“I think that’s wise.”

“But now we have Neil Spencer. We have the whispers and the monster. And we have Frank fucking Carter sitting there, knowing something about it.”

She waited.

“And I don’t know what to do about it,” Pete said. “Carter isn’t going to tell us anything. And we’ve been over his known associates a hundred times. They’re all clear.”

Amanda thought about it. “Copycat?”

“Possibly. But Carter wasn’t guessing back in that room. The whispers never made it to the press, and he knew about them. No visitors aside from me. The correspondence he receives is all vetted. So how does he know?”

His frustration was suddenly so palpable that she was surprised he didn’t hit the table. Instead, he shook his head again and looked away to one side. At least it had brought him back to life a little, Amanda thought. That was a good thing. Fuck calm—she was a keen believer in the idea that rage was a good motivator, and God knew there were times when you needed something to keep you going. At the same time, she could tell that a great deal of Pete’s anger was directed inward: that he blamed himself for not having been able to get to the truth. And that was no good. She was an equally keen believer in the idea that guilt was about as unhelpful as emotions got. Once you let guilt get ahold of you, the bastard never let go.

“Carter was never going to help us,” she said. “Not willingly.”

“No.”

“The dream about Tony Smith—?”

He waved it away.

“That’s just business as usual. I’ve heard all that before. I have no doubt he killed Tony, and that he knows exactly where he left him. But he’s never going to say. Not when it’s something to hold over us. Over me.”

It was clear to her now how much going to see Carter took out of Pete. And yet, as hard as it must be, he went regardless—still put himself through the ordeal, because finding Tony Smith meant that much to him. But Carter had found a new game to play now, and they had to focus on that. While she understood Pete’s turmoil, the fact remained that Tony Smith had been dead for a long time, while Neil Spencer could still be alive.

Was still alive.

“Well, he’s got another hold over us now,” Amanda said. “But remember something. You said that you go to see him in case he gives information away by accident.”

“Yes.”

“Well, he has—he knows something, doesn’t he? That can’t have happened by magic. So we have to work out how.”

When he didn’t reply, she thought about it herself.

No visitors. No unvetted correspondence.

“What about friends inside?” she said.

“He’s got loads of those.”

“Which is surprising on one level. Child killer and all.”

“There was never a sexual element to the murders, which helps him a bit. And physically, he’s still an absolute monster. Plus, there’s the celebrity of it all—all that Whisper Man rubbish. He has his own little kingdom in there.”

“Okay. So who’s he closest to?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“But we can find out, right?” Amanda leaned forward. “Maybe he’s been passed the information secondhand? Someone visits one of his friends. Friend tells Carter. Carter talks to you.”

Pete considered that. A moment later, he looked annoyed with himself for not having thought of it himself. She felt a flush of pride—not that she needed to impress him, of course. She just needed him motivated, or at least not walking so obviously wounded.

“Yes.” He stood up. “That’s a good idea.”

“So do it.” She hesitated. “Not that it’s my place to give you things to do. But that would be a way forward for us, wouldn’t it? If you’ve got time.”

“I’ve got the time.”

But he paused at the door.

“There’s another thing,” he said. “You said Carter had given something away—that he knows about the whispers somehow.”

“Right.”

“But there’s also the timing. For two months now, he’s been refusing to see me. That’s never happened before. And suddenly he changes his mind and wants to see me.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t know for sure. But we might need to prepare ourselves for there being a reason for that.”

It took a second for her to understand what he was implying, and then she looked back at the photo of Neil Spencer, not wanting to think about the possibility.

It won’t come to that.

Except that Pete was right. There had been two months without a single development or break in the case. Perhaps Carter’s decision to talk meant one was about to come.

Seventeen

At lunch break, Jake sat by himself on a bench in the playground, watching the other children running around getting all hot and sweaty. It was very noisy and they all seemed oblivious to him. This was a new school year, but his class had all known each other for a long time, and it had become apparent that morning that they weren’t all that interested in knowing anyone else. Which was okay. Jake would have been happier sitting inside drawing, but you weren’t allowed, so he had to sit out here next to some bushes instead, kicking his legs and waiting for the bell to ring.

You start school tomorrow.

I’m sure you’ll make lots of new friends.

Quite often, Daddy didn’t know how wrong he was. Although Jake wondered if perhaps he did, because the way he’d said it had sounded more hopeful than anything else, and maybe deep down they had both known it was never going to turn out that way. Mummy would have told him it didn’t matter, and she would have made him believe it too. But Jake thought that it did matter to Daddy. Jake was aware that he could be very disappointing sometimes.

The morning had basically gone okay, at least. They had practiced some basic multiplication tables, which were all pretty easy, and that was good. The classroom had a traffic light system on the wall for bad behavior, and everybody’s name was currently on the green area at the bottom. George, the classroom assistant, was nice, but Mrs. Shelley, the class teacher, seemed very stern indeed, and Jake really didn’t want to move up to yellow on his first day. He couldn’t make friends, but he could at least manage that. That was really your job at school—to do what you were told and fill in the answers to the blanks, and not cause any problems by thinking up too many questions of your own.

Crunch.

Jake flinched as a soccer ball crashed into the bushes beside him. He had already memorized the names of all the children in his class, and it was Owen who came sprinting over to retrieve it. He was coming for the ball but glaring at Jake the whole time, which made Jake think the kick might have been deliberate. Unless Owen was just really bad at soccer.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah. I know it’s okay.”

Owen pulled the ball roughly out of the branches, still glaring at Jake as though it were all his fault, and then stalked away. Which didn’t make sense. Perhaps Owen was just really stupid. Even so, it might be better to move.

“Hello, Jake.”