Fraser’s pen was tapping again, this time on the desk. ‘We need to watch her carefully. Make sure Emma knows. Guilty of something or not, Mother’s a loose cannon. How did Dad react?’
‘He was angry.’
I’d had to restrain John Finch outside the press conference. He’d shouted in the corridor, blaming me, blaming Rachel, sobbing again, afraid that Rachel’s threats could have done Ben more harm than good. He was right to fear that. It’s what we were all thinking.
‘Do we think he’s genuine?’
‘I think he is. His wife’s confirmed his alibi. They were both at home together on Sunday afternoon.’
‘It’s a soft alibi.’
Fraser was right. We all knew how often spouses or parents offered alibis to keep their families out of trouble, motivated by love, or by fear, or both.
‘OK, let’s crack on. Damage limitation with the press, I’ll see to that, and for you the priority is interviews. I want information. Somebody saw something. Tell Emma to get Mother home.’
‘Should I interview Rachel Jenner again?’
‘No. Just warn her off speaking to the press. There’s going to be a reaction to this, I don’t think I need to spell that out. When you’ve done that I want you to get over to Benedict’s school. We need to show that we’re being supportive to the school, and the community. You can interview his teacher while you’re there, see if she’s noticed anything different about Ben lately.’
‘Yes, boss.’
The assignment felt like a punishment for letting the press conference get out of hand, and it probably was. A DC should be doing it, and both of us knew that.
‘I’ll get down there straight away.’
She softened slightly. ‘I would ask a DC to do it but the Chief’s keen that someone with rank is seen to be there.’
If that was supposed to feel like a comfort, then it was a very small one.
RACHEL
What happened next was that the attitude of the police towards me tightened, or perhaps I should say sharpened. It was clear as day to me, even though on the surface they still showed appropriate concern.
I first realised it when DI Clemo came to see me after the conference and could barely contain his irritation.
Zhang had brought me yet another cup of tea that I couldn’t drink, and sat my sister and me in a boxy interview room until my nausea had subsided to a manageable level and I felt ready to travel home.
When Clemo appeared his eyes were burning. He remained standing, his bulk dominating the space.
‘Rachel,’ he said, ‘you do understand that things didn’t run entirely to plan at the press conference?’
He was handling me. I tried to say something, to justify what had happened, but he held up a hand, even though he’d asked me a question.
‘Let me finish if you will,’ he said. ‘Our primary concern now is that there may be some kind of backlash against you. We suggest that you keep a very low profile around the press, as low as possible.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Don’t talk to them. It’s very simple.’
‘It’s for your own protection,’ said Zhang, ‘and Ben’s.’
‘What do you mean by backlash?’ Nicky wanted to know.
‘Precisely that. This is a high-profile case. The press conference was, unfortunately, sensational, and for all the wrong reasons. The public want to find Ben as much as we do, but unlike us they might not be looking for evidence before making accusations. Do I make myself clear?’
‘I understand,’ said Nicky. ‘They’re going to say that Rachel did it.’
‘They’re already saying it.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Go home, shut the doors, pull the curtains, don’t speak to any journalists. DC Zhang will drive you back.’
‘What about Ben?’ I said.
‘We’re going to continue to do everything we can to find him and we’ll keep you posted on our progress.’ It was a phrase that was as bland and meaningless as a corporate slogan. If I’d ever had a connection with him, I felt as if it was lost now.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
At home, Nicky and Laura and I watched in silence as the footage from the conference played on national TV.
I’d been filmed in close-up. I looked as if I’d crawled out of a primitive encampment after a long siege. The injury on my head was prominent; it drew the eye like a disfigurement, and livid red spots on my pale cheeks made me look feverish, and deranged. My eyes sagged with grief and exhaustion, and roved around the room, restless and jumpy. Every flaw and muscle twitch and emotion was visible on my face, and the moment when I addressed Ben’s abductor was the worst. There wasn’t a trace of dignity or vulnerability, or love for my son. I simply projected a raw, ugly rage that looked heinous, and unnatural.
And yes, the blood on my hands was visible.
When I finally disintegrated, and was hustled from the room where the conference was being held, I looked like somebody fleeing a crime.
I don’t know why I’m describing all this to you, because unless you’ve been living in Timbuktu you’ve probably seen it. In fact even if you had been living there you’d have been able to look it up online.
The footage went viral. Of course it did. I understand these things now.
My sister and Laura reacted in ways that summed up what was to be the response of the whole country, Nicky representing the minority view.
Laura: ‘Everybody’s going to blame you. They’re going to say you did it. You look guilty.’
Nicky: ‘No they won’t, they can see how much you love him, how brave you are.’
Peter Armstrong came round later on. I hadn’t spoken to him since he’d taken Skittle away from the woods to get treatment, but he’d phoned regularly and Nicky had kept him updated. He was coming over to bring the dog home. He was sanguine about the reaction to the press conference.
‘It’ll blow over,’ he said.
He was a slender man with a stomach that had been concave since his divorce. He had dark hair that circled a significant bald patch, and stubble. He wore jeans, a loose sweater and trendy trainers that looked too young for him. He worked as a web designer, mostly from home, and I’d always thought he needed to get out more.
‘And anyway, it’s only ever a minority of people who overreact to these things. As soon as they find Ben, everybody will forget. Don’t dwell on it. Keep faith, Rachel. Your friends will still be there for you.’
We were kneeling around the dog basket, petting Skittle. The dog’s hind leg was in a pristine cast, which dragged behind him when he tried to walk. Now he was lying down, his tail managing a drowsy thump or two, but no more. He was wondering where Ben was. I was wondering what he’d seen.
‘The police spoke to the vet,’ Peter said. ‘They asked if Skittle’s injury could tell them anything about how he got hurt.’
‘And?’ said Nicky.
I could tell she liked Peter. He was the opposite of her husband in looks. Simon Forbes was twice the size of Peter. He had the unruly dark hair that their girls had inherited, albeit a tad salt-and-peppery around the edges by now, and dressed in corduroys, well-worn brogues and pressed shirts in country checks under old-fashioned blazers. However, aside from this difference, the two men did share a gentle, sensible quality that appealed to my sister.
‘The vet said that the leg looked as if it was broken with one clean blow, but that could have happened in different ways. It could have been a fall, or it could have been somebody striking him. No way to tell which.’
For a second or two there was silence in the room, an emptiness, which nobody wanted to fill with words, because we were all thinking about what that might mean for Ben, and how bad that could be.
‘How’s Finn?’ I asked Peter.
‘Finn’s upset. He can’t wait to have his buddy back.’ He struggled to keep himself composed. ‘But he’s OK. He’s OK I think.’ He didn’t look sure. ‘School are working hard to handle things.’