by Alex North
“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.
Again, he said nothing.
Carter shook his head in disapproval.
“I told you last time, Peter. That’s the problem with you, you know? I make this big effort to talk to you. I go to all these great lengths to tell you things and be helpful. And sometimes it feels like you’re not listening to me at all.”
“It ends where it begins,” Pete said. “I understand that now.”
“A bit too late for Neil Spencer, though.”
“What I’m interested in is how you knew that, Frank.”
“And like I said, that’s the problem with you.” Carter leaned back. The weight of him made the chair creak. “You don’t listen. Honestly, what do I care about some fucking kid? That’s not even what I was referring to.”
“No?”
“Not at all.” He leaned forward again, suddenly more engaged, and Pete resisted the urge to flinch. “Hey—here’s another one. Do you remember what you said about people in the outside world forgetting me?”
Pete thought back, then nodded. “You told me it wasn’t true.”
“That’s right. Ha, ha! And you understand that now, I guess? You get how wrong you were. Because all along there was this whole bunch of people out there you didn’t know about who have stayed real interested in me.”
Carter’s eyes gleamed at that. Pete could only imagine the amount of pleasure he must have taken over the years, knowing he had fans like Norman Collins visiting the house where Tony Smith’s remains had been left, treating the place as though it were some kind of shrine. Even more, he must have delighted in holding a secret like that over Pete for all this time—knowing that while Pete had been searching incessantly for the missing child, others had been finding Tony so very easily.
“Yes, Frank. I was wrong. I know that now. And I’m sure the whole experience was very flattering for you. The Whisper Man.” He pulled a face. “Your legend living on.”
Carter grinned. “In so many ways.”
“So let’s talk about some of the others.”
Carter said nothing, but he glanced down at the envelope and his smile broadened. He wasn’t going to be tricked into talking about Neil Spencer’s killer. Pete knew that if he was going to learn anything, he would have to read between the lines, and that meant keeping the man talking. And while Carter might be deliberately vague on some subjects, Pete was sure he would be more than happy to talk about the visitors to the house over the years, at least now that the secret was out.
“All right,” Pete said. “Why Victor Tyler?”
“Ah, Vic’s a good man.”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it. But what I actually meant is, why use an intermediary to arrange all this?”
“It wouldn’t do much good to be accessible, would it, Peter?” Carter shook his head. “If everyone could see God, how many people would bother going to church? It’s better to keep some distance. Better for them too, of course. Safer. I imagine you’ve checked my visits over the years?”
“I’m the only person you see.”
“And what an honor, right?” He laughed.
“What about the money?”
“What about it?”
“Tyler was paid—or his wife was, at least. Simpson was too, and then Barnett after him. But not you.”
“What do I care about money?” Carter looked affronted. “Everything I want in life is free now. Vic—like I said, he’s a good man, a decent man. And Julian did right by me too. It’s only fair they should get something for that. Never knew Barnett, and couldn’t care less. But it’s good those people paid to visit the place. They should fucking pay. I’m worth it, aren’t I?”
“No.”
Carter laughed again. “Maybe, after you arrest them all, they’ll even end up in here with me. That’ll be a real kick for them, won’t it? They’d enjoy that, I bet.”
Not as much as you, Pete thought.
He picked up the envelope and took out the photographs he had brought with him: a thin pile of CCTV stills taken of the visitors Victor Tyler had received over the years. An image of Norman Collins was on top, and he slid it carefully across the table to Carter.
“Do you recognize this man?”
Carter barely glanced at it.
“No.”
A second photograph: “What about this man?”
“I don’t know any of these fucking people, Peter.” Carter rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t listen. You want to know who these people are, go ask Vic.”
“We will.”
In fact, he and Amanda had interviewed Tyler an hour earlier, and Tyler had enjoyed the situation substantially less than his friend Carter appeared to be doing. He was angry and refusing to cooperate. Pete supposed that was understandable, given that his wife was also implicated, but silence wasn’t going to save either of them. Likewise, the visitors they’d identified—among whom Pete was sure they would find Neil Spencer’s killer—were in the process of being hunted down and questioned.
All except one.
Pete slid another photograph onto the table. It showed a younger man, perhaps in his twenties or early thirties. Average height and build. Black glasses. Shoulder-length brown hair. He had visited Tyler on a number of occasions, most recently in the week before Neil Spencer had been killed.
“What about this man?”
/> Carter didn’t look at the photo. He stared at Pete and smiled.
“This is the one you’re interested in, isn’t it?”
Pete didn’t reply.
“You’re so predictable, Peter. So obvious. You soften me up with two, then hit me with the one that matters so you can watch my reaction. This is your guy, isn’t it? Or at least you think it is?”
“You’re very clever, Frank. Do you recognize this man?”
Carter stared back for a moment longer. But even as he did, his cuffed hands reached out and brought the photograph closer to him. The movement was uncanny, as though his hands were being operated by something separate from the rest of him. His head didn’t move. His expression didn’t change.
Then he looked down, studying the image.
“Ah,” he said softly.
Pete watched the man’s huge chest rising and falling as he breathed slowly, taking in the details before him.
“Tell me about this man, Peter,” Carter said.
“I’m more interested in what you know.”
Pete waited him out. Eventually Carter looked up, then tapped the photograph gently with one huge finger.
“This man is a bit smarter than the others, isn’t he? He used a false name to visit, but he had the paperwork to back it up. You’ve looked into it, and you know it wasn’t real.”
That was true. The man had provided identification at the time of his visits: his name was Liam Adams, he was twenty-nine years old, and he lived with his parents, thirty miles away from Featherbank. Officers had arrived at the property first thing that morning, only to be met with blank incomprehension—and then horror—on the faces of Liam’s parents.
Because their son had died over a decade ago.
“Go on,” Pete told Carter.
“Do you know how easy it is to buy a new identity, Peter? Much simpler than you imagine. And like I said, he’s clever, this one. If you want to send a message to someone these days, you have to be, don’t you? This right here.” Carter lowered his voice. “This is a man who takes care.”
“Tell me more about him, Frank.”
But instead of answering, Carter stared down at the photograph again for a few more seconds, studying it. It was as though he were looking at someone he’d heard a great deal about and was now curious to see him finally. But then he sniffed loudly, suddenly uninterested in whatever he saw, and pushed the photo back across the table.
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And like I said, that’s always been your problem.”
Carter smiled at him, but his eyes had gone blank now.
“You just don’t listen, Peter.”
* * *
Pete didn’t let his frustration out until he was back at the car, where Amanda was waiting for him. He clambered into the passenger seat and slammed the door, the photographs he was carrying spilling from his hand onto the floor mat.
“Shit.”
He leaned over and gathered them together, even though only one was important. After he’d rammed the others back into the envelope, he kept that picture out, resting it on top of his knees. A man with a dead teenager’s name, with black glasses and brown hair that could easily be a disguise, or have been changed by now. The man could be almost any age. He could be almost anyone.
“I am guessing,” Amanda said, “that Carter was not forthcoming?”
“He was his usual charming self.”
Pete ran a hand through his hair, angry with himself. The last time, yes, and he had survived it. But as always, he had come out of the conversation with nothing, even though Carter knew something.
“Fucker,” he said.
“Tell me,” Amanda said.
He took a moment to compose himself, and then ran through the conversation in detail. The idea that he didn’t listen to Carter was rubbish; of course he listened to him. Every conversation with Carter seeped into him. The words were the opposite of sweat, soaking in and leaving him clammy on the inside.
When he was done, Amanda considered it.
“You think Carter knows who this man is?”
“I’m not sure.” Pete looked down at the photograph. “Maybe. He certainly knows something about him. Or perhaps he doesn’t, and he’s just enjoying seeing me scrabble around, trying to make sense of his every fucking word.”
“You’re swearing more than usual, Pete.”
“I’m angry.”
You just don’t listen.
“Run through it again,” Amanda said patiently. “Not this visit. The last one. That’s what he said you hadn’t been listening to, right?”
Pete hesitated, then thought back.
“It always ends where it starts,” he said. “It started at the waste ground, so that’s where Neil Spencer was always going to be returned to. Except Carter said that wasn’t what he’d meant.”
“So what did he mean?”
“Who knows?” Pete wanted to throw up his hands. “Then there was the dream about Tony Smith. But that wasn’t real. He just made that up to taunt me.”
Amanda was silent for a few seconds.
“But if so,” she said, “he made it up a certain way. And you said it yourself—that’s why you visit him. You’ve always hoped he’d give something away without meaning to.”
Pete was ready to protest, but she was right. If the dream hadn’t been real, then Carter must have conjured it up himself, choosing to describe it in the way he had. And it was possible some truth had slipped out through the gaps there.
He ran through it in his mind now.
“He wasn’t sure it was Tony.”
“In the dream?”
“Yes.” Pete nodded. “The boy’s T-shirt was pulled up over his face, so he couldn’t see it properly. He said that was the way he liked it.”
“Just like Neil Spencer.”
“Yes.”
“None of which was ever made public.” Amanda shook her head in frustration. “And Carter was a sadist. Why wouldn’t he want to see the faces of his victims?”
Pete had no answer to that. Carter had always refused to discuss his motivations. But while there had never been any apparent sexual element to the murders, Amanda was right: he had hurt those children badly, and it was clear he was a sadist. As to why he covered their faces, there were countless possible explanations for that. If you asked five different profilers—and they had at the time—you got five different answers. Perhaps it was to make the victims physically easier to control. Or to muffle sound. To disorientate them. To scare them. To stop them from seeing him. To stop him from seeing them. One of the reasons profiling was such bullshit was that different offenders almost always had massively different reasons for the exact same behavior, and …
Pete hesitated.
“All these bastards are the same,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“That’s what Carter told me.” He frowned. “Something like that, anyway. When he was talking about which of the children it was in the dream. All these bastards are the same. Any one will do.”
“Go on.”
But he fell silent again, trying to think through the implications and feeling that some kind of understanding was suddenly within reach. It hadn’t mattered to Carter who he had been hurting. More than that, he hadn’t wanted to see the victims’ faces at all.
But why?
To stop him from seeing them.
Was that perhaps because he had wanted to imagine someone else in their place? Pete stared down at the photograph again—at the man who could be anyone—and recalled the strange look on Carter’s face. Despite himself, he had been curious about the man in the photo. Once again, it had been as though he were seeing someone he had been interested in for a long time but was only finally laying eyes on. It made Pete think of something else. How he had fought so hard not to think of Tom over the years, and yet had found it impossible not to evaluate him when they had met. How even though t
races remained of the boy, the man was so different from the little boy he remembered.
Because children change so much.
I’ve told you everything I know.
And now Pete remembered a different child. Another little boy—small and scared and malnourished, hiding behind his mother’s legs as Pete unlocked the door to Frank Carter’s extension.
A little boy who would now be in his late twenties.
“Bring me my family,” Pete remembered. “That bitch and that little cunt.”
He looked up at Amanda, finally understanding.
“That’s what I didn’t listen to.”
Forty-three
Just before lunchtime, there was a knock at the door.
I looked up from my laptop. The first thing I’d done after dropping Jake at school that morning had been to google Karen. She’d been easy enough to find: Karen Shaw had bylines for dozens of online articles at the local paper, including pieces that covered the abduction and murder of Neil Spencer. I’d read each of them with an increasingly sick feeling in my stomach: not just fear over what she might write next—all those private details I’d revealed to her yesterday in the coffee shop—but also a sense of betrayal. I’d allowed myself to imagine that she was genuinely interested in me, and now I felt stupid, as though I’d been conned in some way.
The knock came again: a quiet, tentative sound, as though whoever was outside was undecided if they wanted me to hear or not. And I thought I knew who I would find out there. I put the laptop to one side and went to the door.
Karen, standing on the front step.
I leaned against the wall and folded my arms.
“Are you bugged under that thing?”
I nodded at the big overcoat. She winced.
“Can I come in for a minute?”
“What for?”
“I just … want to explain. It won’t take long.”
“There’s no need.”
“I think there is.”
She looked contrite—ashamed, even—but I remembered my mother telling me that explanations and apologies were almost always for the person making them, and I felt an urge to tell Karen she could make herself feel better on her own time. But her apparent vulnerability right now was such a stark contrast to her manner during our previous encounters that I couldn’t. It looked like she was doing this because it really did matter to her.