She’d underlined that, two lines drawn so hard that they’d gouged the page. What I started to read next was worse: ‘When abducted child is killed, killer-’
Before I got further Nicky came back into the room and snatched the notepad from me.
‘Don’t look at that!’ she said. ‘Not now.’ She ripped off the pages of notes and put them in her handbag. ‘You mustn’t look. We’re not there yet. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left it out.’
‘How the hell are you finding this stuff?’ I asked. ‘What is it? Where’s it from? Show me!’ I held my hand out for the notes, but she wasn’t having any of it.
‘Don’t concern yourself with that. Honestly, Rachel, don’t think about it. Let’s go. It’s time to go. Let me look at you one more time.’
She held me gently by the shoulders, looked me over, a frown fleetingly crossing her brow when she looked at my forehead, and all the while I searched her eyes for clues to what she’d read, to how and where she’d found the information so quickly and to the side of her personality which allowed her the detachment to look at the darkest side of this in a way that I simply couldn’t contemplate.
At the police station they showed me into the same room as the previous day. Somebody had arranged four Jammie Dodgers on a plate for us. The centres of the biscuits were crimson and resinous, like excretions from a wound. The room smelled of stewed tea.
I sat there with Nicky, Zhang and Clemo going over a statement that he wanted me to read out, an appeal to Ben’s abductor. I looked over the words with a sense of detachment and surrealism. They didn’t resemble my speech in any way. I felt deeply uneasy.
Clemo was like a coiled spring.
‘Are you going to be OK with this?’ he said.
‘I think so.’
‘It’s important that you’re calm, and clear, as much as possible. It’s absolutely paramount that we don’t alienate the abductor.’
I took shallow breaths, focused on the page in front of me. The words swam across it.
‘Are you sure you can do it?’ he asked again. His voice sounded pressured, desperate for a ‘yes’.
‘Do you want me to do it?’ Nicky asked. I looked at her, her face straining with the need to help.
What could I say? I was his mother.
‘No. I want to do it. I have to do it.’
‘Good girl.’ It was enough for Clemo. He was up out of his chair, checking his watch.
‘Will you be ready to go in fifteen?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘I’ll see you in there. I’ll be sitting right by you. Emma, bring them down in ten minutes. Cabot Room.’
In Zhang’s wake Nicky and I travelled carpeted corridors until we reached a set of double doors labelled CABOT ROOM. Inside, I was invited to take my place behind a narrow table that was set up at one end of the room. The line-up was Zhang, me, Clemo, DCI Fraser and John, who acknowledged me with a nod, his jaw set in an effort to control his emotions.
Nicky found a place at the side of the room. She had to stand because every chair was taken. The room was packed with journalists. TV cameras were set up at the back, photographers beside them. There were more lenses trained on me than I could count.
Those who were sitting had laptops, or tablets, or recording devices, which they were busy checking. Behind us the wall was emblazoned with a large Avon and Somerset police logo, and on each side of that two identical posters had been put up, showing Ben’s photo, and a phone number and email address for information.
On the table in front of us was a bank of microphones, wires snaking from the back of them. I poured myself an inch of water from a carafe and sipped it. My mouth was dry, my heart thumping. The noise in the room was oppressive. Motor drives and voices meshed together to make a messy ball of sound from which my name sometimes erupted.
Clemo called the room to order on a signal from DCI Fraser. I clutched my script, forced my eyes to run over the words. I hadn’t really come to terms with what they wanted me to say. The carefully modulated phrases that they’d written for me made me recoil.
Clemo started things off and he was concise and authoritative. He spoke briefly and then introduced me, telling the room that I was going to read out a statement. I put my script on the table and smoothed it out, cleared my throat.
‘Please,’ I said, but my voice died away. I started again: ‘Please can I appeal to anyone who knows anything about Ben’s disappearance to contact the police as DI Clemo has requested. Ben is only eight years old, he’s very young, and the best place for him to be is at home where he can be with his family and friends because we all love him very much and it is making us very anxious not knowing whether he is safe and well.’
I felt tears running down my face. I heard my voice get twisted up by my grief. I felt Zhang’s hand on my back, saw Clemo shift uneasily in his seat beside me. I took a deep shuddering breath and went on:
‘If you are the person who is with Ben then please make contact. You don’t need to ring the police directly, you can talk to a solicitor, or someone you trust, and they will help you get him home safely. This is an unusual situation for all of us…’
I dried up again. I’d reached the bit of the speech I hated. Clemo’s words ran round in my head: ‘Remember we want to humanise the situation,’ he’d said, ‘that’s why we’re offering the abductor a chance for forgiveness, so that they aren’t afraid to get in contact.’
I tried to gather myself. Clemo whispered something in my ear, but I couldn’t hear what he said, because it was then that I heard John sob. He was hunched over the table, his head in his hands, his face red and distorted. He began to cry noisily, his shoulders heaving, his grief physical and terrible.
I gave up trying to read. I couldn’t do it any more. I couldn’t say the words on the script and, most powerfully of all, I couldn’t fight the idea that had crept into my head with a certainty and clarity that almost took my breath away.
I carefully folded up the script, placed it in front of me.
You see, the thought that I had was this: that Ben and his abductor were watching. They were watching John break down and watching me speak words that weren’t mine: submissive, tame words.
I was sure of it, and I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I stood up, and all the camera lenses in the room rose too, trained on my face. I moved my gaze along them and, in my mind, through each one I met the eye of Ben’s abductor.
‘Give him back,’ I said. ‘Give. Him. Back. Or I will hunt you down myself. I will find you, if it takes me my whole life. I will find you and I will make you pay.’
Then, as Clemo was saying ‘Ms Jenner!’ and standing beside me, not knowing how to stop me, I spoke to my son. I looked deep down those lenses, willing Ben to hear my words, and I said: ‘I love you, Ben. If you are watching, I love you and I’m going to find you. Love, I’m coming to get you. I promise.’
I smiled at him. I was entranced by the fact that I might have just managed the first communication with my son since he disappeared, imagining him hearing my words in a strange place somewhere and feeling less alone, less confused, perhaps even feeling hope.
The reporters began to call to me then, but I felt triumphant. If Ben was watching then I had just made contact with him. He hadn’t witnessed his parents simply looking broken, his mother speaking in words that weren’t hers. Instead I’d told him that I was going to find him. Now I felt euphoric, as if I’d done something that was really and truly right and honest, something pure, even, amidst the horror of it all, and in my naivety I felt sure that that rightness and honesty should have some power to lead us to Ben.
I glanced at DI Clemo, wanting a show of support from him, but he looked as though he’d just been slapped, hard, across his hollowed-out cheeks. The cameras were still all trained on me, and the journalists were scribbling in their pads or typing, with fingers flying. The flashguns fired like strobe lights. The noise levels were rising.