Gilly MacMillan - What She Knew

I took a close look at the photo she’d given me. It was one of those school pictures that everybody has, taken in front of a dappled background. Ben looked like a sweet kid: blue eyes, very clear and bright. Fine-boned. He had tufty light brown hair and a half-smile. He was looking straight into the camera. Ben Finch was a very appealing-looking child, there was no doubt, and I was pleased because I knew that would help.

I handed the photo over to the team.

‘How’s the mother?’ Fraser asked.

Rachel Jenner had been a ball of nerves, understandably, her eyes darting, flinching at shadows, talking quickly, clearly intelligent, but awash with shock.

‘Shocked,’ I said. ‘And a bit guarded.’

‘Guarded?’ Fraser looked at me over the top of her glasses.

‘Just a feeling,’ I said.

‘OK. Worth watching. Talk to Emma, see what her impressions are. I’m going to go and introduce myself shortly, and we’ve called the press in at midday to film an appeal. Are you happy to talk to Dad now?’

I nodded.

‘On your way then.’

I met Emma in the corridor. It was the first chance we’d had to talk.

‘Good interview,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’

We moved to the side of the corridor to let somebody pass. Emma’s hand grazed mine discreetly, lingered there.

‘Did you tell Fraser to take me on as FLO?’ she asked.

‘I might have.’

‘Thank you.’ She gave my hand a little squeeze, then let it go, and stepped away to leave a more respectable distance between us.

‘What did you think of the mother?’ I asked. ‘I just said to Fraser I thought she was a bit guarded.’

‘I agree, but I think it’s understandable. I felt as though it was hard for her to talk about her private life, but I didn’t think she was being obstructive.’

‘No, I didn’t think that either.’

‘She’s grief-stricken. And she feels guilty too because she let him run ahead of her.’

‘That’s not a crime.’

‘Of course it’s not, but she’s going to beat herself up about that for ever isn’t she?’

‘Unless we find him quickly.’

‘Even if we find him quickly I’d say.’

‘Do you think she’s guilty of anything more?’

Emma considered that, but shook her head. ‘Gut instinct: no. But I wouldn’t swear on that one hundred per cent.’

‘You need to keep a very close eye on her. Detailed reports of what you observe, please.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve got to go. I’m interviewing Dad now.’

‘Good luck.’ She turned to go.

‘Emma!’

‘What?’

‘You will do the best job you can, won’t you? This is a big one. We have to be extremely sensitive.’

‘Of course I will.’

She didn’t look openly hurt, that wasn’t her style, but something in her expression made me regret what I’d said immediately. She was one of the most emotionally intelligent people I knew, perfect for the role, and it was wrong of me to display even the tiniest bit of doubt about her abilities. I was too psyched up myself to be measured in what I said to her; I could have kicked myself.

‘Sorry. I’m sorry. That was out of order. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’m just… this is such a big one.’

‘It’s fine, and I’m absolutely on it, don’t worry about that.’

She cracked a big smile, making it OK, and her fingers made contact with mine again briefly. ‘Good luck with the dad,’ she added, and I watched her walk briskly away down the corridor before I went to find Benedict Finch’s father.

John Finch was pacing around the small interview room that we’d placed him in. He looked gaunt, and shocked like the mother, but there was also a sense of innate authority. I guessed that in his normal life he was a man more used to being in charge of a room than being a victim.

‘DI Jim Clemo,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry about Ben.’

‘John Finch.’ His handshake was a quick firm clench with bony fingers.

There was a small table in the room, two chairs on either side of it. DC Woodley and I sat on one side, Finch on the other.

I went through the same process as with Ben’s mother, starting him at the beginning with date of birth, childhood, etc. What people don’t realise is that one of the first things we have to do is prove that they are who they say they are, and that the crime they’ve reported really has happened. We’d look pretty stupid if we investigated and it turned out that the people involved didn’t actually exist, that they’d spun us a lie from the outset. And God knows the press and public can’t wait to make a meal out of any instances of police stupidity.

Finch answered my questions in a muted, economical way.

‘I’m afraid we have to spend time on what might feel like irrelevant detail,’ I said to him.

I felt the need to apologise, to try to make the situation slightly easier for this man who was so obviously sensitive and so obviously trying to hide it.

‘But please be assured that it’s essential for us to build up a picture not just of Ben but his family too.’

‘I know the importance of a personal history,’ he said. ‘We rely on it heavily in medicine.’

John Finch’s backstory was quite straightforward. He was born in 1976 in Birmingham, an only child. Dad was a local boy, a GP, and mum was a violinist. Her parents had escaped Nazi-occupied Vienna while her mother was pregnant with her, and then settled in Birmingham. Finch was close to his parents as well as his grandparents throughout his childhood. He was a scholarship boy at the grammar school. He did well and won a place at Bristol University Medical School. He’d arrived in Bristol to start his degree twenty years ago, in 1992, and never left after that. He’d worked his way up and done well. Proof of that was his current position as consultant at the Children’s Hospital. He’d become a general surgeon. I knew just enough about the world of medicine to know that that must be a coveted position in a competitive world.

Finch’s composure first faltered when I wanted to talk in more detail about Ben’s mother, and the reason their marriage ended.

‘My marriage ended because Rachel and I were no longer suited to each other.’

A perceptible stiffening of his body, words a tad sticky as his mouth became drier.

‘It’s my understanding that this came as a surprise to Rachel.’

‘Possibly.’

‘And that there was another party involved?’

‘I have remarried, yes.’

‘Could you give me an idea of why you and Rachel were no longer suited to each other?’

A single bead of sweat had appeared by his hairline.

‘These things don’t always last, Inspector. There can be a host of small reasons that accumulate to make a marriage unsustainable.’

‘Including a younger girlfriend?’

‘Please don’t reduce me to a cliché.’

I didn’t reply. Instead I waited to see if more information would seep from him, just as the perspiration had. It’s surprising how often that works. People have an almost compulsive need to justify themselves. I made a show of looking through notes, and just when I thought he wouldn’t spill, he did.

‘My marriage wasn’t an emotionally fulfilling one. We didn’t…⁠’ He was choosing his words carefully. ‘We didn’t communicate .’

‘It happens,’ I said.

‘I was lonely.’

His eyes flicked away from mine and I saw a frisson of emotion in them when our gazes reconnected, though it was hard to say exactly what. John Finch was definitely a proud man, and unaccustomed to sharing the personal details of his life.

‘Is Rachel a good mother to Ben?’ I asked him. I wanted to catch him when his guard was down. His reply came immediately, he didn’t need to think about it: ‘She’s an excellent mother. She loves Ben very much.’