The Whisper Man

“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.

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.