What She Knew

by Gilly MacMillan

  I balled it up, hugged it to myself, along with Baggy Bear. I could smell Ben on the nunny, on the bedding, and on his teddy bear. It was the perfect smell that he’d always had. It was the smell of baby hair that has no weight to it, and of the skin on his temples, which was still velvety smooth. It was the smell of trust, freely given, and a perfect, innocent curiosity. It was the smell of our dog walks and the games we’d played together and the things I’d told him and the meals we’d shared. It was the smell of our history together. I inhaled that smell as if it could revive me somehow, give me some answers, or some hope, and, like that, I just waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

  When Laura arrived Nicky let her in and I heard their voices downstairs, hushed and serious. In real life—the life we were living before Ben was taken—they didn’t get on very well. I was the only thing that these two women had in common, and their paths had crossed only once or twice before. Without me they would never have spent time together, probably not without a large measure of irritation anyway.

  As a foil to Nicky’s conservatism, and her serious, thoughtful approach to life, Laura was skittish, playful, inconsistent, rebellious, and sometimes downright wild. She was a birdlike person, tiny-framed, with short urchin hair, wide brown eyes, and a big laugh. When I’d first met her, when we were both nursing students, right from the start she’d made me laugh, taught me how to play. She was the first person I’d met who did that for me. It thrilled me.

  She wasn’t like that one hundred percent of the time, of course. She had her moments of darkness too, but she kept them private. I only glimpsed them when alcohol had loosened her tongue. “I was a mistake,” she said once. I’d known her for a good few years by then. We were no longer students, although we were still in our habit of going for a big night out at least once a week. Her words were heavy with booze.

  “My parents didn’t want to have me. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that two people who were among the brightest minds in the country, or so they liked to say, it’s ironic that they should have made such a basic error. Don’t you think?”

  Her tone of voice was attempting to be jokey but the corners of her mouth kept dragging down and her eyes were dull and tired.

  “Didn’t they want to have children?”

  “No. It wasn’t the plan. It was never the plan. They were very open about that. If I’m honest, I’m surprised they ever had sex. They were old when they had me too.” She laughed. “They must have stumbled across a manual that told them what to do, and had ten minutes to spare before Newsnight.”

  I didn’t have parents, of course, so who was I to pass judgment on how she mocked hers, but there was something unsettling about her tone, and though I’d laughed obligingly at the time, it had made me feel sad.

  “Do you want kids?” I’d asked her, for I had a secret that night. It was the reason I was sober.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that”—I thought I saw a look of sadness flash across her face—“but never say never.”

  She closed her eyes, giving in to the lateness of the hour, and the soporific effects of the wine. I sat beside her, not ready for sleep yet, and slipped my hand underneath my top. I rested it on my belly and thought of the baby growing there. It was Ben. My mistake. Already loved.

  The tread of Laura’s feet on the stairs of my house made them creak cautiously, and she paused at the top and said, “Rachel?”

  “In here.”

  At the doorway to Ben’s room, she said, “Do you want the light on?”

  “No.”

  She lay down beside me, put her arms around me in a hug that was far more familiar than Nicky’s.

  “I didn’t keep him safe,” I said. “It’s my fault.”

  “Sshh,” she said. “Don’t. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting him back.”

  Even in the gloaming I could see that her eyes were liquid. A tear escaped and ran down her cheek, pooling by her nose, a trail of black eyeliner in its wake.

  We lay there until the darkness outside was becoming a solid mass, leavened only by the glow of the streetlights and the geometric oddments of light that fell from people’s houses.

  We’d been told by Zhang to watch the news at six p.m.

  At a quarter to six, I realized that I should have been at Ben’s school parents’ evening, to discuss his report.

  Laura said, “Don’t worry about that. Don’t even think about it. You can go later in the week, once he’s back.”

  The first item on the news was a report on flooding in Bangladesh: thousands of people had died.

  Ben was the second item.

  DCI Fraser, whom I’d met briefly, stood on the steps at Kenneth Steele House and appealed to the public to “help them with their inquiries.”

  “We’re extremely concerned about this young boy,” she said, “and we would urge anybody who has any information about him, or his whereabouts, to get in touch with us.”

  She was immaculate in police uniform. Wildly curly gray hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that sat at the bottom of her nose, under sharp eyes, gave her the look of a bluestocking academic.

  “We are also requesting that the public do not organize searches of their own,” she said. “Though we thank the members of the community who are offering their help.”

  A helpline number and the photograph of Ben that I’d given the police flashed up, filling the screen.

  It’s the strangest thing in the world to find that the story you are watching on TV is your own, to realize that you have entrusted a stranger with finding your child, and to then have to accept that you are as disconnected as anybody else watching, that you are essentially impotent. When Ben’s face had gone from the screen, Laura turned the TV off. I wanted to howl with sorrow, or to rage, but I did neither, because my hands shook and my stomach was turning, threatening to disgorge the tea I’d been sipping, the tiny morsels of toast I’d forced myself to swallow at the behest of my sister.

  The call about the press conference came later that evening. The police wanted me to appear in front of the cameras the next morning, to read out a statement appealing for help in finding Ben. They would send a car for me.

  “I can’t leave the house,” I said. “What if he comes home?”

  Laura said, “I’ll stay here. You’ve got to go. I’ll stay here.”

  “Should I stay?” said Nicky. “I could stay.”

  Both of them looked at me, wanting me to decide.

  “Nicky should come with me,” I said.

  Laura was my best friend, but Nicky was Ben’s aunt, our only family.

  “She’s right,” Laura said. “You should be there.” She looked at me. “And it can only be good if you appear on TV. People will care more about Ben. They really will. I’ll come over in the morning before you leave, and I won’t leave the house, not even for a minute. Not until you’re back. I promise.”

  Laura told my sister that she should choose an outfit for me to wear, that I should be as presentable as possible. She said it was important, even if it felt trivial to think about it at a time like this. She looked closely at the gash on my forehead, and I winced when she touched the edge of it.

  “I don’t think you can put makeup on it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Nicky said. “It’s too raw.”

  Laura peered at it. I could see her eyes following its trajectory across my forehead. “Let’s see how it looks in the morning,” she said.

  “Could we cover it with a dressing?” Nicky asked.

  “No. A dressing will look ugly on TV, and it’ll obscure her face. Worst case, we leave it as it is. It’s not that noticeable.”

  We all knew that wasn’t true.

  In the kitchen, after Laura had gone, with a promise to return first thing in the morning, Nicky said, “Do you trust her? I’m not sure she should be here on her own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s one of them.” She gestured toward the front door, the pack of journalists linge
ring outside, whose voices we’d heard rising and swelling throughout the evening, breaking into laughter now and then.

  “She’s not that kind of journalist,” I said. “She writes for gossip magazines, about makeup. It’s fluff, bullshit. It’s not news.”

  “They’re all the same breed.”

  “She’s my friend. My best friend.”

  “Fine. If you trust her, then that’s fine, isn’t it?”

  “I do trust her. I can’t believe you’d say such a thing.”

  “Sorry.”

  The kettle was noisily reaching boiling point. Nicky leaned against the counter and lapsed into a thousand-yard stare, but I knew her and I knew that behind it her mind was turning. For the first time, it occurred to me to ask about her family.

  “How are the girls?”

  Her attention snapped back to me, a funny look. Guilt, perhaps, swiftly disguised, because she had four daughters safe at home while I was missing my only child.

  “Will you tell them?” I asked.

  “I think it’ll be impossible to avoid. With it on the TV, and in all the papers.”

  “Do they need you to be with them? Don’t you need to go home?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “My place is with you right now. They’ll be fine.” She closed the matter by turning her back on me to make tea with concise, measured movements.

  After we went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. All night I kept vigil in Ben’s room. I left the curtains open, and lay in his bed, letting my eyes run over the contours of his belongings. Books, toys, and other stuff, collected and arranged by Ben on his shelves, had the stillness of museum exhibits. I sat up, wrapped his duvet around me, and stared into the shadows in the corners of his room, and then moved my gaze outside.

  I watched a fox leap the fence into my neighbor’s garden and then slink around, nose to the ground, before finding something it could eat and devouring it, gulping it down in a way that was fast and primitive and ugly. When it was done, it ran its tongue over its chops, savoring, before disappearing into the night.

  I felt the various textures of my fear: shivery, visceral, tight, pounding, in turn or all at once. I only fell asleep once, in the small hours, and woke to a sensation of being choked, gasping for air, pushing bedding away from me as if it were hostile, or venomous, and then finding my sister standing in the room with fear on her face, saying, “Rachel, are you OK? Rachel!”

  After that we sat together until it was morning, as if it were just the two of us left in the world.

  JIM

  Addendum to DI James Clemo’s report for Dr. Francesca Manelli

  Transcript recorded by Dr. Francesca Manelli

  DI James Clemo and Dr. Francesca Manelli in attendance

  Notes to indicate observations on DI Clemo’s state of mind or behavior, where his remarks alone do not convey this, are in italics.

  FM: What I’d like to start with today is a discussion of your relationship with DC Zhang.

  JC: There’s not much to say.

  FM: You were seeing each other when the Benedict Finch case started?

  JC: Yes.

  FM: How long had your relationship been going on?

  JC: About four months.

  FM: And were things going well?

  JC: They were, yes. I thought they were.

  FM: But you kept the relationship secret from work?

  JC: I didn’t want gossip.

  FM: Were you embarrassed about the relationship?

  JC: No! God no. Anyone would have been proud to go out with Emma.

  FM: Why’s that?

  JC: She’s very clever, and very gorgeous. Funny, too, when you got to know her.

  FM: She sounds lovely.

  JC: She was even better than that though; I’m not describing her very well. She was different from other women I’d been out with.

  FM: How was she different?

  JC: She was just . . . she wasn’t dull like them. It’s like she’d lived a different kind of life, and she wasn’t afraid to know stuff, and she was always wanting to learn new things, to be a better version of herself. When she was a kid she was an athletics star, and she got top grades, and she’d kept that sense of purpose about her. She talked about life as if it was a given that it was interesting or exciting, not about mortgages or package holidays or where she was going out on Friday night. I don’t want to make her sound manic, obsessed with achievement or anything, because she wasn’t like that, because she was calm with it all. It’s just that she was always striving, you know, to make life better than it was.

  FM: So she had high expectations?

  JC: Yes, but in a good way. It was refreshing. She was refreshing. That’s the word I’m looking for. She had a different outlook and it was infectious, if I’m honest. I felt like it brought me out of myself, if that makes sense.

  FM: It sounds as if your relationship with Emma gave you a sort of zest for life that perhaps you hadn’t ever experienced before?

  JC: It did feel like that, yes. I felt excited about us. I felt a sort of pull to be with her.

  FM: Did you meet at work?

  JC: We did.

  FM: Did you see a lot of each other outside of work?

  JC: As much as we could. By the time the case went live, she’d kind of moved in with me.

  FM: So things were getting quite serious for you?

  JC: She kept her own flat, but she stayed over most nights. We didn’t really discuss it, it just sort of happened.

  FM: Did you introduce Emma to your family?

  JC: Yes, she met them twice, both times when my parents came up to Bristol and we went out for a meal.

  FM: How did that go?

  JC: It was very nice. They really liked her. She even charmed my dad.

  FM: Did you meet Emma’s parents?

  JC: No.

  FM: Any reason for that?

  JC: Not really. I suppose I figured I’d meet them at some point, when she was ready. I knew she wasn’t close to them. She never went to visit them and they never came to see her, or not that I knew of anyway.

  FM: Did you wonder why that was?

  JC: She said they’d had a falling-out.

  FM: Did she say why?

  JC: She didn’t really explain. I got the impression her dad was quite strict, classic army type, not an easy man, but I’m not really sure, to be honest. That was one thing about her—she was very private about her family.

  FM: Weren’t you curious?

  JC: A bit. But she didn’t make a big deal about it, and we had a lot else going on so I didn’t really think about it.

  FM: So you recommended Emma for the FLO role?

  JC: I did, yes.

  FM: Was that a risk?

  JC: I didn’t think so, no. I thought she’d do a fantastic job. Emma was one of the best new DCs to come through in years, everybody said so.

  FM: Was it professional of you to recommend her, given that you were having a relationship?

  JC: It wasn’t unprofessional.

  FM: Are you sure about that?

  JC: Yes, I’m sure. Look, I broke a personal rule getting involved with Emma. I never wanted to have a relationship with somebody at work, but when it happened, it felt . . . it felt totally right. So I went with it, but when this opportunity came up I thought she was absolutely the right person for that role. Genuinely. Why would I put my neck on the line otherwise?

  FM: OK. I understand that. It’s clear from your report that this case was a very big moment in your career. “Bring it on,” are the words you used, I think.

  JC: That’s how I felt.

  FM: You were excited.

  JC: The challenge of it, the possibility . . .

  FM: To shine?

  JC: I suppose so. I wasn’t going to put it quite like that. It was my first chance to be involved in a very high-profile investigation.

  FM: You wanted to prove yourself?

  JC: It was a chance.

  FM: And your first big task was
to prepare for the press conference?

  JC: After the initial interviews, yes.

  FM: I watched the footage of the conference.

  JC: I think everybody did. Once seen, never forgotten.

  FM: Indeed. You were there too. I saw you.

  JC: I was chairing it.

  FM: Why not Fraser?

  JC: She believes in giving people a chance. She gave me the responsibility for running it and for drafting the statement that we wanted Rachel Jenner to read. I worked with the forensic psychologist on that. It was a big responsibility.

  FM: So your aim was to appeal to Ben’s abductor, to use the mother to obtain their sympathy with the hope that that might persuade them to get in contact with you?

  JC: With us, or with somebody around them, somebody they trusted. It was important that they saw Ben as a real person, not just an acquisition, or a means to their own end. It would give him the context of a loving family. It was equally important not to alienate the abductor. We wanted to make them aware that it wasn’t too late for them to give him back, if he was still alive, that it was never too late to do that, even if they were scared of what the consequences might be. We wanted to present a friendly face. At that stage it obviously wasn’t clear whether it was an abduction or a murder.

  FM: So you scripted something for Rachel to read out that would cover all bases?

  JC: Yes. That was the idea anyway.

  FM: How did you know you could rely on her to get the tone right?

  JC: I didn’t know.

  FM: Did you consider getting his father to do it?

  JC: We considered it, but there was something about him that we weren’t sure would look good on camera. He was a surgeon, he was used to being authoritative. We were concerned that he might appear arrogant. What you want is a mother, a mother’s warmth.

  FM: And you were confident in advance that she could deliver that?

  JC: We didn’t have time to delve into her psyche. She was his mother. We assumed that she would, because at that stage we had no reason not to.

  DAY 3

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2012

  Be aware of your public status. Although this might not be the kind of fame you want, you may attain some sort of “celebrity” standing because of your continuous involvement with the media . . . Therefore, for your child’s sake, conduct yourself as if all eyes were upon you . . . Don’t do things that might cast you in a negative light . . .