Gilly MacMillan - What She Knew

‘You are vandalising our family!’ she shouted and her words echoed up and down the quiet street, interrupted only by the mechanical dawn chorus of the camera motor drives.

Sometimes on a case you get a bit of information that feels electric, like static under the skin, especially when it’s very unexpected.

I was awake before 6 am, feeling bruised from my dream at first, because it had lingered with me into the morning, and got mixed up with the tiredness I felt, and the disappointment that we weren’t making as much progress as we’d have liked.

But that didn’t last long, because I checked my phone and saw an email that had just arrived very late the night before from one of the blokes we had digging up background on people.

It was a new bit of information, and it changed what we knew about somebody close to Benedict, and to be sure that I acted on it properly, I knew I had to damp down my feeling of excitement and follow procedure. I had to make sure I did things right.

So in order to do that, I had four conversations before I paid a visit to Rachel Jenner’s house that morning.

6.15 am: FRASER

I paced around my bedroom, waiting for her to answer. She picked up quickly.

‘Jim,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping there’s a good reason for this. You do know I bite the heads off orphans before I’ve had my first coffee?’

‘Nicola Forbes,’ I said.

‘What of her?’

‘She hasn’t been entirely honest with us. Understatement.’

I gave her a synopsis.

‘OK, you’ve got me interested. I’ll see you in my office in an hour.’

‘If you don’t mind, boss, I’ll go and talk to John Finch first.’

‘Do you think you should talk to Rachel Jenner first?

‘My feeling is that she doesn’t know about this.’

‘OK. Keep me posted.’

6.45 am: EMMA

I was up and dressed by now, one espresso down, and the Bialetti foaming on the hob again already, because although I was more fired up than I had been for days I’ll admit I was feeling my lack of sleep just a touch, and I needed to drive that feeling back, so I could stay on the ball completely.

Emma was on the sofa and groggy as hell, her forehead all scrunched up as she tried to fight her way back to consciousness from a deep sleep. I knelt down beside her, whispered that I’d made her a cup of coffee, and held it near her face so she could smell it. When she’d managed to open her eyes, I filled her in on what I’d learned. That woke her up properly, like a shot of adrenalin straight into the arm.

7 am: Ex-DI TALBOT

Ex-DI Talbot was the man who’d sent me the information. Officially, he was retired, but now and then he came in to work on cases as a civilian when extra bodies were needed. We always wanted him on a case because he was a proper bloodhound. He’d been digging into background on the individuals closest to Ben, and he’d stumbled on this information about Nicola Forbes. I wanted every detail from him. I wanted to hear it from him directly; to be sure I hadn’t misinterpreted his email.

8.30 am: JOHN FINCH

The last was John Finch. When he opened the door to his house he was in checked pyjama bottoms and a crumpled T-shirt, a pair of reading glasses pushed up onto his head. His knees buckled and I realised I should have called ahead.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘There’s no news on Benedict’s whereabouts just yet, but if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to have a word with you about Nicola Forbes.’

He regained his composure impressively well. The man had nerves of steel. By the time his wife had reached the bottom of the stairs in the hallway behind him, wrapping a white dressing gown around herself, he had pulled the door open further and invited me in graciously.

Nicky opened the door. It was mid-morning, and DI Clemo was standing on the doorstep with Zhang.

‘Is there news?’ Nicky asked. It was all any of us ever seemed to say to each other. It was starting to sound pathetic to me, as if we would be punished just a little bit more each time we asked it, as if there were a vengeful God somewhere up there, counting each display of misplaced optimism.

There wasn’t any news. Clemo said that they were here to ‘have a chat’, though something in his tone of voice suggested otherwise. It made me feel wary, but Nicky seemed oblivious to it.

‘I could have used a little bit of notice,’ she said, ‘to get properly prepared for you, but I’m delighted you’ve made time to talk. We’re so very grateful. We’ve got so much to ask.’

She pulled some papers together, and tapped at her laptop, looking for a document.

‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a list here. It’s roughly broken into two categories: questions we have about the investigation, and suggested actions to help in the search for Ben. Do you have a preference for which we should start with? And how would you like your tea? Or would you prefer coffee?’

I was watching Clemo and Zhang. He was waiting for Nicky to finish. Zhang looked at her notebook, which she’d laid neatly on the table in front of her, then glanced sideways at Clemo. Whatever they were here to say, he was going to be the one to say it, and I was becoming certain that it wasn’t to discuss Nicky’s wish list.

‘Coffee, please,’ he said. Zhang wanted some too.

As Nicky filled a cafetière with boiling water and set it down in front of us, Clemo watched her in a way that made frost settle on my skin.

‘From our point of view,’ she said, ‘this is so valuable. I’ve been doing some research, as you can see -’ she smiled at them – ‘and everywhere it says that there’s a much higher chance of success in finding the child if there’s a close relationship between law enforcement and the family. So – thank you. So much. Help yourselves to milk and sugar.’ She set down a sugar bowl and a small china jug. Steam rose from its contents. She’d warmed the milk.

DI Clemo opened his notebook and had a quick look inside it. He closed it again. Nicky finally heard the silence.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m gabbling, aren’t I? Sorry.’ She pulled out a chair, sat down and looked attentively at Clemo and Zhang.

Clemo cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘Do either of you know of a couple called Andrew and Naomi Bowness?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘Nicky?’ he asked my sister.

Her face had emptied of colour, instantly. It was extraordinary.

‘Oh God no,’ she said, and the tendons on her neck appeared stretched and odd as she looked first at me and then back at Clemo, searching our faces for something. She stood up abruptly but didn’t seem to know what to do then.

‘This will be easier if you can sit down and talk it through with us,’ said Clemo.

‘No,’ said Nicky. ‘Don’t do this.’ Her hands were clasped together, the edges of her fingers white from the pressure of her grasp.

‘Please sit,’ Clemo insisted.

She didn’t sit; she crumpled back into her chair, as if he’d sunk his fist into her stomach.

‘What about their son, Charlie Bowness?’ asked Clemo in a tone that seemed carefully controlled to sound light. He adjusted his chair, moving it just a little closer to Nicky. She wouldn’t look at him.

‘Nicky?’ he asked. ‘You know who they are, don’t you?’

‘You know I do,’ she whispered.

‘And you?’ he asked me. ‘Do you know?’

‘I’ve never heard of them,’ I said.

I was transfixed at the sight of my sister so vulnerable and defenceless. I was aware that I should probably move, and go to her, but there was a ghastly momentum in the room now, and it felt unstoppable.