What She Knew (5 page)

FM: Was he the reason you joined the force?

JC: A big part of it, yeah.

FM: And you started your career in Devon and Cornwall?

JC: I did.

FM: Was that hard? Did you feel you had a lot to live up to, in your dad?

JC: Of course, because I did.

FM: Did that feel like pressure?

JC: I’m not afraid of pressure.

FM: When you were with Devon and Cornwall was it well known that you were your father’s son?

JC: When I started I was known as “Mick Clemo’s boy,” but it’s the same for anyone who’s got a relative in the force.

FM: And when you moved to Bristol, to the Avon and Somerset force, did that change?

JC: It changed completely. Only one or two of the older guys in Bristol knew my dad personally.

FM: So it was a chance for a fresh start?

JC: It was a promotion is what it was.

FM: Has policing been the right career choice for you, do you think?

JC: It’s what I always wanted to do. There was never another way for me. Like I said, it’s in the blood. It has to be in the blood.

FM: Why “has to be”?

JC: Because you see it all. You see the dirtiest, blackest side of life. You see what people inflict on each other, and it can be brutal.

His gaze is steady now, focused entirely on me. I feel that he’s challenging me to contradict what he’s said, or diminish it. I remember that I’m not the only person in the room trained to read the behavior of others. I decide to move on.

FM: Your record states that you took an English degree before joining the force.

JC: It’s expected to join the force with a degree nowadays. Not like it used to be when you went in straight from school.

FM: Did you enjoy your degree?

JC: I did.

FM: What did you study? Was there anything you especially enjoyed?

JC: Yeats. I enjoyed Yeats.

FM: I know a Yeats poem: “Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer…” Do you know it? I think it’s by Yeats anyway. I forget the title.

JC can’t help himself, he carries on the poem.

JC: “. . . Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world…”

FM: “. . . The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere…”

JC: “. . . The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”

FM: There’s more.

JC: I can’t remember it exactly.

FM: He’s a wonderful poet.

JC: He’s a truthful poet.

FM: Do you still read poetry?

JC: No. I don’t have time for that sort of thing now.

FM: You work long hours?

JC: You have to if you want to get on.

FM: And do you? Want to get on?

JC: Of course.

FM: Can I ask you once again: is there anything specific that triggers your panic attacks?

JC covers his face with his hands, rubs his eyes, and massages his temples. I begin to think he isn’t going to reply, that I’ve pushed him too far too fast, but eventually he seems to come to some kind of decision and looks me directly in the eye.

JC: I can’t sleep. It makes me confused sometimes. It makes me doubt my judgment.

FM: You suffer from insomnia?

JC: Yes.

FM: How long has this been going on?

He studies me before he answers.

JC: Since the case.

FM: Do you struggle to get to sleep, or do you wake up in the middle of the night?

JC: I can’t fall asleep.

FM: How many hours do you think you sleep a night?

JC: I don’t know. Sometimes as little as three or four.

FM: That’s a very small amount, which could certainly have a profound effect on your state of mind during the day.

JC: It’s fine.

He’s being stoic suddenly, as if he regrets confiding in me.

FM: I don’t think three or four hours’ sleep is fine.

JC: Maybe I’m wrong. It’s probably more.

FM: You seemed quite certain.

JC: It’s nothing I can’t cope with.

I don’t believe him.

FM: Have you sought any medical help?

JC: I’m not taking pills.

FM: What goes through your mind when you’re trying to sleep?

Again, he studies me before responding.

JC: I can’t remember.

His answers have become obviously and frustratingly evasive, and I want to delve more into this, but now is not the time, because if this process is to succeed I must first build his trust and that, I suspect, is not going to be an easy task.

DAY 2

MONDAY, OCTOBER 22, 2012

Efforts undertaken by law-enforcement agencies during the initial stages of a missing-child report may often make the difference between a case with a swift conclusion and one evolving into months or even years of stressful, unresolved investigation. While the investigative aspect of a missing-child case is similar, in many ways, to other major cases, few of these other situations have the added emotional stress created by the unexplained absence of a child. When not anticipated and prepared for, this stress may negatively impact the outcome of a missing-child case.

—Preston Findlay and Robert G. Lowery, Jr., eds., “Missing and Abducted Children: A Law-Enforcement Guide to Case Investigation and Program Management,” fourth edition, National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, OJJDP Report, 2011.

RACHEL

John couldn’t stand the waiting. He wanted to do something, so he spent most of the night driving around, circling the woods, following the routes back into Bristol, just in case.

Each time he returned, he sat in my car and asked me to go over what had happened.

“I’ve told you,” I said, when he asked for the third time.

“Tell me again.”

“How will it help?”

“It might.”

“I’m so scared he’s hurt.”

John winced at my words, but I needed to say more.

“He’ll be so frightened.”

“I know.” His reply was tight, tense.

“He’ll be wondering why we haven’t found him yet.”

“Stop! Just tell me again. From the beginning.”

I did. I told him everything I could remember, over and over again, but it was simple really. Ben was there, and then he ran ahead, and then he was gone. No sign, except a rope swing, gently swaying.

“Do you think he’d been on it?” John asked. “How was it swaying?”

“Backward and forward. Gently.”

“Could the wind have blown it?”

“It might have.”

“Have you told the police?”

“Yes.”

“And you heard nothing?”

“No. Just the sounds of the woods.”

“And you called out to him?”

“Of course I did.”

And so on. In this way, the hours passed slowly, desperately. We punctuated the time by speaking periodically to the police, getting updates that told us nothing. I rang Nicky more than once, passing on the lack of news, hearing the mounting desperation in my voice echoed in her responses.

Inspector Miller arrived before midnight in full waterproof gear, to oversee the search. The men with dogs changed shift twice. Sodden and tired animals handed over to eager, bright-eyed creatures, straining at their leashes. I gave them Ben’s sweater to sniff, so they knew his scent. The darkness was our greatest enemy, holding back the possibility of a full-scale search.

At five a.m., Inspector Miller called John and me together to tell us what was happening. They were readying themselves for dawn, he said, which would be at 07:37. He ran through a list of the actions that were planned, using police-speak that I only partially understood. There were to be more dogs, horses, a sergeant and six; Mountain Rescue was coming, and they’d scrambled the Eye in the Sky.

For the next couple of hours I watched numbly from my car as the scene in the parking lot transformed. I felt useless, a voyeur.

The “sergeant and six” turned out to be a grilled van, from which seven men appeared, ready to search on foot. Another van brought a generator, lights, a shelter and maps, and four Mountain Rescue men. Inspector Miller and WPC Banks worked to organize them. They’d both begun to function with the contained, intense kind of energy of somebody who has a bad secret that they’re not allowed to tell.

Dawn crept in in fits and starts, the pall of total darkness reluctant to retreat. Daylight revealed that the parking area had been churned up by the constant comings and goings during the night. The only blessings were that the rain had ebbed to a persistent drizzle and the wind had died down somewhat, though spiteful, icy little gusts still blew through intermittently.

Four mounted officers congregated at the entrance to the path. Their horses were huge and beautiful, with glossy coats and nostrils that snorted visible puffs into the damp, chilly air. Ben would have loved them. One of them startled as the thud-thud of the search helicopter grew louder overhead. It swooped low over the treetops, before disappearing again.

Katrina arrived soon afterward. John emerged from his car to greet her and folded his arms around her in a public display of affection the likes of which had never occurred once in our entire relationship. He buried his face into her hair. I lowered my gaze.

She knocked on my car window, startling me. I wound it down.

“No news yet?” she said.

I shook my head.

“I’ve brought these for you, in case you need something.” She handed me a thermos and a paper bag.

“It’s just tea, and some pastries. I didn’t know what you like, so I picked for you…” Her voice trailed away. She was neatly dressed, and she stood there like a prefect at school, well turned out and eager to please. No makeup. That was the first time I’d seen her without it. I didn’t know what to say.

“Thanks,” I managed.

“If there’s anything I can do.”

“OK. Thanks.”

“John’s asked me to go back home, in case he turns up there.”

“OK. Good idea.”

It was awkward and strange. There’s no protocol for meeting your ex-husband’s new wife at the site where your son’s gone missing.

“Well, I’d best get back there,” she said, and she turned away, returned to John.

After she’d gone, I looked in the bag of pastries. Two croissants. I tried to nibble one, but it tasted like dust. I managed some sips of tea. It wasn’t sugared, the way I like it, but the heat was welcome.

It was just after Katrina left that Inspector Miller’s radio sprang into life.

They’d found something. It was hard to hear the detail. The radio crackled and spat, words emerging occasionally from the interference. “What is it?” I mouthed at the inspector as he held up a finger to shush me. He beckoned to WPC Banks to join him and they turned away, conferred. John noticed the action and appeared beside me. I felt electrified by hope and dread. Once again the drone of the helicopter traveled over us, making it even more difficult to hear. The inspector turned to us:

“Can you confirm once again what Ben is wearing, please?”

“Red anorak, white T-shirt with a picture of a guitar on it, blue jeans, ripped at the knee, blue trainers that flash.”

He repeated it all into his radio. The voice crackled back at him, asking what size and brand of trainer.

“Geox,” I said. “Size thirty.”

The inspector turned away again. It took all my self-control not to grab him, to shake out of him what was going on. John was rigid beside me, arms folded tightly across his chest.

It was the awkward twitch of Inspector Miller’s mouth that gave it away when he turned back to us. Whatever they’d found, it wasn’t making him happy.

“Right.” He took a deep breath, drawing strength from some internal reserve. “The boys have found something that they believe might be significant. It’s not Ben”—he’d seen the question on my lips—“but it might be an item or items of his clothing.”

“Where?” said John.

“By the pond at Paradise Bottom.”

I knew it. It was nearby. I ran. I heard them shout after me, I was aware of the heavy rhythm of someone running behind me, but I didn’t pause; I sprinted into the woods as fast as I could.

Before I even reached the pond I saw them: a group of three men, huddled together, standing in the middle of the path. They watched me as I approached. One man held a bundle in his hands, a clear plastic bag with something in it.

“I’ve come to see,” I said, and the man with the bundle said, “It would be good if you could confirm whether any of these items belong to Ben or not, but please don’t take them out of the bag.”

He held it out toward me, an offering.

John arrived beside me, his breathing loud and ragged.

I took the bag. It had a weight to it. Droplets of water smeared the plastic outside and in. The contents were wet. I saw a flash of red, some denim, bundled-up white cotton fabric. I turned it upside down, and beneath the fabric items were two shoes: blue Geox trainers. They were scuffed, and on one of them the sole was slightly separated from the shoe at the toe, as I knew it would be. I gave the bag a little shake. Triggered by the movement, blue lights flashed along the sole of the shoes.

“The shoes are named,” I said. “With his initials, under the tongue.”

Through the plastic I managed to pull up the tongue of the shoe. Underneath it were the letters “BF.” The ink had bled into the fabric around it.

“Thank you,” said the man. He had white hair and a darker gray mustache and eyebrows, and red, pockmarked skin. He took the bag from me, though I didn’t want to give it back to him.

“Where’s Ben?” I said.

“We’re doing our very best to find him,” the man replied, and the compassion in his voice robbed me of any shreds of composure that I might have had left.

An ugly fear was growing in me like a tumor; it was an idea that I hadn’t wanted to contemplate. John hugged me, tightly. He knew what I was thinking because he was thinking it too.

“No!” I shouted, and it was the sound of a wild animal, an ululation, an uttering that a mother might make if she saw her offspring being dragged away by a predator.

JIM

The morning after Benedict Finch went missing I woke up early, like I always do. I’ve got a reliable body clock. I never need to set an alarm, although I do, just in case. You don’t want to oversleep. I started the day the way I always do: a cup of good black coffee, made properly in my Bialetti. I drank it standing in my kitchen.