The Whisper Man

There was nothing untoward about that, of course, but the idea still made Pete feel a little queasy. Children were supposed to grow up, move out, and fashion their own lives; to do otherwise suggested some kind of unhealthy dependency or deficiency. Perhaps it was simply because Pete had met Collins. He remembered him as soft and doughy, and always sweating, as though there were something rotten inside him that was constantly seeping out. He was the kind of man who it was easy to imagine might have kept his mother’s bedroom carefully preserved over the years, or taken to sleeping in her bed.

And yet, as much as he’d raised Pete’s hackles, Norman Collins had not been Frank Carter’s accomplice.

There was some consolation to be had there. Whatever Collins’s involvement right now, Pete hadn’t missed him at the time. While the man had never officially been a suspect, he had been very much suspected. His alibis had checked out, though. If someone really had been helping Carter, it was physically impossible for it to have been Norman Collins.

So what had he been doing at the prison?

Maybe nothing. And yet Carter had to have received communication from the outside world somehow, and as Pete parked outside Collins’s house, he felt a small thrill inside him. Better not to hope too much, of course. But he still had the sense that they were on the right track here, even if it wasn’t clear right now where it was leading.

He approached the house. The small front garden was untended and overgrown, filled with sweeping whorls of grass that had collapsed down upon themselves. A bush close to the house was so thick that he had to turn sideways and scrape past to reach the front door. He knocked. The wood beneath his knuckles felt weak and flimsy, half eaten away. The front of the house had been painted white at some point, but so much had flaked away since that it reminded Pete of an old lady’s face plastered with cracked makeup.

He was about to knock again when he heard movement on the other side of the door. It opened, but only to the limit of a chain. There had been no sound of it being applied, which meant Collins liked to keep his property nice and secure, even when he was home.

“Yes?”

Norman Collins didn’t recognize Pete, but Pete remembered him well enough. Twenty years had barely changed him, beyond his monk’s hair having grown bright white. The top of his head was mottled and red, like something angry that needed to be burst. And even though he was presumably relaxing at home, he was dressed almost absurdly formally, in a dapper little suit and waistcoat.

Pete held out his identification.

“Hello, Mr. Collins. I’m DI Peter Willis. You might not remember me, but we met a few times years ago?”

Collins’s gaze flicked from the identification to Pete’s face, and then his expression became tight and tense. He remembered, all right.

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

Pete put the ID away.

“Can I come in for a chat? I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

Collins hesitated, glancing behind him into the shadowy depths of the house. Pete could already see beads of sweat appearing on the man’s forehead.

“It’s not the most convenient time. What is it regarding?”

“I’d prefer to talk inside, Mr. Collins.”

He waited. Collins was a stuffy little man, and Pete was confident he wouldn’t want the silence to become awkward. After a few seconds, Collins relented.

“Very well.”

The door closed, and then opened fully this time. Pete stepped into a drab square of hallway, with stairs leading straight up ahead to a misty landing. The air smelled old and musty, but with a trace of something sweet to it. It reminded him of the ancient school desks from his childhood, where you’d open the top and smell wood and old bubble gum.

“How can I help you, DI Willis?”

They were still standing at the bottom of the stairs, far too cramped for Pete’s liking. This close, he could smell Collins, sweating beneath his suit. He gestured to the open door to what was obviously the living room.

“Perhaps we can go through there?”

Again Collins hesitated. Pete frowned.

What are you hiding, Norman?

“Of course,” Collins said. “This way, please.”

He led Pete into the living room. Pete was expecting to be met with squalor, but the room appeared tidy and clean, and the furniture was newer and less old-fashioned than he would have imagined. There was a large plasma screen attached to one wall, while the others were covered with framed artwork and small glass display cases.

Collins stopped in the middle of the room, and then stood rigid, with his hands clasped in front of him like a butler. Something about his oddly formal manner made the hairs on the back of Pete’s neck stand up.

“Are you … all right, Mr. Collins?”

“Oh, yes.” Collins nodded curtly. “May I ask again what this is regarding?”

“A little over two months ago, you went to see an inmate named Victor Tyler in HMP Whitrow.”

“That I did.”

“And what was the purpose of that visit?”

“To talk to him. The same purpose as my other visits.”

“You’ve visited him before?”

“Indeed. Several times.”

Collins was still standing motionless, as if he’d been posed. Still smiling politely.

“Can I ask what you discussed with Victor Tyler?”

“Well—his crime, of course.”

“The little girl he killed?”

Collins nodded. “Mary Fisher.”

“Yes, I know her name.”

A ghoul. That was what Collins had always struck Pete as—a strange little man, obsessed with the kind of darkness that others instinctively shied away from. Collins was still standing there smiling, as though waiting patiently for this business to be concluded and for Pete to leave, but the smile was all wrong. Collins was nervous, Pete thought. Hiding something. And Pete was aware that he had grown still himself—that there was an uncomfortable lack of movement in the room—so he walked over to one wall, idly examining some of the pictures and items that Collins had framed and mounted there.

The drawings were strange. Up close, it became apparent how childlike many of them were. His gaze moved here and there, over stick figures, amateurish watercolors, and then his attention was drawn to something more unusual. A red plastic devil mask. It was the kind of item you’d find in a cheap fancy dress shop, but for some reason Collins had encased it in a thin rectangle of glass and hung it on his wall.

“A collector’s item, that.”

Collins was suddenly beside him. Pete resisted the urge to shout, but couldn’t stop himself from taking a step away.

“A collector’s item?”

“Indeed.” Collins nodded. “It was worn by a fairly notorious murderer during the crimes he committed. It cost a small fortune to acquire, but it’s a handsome piece, and the source and paperwork are impeccable.” Collins turned quickly to look at Pete. “All completely legal and aboveboard, I assure you. Was there anything else I could help you with?”

Pete shook his head, trying to make sense of what Collins had just said. Then he looked at some of the other items on the wall. It wasn’t just pictures, he realized. Several of the frames contained notes and letters. Some were clearly official documents and reports, while others were handwritten, scrawled on cheap notepaper.