FM: What was Emma’s view on Nicky Forbes?
JC: To be honest, I didn’t see much of Emma that afternoon. I was too busy holed up with Fraser making a plan.
FM: Did you see her that night?
JC: She said she was knackered. She wanted to go back to her place to get a proper night’s rest and I didn’t blame her for that. I was feeling that way myself. I could have slept on my desk.
FM: But I get the sense you were fired up too.
JC: I was, yes. We all were. Without a doubt. It felt like things were starting to happen.
RACHEL
The immediate aftermath was the first in a series of new body blows.
Nicky swept everything up from the table, all her hard work, gathered it hastily, and tried to push it into her bag. Her movements were rough and clumsy.
“Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t.”
I felt as though she was falling apart right in front of my eyes. I wondered if that’s what it had been like when she first went to Esther’s, to live in the cottage, right after it happened, when I was a baby, when her grief must have been unbearable.
And I realized that in the future I would wonder about everything.
From now on it would be impossible to unpack every detail of my history, every assumption that had led to me building a sense of my own identity, and of Ben’s identity. My past had been crumpled up and thrown into the fire, and I would have to sort through the ashes, with only Nicky as my guide. Nicky, who had lied to me for a very long time; Nicky, who said that she’d lied to protect me; Nicky, whom I needed.
“I should leave,” she said. “You’re better off without me. You know, I would never, ever hurt Ben. Can I just say that? I would never hurt Ben.”
Her distress pushed her voice to an acute pitch, and I went to comfort her.
“I know you wouldn’t.”
She let her bag slide down her shoulder and onto the table, and the papers spilled back out of it. Her head fell onto my shoulder and her body shook.
Are you surprised at my reaction to her? At my willingness to accept what I’d heard and offer her comfort?
It wasn’t the end of it. Of course it wasn’t. If I think back to that day I can remember the stages I went through. I suppose it was like the stages of grief, although this was different. This was the processing of what felt like a betrayal, this was the seeping away of trust.
After the door had clicked shut behind an adrenaline-pumped Clemo and a Zhang who couldn’t meet my eye for the first time, that first interaction Nicky and I had was of course a reflex, an urge to keep Nicky by me, to deny that anything had changed. She’d been my rock, always, and I couldn’t contemplate any other existence. It wasn’t in my DNA. Or I’d thought it wasn’t.
After that exchange we separated. Nicky unpacking her bag robotically, calling on those massive reserves of strength to anchor her to my table, to keep her going as she delved deeper and deeper into whatever the web had to offer her.
I went to my safe place, to Ben’s room, and I immersed myself in him, as was my habit. It was the only place I felt secure. His bedroom had become my womb.
This was my second stage.
I sank onto the beanbag on the floor of his room and I felt as if I had been cast adrift in a small wooden boat, shrouded by a watery gray mist. And suspended within each of the millions of fine droplets that made up the mist was the news, the bombshell that I’d just heard. And in this stage it simply surrounded me, existing, but not yet understood. And within it I felt baseless, disorientated, and lost.
The third state was the inevitable churning of my mind, the processing of what I’d learned, and of its implications, the moment the droplets of mist began to settle on my skin and permeate it. It was when the knowledge became part of me and it was irreversible. I had to face up to it.
It led swiftly to the fourth state.
That was the erosion of my trust, where the droplets on my skin turned to acid and began to burn, producing a feeling that was intense and painful, a pins and needles of the mind and the body, and it was so creepy and unsettling that I couldn’t remain still any longer.
I got out of Ben’s bed and looked out of the window, and I saw Nicky below in my garden with the dog, petting him, encouraging him to pee. They stood on the soggy, shaggy lawn by the abandoned relic of Ben’s soccer goal, the net broken from the frame in places, the grass in front of it worn from where he’d played. I backed away from the window, not so that the press wouldn’t see me, but so that my sister wouldn’t.
And as dusk fell again, wrapping itself around the edges of the day, I ran back through events, until I thought about how I had started the day: the photographer in my garden, Nicky’s anger with him, her outburst on the street, her loyalty.
And then I thought about the previous day, and how it had started with an Internet search, and with a laptop that belonged to Nicky, that needed a password, and how that password was the name of my son.
And each intake of breath felt sharp in my lungs and my mind roved further and I thought of Nicky’s discontent with her daughters, and what Clemo said about her wanting a son. And then I thought of her words: “It was as if he was Charlie, reborn.”
I began to cry hot, silent tears, and they had sharp edges just like my breath did, and they ran down my cheeks and soaked into Ben’s nunny, which I held tightly to my face.
When I heard Nicky’s footsteps on the stairs I got into Ben’s bed, covered myself up, turned away from the door, and tried to breathe slowly so she would think I was asleep.
When she put her head around the door of the room and asked if I wanted any food I didn’t answer her.
When she reappeared some minutes later with a tray of supper I still couldn’t look at her, couldn’t speak to her.
“I just wanted to protect you,” she said.
She shut the door quietly behind her, respecting my privacy, and all I could feel was a throbbing. It was the pulse of the time since Ben had been missing. And it felt as if it had begun to beat faster.
JIM
Email
From: Christopher Fellowes
To: James Clemo
October 25, 2012 at 21:37
Re: Nicola Forbes
Jim
Good to speak. Fascinating development!
I’ll send you a full report tomorrow but, as agreed, here is a précis:
Psychological markers for predisposition to sociopathic behavior in Nicola Forbes might include any of the following: tendency to control; affective instability (which could include jealousy and identity diffusion); unnatural interest in Ben—you’ve already mentioned this as a possible, if father is to be believed. Other generalized signs might include obsessive-compulsive spectrum behavior (OCSD) and/or delusional beliefs (though these can be well hidden).
She’s certainly been quick to be on the scene, which could indicate that she enjoys the attention that the case is bringing the family (just speculation, but maybe an unresolved desire from her earlier experience, which was handled so discreetly by the aunt?).
There’s more—I’ll follow up asap with a full report. It’ll be with you end of tomorrow, latest.
Best, Chris
Dr. Christopher J. Fellowes
Senior Lecturer in Psychology
University of Cambridge
Fellow of Jesus College
Email
From: Corinne Fraser
To: Alan Hayward
Cc: James Clemo
October 25, 2012 at 23:06
Blog Warfare
Alan
We’re in need of your services, as the weird and wonderful worldwide web is once again involving itself in our police work. Could you cast your keen legal eye over this blog please: www.whereisbenedictfinch.wordpress.com
You’ll see that it rela
tes to the Benedict Finch case (Operation Huckleberry).
I’ve got two primary concerns.
First, there could be contempt of court issues, should we ever get to trial.
Second, there’s stuff appearing on there that’s making me nervous because it shouldn’t be in the public domain. We’re concerned that somebody within the investigation (either family or within our organization) could be authoring the blog or leaking information to it.
What I want to know is, can we find out who the author of the blog is, the self-styled “LazyDonkey,” and what do we need to do to get it shut down? Is that even possible?
I’m copying this to DS Martyn and Inspector Bryan Doughty from Internal Affairs.
Quick response appreciated, obviously.
Cheers, Corinne
DAY 6
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 26, 2012
Cases involving child victims are not only burdensome from an investigative standpoint, but are also emotionally exhausting. Law enforcement agencies are commonly tasked with the simultaneous pursuit of multiple, time-sensitive avenues of investigation, often with inadequate resources (i.e., financial, logistical, manpower).
—M. C. Boudreaux, W. D. Lord, and R. L. Dutra, “Child Abduction: Aged-Based Analyses of Offender, Victim, and Offense Characteristics in 550 Cases of Alleged Child Disappearance,” Journal of Forensic Sciences, 44(3), 1999
WEB PAGE—www.whereisbenedictfinch.wordpress.com
WHERE IS BENEDICT FINCH? For the curious . . .
NOTHING TO WATCH?
Posted at 05:03 by LazyDonkey, on Friday, October 26, 2012
This blog wants to recommend a television program to you:
Go to: http://www.itv.com/jeremykyle
You could try:
Episode 198:
I can’t trust you with our son! You spend all your time texting instead of watching him.
Or you might enjoy this:
Episode 237:
Admit you’re a bad mom and you can’t look after your children.
Just a thought. Up to you.
Oh, and one more thing:
Did you know Benedict Finch fractured his arm last year, and his mother didn’t get it treated? He must have been in a lot of pain. Guess she wasn’t bothered. Or perhaps she was just busy doing something else.
RACHEL
First thing in the morning, facing each other across my kitchen table in our dressing gowns, our eye contact patchy, the air between us oscillating with tension, Nicky told me that she was going to leave.
“I think we probably both need some time,” she said. It was a quiet statement, and a very controlled one, but it was also damp with the undercurrent of what we’d been through the day before.
“Just for a day or two, then I’ll come back. Will you be OK do you think?”
I had to clear my throat before replying in order to moderate my own tone and maintain the perfect neutrality of our exchange. The alternative was shouting, or weeping, or accusation, hastily spat out. After spending the night imagining darkly, now the sheer reality and familiarity of my sister’s presence and her own attempt at composure kept me in check.
“OK,” I said. “That’s fine.”
“It’s the girls,” she said, turning away, slotting bread into the toaster.
“Of course you should go.” And I did feel a twinge of guilt then, because Nicky’s girls needed her too.
Steam billowed up from the kettle and settled in a moist coating on the front of one of my kitchen cabinets. Skittle dragged his cast laboriously across the floor and flopped heavily onto my feet. Nicky burned her toast and I watched her back as she took it to the sink and used a knife to scrape the black crumbs from it with sharp motions. They fell in a layer of coarse powder.
“Cook some more,” I said.
“I wanted to leave some for you.”
“It’s OK, I’ll have—” I started to say.
“You need to eat, Rachel!” It was an outburst, her composure splintering abruptly, and she dropped her toast and the knife into the sink and leaned heavily on her palms on the edge of it, so that her shoulders became sharp points on either side of her bowed head. She looked up at the window and the darkness outside meant that her reflection was razor sharp in the glass and our eyes met in that way. She was the first to lower her gaze.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. Can I show you something?”
It was an email that had come from America during the night. Via the Missing Kids website, Nicky had contacted another family whose child had been abducted and they’d replied to her, a message of support.
“Read it,” said Nicky. “They understand.”
She handed me her laptop. Two pages were up: one her blog, the other her email. I couldn’t help noticing that she’d updated her blog:
Dear Custard & Ketchup friends and followers,
This is a heartfelt request for you to please bear with me just for now. I’m sorry to say I need to take a short break from blogging for family reasons. I was hoping to keep you busy with some new Tasty Halloween Treats, but that hasn’t been possible. If you’re looking for Halloween ideas my post from last year is available still and you’ll find lots of fun stuff to make and decorate there. Next to come: Christmas Cheer! Watch this space, I’ll be back as soon as I can . . .
Nicky x
She saw me reading it. “Simon posted that. He updates it for me sometimes,” she said, and then, “I’m wondering whether we should do a web page for Ben. I could link to it from the blog.”
I didn’t know what to say. I looked at my sister’s blog quite frequently, usually with some awe, especially at its mythologizing and professionalizing of family life. It was like a glossy food magazine, an enviable social diary. It was not my world.
I clicked on the email instead.
Email
From: Ivy Cooper
To: Nicola Forbes
October 25, 2012 at 23:13
Re: Ben
Dear Nicky
BRETT’S LEGACY “DO SOME GOOD”
This is a time of tremendous pain for you and your family. We are praying for Ben, and for your family.
Our son Brett was taken from us seven years ago, and since then we’ve been through things that we never thought we would have to experience. Before he was taken from us, one of Brett’s favorite things to say was, “Mom, let’s do some good,” and we decided to make this a choice for our future, so that we could offer some help to other families who find themselves in the same situation.
We made this decision five years ago, soon after Brett’s body was discovered, and . . .
I stopped reading. I looked at my sister. “What happened to Brett?” I said.
“Have you read it all? Read to the end, you must. They actually understand what it’s like and it’s such a relief, honestly, I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I’ve been struggling so much to find anyone out there who knows what—”
“What happened to him?” I had to know. I didn’t like the email. I didn’t want to be part of this club: a family of devastated families. I wasn’t ready for that. Ben was going to come back to me. I wasn’t going to be like them.
“It’s not relevant.”
“It’s relevant to me.”
“Brett died,” Nicky said. “Unfortunately.”
“How did he die?”
“Rachel.”
“How did he die?”
“He was murdered, by his abductor. But that’s not the point, and they would never have found out what happened to him if the family hadn’t worked really hard to get the police to pursue the case.”
“Ben’s coming back.”
“I hope he is, God knows I do, you know I do”—she was twisting a tea towel tight between her hands—“but we have to accept the possibility that he might not be back soon, that some harm might have come to him. It’s been six days.”
I couldn’t hear it. Not from Nicky. Not from
anybody. Not now. Not ever.
“I’m going to see Ruth,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This wasn’t how I wanted this morning to go.”
JIM
When you work a case like this one, you long for a lead. When you get one, you’re all over it, and that’s how I felt about Nicola Forbes. I’d been ready to chase her to the end of the line.
What you don’t expect is for something else just as strong to turn up, because then it’s a bit like being in a shooting range, trying to decide what to aim at, what’s a decoy and what’s real. Friend or enemy? Where should your sights land?
You can’t always tell straightaway, but sometimes you are presented with a clear and immediate threat, and it’s obvious that you must respond to that.
That’s what happened on day six of the case. The letter arrived, and it changed the game completely.
It came in the morning post. Postmark BS7, addressed to Fraser directly, at Kenneth Steele House. Fraser’s secretary opened it. Her scream could be heard out in the corridor at the far end of the incident room, and she bolted out of her office.
Fraser pulled us in immediately. The letter was in an evidence bag by then, and the secretary was already having her fingers inked next door so we could eliminate her prints. She was shaking and tearful, an extreme reaction for somebody who regularly got to file crime scene photographs.
‘Jim,” Fraser said once we’d closed the door behind us. “Get John Finch in.”
Emma was there too. She didn’t look as though she’d slept. Under her makeup her skin was dull and strained. To anybody else she probably looked more or less her usual self—a tired version of herself, of course—but I could see a few extra small signs of disarray. Her hair wasn’t tied up as neatly as usual, and her shirt didn’t look fresh. You can do that if you want to know every inch of somebody better than you know yourself. I wanted to put my arm around her, ask her if she was coping, but I couldn’t of course. Not there, not then.
What She Knew Page 19