were so interested in the property.”

  “And I’ve told you: I wasn’t. This Mr. . . . Kennedy, was it? He is mistaken. I’ve been nowhere near his house.”

  Amanda stared at him, and Collins stared implacably back. One person’s word against another’s. Even if they could arrange a lineup and Kennedy identified Collins, she wasn’t sure that in itself would be enough to justify charges. The fact was that, right now, they couldn’t prove he knew about the remains in the garage. And he appeared to be in the clear for the abduction of Neil Spencer. Given some of the items in his collection, they might have him on stolen goods right now, but perhaps not even that.

  And the smug fucker knew it.

  Or thought he did.

  Amanda looked down at the sheet of paper Steph had given her—the results of the search on the fingerprints taken from Norman Collins upon his arrival. And even though she was no closer to pinning Neil Spencer on him, she felt a thrill nonetheless. She lived for moments like this. She wished Pete was here to savor it with her. God knew he deserved to feel it too.

  “Mr. Collins,” she said. “Could you tell me where you were on the evening of Tuesday, April fourth, this year?”

  Collins hesitated.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Amanda waited, still looking at the sheet of paper. That had gotten his attention, at least. Presumably, he’d been anticipating more questions about his activity on the day of Neil Spencer’s abduction, which he thought was safe ground to go over. But Amanda knew now that this date was an enormous black pit beneath his feet.

  “I’m not sure I recall,” Collins said carefully.

  “Let me help you, then. Were you in the vicinity of Hollingbeck Wood?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  “Well, your fingers were. Was the rest of you?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Your prints were found on the hammer that was used to murder Dominic Barnett there that night.”

  Amanda looked up, enjoying noticing the sweat bead on Collins’s forehead. A fussy, superior man—but one easily thrown off course, when it came to it. It was interesting to watch him going through his options, searching for a way out, and slowly realizing that he was in much more trouble than he’d thought.

  “No comment,” he said.

  Amanda shook her head. It was his right, of course, but the phrase had always rankled with her. You don’t have the right to remain silent, she always wanted to tell people. And right now she wanted Collins to take ownership of what he’d done rather than hiding away. Because there were other lives at stake.

  “It’s in your interests right now to tell me everything you know, Norman.” She rested her forearms on the table and tried to sound more sympathetic than she felt. “And not just your interests either. You say you had no involvement in the abduction of Neil Spencer. If you’re telling the truth, that means there’s a killer still out there right now.”

  “No comment.”

  “And unless we find him, that person is going to kill more children. I think you know a lot more about this person than you’re telling me.”

  Collins stared at her, his face completely pale. Amanda didn’t think she’d ever seen a man melt so fast—to collapse from smug self-confidence into a puddle of self-pitying misery with such speed.

  “No comment,” he whispered.

  “Norman—”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “Well, we can certainly arrange that.” She stood up quickly, not bothering to hide the anger she felt. The disgust. “Maybe then you’ll realize how much trouble you’re really in, and that cooperating with us is the best chance you’ve got.”

  “No comment.”

  “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

  Small victories.

  But as she formally arrested Norman Collins for the murder of Dominic Barnett, Amanda thought about everything she’d said. If he was telling the truth about not killing Neil Spencer, then a child killer was still out there—which meant another little boy might die on her watch.

  Her mind flashed back to the sight of Neil Spencer on the waste ground last night, and any of the elation she might normally feel vanished entirely.

  A small victory wasn’t good enough.

  Thirty-four

  The police presence at the house had intensified in my absence. We arrived to find two cars and a van parked outside, with officers and crime scene investigators working in the taped-off driveway. The focus of the activity appeared to be the garage, but two police officers were stationed on the pavement to secure the whole property. My front door was open too—an incongruous sight to return home to, and one that felt invasive and wrong.

  I pulled up after the other vehicles. My father’s car drove past, then parked in front of me.r />
  Not my father, I reminded myself.

  DI Pete Willis.

  There was no need to acknowledge him as anything else, was there? And with the exception of the way he’d knelt down and looked at Jake, there was no sign he wanted to acknowledge it either. That was a situation I was more than happy to go along with.

  The shock had subsided a little now, but only in the way I imagined there might be a few beats of silence after an earthquake hit before the screaming started. I could still remember how it had felt like at the police station, my father standing there, looking back at me, seeing me. My mind had immediately leaped back to the long-ago time when I’d last seen him, and I’d felt small and powerless. I had been transported. The fear and anxiety. The desire to diminish myself so that he might not notice me. But then the anger had come. He had no fucking right to talk to my son. And then the resentment. The fact that he got to be involved in my life—in a position of power over me, even—seemed so deeply unfair that I almost couldn’t bear it.

  “Are you all right, Daddy?”

  “I’m fine, mate.”

  I was staring at the car in front of me. At the man in the driver’s seat.

  His name is DI Pete Willis, I reminded myself, and he means nothing to you.

  Nothing at all.

  Not if I didn’t let him.

  “Right,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He met us at the cordon, showed his identification to the officers there, and then led us into the house without saying anything. The resentment flowered again. I needed his permission to enter my own fucking home. It felt humiliating to follow him inside like a boy who had to do what he was told. And it was made worse by the fact that he seemed so indifferent to it all.

  He had a clipboard and pen.

  “I need to know what’s yours, and what was here when you moved in that you haven’t touched.”

  “Everything in the house is mine,” I said. “Mrs. Shearing cleared all the older stuff out to the garage.”

  “We’ll check with her, don’t worry.”