“You mean the broken limb that the child had?”
“Yes, but I can’t see any evidence of wrongdoing there. I do think she’s been depressed though, that’s pretty clear, and it might be the most significant thing from our point of view.”
“Teacher?”
“Late twenties, I’d say, eager to assist, perhaps not the sharpest tool in the box, but seems perfectly nice. They’re behaving like people struggling to cope in a difficult situation.”
“Understandably.”
“The only one who rang a few alarm bells was the teaching assistant.”
“He’s got an alibi, doesn’t he?”
“He does, the head does, and the teacher does, and they all check out.”
“So what rings bells for you?”
“He was just a bit shifty. Woodley thought so too.”
“Who interviewed him formally?”
“I can’t remember off the top of my head.”
“Did they raise concerns, do you know?”
“No.”
“Do you want to interview him yourself?”
“No. It’s only a feeling, and I don’t want to spook the school unless we’ve got a very good reason to. The headmaster sent over the full list of people Ben might have had contact with yesterday evening, and I think we should wait and see what that might throw up. There are at least twenty people on it, so it’ll take time to check them out and interview them, but let’s leave the teaching assistant alone until we see what comes of that.”
“Agreed. We don’t want another witch hunt on our hands. It’s bad enough already. By the way, have you seen the blog?”
“Blog?”
But she was looking at her watch. “We should go. People need briefing. I’ll talk about it in the meeting.”
We walked into a packed briefing room and took our seats. Prominent at the head of the table was DS Martyn.
“Don’t mind if I join you, do you, DCI Fraser?” he asked. He had an unusually low voice.
His presence at the meeting was a sign of how high profile the case was. He wore full uniform. His hair was curly but thinning so it looked like spun sugar. He had slab cheeks and a drinker’s nose. He reminded me of some of my dad’s friends. He was on his way to a function at the Marriott hotel, he told us, so he couldn’t stay long.
His presence was a downer; it gave the meeting a formal edge, took away the conspiratorial atmosphere that Fraser usually managed to foster. She kicked things off. First bit of news was that there’d continued to be a high rate of calls to the tip line, so she was pleased about that.
Fraser talked people through progress and shared our thoughts with the room, told them about the stuff Chris Fellowes had sent over. She divvied out the workload and allocated actions. Priority was given to trawling through the list that the school had provided.
“Speak to as many people as you can,” she said. “We need to form as clear a picture as possible of the networks around this child.”
Fraser asked for updates and a sharp-faced DC called Kelly Dixon started us off. She told us that she’d located the pedophile. He’d been at a comic convention in Glasgow on Sunday afternoon, manning a stall. He hadn’t been anywhere near Benedict Finch. He had, however, crossed paths with an incalculable number of under-sixteens during the course of the afternoon, a clear breach of the terms of his release, and as a result he was cooling his heels back in the cells.
“Jesus,” said Fraser. “That’s a result of sorts anyway.”
The next item was the blog. If things had been bad for Rachel Jenner up to now, then it turned out that they were about to get worse.
“It won’t have escaped anybody’s attention,” said Fraser, “that our victim’s mother behaved in an unconventional manner at the press conference yesterday.”
“Understatement,” boomed DS Martyn.
Fraser tried to contain her irritation. “That behavior seems to have triggered somebody to write a very vindictive blog, which aggressively targets Rachel Jenner, implying that she is responsible for Ben’s abduction, or worse. Woodley, would you like to explain?”
Woodley cleared his throat. His mouth was dry when he spoke. Nerves. “Normally we wouldn’t expect a blog like this to attract very much attention,” he said, “but the author has placed several links to it on Facebook, which has inevitably led to it being shared and mentioned on Twitter and retweeted over and over again. It’s had thousands of hits.”
He looked at Fraser, who said, “In English, please, for the older generation.”
“It’s gone viral,” he said.
“Still none the wiser,” she said. I saw Emma smile discreetly. We all knew Fraser was more IT-savvy than she let on, but there were others in the room who might need this spelled out.
“Everybody’s looking at it. Thousands of people already, with the potential for it to spread to tens of thousands.”
Fraser continued. “Right. Which means it’s a possible problem for us because it could stoke people up, and the last thing we want is trial by Internet. We must remember: in spite of her performance in front of the press we have no evidence to suspect that Rachel Jenner’s done anything at this stage, although if she’s charged in the future, this is a potential contempt of court issue.”
“Can we find out who the author is?” asked DS Martyn.
“Not easily,” said Woodley. “It’s somebody calling themselves LazyDonkey, but we’ve got no way of knowing who they are.”
“We’re monitoring closely for now, hoping things will calm down,” said Fraser. “I’ll get legal eyes on it if it’s still a problem in twenty-four hours. Right! Anyone got anything to add?” She looked around the room.
“Excuse me, boss,” Emma said. Her phone was vibrating. “It’s Rachel Jenner’s home number.”
“Speak of the devil,” said DS Martyn. His fingers were working at a red lump on his neck.
“Can I take it?” Emma asked Fraser.
Fraser gave her the nod.
RACHEL
Nicky phoned the police and then she and Laura scrubbed the fence. They wouldn’t let me help them in case there were photographers, and I was in no state to anyway.
While I sat on the sofa, cocooned in a blanket to try to stop my body shaking, they worked together in the cold to erase the evidence that somebody out there wanted everybody to think that I’d hurt my son.
It was pointless though, a Sisyphean task, because while they scrubbed, fingers frozen and arms aching, we all knew that other people were at work elsewhere, spreading the message far more effectively, and without getting their hands dirty.
It has a very destructive effect, being publicly vilified, or being aggressively targeted by others, however much you rationalize it and tell yourself that only the worst kinds of people do that sort of thing.
I felt hemmed in by hatred, and I felt physically afraid. If somebody was brazen and motivated enough to graffiti that close to my property, what would stop them going further? Would they break in? Would they hurt me?
Fear for Ben had inhabited every cell in my body since Sunday, and governed my every thought and every action, but now it was to be joined by something else: fear for myself.
JIM
While Emma stepped out to take the call from Rachel Jenner, the rest of the team murmured quietly. The biscuit tin had been emptied. Energy drinks were scattered around the table and people were rubbing gritty eyes. Bennett tried to cover up a monstrously large yawn with his case papers. We were all battling our ebbing energy levels and trying not to be disheartened by lack of progress.
Fraser summarized: “There’s two trains of thought here, a twin-track approach: family or nonfamily. Bear that in mind, please, everybody, as we go forward. The MOs are significantly different for each.”
She was interrupted by Emma returning. “That was the sister,” Emma said. “They’re frightened. There’s been some abusive graffiti on the wall behind the house.”
Fraser swallowed an expletive. “That is not what we need,” she said once she’d got her vocabulary under control. “How’s the mother?”
“She’s very upset apparently,” said Emma. “As you would be. And frightened.”
Fraser sighed. “We should respond to that. The only problem is that if we station somebody at the house, we’ll need one out front and one out back.”
DS Martyn shook his head. “We can’t commit budget to that at this stage. Once you’ve got protection there, how do you take it away? What if this lad isn’t found? We’d need the threat to escalate to justify it.”
Fraser made a note. “I’ll ask uniform if they can drive by throughout the night, and check out the back alleyway too, when they’re there. It’ll help if we’re seen to take some action at least. The family need to know we’re supporting them.”
“Have they asked for protection?” Martyn again.
“No,” said Fraser. “But I think it pays to preempt these things. If we take it seriously now we might head off a situation where they panic.”
Martyn nodded, approving. Fraser’s solution was neat and free. I wondered if he actually kept the department budget spreadsheets constantly running across the front of his eyeballs.
“Did they say what the graffiti said?” Fraser asked.
“It says ‘Bad Mother,’ ” said Emma.
“Christ,” said Fraser.
“I’m not surprised,” said Emma.
Fraser’s head snapped up. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
Emma flushed deeply. “Sorry, I only meant that I’m not surprised because there’s been such a backlash against her. That’s all, boss. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything.”
“OK then,” said Fraser. “I’m glad to hear it.”
She shot an assessing look at Emma before moving on, and I saw Bennett’s fat lips form into a sneaky smirk, which I could have throttled him for.
“Which brings me to the next thing, because I think it would be wise to inform the family of this in person too.”
The next thing was a big disappointment to everybody. Forensics had reported that they’d found nothing of interest on the items of Ben’s clothing that were discovered in the woods. Fraser felt it would be a good idea to send somebody to break the news to the family in person. With a glance at her watch, she sent Emma back out to Rachel Jenner’s house.
“Better go now before it gets too late. It won’t do their nerves any good if we go banging on their door in the middle of the night. You can take a look at the graffiti too, while you’re there. Jim can update you on anything else we cover tonight.”
I nodded, kept my eyes on my own notepad.
“And, Emma,” Fraser added.
“Yes, boss.”
“Keep up the good work. Your role is to observe, but also to support the family, so remember to be careful what you say.”
“Got it, boss. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I understand,” Fraser cut her off. “Go on, get out of here now.”
As she left I noticed that Emma’s cheeks were still flushed.
There wasn’t much else. We discussed reinterviewing the parents but decided to hold on that for a day. In spite of everything, Fraser was still working up a head of steam about Edward Fount. She wanted further background checks on him, and she ordered actions galore: our team of DCs was tasked with talking to anyone they could dig up who was associated with him.
When all was done, Martyn reared up out of his seat and gave us a short speech about teamwork and dedication and how important this case was and how the eyes of the nation were on us, and then put on his cap and left to attend the event for the great and the good at the Marriott.
One by one the team left the room, packing up papers wearily, some just moving a few yards to their desks, planning to burn the midnight oil. We were at that stage in a case where it’s taken over: it’s exhausting, it’s addictive, and you can’t get enough of it. Your nerves are frayed and you’re running on adrenaline and caffeine. It’s hard to do anything normal because the case is always in your thoughts. It’s like a drug.
Fraser and I were the last to leave. She looked tired, and thoughtful.
“You OK, boss?” I said.
“I’m OK,” she said. “Go home, Jim. Get some sleep.”
RACHEL
Zhang arrived after Nicky and Laura had come back in, knuckles red and swollen from scrubbing.
She was there to break it to us gently that the forensic tests on Ben’s clothing hadn’t turned up anything. It meant that they couldn’t get any specific leads from the clothing, she said, but they were still pursuing lots of “interesting avenues.”
“What are those?” asked Laura.
“I can’t tell you any more than that, I’m afraid,” Zhang said. She took my hand. “But know that we’re doing everything we possibly can. Don’t lose heart.”
She turned her attention to Laura. “I heard today that you’re a journalist.”
“I am.” Laura wasn’t afraid to look directly at her, but she twisted a bracelet on her wrist, a black silk band with a small jade rose on it. “Why do you mention it?”
“I wondered if that puts you in a difficult position professionally. Being at the heart of things here.”
“I write gossip,” said Laura. “Who turned out to the launch of a new lipstick at Harvey Nichols, that kind of thing. It’s a different world.”
“Oh,” said Zhang. She paused before asking, “Do you get lots of freebies?”
The tension in the room dissolved just a bit and Laura softened. “It’s a perk—definitely. Though I sometimes wonder what I’m going to do with six bottles of black nail polish.”
“Donate it to my daughters,” said Nicky. “They seem to enjoy anything that’s in incredibly bad taste.”
After that, the silence was a bit awkward. Zhang started to excuse herself, she wanted to check the alley, but Nicky insisted that she have a cup of tea. Nicky was keen to share the plans she was hatching.
“I think we need a vigil,” she said, “if he’s not found by next week. It’s what they do in America. It keeps public awareness up.”
Desperate not to leave any stone unturned, Nicky had been in email contact with somebody who worked for the Missing Kids website in the States, taking advice on what we could do.
Zhang took a sip of her tea. Her mug was one that Ben had decorated in one of those pottery places when he was very little. Covered in splotches of blue, in different hues, it was apparently supposed to be a sea scene. He’d been very proud of it when he made it, although now that he was a bit older he was embarrassed by it. “It’s babyish,” he’d said the last time I’d used it.