I knew what she meant. When you interview people in their own homes they feel more relaxed, because it’s familiar, but they are also in control.
‘Use a rape suite,’ she said. It was a concession to sensitivity. Rape suites are nicer than interview rooms. ‘And anyway,’ she added, ‘we’ll need forensics to visit Mum’s home at least, assuming that’s where the kid spends most of his time, and Dad’s home if we think it’s worth it. They’re both potential scenes.’
She picked up the phone. It was my cue to leave. But then she put it down again.
‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘I was going to ask Annie Rookes to be FLO but she’s tied up. Any ideas?’
I don’t really know what made me say it so reflexively, but I did, and before I’d had a chance to think. ‘What about Emma Zhang?’
Fraser looked surprised. ‘Is she experienced enough? This one’s going to be tough whichever way it plays out.’
‘I think so, boss. She’s very bright, and she’s done the training.’ It was too late to back down now, and anyway, I thought Emma deserved the chance, and I thought she’d be good at the job. It would be a real step up for her, and there was so much to learn from working with Fraser.
‘Zhang it is then,’ Fraser said, picking up the phone again.
It was only once I’d left her office that I hoped I’d done the right thing, for Emma, and for the case too. The family liaison officer role is a crucial one. They’re there to look after the welfare of the victim’s family, but they’re detectives first and foremost. They watch, they listen, they offer support, but above all they keep an eye out for evidence and then they report back to the investigation. It’s a delicate line to tread. The FLO can make the difference between our success and our failure.
We got an incident room set up, quick sharp. Kenneth Steele House is spot on because it’s been refurbished with CID needs in mind, so we’ve got the facilities we need to run as slick an operation as possible, as quickly as possible. The room we were allocated was spacious: two runs of tables down each side with monitors on them, room for the Receiver, Statement Reader and Action Allocator. There was an office set up for DCI Fraser just off the main area, so she could run the show from there, as well as an ‘intel’ room, a CCTV room, an exhibits office and a store. It was an arrangement that meant we could keep everything close; it was proven to work well.
Straight off, we allocated actions to the officers we already had working, to confirm whereabouts of all the local sex offenders who were already known to us and to look through records for previous incidents relating to missing children or any peepers, flashers or attempted abductions in the area. We had four pairs of officers in place and Fraser was adamant that she was going to need ten pairs at least.
At 10 am we got a call to say the parents had been brought in. Fraser said, ‘You should get down there and get straight on with the interviews. Do it by the book, Jim. I want every “i” dotted and every “t” crossed. I’m also going to speak to the Super because I think we’ve got grounds to get a CRA out already. The criteria are met. You need to ask the parents for a photograph ASAP.’
CRA stood for Child Rescue Alert. I knew the criteria, you learn them by rote: if the missing child is under sixteen, if a police officer of superintendent rank or higher feels that serious harm or death might come to the child, if the child has been kidnapped and there are sufficient details about the child or abductor to make it useful, then you can issue one. The point of it is to inform police, press and public nationwide that a child is missing. A news flash interrupts TV and radio programmes to alert the public, and border agencies and police forces around the country will be primed to be on the lookout. It’s as serious as it gets.
I took a last look through the questions I’d been preparing for the parents, made myself take a deep breath. This was it. I was as ready as I was going to be. As detectives, we’re trained to know that what you do in the first few hours after a child has disappeared is crucial. Ben Finch had already been missing for more than twelve hours and our investigation was only just launching. I didn’t need Fraser to tell me that operationally speaking we were on the back foot already, or that every step we took from now on would be under scrutiny.
‘Woodley,’ I said to a rookie DC who Fraser had attached to the case. He was a tall, skinny lad with a face only a mother could love. ‘Get me a tea tray ready. Enough for three. And biscuits. Take it down to the rape suite but don’t take it in. Wait for me outside.’
If a female officer in plain clothes 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 beautiful caramel-coloured 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 progresses. 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 grey. On one of the armchairs a lone purple cushion sagged as if it had been punched. A door was labelled 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 disorganised 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 realised 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.