The Whisper Man

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I hope it works out for you.’ He waved at the barman. ‘Whisky. A single malt. You choose. Two lumps of ice.’

  The barman nodded and turned to look at a line of bottles.

  ‘He’ll choose Laphroaig,’ said Simon quietly.

  Jasmine looked over at the barman and sure enough he reached for the Laphroaig bottle and poured a measure into a glass. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m good at reading people. It’s my skill.’

  ‘Your skill?’

  ‘Or gift.’ He smiled. ‘Or curse.’

  She laughed and sipped her wine, looking at him over the top of her glass. The barman dropped two cubes of ice in the glass and put it down in front of Simon. He nodded his thanks, picked it up, and sipped it. The smell of whisky reminded Jasmine of her father. In fact pretty much everything about Simon made her think of her father, dead now for more than ten years. ‘Are you here to meet someone?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m always open to meeting new people,’ he said. ‘And I much prefer doing it in the real world.’

  ‘So you hang out in bars, looking for women?’

  He chuckled. ‘I’m open to any opportunity,’ he said.

  ‘And you didn’t tell me what you did. For a living?’

  ‘Isn’t that the strangest phrase?’ he said. ‘Asking people what they do for a living. As if their job defines their life. It always seems to me that if you’re working, you’re not living, right?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He was very good at avoiding answering questions, she realised. Maybe that was another skill he had.

  ‘And what do you do,’ he asked. ‘For a living?’

  ‘I’m a student.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘And I work for Amnesty International,’ she said. ‘As a volunteer.’

  ‘So you want to make the world a better place?’

  ‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone?’

  He laughed and didn’t answer the question. ‘So you’re good at reading people?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes, and not in a swipe right-swipe left kind of way. I usually have a good idea of what drives people, and of what holds them back.’

  ‘Can you read me?’

  He leaned closer to her. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But do you really want me to?’

  ‘I’d like to know what you think about me, yes.’

  He smiled and held her look. ‘I’ll have to whisper,’ he said.

  ‘Whisper?’

  ‘It’s for your ears only.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. She leaned closer and he put his arm around her shoulder. She could smell mint on his breath as he began to whisper in her ear.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nightingale smeared Colgate toothpaste on his toothbrush and bared his teeth at his reflection. He was quite proud of his teeth. No fillings, not too big, not too small, evenly spaced out. He gave his teeth a hard time what with his fondness for coffee and cigarettes, but other than a clean and polish every six months they needed very little work. He began to brush. His mind drifted back to what the priest had said about suicide. Nightingale had met dozens of potential suicides during his years as a police negotiator, and more than a few who had gone through with it. People in crisis, they were referred to in Met-speak. Nightingale doubted that he would ever consider ending it all but then he was reasonably young and in fairly good health. If one day he was old and facing a painful death, maybe he would take the easy way out. He finished cleaning his upper teeth and started on the lower ones. Young people killing themselves was something he could never come to terms with. When you were young, your whole life was ahead of you and death was final. It wasn’t a video game where you started afresh. And what about the people who were left behind. How could parents possibly deal with the suicide of a child? And what about Lucy Clarke’s six year-old daughter. How would she ever come to terms with her mother’s suicide? Would a six-year-old even realise what had happened? Why would a mother kill herself knowing that she was leaving a young daughter behind?

  Nightingale stiffened as he heard a sniff behind him. He whirled around but there was nobody there. He snorted softly. Of course there was nobody there. He was alone in the flat. He turned back to the mirror and began brushing again.

  There was another sniff behind him. He moved his head slightly and in the mirror something moved. He stopped brushing and moved his head again. There was a blur over his left shoulder. He turned but there was no one there. ‘Lucy?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’ There was no response and he shook his head at his stupidity. He looked back at the mirror and this time he saw only his reflection. He smiled and his reflection smiled back. ‘You’re jumping at shadows,’ he said to himself.

  As he started brushing again he found himself thinking about Lucy Clarke on the train platform, the way her face had been a complete blank, devoid of all emotion, yet she had been determined to end her life. How could her life have gone so wrong that she wanted to end it all by throwing herself in front of a train? And why would a mother want to leave her daughter alone in the world? He heard another sniff behind him but he ignored it.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jasmine stared at the knife block. It was made of oak, with slots for nine knives. One of the knives was in the sink. She pulled out one from the back. It was a bread knife. She wrinkled her nose and put it back. The one next to it was a carving knife. It was rarely used. She and her two flatmates were more microwaved ready meals than Sunday roasts. The blade looked sharp, and it glinted under the overhead fluorescent lights.

  She sat down at the kitchen table. She had a Cartier watch on her left wrist. The watch had belonged to her father and it was the only watch she ever wore. It was two o’clock in the morning. She didn’t feel in the least bit sleepy. In fact, she didn’t feel anything at all. Just numb. She put down the knife and undid the watch strap, then put it down on the table next to the knife. Why was the knife there? She frowned at it. She was supposed to be doing something. But what? She stroked the watch. She missed her father. She missed him each day from the moment she woke up and remembered that he wasn’t there, until she closed her eyes to sleep and said a silent ‘good night’ to him. She looked at the knife and stared at her reflection in the cold steel. She looked pale. Like a ghost. She turned her right hand towards herself and looked at the thin blue veins running from her elbow into her hand. Veins or arteries? She could never remember. She placed the blade of her knife against the wrist. She missed her father so much. She closed her eyes and for a moment she thought she could smell him again. Orange and lavender and whisky. She opened her eyes and looked at the knife, frowning as if she was seeing it for the first time.

  ‘Cut down, not across,’ something whispered in her ear. She turned but there was nobody there. She looked back at the knife. ‘And cut deep,’ said the voice. ‘Daddy’s waiting.’

  She twisted her wrist so that the point of the knife was pressing at the base of her left hand. She pushed and the blade went in. There was no pain, just the numbness. She drew the knife back, cutting deep, and blood oozed from the wound, then began to spurt as she severed the arteries. Or veins. She still wasn’t sure which.

  CHAPTER 10

  On a list of people Jack Nightingale never wanted to see waiting in the street outside his office, the top three were the VAT Inspector, the Angel of Death and Superintendent Ronald Chalmers of the Metropolitan Police CID. The order of non-preference varied, but Chalmers certainly seemed to visit more often than the other two and had fewer redeeming qualities. Nightingale’s heart sank as he saw the familiar figure of his least favourite policeman as he showed up bright and early, ready to start a day’s work. Standing next to him was DS Dave Mason, whom Nightingale knew by sight, and had nothing against.

  ‘What do you want, Chalmers?’ he asked, with no trace of warmth.

  Chalmers went for the same tone. ‘It’s Superintendent Chalmers to you, Nightingale. We need to talk.’ He was in plainclothes with a dark overcoat that might have been cas
hmere over a dark blue suit. Mason had a cheaper coat and a grey suit.

  ‘It’s Mister Nightingale to you, Chalmers, and I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  ‘That’s what you think. Anyway, it’s up to you, we can talk here or I’ll take you down the station.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  The Superintendent shrugged. ‘I’ll think of something. Outraging public decency with those shoes of yours?’

  Despite himself, Nightingale glanced down at his latest Hush Puppies, which bore traces of several takeaways, regular Corona splashes and a fleck or two of ash. He sighed in resignation, and took the two visitors upstairs. For once he had beaten Jenny so he unlocked the office door and walked in, trying to give the impression he didn’t care whether Chalmers followed him in or not. He hung his raincoat on the back of the door, then went through to his own office and sat down at his desk

  Chalmers sat. Mason took a chair behind him and opened his notebook.

  ‘Right then first things first,’ he said. ‘We had another suicide last night. A university student, good family, all set for a first at University College London, keen tennis player, worked for Amnesty International. She shared a flat with two other girls and according to them she was bright and cheerful and had everything to live for. Jasmine Macdonald. Do you know her?’

  Nightingale shook his head.

  ‘Do you need to check your files?’

  ‘Jasmine is an unusual enough name. I’d have remembered. How did she kill herself?’

  ‘She sat down at the kitchen table and used a carving knife to cut both wrists. Not little slashes either, deep cuts down the middle of the arm to the wrist. She bled out in seconds.’

  Nightingale winced at the image.

  ‘No note, no history of depression, just a girl who decided for no apparent reason to end her life.’

  ‘And you think this is in some way connected to me?’

  Chalmers sighed. ‘No, I’m just clutching at straws but you were there at one of the suicides, I just hoped…’ He shrugged.

  ‘I was at the wrong place at the wrong time,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What about Donna Moore? Is that name familiar?’

  Nightingale frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘She was sitting on her sofa watching Love Island and mid-way through walked over to the window and jumped out.’

  ‘I’m guessing she didn’t live on the ground floor,’ said Nightingale.

  The policeman’s eyes hardened. ‘Do you think this is funny?’

  ‘I was trying to lighten the moment, that’s all.’

  ‘A woman died, Nightingale. She was on the ninth floor and we have half a dozen people who will be suffering nightmares for many years to come after they saw her hit the pavement. Miss Moore posted on Facebook a few hours before she killed herself. It was a bit strange. Something along the lines of “The Whisper Man tells it like it is, he knows how the world is, how it hates me and why I’d be better off elsewhere.” About half a dozen of her friends replied, asking what had happened, but she didn’t respond.’

  ‘History of depression?’

  Chalmers shook his head. ‘The opposite. Life and soul of the party. So have you ever heard of this “Whisper Man”? You being involved in the spooky world.’

  ‘Can’t say I have, no,’ said Nightingale. ‘Two suicides isn’t unusual, you know that.’

  ‘We’ve had a lot more than two,’ said Chalmers. ‘Most are explainable. Depression. Family troubles. Illness. But including the two I’ve mentioned, we’ve had six recently. Two have jumped from tall buildings, one jumped in front of the Tube. Not yours, this was another.’

  ‘Please don’t call Lucy Clarke mine,’ said Nightingale.

  Chalmers held up an apologetic hand. ‘One drank bleach. And drain cleaner. Jasmine is the latest.’

  ‘And why do you think they’re connected?’

  Chalmers sighed. ‘We’ve combed through the social media accounts of all the people who have died, and there’s no mention of a “Whisper Man” anywhere else. But when the relatives were interviewed with a view to assessing the mental state of their victims, it became apparent that they had all met someone significant a day or two before they died.’

  ‘Significant?’

  ‘Three said they had met a good looking guy who had chatted them up. Another said she was in love. I can’t help wondering if it’s more than a coincidence.’

  ‘Women meet good-looking men and kill themselves?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I didn’t say it made any sense, I just said it might be more than a coincidence,’ said Chalmers.

  ‘Coincidences happen,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘True. But people do have a habit of meeting unusual ends around you. I thought it was worth asking you about it.’ He shuddered, then rolled his shoulders and steadied himself. ‘Right, so tell me about Simon Dixon,’ he said. ‘And him I am sure you are aware of.’

  ‘Who?’ said Nightingale, feigning innocence.

  Chalmers nodded and gave a long-suffering smile. ‘Professor Simon Stanley Dixon of Larkrise, Beech Drive, Twickenham.’

  Nightingale widened his eyes. ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’ asked Chalmers, tilting his head on one side.

  ‘When a policeman gives you a middle name and address for somebody, it’s rarely good news. I doubt the Met would send you round if he’d been done for littering.’

  ‘You’re not much of a comedian, Nightingale, never have been. Now once again, tell me what you know about him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m a policeman, and I’m asking you. If you don’t answer, I’m going to take you in for withholding information and ask you all over again in an interrogation room with a tape running.’

  Nightingale sighed. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘You admit to knowing him?’

  ‘It’s not a crime to know someone. I met him once.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Monday, here. Ten a.m. Until around eleven.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘His wife had left him, he wanted me to find her.’

  ‘So he was a client?’ He pointed a warning finger at Nightingale. ‘Do not fuck me around, Nightingale. Just answer my questions. Now, what services did you provide?’

  ‘I said I’d be no use to him. Tracing a missing person is police work. He said he’d reported them missing, but the police weren’t taking it all that seriously.’

  Chalmers grunted. ‘No evidence of a crime, not then,’ he said. ‘So, you turned him down?’

  ‘Yeah. Not my kind of thing.’

  Chalmers thought for a minute or so. Then he spotted the flaw in Nightingale’s story. The man was an ass, but he was an experienced and competent detective.

  ‘So, if he told you about his missing wife, and you said no, why did he stay an hour?’

  Fair point, thought Nightingale. He hated lying, especially to the police, it always involved improvising, getting in too deep and trying to remember the stuff you’d fed them.

  ‘Background, not that it was much help. He had no idea why she’d gone. Anyway, I don’t swear to how long he stayed. I just schedule my appointments in hour blocks. Is the timing crucial?’

  ‘Not on Monday,’ admitted Chalmers. ‘You never saw him again?’

  ‘So, he’s dead?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You said “never saw”. If he was still alive it would be “haven’t seen”. Probably. I’m not really a grammar Nazi. Why don’t you just get to the point?’

  Chalmers sighed. ‘Alright, he’s dead. Found this morning when the cleaner let herself in. It wasn’t pretty, apparently.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Suspicious.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘I’m not here to discuss an open investigation with a civilian. I just wanted to know your connection with the man. Your name seems to come up in
connection with a lot of dead people.’

  ‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t remember ever being charged in connection with anything.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Anyway, what do you mean my name came up?’

  ‘Two things. First of all your card was in his wallet, which was enough to set off alarm bells.’

  ‘Well, now you know why.’

  ‘The second thing was a little odder. Take a look, it’s been dusted and analysed.’ He took a book from his coat pocket and placed it onto the desk.

  Nightingale frowned at it. It was a brown book, around the size of the average paperback, but bound in old, cracked brown leather. The front bore some characters he didn’t recognise, and an embossed outline of a bird. He touched the cover briefly, and felt a tingling in his fingertips, as if an electric current had run through him. Was he becoming sensitive to the occult, or had he just imagined it?

  He raised his eyebrows at Chalmers, who didn’t appear to have noticed his reaction.

  ‘I deduce it’s a book,’ said Nightingale. ‘Does that help?’ He was fairly sure that it was the book Professor Dixon had talked about, in which case he knew what he would see inside. Names and dates. Nightingale was getting a bad feeling about what was happening.

  ‘Always the funnyman. Open it. Read it.’

  ‘Is it okay to touch it?’

  ‘It’s not evidence,’ said the superintendent. ‘Not material evidence, anyway.’

  Nightingale did as instructed. The pages were black, with a name and a date on each one, written in some kind of gold ink. He flicked through them all, not recognising any except the last two, but he kept his face expressionless when he read Dennis Jackson 24 October and Sheila Fletcher 6 February. Dennis Jackson had died leaving a job opening for Professor Dixon. And Sheila Fletcher was the woman whose job Mrs Dixon had taken. He looked up at Chalmers. ‘A list of names and dates. Never heard of any of them. So what?’

  ‘Keep reading.’

  Nightingale turned the page. Simon Dixon, 7 March. ‘That’s yesterday,’ he said.