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.