Gilly MacMillan - What She Knew

‘I’m sorry, boss. Rachel Jenner went totally off message. I didn’t see it coming. I tried to…⁠’

‘Did you prepare her properly?’

‘I thought I did. We went through the script and she seemed happy with it.’

‘Seemed? Or was?’

‘I asked her if she was happy with it, she said yes. I thought she’d cope fine. I didn’t have a crystal ball, boss.’

‘You’re not going to have any fucking balls if you carry on like this. I’ll chop them off personally and use them as Christmas decorations for the girls’ lavvy. Rachel Jenner challenged the abductor. It’s the most dangerous thing she could have done. Even the desk sergeant could have told you that. The fucking street cleaner I drove past on my way in this morning could have told you that! I am not prepared to have a dead child on my hands because you’re gambling on the mother’s state of mind. If you send somebody into a press conference you need to know they’re prepared, not send them in on a wing and prayer.’

She was pushing the end of her pen towards me in little stabbing motions.

‘I’m sorry, boss.’

‘This case has the potential to turn into a big hairy beast if we don’t find the bastard who’s got Ben Finch quickly, and I don’t like beasties, Jim. Start using your head.’

‘I will.’

It was a proper dressing down. It was the worst start to the case I could have imagined. I braced myself for more, but she was finished.

‘Sit down for God’s sake,’ she said, and then, ‘Are we looking at a guilty mother?’

‘It’s possible. An outburst like that could be masking some kind of intense emotion. It could be guilt.’

‘Or grief? Or fear?’

‘It could be any of those things.’

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.

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.