Authors: Gilly MacMillan
‘No, it’s OK. John’s on his way.’
‘You must ring me if there’s any news, anything.’
‘I will.’
‘I’ll stay up by my phone.’
‘OK.’
‘Is it raining there?’
‘Yes. It’s so cold. He’s only wearing an anorak and a cotton top.’
Ben hated to wear jumpers. I’d got him into one that afternoon before we left for the woods, but he’d wriggled out of it once we were in the car.
‘I’m hot, Mum,’ he’d said. ‘So hot.’
The jumper, red, knitted, lay on the back seat of my car and I leaned back and pulled it onto my lap, held it tight, smelled him in its fabric.
Nicky was still talking, reassuring, as she usually did, even when her own anxiety was building.
‘It’s OK. It won’t take them long to find him. He can’t have gone far. Children are very resilient.’
‘They won’t let me search for him. They’re making me stay in the car park.’
‘That makes sense. You could injure yourself in the dark.’
‘It’s nearly his bedtime.’
She exhaled. I could imagine the creases of worry on her face, and the way she’d be gnawing at her little-finger nail. I knew what Nicky’s anxiety looked like. It had been our constant companion as children. ‘It’ll be OK,’ she said, but we both knew they were only words and that she didn’t know that for sure.
When John arrived WPC Banks spoke to him first. They stood in the beam of John’s headlights. The rain was relentless still, heavy and driving. Above them a huge beech tree provided some shelter. It had hung on to enough of its leaves that its underside, illuminated by the lights from the car, looked like a golden corona.
John was intently focused on what WPC Banks was saying. He exuded a jumpy, fearful energy. His hair, usually the colour of wet sand, was plastered blackly around the contours of his face, which were pallid, as if they’d been sculpted from stone.
‘I’ve spoken to my inspector,’ WPC Banks was telling him. ‘He’s on his way.’
John nodded. He glanced at me, but moved his eyes quickly away. The tendons in his neck were taut.
‘That’s good news,’ she said. ‘It means they’re taking it seriously.’
Why wouldn’t they? I wondered. Why wouldn’t they take a missing child seriously? I stepped towards John. I wanted to touch him, just his hand. Actually, I wanted him to hold me. Instead, I got a look of disbelief.
‘You let him run ahead?’ he said and his voice was stretched thin with tension. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
There was no point in trying to give him an explanation. It was done. I would regret it for ever.
WPC Banks said, ‘I think for now it would be best if all of our focus is on the search for Ben. It won’t do him any good if you cast blame.’
She was right. John understood that. He was blinking back tears. He looked distraught and incredulous. I watched him cycle through everything I’d been feeling since Ben had gone. He had question after question, each of which WPC Banks answered patiently until he was satisfied that he knew everything there was to know, and that everything possible was being done.
As I stood beside him, and let WPC Banks reassure him, I realised that it had been more than ten months since I’d seen him smile, and I wondered if I ever would again.
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 behaviour, where his remarks alone do not convey this, are in italics.
This transcript is from the first full psychotherapy session that DI Clemo attended. Previous to this we had only a short preliminary meeting where I took a history from DI Clemo and we discussed the report that I had asked him to write.
Predictably, given his resistant attitude to therapy, the report that DI Clemo submitted at this stage was lacking in comment on areas of his personal and emotional experience at the time of the Benedict Finch case. The transcripts fill in the gaps somewhat. My priority in this first session was to begin to establish DI Clemo’s trust in me.
DI Clemo elected to see me at my private consultation rooms based in Clifton, rather than at the facility provided at police HQ.
Dr Francesca Manelli (FM):
Good to see you again. Thank you for making a start on your report.
DI James Clemo (JC)
acknowledges this comment with a terse nod. He hasn’t yet spoken.
FM: I’ve noted your objection to continuing to attend these sessions with me.
JC makes no comment. He is also avoiding eye contact.
FM: So, I’d like to start by asking whether there have been any more incidents?
JC: Incidents?
FM: Panic attacks, of the sort that led to your referral to me.
JC: No.
FM: Can you describe to me what happened on the two occasions that you experienced the panic attacks?
JC: I can’t just come in here and talk about stuff like that.
FM: It would be helpful to have more detail, just to get us started. What triggered the feelings of panic, how they grew into a full-blown attack, what you were feeling while it happened?
JC: I’m not talking about my feelings! It’s not what I do. I’m sick of the way feelings are all anybody wants to talk about. Watching any sport on TV these days, that’s all the commentators ask people. Sue Barker talking to a guy who’s played tennis for four hours or collaring someone who’s just lost the most important football game of his life. ‘How are you feeling?’ What about ‘How did you do it? How hard have you worked to get here?’
FM: Do you think that expressing feelings is a weakness?
JC: Yes, I do.
FM: Is that why you don’t like talking about the panic attacks? Because they might have been prompted by some very strong feelings that you had?
He doesn’t reply.
FM: Everything you say in here will remain confidential.
JC: But you’ll make a decision about whether I’m fit to work.
FM: I’ll report back to your DCI and make a recommendation, but nobody else will see the contents of your report, or the transcripts of our conversations. Those are for my use only. They’ll form the basis of our on-going conversations. This is going to be a long process, and if you can work towards being open with me, we have a much greater chance of success, and we can hopefully get you back out there doing the work you want to do.
JC: I’m a detective. It’s in my blood. It’s what I live for.
FM: You need to be aware, also, that the number of psychotherapy sessions that your DCI is prepared to fund is limited.
JC: I know that.
FM: Then talk to me.
He takes his time.
JC: At first it was like being winded, I couldn’t get a proper breath in. I kept yawning, and breathing, trying to get air, trying to stop the dizziness, because I thought I was going to pass out. Then my heart was pounding really fast, and I stopped being able to think, I couldn’t get my mind to do anything, and then there was panic all over, gripping me, and all I wanted to do was to get out of there, and punch a wall.
FM: Which you did.
JC: I’m not proud of that.
He covers the knuckles on his right hand with his left hand, but not before I’ve noticed that they’re still scabbed and sore.
FM: And you also experienced some bouts of crying in the days after this?
JC: I don’t know why.
FM: It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s another symptom of anxiety, just like the panic attacks.
JC: I’m stronger than that.
FM: Strong people experience anxiety.
JC: What I hate most of all is the crying starts any time, anywhere. I can’t stop it. I’m like a baby.
Tears have begun to fall down JC’s face.
FM: No. You’re not. It’s just a symptom. Take some time. We’ll come back to this.
He takes a tissue from the box by his chair, wipes his face roughly; tries to compose himself. I make a few notes, to give him some time, and after a minute or two he engages with me.
JC: What are you writing?
FM: I take a few handwritten notes with every patient. It helps me to remember our sessions afterwards. Would you like to see what I’ve written?
JC shakes his head.
FM: I’d like to ask you what kind of support network you might have around you. A partner?
JC: No partner currently.
FM: Family or friends then?
JC: My mum lives in Exeter, I don’t see her much. My sister too. My friends in Bristol are mostly colleagues so we don’t talk about stuff outside work.
FM: I see from your notes that your father passed away a little before the Benedict Finch case started.
JC: That’s correct. About a month before.
FM: And he was a detective too?
JC: He was Deputy Chief Super in Devon and Cornwall.
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 behaviour 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 centre 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 judgement.
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.
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.
Findlay, Preston and Lowery, Jr, Robert G (eds.), ‘Missing and Abducted Children: A Law-Enforcement Guide to Case Investigation and Program Management’, Fourth Edition, National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, OJJDP Report, 2011