‘No, I didn’t think that either.’
‘She’s grief-stricken. And she feels guilty too because she let him run ahead of her.’
‘That’s not a crime.’
‘Of course it’s not, but she’s going to beat herself up about that for ever isn’t she?’
‘Unless we find him quickly.’
‘Even if we find him quickly I’d say.’
‘Do you think she’s guilty of anything more?’
Emma considered that, but shook her head. ‘Gut instinct: no. But I wouldn’t swear on that one hundred per cent.’
‘You need to keep a very close eye on her. Detailed reports of what you observe, please.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve got to go. I’m interviewing Dad now.’
‘Good luck.’ She turned to go.
‘Emma!’
‘What?’
‘You will do the best job you can, won’t you? This is a big one. We have to be extremely sensitive.’
‘Of course I will.’
She didn’t look openly hurt, that wasn’t her style, but something in her expression made me regret what I’d said immediately. She was one of the most emotionally intelligent people I knew, perfect for the role, and it was wrong of me to display even the tiniest bit of doubt about her abilities. I was too psyched up myself to be measured in what I said to her; I could have kicked myself.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry. That was out of order. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’m just… this is such a big one.’
‘It’s fine, and I’m absolutely on it, don’t worry about that.’
She cracked a big smile, making it OK, and her fingers made contact with mine again briefly. ‘Good luck with the dad,’ she added, and I watched her walk briskly away down the corridor before I went to find Benedict Finch’s father.
John Finch was pacing around the small interview room that we’d placed him in. He looked gaunt, and shocked like the mother, but there was also a sense of innate authority. I guessed that in his normal life he was a man more used to being in charge of a room than being a victim.
‘DI Jim Clemo,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry about Ben.’
‘John Finch.’ His handshake was a quick firm clench with bony fingers.
There was a small table in the room, two chairs on either side of it. DC Woodley and I sat on one side, Finch on the other.
I went through the same process as with Ben’s mother, starting him at the beginning with date of birth, childhood, etc. What people don’t realise is that one of the first things we have to do is prove that they are who they say they are, and that the crime they’ve reported really has happened. We’d look pretty stupid if we investigated and it turned out that the people involved didn’t actually exist, that they’d spun us a lie from the outset. And God knows the press and public can’t wait to make a meal out of any instances of police stupidity.
Finch answered my questions in a muted, economical way.
‘I’m afraid we have to spend time on what might feel like irrelevant detail,’ I said to him.
I felt the need to apologise, to try to make the situation slightly easier for this man who was so obviously sensitive and so obviously trying to hide it.
‘But please be assured that it’s essential for us to build up a picture not just of Ben but his family too.’
‘I know the importance of a personal history,’ he said. ‘We rely on it heavily in medicine.’
John Finch’s backstory was quite straightforward. He was born in 1976 in Birmingham, an only child. Dad was a local boy, a GP, and mum was a violinist. Her parents had escaped Nazi-occupied Vienna while her mother was pregnant with her, and then settled in Birmingham. Finch was close to his parents as well as his grandparents throughout his childhood. He was a scholarship boy at the grammar school. He did well and won a place at Bristol University Medical School. He’d arrived in Bristol to start his degree twenty years ago, in 1992, and never left after that. He’d worked his way up and done well. Proof of that was his current position as consultant at the Children’s Hospital. He’d become a general surgeon. I knew just enough about the world of medicine to know that that must be a coveted position in a competitive world.
Finch’s composure first faltered when I wanted to talk in more detail about Ben’s mother, and the reason their marriage ended.
‘My marriage ended because Rachel and I were no longer suited to each other.’
A perceptible stiffening of his body, words a tad sticky as his mouth became drier.
‘It’s my understanding that this came as a surprise to Rachel.’
‘Possibly.’
‘And that there was another party involved?’
‘I have remarried, yes.’
‘Could you give me an idea of why you and Rachel were no longer suited to each other?’
A single bead of sweat had appeared by his hairline.
‘These things don’t always last, Inspector. There can be a host of small reasons that accumulate to make a marriage unsustainable.’
‘Including a younger girlfriend?’
‘Please don’t reduce me to a cliché.’
I didn’t reply. Instead I waited to see if more information would seep from him, just as the perspiration had. It’s surprising how often that works. People have an almost compulsive need to justify themselves. I made a show of looking through notes, and just when I thought he wouldn’t spill, he did.
‘My marriage wasn’t an emotionally fulfilling one. We didn’t…’ He was choosing his words carefully. ‘We didn’t communicate.’
‘It happens,’ I said.
‘I was lonely.’
His eyes flicked away from mine and I saw a frisson of emotion in them when our gazes reconnected, though it was hard to say exactly what. John Finch was definitely a proud man, and unaccustomed to sharing the personal details of his life.
‘Is Rachel a good mother to Ben?’ I asked him. I wanted to catch him when his guard was down. His reply came immediately, he didn’t need to think about it: ‘She’s an excellent mother. She loves Ben very much.’
I took the interview back to practicalities. I asked him what he and his wife were doing on Sunday afternoon between 13.00 and 17.30 hours. He said that they were at home together. He was working and she was reading and then she started to prepare their evening meal. He got a call from WPC Banks at 17.30 to inform him that Ben was missing and he’d driven directly to the woods.
‘Did you make any calls, or send any emails during that time?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘I was catching up on paperwork.’
‘I’ve asked Ms Jenner whether she’d be willing for us to look through her phone records, and she’s agreed. Would you be willing for us to do the same?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘One more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you had any incidents at work where patients or their families have been unhappy with you? Could somebody be bearing a grudge against you?’
He didn’t reply to my question immediately, it took him a moment or two to consider it.
‘There are always unhappy outcomes, inevitably, and some families don’t take it well. I have been the subject of legal action once or twice, but that’s normal in my line of work. The hospital will be able to supply you with details.’
‘You can’t remember them?’
‘I remember the names of the children, but not their parents. I try not to get too involved. You learn not to dwell on the failures, Inspector. The death of a child is a terrible thing to bear, even if the responsibility isn’t ultimately yours, because you did everything you could.’
Even through his fatigue, the look he gave me was sharp, and I felt as though there might be a warning in his words somewhere.
I drove out to the woods after the interview. I wanted to see the scene for myself. I took a pool car. The drive gave me a chance to get out of the city for a b
it, and think about the interviews, get my thoughts straight. My impressions were that the parents were both private people, though John Finch was possibly more complicated than Rachel, and certainly more proud. They were both intelligent, and articulate, a classic middle-class profile. It didn’t mean that they were whiter than white though. We had to remember that.
In forensic terms the scenes at the woods were carnage. The combination of shocking weather, multiple people, animals and vehicles had churned up the paths and especially the parking area. I took a walk to the rope swing where Ben was alleged to have gone missing and regretted forgetting to bring wellington boots. It was a damp site, with trees crowded round it. It gave me a creepy, sinister feeling like you get in fairy tales, and in some way that was more unsettling than some of the rankest urban crime scenes I’ve visited.
I talked to the scenes of crime officers. They were nice guys, cheerfully pessimistic about their chances of finding anything that might be useful to the investigation.
‘If I’m honest it’s not looking good,’ one of them said, stepping over the crime scene tape. It was bright yellow and hung limply across the pathway that led to the rope swing. He pulled a plastic glove from his hand so that he could shake mine. ‘The conditions are atrocious. But if there’s anything to be found we’ll find it.’
I gave him my card. ‘Will you—’
He interrupted me. ‘Call you if we find anything? Of course.’
We had our first full team briefing with Fraser at 16.00 back at Kenneth Steele House. We gathered around the table, everybody ready to work, tense and serious, trying not to think about where this case could go. A missing kid is the kind of case you do your job for. Nobody wants a kid to be harmed. You could see it on every face there.
‘First things first,’ said DCI Fraser. ‘Codename for this case is Operation Huckleberry. We’re hunting for two people: Ben Finch, eight years old, and whoever has abducted him. They may or may not be together. The abductor may be a member of his family, or he or she may be an acquaintance or indeed a complete stranger. They may be holed up with Ben or they may be living normally on the surface and returning to Ben occasionally. They may already have harmed or murdered Ben. We need to keep open minds.’
She cast her eye around the table. She had everybody’s attention.
‘Expertise is on our side,’ she continued. ‘I’m confident that this team of people represents excellence and I expect it of you. Time is not on our side. It’s been twenty-four hours since Ben Finch went missing. Priority is to confirm Mum’s story, and speak to all the people she says she saw in the woods that day.’
She paused, making sure we were taking it all in.
‘I personally feel that the members of the fantasy re-enactment group who were in the woods during the afternoon are of particular interest, because I suspect that amongst them there’ll be one or two mummy’s boys who are wielding swords at the weekend to make up for being sad pimply little bastards who can’t get a life during the week.
‘Which brings me on to another matter. I think we’re going to need all the help we can get on this one. The number of actions we’ve identified already is daunting, and it’s certain to get worse before it gets better. I’ve asked for more bodies, and I’ve twisted the Super’s arm so that he’s agreed to fund the services of a forensic psychologist for the short term at least, to help us define our primary suspects. His name is Dr Christopher Fellowes. He has teaching commitments, and he’s based at Cambridge University, so he’s not going to be with us in person unless we have a very good reason to bring him over here, but he’ll be available to advise remotely.’
I knew him. We’d worked with him when I was with Devon and Cornwall. He was good at his job, when he was sober.
‘I was going to get Mum and Dad in front of the cameras tonight, but I think we’ll wait until first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve televised a short appeal for information which will do for now, and we’ll put that out with Ben’s photograph. I’ve had preliminary reports from most of you, but if there’s anything new you want to add, speak now.’
One of the DCs put up her hand.
‘We’re not in school. You can keep your hand down.’
‘Sorry. It’s just that I’ve got a possible. We’ve tracked down all but one of the men on the sex offenders list.’
‘Who’s missing?’
‘Name of David Callow. Thirty-one years old. Did time for abusing his stepsisters and posting photographs of himself doing it. His parole officer hasn’t heard from him for a fortnight.’
‘Make him a priority. I want to know who he last saw, and when. Talk to his family, his neighbours, his friends, if he has any. Find out what he’s been doing. Anything else?’
Nobody spoke.
‘Right. There’s a lot to get on with, so let’s get on with it. Any leads, any worries, anything gets on top of you, speak to me. I want to know everything, as it happens. No exceptions.’
WEB PAGE – BREAKING NEWS POLICE – www.aspol.uk/whatsnew
22 October 2012, 13.03
AVON AND SOMERSET CONSTABULARY has activated CHILD RESCUE ALERT to assist in tracing eight-year-old Benedict Finch in Bristol.
A dedicated telephone number has been established for anyone who has seen Benedict or has information about his whereabouts.
This number is 0300 300 3331
Calls to this number will be answered by dedicated members of staff who will take details of any information provided to assist with the inquiry.
By launching Child Rescue Alert, which is supported by all UK Police Forces, it is hoped that the public and media can assist Avon and Somerset Constabulary in safely tracing Benedict.
Police are seeking information specifically from anyone who has seen Benedict or anyone matching his description in the last twenty-four hours.
Benedict is described as being of Caucasian appearance, of slim build and just over four feet tall. He has brown hair and blue eyes and freckles across the bridge of his nose. It is not known what he is wearing.
A recent photograph of Benedict has been widely circulated. It can be seen on the Avon and Somerset Constabulary website.
He was last seen on the main path round Leigh Woods, just outside Bristol, at around 16.30 on Sunday, 21 October when he and his mother were walking their dog. His mother raised the alarm at 17.00 after extensive searching in the woods did not locate him.
Intensive searches led by trained search officers, and including police dogs and mounted police, are taking place in and around Leigh Woods and the surrounding area and members of the public have been assisting.
Benedict is described as bright and clever, a fluent communicator and English is his first language. He is known to his family as Ben.
Spread the word: Facebook; Twitter
RACHEL
My sister Nicky was waiting for me in the foyer at Kenneth Steele House. She was panda-eyed with strain. I fell into her arms. Her clothing smelled of damp cottage and wood smoke and washing powder.
She looks a lot like me. You could tell we’re sisters if you saw us together. She’s got the same green eyes and more or less the same face, and a similar figure, though she’s heavier. She’s not quite as tall as me either and her hair is cut short and always carefully highlighted, so instead of being curly it settles in brushed golden waves around her face, which makes her look more sensible than me.
Nicky told me she’d driven straight from Aunt Esther’s cottage. She held me tightly.
The hug felt awkward. We probably hadn’t been in each other’s arms since I was a child. I wasn’t used to the padded curves of her body, the cotton wool softness of the skin on her cheek. It made me acutely aware of my own frame, its angularity, as if I were constructed from a more brittle material than her.
‘Let’s get you home,’ she said, and she brushed a strand of my hair back behind my ear.
Arriving home was my first taste of how it feels to live life in a goldfish bowl.
Jo
urnalists had gathered outside my little two-up, two-down cottage. Ben and I lived on a pretty narrow street of small Victorian terraces in Bishopston, an area that has yellow Neighbourhood Watch stickers in many house windows and loves recycling and having street parties in the summer. Our neighbours were a mix of elderly people, young families and some students. Ours was a quiet street. The biggest drama we’d collectively experienced since I’d lived there was waking up to find drunk students had put traffic cones on top of the car roofs during the night.
The journalists were impossible to avoid. There was a group of them, big enough to spill off the pavement. They called my name, thrust microphones towards us, photographed us as we entered the house, pushed and shoved and tripped up as they ran around each other trying to get in front of us. Their voices were cajoling, and urgent, and to me they had the menace of a mob.
When we got inside, black dots danced at the edges of my vision, the after-effects of the bright white of their flashbulbs, and I could still hear them calling from behind the door. My heart rate didn’t slow until I moved into the kitchen at the back of the house, and there it was silent, and I was able to sit, and breathe, and focus on the placid ticking of my kitchen clock.
Zhang stayed with us for a short while. The scenes of crime officers had visited the house while I was being interviewed. She wanted to check that they’d left everything in order upstairs, in Ben’s room.
She pulled the curtains in the sitting room tightly shut, so that the journalists couldn’t see in. She advised us not to answer the door without checking who was there, and not to speak directly to the press.
‘It’s good that they’re here though,’ she said. ‘It’s all good publicity because it means that as many people as possible will be aware of Ben and will be looking out for him.’
She made sure we had her card with her number on it and then she left us alone. Part of me didn’t really want her to leave. She was more approachable than Clemo by miles. I felt nervous of him, of the authority he exuded, of his matter-of-factness and of the power he suddenly held in our lives. But Zhang was different, more of a kindly guide who might be able to help me navigate this horrendous new reality, and I felt grateful for her.
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