had to do something. But I needed more information first.
After some deliberation, and with my hands shaking, I searched through the paperwork I’d kept on the house purchase, found the address I needed, then picked up my keys. The extra security would have to wait, for the moment. There was one person who would be able to tell me more about Dominic Barnett, and I figured it was time to talk to her.
Twenty-five
It always ends where it starts, Amanda thought.
She was looking through the CCTV footage that had been retrieved from the area around the waste ground, and couldn’t help remembering that, two months ago, she’d been examining images of these exact same streets. Back then it had been in the hope of seeing someone taking Neil Spencer away. Now she was searching for someone returning the boy’s body. But so far the result was the same.
Nothing.
Early days, she told herself—but that thought was like ash in her head. It was actually far too fucking late, not least for Neil Spencer himself. Her mind kept flashing back to the sight of his body, even though dwelling on the horrors she’d seen last night—on her failure to find Neil in time—wasn’t going to help. What she needed to do instead was concentrate on the work. One foot in front of the other. One detail at a time. That was the way they’d eventually get the bastard who’d done those things to that little boy.
Another flash.
She shook her head, then looked toward the back of the room, where Pete Willis was working quietly at the desk he’d been allocated. After she’d had the chance to sit down herself, she’d found herself keeping a surreptitious eye on him. Occasionally he picked up the phone and made a call; the rest of the time his attention was totally focused on the photographs and paperwork before him. Frank Carter knew something, and Pete was working through the visits received by the man’s friends and associates in the prison, trying to figure out if one of them might be responsible for passing Carter information from the outside world. But it was Pete himself who fascinated her now.
How could he be so calm?
Except that she knew he was suffering too, below the surface. She remembered how he’d been yesterday, after visiting Frank Carter, and then on the waste ground last night. If he seemed detached now, it was only because he was distracting himself in the exact same way she was trying to. And if he was succeeding, it was simply because he’d had so much more practice.
Amanda wanted to ask him the secret.
Instead, she forced her attention back to the CCTV files, already knowing deep down that it would yield nothing, just like two months ago, when her team had slowly identified and eliminated the individuals caught on the village’s meager selection of cameras. It was frustrating work. The more you accomplished, the worse it felt like you were doing. But it was necessary.
She picked her way through the fuzzy images. Freeze-frames of men, women, and children. All of them would have to be interviewed, even though none of them would have witnessed anything significant. The man they were looking for was too careful for that. And it would be the same with the vehicles. Her conviction during the briefing had been real, and a part of her was still cultivating that now, but she knew deep down the feeling was impotent. The fact remained that it wasn’t difficult to drive around Featherbank and avoid CCTV. Not if you knew what you were doing.
On the pad beside her, she jotted that thought down.
Knowledge of camera position?
But again, she’d made the same note two months earlier. History repeating itself.
It always ends where it starts.
She threw the pen down in frustration, then stood up and walked over to where Pete was working, so engrossed that he didn’t even notice her. The printer on his desk was releasing a steady stream of photographs—CCTV stills of visitors to the prison. Pete was cross-referencing them with details on the screen and writing notes on the back. There was also an old newspaper printout on the desk. She tilted her head to read the headline.
“‘Prison Marriage for Coxton Cannibal’?” she said.
Pete jumped. “What?”
“The news article.” She read it out again. “The world never stops surprising me. Generally in terrible ways.”
“Oh. Yes.” Pete gestured at the photographs he was accumulating. “And these are all his visitors. His real name’s Victor Tyler. Twenty-five years