What She Knew

by Gilly MacMillan

  If a female officer in plainclothes brings a tray of tea into a room, everyone assumes she’s from catering. If a male officer does the same, it makes him seem like a nice guy, puts people at ease. Just a little tip I learned from my dad.

  RACHEL

  They took John and me to different places.

  I was interviewed in a low-ceilinged room that was windowless and oppressive. I was met there by a tall young woman, who introduced herself as DC Emma Zhang. She wore a smart, slim-fitting business suit. She had lovely caramel-colored skin, and thick black hair tied neatly into a ponytail, deep, dark eyes that were almond-shaped and beautiful, and a warm smile.

  She shook my hand and told me that she would be my family liaison officer and she sat down beside me on an uncomfortable sofa with boxy arms and adjusted her skirt.

  “We’re going to do everything we can to find Ben,” she said. “Please be assured of that. His welfare will be our absolute priority, and my role is to keep you informed about what’s happening as the investigation and the search for Ben progress. And you must feel free to come to me with any queries, or anything at all for that matter, because I’m here to make sure you feel looked after too.”

  I felt reassured by DC Zhang, by her apparent competence and her easy, approachable manner. It gave me a modicum of hope.

  There was nothing to look at in the room except for a matching pair of armchairs, a meanly proportioned beech coffee table, and three bland landscape prints on the wall opposite. The carpet was industrial gray. On one of the armchairs a lone purple cushion sagged as if it had been punched. A door was labeled EXAMINATION ROOM.

  A man arrived. He was tall, well built, and closely shaven, with thick, dark brown hair, cut in a neat short back and sides, and hazel eyes. He had large hands and he put a tray down on the table clumsily: the stacked cups slid dramatically to one end, the spout of the pot let free a slug of hot liquid. DC Zhang leaned forward to try to save everything but there was no need. The cups wobbled but didn’t fall.

  The man sat down in the armchair beside me and extended his hand to me. “DI Jim Clemo,” he said. “I’m so sorry about Ben.” He had a firm handshake.

  “Thank you.”

  Clemo cleared his throat. “Two things we need from you as soon as possible are the contact details for Ben’s GP and his dentist. Do you have those to hand?”

  I took my phone from my pocket, gave him what he wanted.

  “Does Ben have any medical conditions that we should be aware of?”

  “No.”

  He made notes in a notebook that had a soft acid-yellow cover. It was an incongruously lovely object.

  “And do you have a copy of Ben’s birth certificate?”

  My paperwork was disorganized, but I did keep a file of Ben’s important documents.

  “Why?”

  “It’s procedure.”

  “Am I having to prove he existed or something?”

  Clemo gave me a poker face, and I realized I was right. It was my first inkling that I was involved in a process where I didn’t know the rules, and where nobody trusted anybody, because what we were dealing with was too serious for that.

  Clemo’s questions were thorough and he wanted detail. As I talked, I sat with my arms wrapped around myself. He moved a lot, leaning forward at some moments, sitting back and crossing his legs at others. He was always watching me, his eyes constantly searching my face for something. I tried to quell my natural reticence, to talk openly, in the hope that something I told him would help find Ben.

  He started by asking me about myself, my own upbringing. How that was relevant I didn’t know, but I told him. Because of my unusual circumstances, the tragedy of my parents’ death, it’s a story I’ve told a lot, so I was able to stay calm when I said, “My parents were killed in a car crash when I was one and my sister was nine. They had a head-on collision with an articulated lorry.”

  I watched Clemo go through a reaction that was familiar to me, because I’d witnessed it so often: shock, sorrow, and then sympathy, sometimes barely concealed schadenfreude.

  “They were driving home from a party,” I added.

  I’d always liked that little bit of information. It meant that in my mind my parents were forever frozen as young and sociable, invigorated by life. Probably perfect.

  Clemo expressed sympathy but he moved on quickly, asking me who brought me up, where I’d lived, then how I met John, when we got married. He wanted to know about Ben’s birth. I gave them a date and a place: July 10, 2004, St. Michael’s Hospital in Bristol.

  Beneath the facts my head was swimming with sensations and memories. I remembered a hard and lengthy labor, which started on a perfect scorcher of a day, when the air shimmered. They admitted me to a delivery room at midnight, the heat still lingering in every corner of the city, and as my labor intensified through the long hours that followed, it was punctuated with the shouts of revelers from outside, as if they couldn’t think of going home on such a night.

  Before morning there’d been the fright of a significant hemorrhage, but later, after the sun had risen high again, I felt the extraordinary joy of being handed my tiny boy, who I watched turn from gray to pink in my arms. I felt the weightlessness of his hair, the perfect softness of his temples, and a sensation of absolute stillness when our eyes met, me holding my breath, him taking one of his first.

  I had to detail the years of Ben’s childhood for Clemo, and talk about my relationship with my sister, and with John’s family. It was painful to speak about John’s mother, Ruth, my beloved Ruth, who’d become a surrogate parent to me after my marriage, and who now lived in a nursing home, her brain slowly succumbing to the ravages of dementia.

  I also had to talk about the breakup of my marriage, how I never saw it coming, how Ben and I had coped since then. I didn’t want to relate these things to strangers, but I had no choice. I steeled myself, tried to trust in the process.

  The pace of Clemo’s questions slowed as we got nearer to the present day. He asked in detail about Ben’s experiences at school. I told him they were happy ones; that Ben loved school, and loved his teacher. She’d been very supportive when John and I had been going through the separation and divorce.

  Clemo wanted to know how often Ben had visited his dad lately, or any other friends or family. He wanted to know what our custody arrangements were. He wanted details of all the activities that Ben did in and out of school. I had to describe everything we’d done the previous week and then we were talking about Saturday, and then Sunday morning, and what we’d done in the hours we spent together before we went to the woods.

  “Did you have lunch before you went out to the woods?” Clemo asked. There was a sort of apology in his voice.

  “Is this in case you find his body?”

  “It doesn’t mean that I think we’re going to find a body. It’s a question I have to ask.”

  “Ben ate a ham sandwich, banana, yogurt, and two Bourbon biscuits in the car on the way to the woods.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you need to know what I ate?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary.”

  Zhang handed me a box of tissues.

  We also compiled a list of the people whom I’d seen in the woods: the crowd in the parking lot, including Peter and Finn and the other young soccer players and their families, the group of fantasy reenactors, the cyclist, and the old lady who’d helped me when I first lost Ben. I also remembered a man whom Ben and I had passed early on in our walk. He was carrying a dog lead, though we didn’t see his dog. It was frustratingly hard to recall what he was wearing, or even what he looked like, and I became upset with myself.

  I promised that if I thought of anything or anybody else I would let the police know. They asked permission to look through my phone records, to search my home, and especially Ben’s bedroom. I said yes to it all. I would have agreed to anything if I’d thought it would help.

  “Do you have a photograph of Ben? One that
we can release to the public and press?”

  I gave him the picture that I kept in my wallet. It was a recent school photograph, not even dog-eared yet, as I’d only got it the week before. I looked at my son’s face: serious, and sweet, beautiful and vulnerable. His father’s eyes and dark sandy hair, his perfect skin, scattered lightly with freckles across the nose. I could hardly bear to hand it over.

  Clemo took the photograph from me gently. “Thank you,” he said, and then, “Ms. Jenner, I will find Ben. I will do everything in my power to find him.”

  I looked at him. I searched those eyes for signs of his commitment, for confirmation that he understood what was at stake, wanting him to mean what he said, wanting him to be on my side, wanting to believe that he could find Ben.

  “Do you promise?” I said. I reached for his hand, gripped it, startling both of us.

  “I promise,” he said. He extricated his fingers from mine carefully, as if he didn’t want to hurt me. I believed him.

  When he’d gone DC Zhang said, “You’re in good hands. DI Clemo is a great detective. He’s one of our best. He’s like a dog with a bone. Once he gets stuck into a case he won’t give up.”

  She was trying to reassure me but I was thinking of only one thing.

  “I let him run ahead of me,” I said. “This is my fault. If somebody hurts him, it’s because of me.”

  JIM

  I was quite pleased with how the interview with Rachel Jenner had gone, but it did shake me up a bit when she took my hand, grabbed it like she was never going to let go. You don’t want that. When you’re working a case you’re always well aware that the victims of crime are real people, but it’s important to keep your distance from them to an extent. If you live every emotion with them, you can’t do your job. For a moment or two, for me, Rachel Jenner had jeopardized that rule.

  I took a close look at the photo she’d given me. It was one of those school pictures that everybody has, taken in front of a dappled background. Ben looked like a sweet kid: blue eyes, very clear and bright. Fine-boned. He had tufty light brown hair and a half-smile. He was looking straight into the camera. Ben Finch was a very appealing-looking child, there was no doubt, and I was pleased because I knew that would help.

  I handed the photo over to the team.

  “How’s the mother?” Fraser asked.

  Rachel Jenner had been a ball of nerves, understandably, her eyes darting, flinching at shadows, talking quickly, clearly intelligent, but awash with shock.

  “Shocked,” I said. “And a bit guarded.”

  “Guarded?” Fraser looked at me over the top of her glasses.

  “Just a feeling,” I said.

  “OK. Worth watching. Talk to Emma, see what her impressions are. I’m going to go and introduce myself shortly, and we’ve called the press in at midday to film an appeal. Are you happy to talk to Dad now?”

  I nodded.

  “On your way then.”

  I met Emma in the corridor. It was the first chance we’d had to talk.

  “Good interview,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  We moved to the side of the corridor to let somebody pass. Emma’s hand grazed mine discreetly, lingered there.

  “Did you tell Fraser to take me on as FLO?” she asked.

  “I might have.”

  “Thank you.” She gave my hand a little squeeze, then let it go, and stepped away to leave a more respectable distance between us.

  “What did you think of the mother?” I asked. “I just said to Fraser I thought she was a bit guarded.”

  “I agree, but I think it’s understandable. I felt as though it was hard for her to talk about her private life, but I didn’t think she was being obstructive.”

  “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 forever, 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 percent.”

  “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 realize 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 apologize, 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 of 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 pediatric 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.